Renewing a Writer's License
/The narrator has difficulty renewing her Writer's License.
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I had been issued my Writer's License on my birthday, July 15, during the previous year. Now it was time, I noticed, to renew the license, a license I had barely used. Still, if I intended to write again, I would need to traipse down to the license bureau, the same bureau that issued driver's licenses, license plates, passports, as well as IDs for those who didn't drive.
We were in the middle of a heat wave. I rolled down the car windows, since my air conditioning had ceased to work. Soon I was at the suburban plaza where the License Bureau's large sign made finding it easier and, in an odd way, more threatening.
My legs stuck to the upholstery as I emerged from my car, clutching my purse and hoping they would take credit cards. Inside, a number of disgruntled-looking citizens were seated staring into space. Couldn't they have brought something to read, I wondered. Some were playing games on their cell phones. I, a writer by trade, or a budding writer, or a failed writer, had brought a book with me. A real book. Before I sat down, I took the little piece of paper from the machine that told me when I would be called to the desk. K10 it said, which didn't sound too bad until I looked up and saw on the screen that B5 was being tended to at the moment. Bother!
I sat down on a chair as far away as possible from other customers and opened my book, Writing for Fun and Profit When You Have Little Time. Or talent, I wanted to add. Or motivation. The author, Simone Purdy, presented herself as a success, though I had personally never heard of her. Not to worry. There are lots of people I have never heard of.
Simone Purdy was suggesting all sorts of exercises that I could not do while waiting at the License Bureau without pen, paper, or a computer. So I skipped those and moved on to her writing prompts. Well, I couldn't do those either. What could I do? The next chapter included interviews with famous writers (all unfamiliar to me) who had various clever methods of overcoming writer's block. I decided to immerse myself in the subject.
An hour went by, though I had hardly noticed. Then I heard, "K10 next" and closed my book. I walked quickly to the counter.
"How may I help you?" asked the clerk who seemed to have had a rather unpleasant lunch or something.
"Hello. I'm here to renew my writer's license."
"Let me see the old one," he said and yawned.
With great difficulty I pulled it out from under my driver's license inside my wallet and for the hundredth time wondered why they made those little compartments so small. The clerk, whose name was Gerald, tapped his fingers on the counter while he waited.
"Here it is," I said, a note of triumph in my voice. I handed the card over to Gerald, who began typing away at his computer.
"Well, well," he said. He looked at me, then at the photo on the card, then back at me again.
"You don't seem to have followed the rules of the Writer's License Bureau, Ms. Applegate. According to your license, you are required to publish either six short stories, one novella, or three essays during the year in order to keep your license. What exactly have you been doing with your time?"
"Well, I know I haven't been writing enough. I did write some stuff and sent it out, but I didn't get accepted by anyone. I mean, it's hard enough to complete something, then you have to find a place to send it--another difficult process--and then send it, making sure you've followed all their rules. And then you wait and wait. And sometimes these publishers never get back to you. Sometimes they do get back, and usually it's a no."
"I have your name up on the screen. Please answer a few questions for me. "How many pieces have you sent out during the last year?"
I hesitated before answering. "Two, I think."
Gerald rolled his eyes. "Two? And I suppose those were both acceptances?"
"No. Not exactly. In fact, one was a rejection. The other I never heard back from. I suppose I could still hear from them, but somehow I doubt it, after ten months of waiting."
Gerald slumped back in his chair. "I cannot renew this license when you have been so derelict in your duty. It's almost as bad as having ten parking tickets, a hit-and-run accident, and running a red light, all in one year."
I started to cry. "I'm sorry, but I have a serious problem."
"And that would be?"
"I have a very bad case of writer's block."
"And has your physician made a formal diagnosis of writer's block?"
I decided to lie. "Yes, yes she has."
"Sorry to hear about your condition. I understand it's common among writers and can be quite serious, leading sometimes to utter paralysis, emotional and even sometimes physical."
The tears were running down my cheeks.
"All right, pull yourself together, Ms. Applegate. You will just have to start all over again with a learner's permit. The requirements, as you probably know, are a bit less stringent. You need to get one piece published during the next year before you are given a regular Writer's License. Is that clear?"
"Yes, yes, sir," I said, as I signed the form he had hastily placed in front of me. Within moments I had my learner's permit and was out the door, thoroughly ashamed of myself, my behavior, my lack of writing. At least I could blame it all on a serious case of writer's block. I wondered if there was any treatment for it, perhaps medication or a vaccination, or physical therapy.
By Anita G. Gorman
From: United States
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