Crabtrap

I met Sherry Lewis at a Fiction Writer's meeting. She was explaining problems that writers have and how to overcome them.

"If you put one crab in a bucket, it will somehow manage to climb out, but if you put a half dozen in the same bucket, they'll stay there. Does anyone know why?"

The hair stood up on the back of my neck, for suddenly I not only knew the answer, but what it meant as well.

I sat in front of the screen, staring at the blankness before me. I'm writing a book, but the words won't come.

"Dave, breakfast is ready. Better shut that off and get it before it's cold."

I turned the computer off, and walked wearily into the kitchen. The day was just starting, but I felt like I'd already done a day's work, and nothing was accomplished.

I sat down at the table, and my wife's mother saw fit to add her encouragement. "Dave Low, the writer. Hah! I don't know why you spend so much time playing with that stupid computer. You should have bought a table saw or something useful. Forget this writing thing you've got, you're never going to amount to anything that way. All that money was such a waste."

"Thank you, Mother. You're so wise and kind."

The meal was eaten in chilly silence, although the day promised to be hot. I picked up my book bag and headed for the door.

"Don't be upset by Mother, dear. She does have a point, though. Here, this is for your birthday." My wife handed me a card.

"Why, thank you, dear." I opened the card, and read the cover. As I opened it to read the punch line, a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. I grabbed it in flight, and saw that it was a gift certificate.

"That's your birthday present. It's a gift certificate to Sam Welldigger's book store. I thought you would enjoy a good spy novel or something."

"Why don't you get one that tells how to unplug toilets or how to do landscaping or something?" her mother called from the kitchen.

"I'll see what I can find. Thank you very much."

I got to work frustrated. Frustrated by traffic, by my family, by my inability to write. I went through the day's activities mechanically, my robot arms doing the chores, but my mind was on my non-existent story.

"Dave, you seem preoccupied by something. Is something wrong at home?"

My boss. I hadn't heard him come up. "No, everyone's fine. Mother's her usual supportive self, and the wife and kids are OK. I'm just thinking about a project I've been working on."

"Probably that silly novel you keep playing with. Hey, it's your birthday, happy birthday. Why don't you take the afternoon off, go play some golf or something."

"Thank you, sir. Don't mind if I do." I finished lunch, and headed over to Sam Welldigger's book store. Sam had books on every subject under Heaven; novels, how-to books, reference books, picture books, even some rare collector's editions.

I wandered through the stacks of books to where Sam was sitting, reading Shakespeare by the cash register. He looked up over his half moon reading glasses.

"Can I help you find something special?" he asked. He was wearing an old gray sweater over his bent shoulders, although it wasn't cold in the book sellers shop. The dim light gave a dusty look to the covers old and new. He wore a pair of leather bedroom slippers, and his big toe peeked out through a hole worn long ago.

The strands of his scanty long hair played tag with each other, chasing down over his ears. A few stiff bristles grew out of each one, and teased at the hair hanging down on the sides.

I stopped my unconscious evaluation of his appearance. "Yes, what do you have that would be of help to the perspiring writer?"

Sam laughed, a tinkling musical performance. "You mean aspiring writer, don't you, son? Perspiring means to sweat."

"I've been sweating over a story I've been trying to write. I keep trying, but the ideas don't come, the words don't flow."

"Writer's block. You're standing too close to the keyboard, son. Get yourself a notepad, and go fishing. But so you won't go away empty handed, let me show you what I have downstairs."

Sam led me to an alcove where a flight of stairs wandered down into darkness. Sam flicked on a light, and headed nimbly down the stairs like a squirrel hiding an acorn.

"Here we are. I'm sure you'll find something here. There are several books on style, which every writer should have. Even if all you write are business letters, a style book will be good to have. There are other subjects, too. Books on weapons, if you're into murder novels, how to write poetry, the Writer's Digest. Look them over, take your time."

I found a soft covered style book that was modestly priced, and a book entitled "How to think like a writer" caught my attention. It was directed at kids in grade school, but had lots of good tips and exercises.

Ray Bradbury's "Zen and the art of writing" crepted out of the corner and tugged at my sleeve. I glanced through it, and it looked interesting. I took my selections up the stairs to where Sam was perched.

"Alas, poor Yorick. I knew him, Horatio," Sam remarked as he looked over his glasses again. "Will was right, you know. There's something about seeing someone you know die that makes death more real. The obits are just pictures, but when it's someone you knew..."

"Ask not for whom the bell tolls, it may be your turn next, is that it?"

"It certainly is. You'd better do it today, or you may never get to do it."

I noticed a stack of plaques that had been overlooked before. "What's with the signs, Sam?"

"That's a motto. It would be a good one for a perspiring writer to go by. Illegitimi non carborundum. My latin is pretty rusty, but I think it means 'Don't let the bastards grind you down'."

"I'll take one of those, and these three. You've been a great help."

I left the book store whistling, full of enthusiasm.

I raised my hand. "Yes, I know the answer. If there are several crabs in the bucket and one of them tries to climb out, the others will pull it back down."

"That's right. That's what you've got to watch out for. Don't let the other crabs pull you back down into the bucket."

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