Where the Magic Ends

A troubled writer locks himself in his office, determined to overcome his blocks with the help of his life-long friend, his Creative Spirit.

Where The Magic Ends

A One Act Play by Christina Muldoon

 

 

Dramatis Personae:

 

The Man--- a troubled writer between his mid-thirties to mid-forties. He hasn’t shaved in two weeks and possibly hasn’t showered in that time either. He wears comfy clothes, ie: a sweater, slippers, pajama pants, etc.

 

Genius--- the Man’s writing companion that appears as a young woman. She appears to be in her mid twenties. He appearance is much more ‘together’ than the Man’s, ie: clean clothes, fashionable, hair done, make-up done, etc.

 

Setting:

First Scene: The Man’s writing den

Second Scene: The same room, 10 days later

 

 

 

(The scene opens on a den. There is a loveseat near, but facing away from the door of the den, and both are adjacent to a writing desk with a chair at it. There are papers, books, pictures frames and other paraphernalia on the desk. There is a book case between desk and the loveseat. Like the desk, it has an ordered chaos; the objects in this den are strewn about carelessly, yet everything is exactly where it should be. The sun is shining through the curtains. Outside, birds are heard chirping, children playing and cars are driving past. It’s a nice day out. The Man stumbles into his den, holding his arms to his body, as if cradling a baby. He has a dishevelled appearance and is sobbing. He stumbles to his desk and tries to sit in his chair, but he collapses beside it. He pulls his arms away from his body and we see that he is holding a bloody towel up against his wrist and forearm. He begins to speak to himself, trying to calm himself down and slow his breath, telling himself ‘It’s ok’, over and over again. With his uncut arm, he reaches over to his desk drawer, opens it and brings out a wedding band. He holds it in his bloody hand, regarding its beauty as it shines against the blood. It makes him smile a bit. But after the smile, he begins to sob again. Slowly, he reopens the drawer to his desk, puts the ring back in and closes the drawer. He leans against the desk, almost as if he is drawing his strength from the small gold band that he has just placed in the drawer. He continues to cry. After a while, he looks over his shoulder and speaks in the direction of the loveseat.)

 

Man: Don’t you dare look at me like that.

 

(He turns back to lean against the desk again. He lets out an exasperated breathe.)

 

Man: I can feel you looking at me. (Looks over his shoulder at the loveseat) I said stop it.

 

(He turns fully to the loveseat.)

 

Man: I said STOP!

 

(Fade to black.)

 

(The lights come up on the same den. It is a few days later, and it is night. Although it’s days later, the Man is wearing the same clothes from the previous scene and his arm is bandaged. He is sitting at his desk with his laptop open, but he is facing the loveseat. Across from him, in the loveseat, sits a young woman. She is his Creative Genius. She is not so much sitting in the chair; she’s more so strewn onto it.)

 

Genius: So, in that case, what do you want to do with this story? I mean, if you could have one great outcome for it, what would it be?

 

Man: (looking at his laptop) I want it to be great.

 

Genius: Ok... fair enough. But I need you to be more specific.

 

Man: I don’t how to get more specific when I don’t even know the story that I’m writing.

 

Genius: For the record, you called me in here, which would imply that you have something to work with.

 

Man: Why would I have something to work with? You’re my inspiration.

 

Genius: I’m not your inspiration; I’m your creative genius. There’s a difference, so don’t saddle me with more responsibility than I already have.

 

Man: I hate your semantics.

 

Genius: They are not my semantics. That’s like arguing someone’s physics. It’s not theirs to choose; it just kind of is.

 

Man: Stupid laws of the universe.

 

Genius: I know, but you’re kind of stuck with them, so make the best of them that you can. (pause) So?

 

Man: So what?

 

Genius: I asked you a question.

 

Man: Oh yeah! Umm (he thinks) What was it again?

 

Genius: If you could have---

 

Together: One great outcome for this story---

 

Man: (continuing without her) ‘... what would it be?’

 

Genius: Yes.

 

Man: Well, it’s like any story, really--- (he breaks off and closes his eyes)

 

Genius: (small pause) Care to elaborate? Or... no?

 

Man: (his eyes are still closed) I’m thinking of my wording; shut up.

 

Genius: Oh my. Hostile.

 

Man: (he is still thinking as he speaks, so this thought is said slowly) Every story that I’ve ever written was for me. It wasn’t for anyone else. And somehow, that made it easier. There wasn’t this expectation that I needed to write anything profound, because I didn’t need it to be profound; I just needed to say it.

 

Genius: The story, you mean?

 

Man: Yeah. And yet lately, I find myself wanting to tell a story for others.

 

Genius: Huh... interesting.

 

Man: Yeah.

 

Genius: ‘Others’ specifically?

 

Man: (again, he thinks as he says this) Someone.

 

Genius: Ok, this is more specific, but it’s also more weird.

 

Man: It’s weirder; it’s not ‘more weird’. You need to work on your grammar.

 

Genius: I’ll bring the genius; you bring the grammar. So someone, huh?

 

Man: Yeah, I don’t know; someone. Someone out there who needs a story; someone who needs to be understood.

 

Genius: Or needs help understanding?

 

Man: Maybe. I don’t know.

 

Genius: Well, there are seven billion someones in this world. So which someone do you want to reach? There are the someones who don’t like reading, the someones who love you and the work you’ve done in the past, the someones who like a good summer read, the someones who need to be challenged, the someones who need to escape---

 

Man: (interrupting) I’m not sure yet who the someone is.

 

Genius: Well then... let’s get writing so that we can figure that out.

 

Man: I still don’t have a story to write.

 

Genius: Want to do a word blitz then?

 

Man: (He smiles) I think it’s best.

 

(She gets out of the chair and he pulls it to centre stage. She sits. He then returns to his desk, grabs a pen and paper, then he wheels his desk chair over. They sit facing each other; close enough to touch but not, looking each other in the face. They are silent and still for a moment.)

 

Man: Cantankerous.

 

Genius: Oh, bank right off the bat. Good job (he writes it down). Trite.

 

Man: Loquacious.

 

Genius: Fisticuffs.

 

Man: Bamboozle.

 

Genius: Rapscallion.

 

Man: Oh, good one!

 

Genius: Thank you.

 

Man: Bank it (he writes it). Diphthong.

 

(She laughs)

 

Man: What?

 

Genius: (still laughing) Diphthong (laughs again) Eradicate.

 

Man: Cusp.

 

Genius: Bank (He writes it). Collywobbles.

 

Man: Bank (he writes). Troglodyte.

 

Genius: Bank it (He writes). Hemidemisemiquaver.

 

Man: No making words up.

 

Genius: Alas, I did not. It’s what you call a one-sixty-fourth beat in music.

 

Man: Really?

 

Genius: Mm-hmm.

 

Man: Let’s bank (He writes).

 

Genius: Your turn. Keep going.

 

Man: Ubiquitous.

 

Genius: Billingsgate.

 

Man: Flibbertigibbet.

 

Genius: Moist.

 

Man: (recoils) Every time someone says ‘moist’, somewhere there’s a fairy that falls down dead.

 

Genius: What’s wrong with ‘moist’?

 

Man: It’s too evocative. It’s like... ‘penetrate’ (makes a sound like he’s going to be sick). Poopchick.

 

Genius: You just said no making up words.

 

Man: I didn’t. It’s Ukrainian for ‘bellybutton’.

 

Genius: Seriously?

 

Man: Yeah.

 

Genius: That’s awesome! Bank!

 

(He writes it down and they look at their list)

 

Genius: I don’t think this list will work.

 

Man: Why not?

 

Genius: Well, they’re just fun words, aren’t they?

 

Man: Exactly, they’re fun words! For god’s sake, I could say ‘poopchick’ all day long.

 

Genius: Go right on ahead, but can you make a story out of them?

 

Man: Well... a cantankerous rapscallion with an obsession with his poopchick meets a troglodyte who is on the cusp of writing a song made up entirely of hemidemisemiquavers.

 

(They look at each other, unsure and smiling faintly.)

 

Genius: I’m a conscientious objector to the writing of this story.

 

Man: Why? It sounds amazing!

 

Genius: Except that it doesn’t. So let’s go again.

 

(They sit facing each other again, still and silent.)

 

Man: Doodle sack.

 

(She bursts out laughing.)

 

Man: (laughing) It’s a real word! It’s what the English used to call ‘bagpipes’!

 

Genius: (still laughing) ‘... doodle sack...’ Good Lord, that’s funny! (catches herself) No! No! No! We’re losing sight of the game! Come on, focus!

 

Man: Microcosm.

 

Genius: Inquiry.

 

Man: Tittynope.

 

(She bursts out laughing again.)

 

Man: It’s a small quantity of something left over!

 

Genius: That sounds like something that’s said on the first date! ‘T***y?’ ‘Nope!’ (puts her face in her hands.) This is so not focusing!

 

Man: (still laughing) Ok, I’m sorry! I’m sorry! Let’s try this again. I’ll focus this time. I promise.

 

(They sit facing each other again, faint smiles on their faces. She breaks eye contact and softly laughs as she shakes her head.)

 

Genius: ‘Tittynope.’ You jackass. (she shakes her head) Ok, new rule for this game. No crazy words; just regular vocabulary.

 

Man: What does ‘regular’ mean?

 

Genius: (she thinks) Grade twelve student.

 

Man: (imitating a young kid) ‘Omg, this is totes cray-cray! Lol, bt-dubs!’

 

Genius: Good point. How you spoke in high school then.

 

Man: Rad.

 

(He smiles at her. They sit quietly again.)

 

Genius: Delicious.

 

Man: Higgledy-piggledy.

 

Genius: Focus! (breath) Contrast.

 

Man: Disbelief.

 

Genius: God.

 

Man: Humanity.

 

Genius: Despair.

 

Man: Hope.

 

Genius: Confusion.

 

Man: Life.

 

Genius: Humans.

 

Man: Immortals.

 

Genius: Writer.

 

Man: Suspicious.

 

Genius: Wanting.

 

Man: Waiting.

 

Genius: Blocked.

 

Man: Trying.

 

Genius: Hurting.

 

Man: Difficult.

 

Genius: Truth.

 

Man: Example?

 

Genius: Depression.

 

Man: Difficulty.

 

Genius: Medication.

 

Man: Choice.

 

Genius: Self-harm.

 

Man: (angry) Borderline.

 

Genius: Lost.

 

Man: Living.

 

Genius: Wife.

 

Man: (shakes his head as if to clear something) Panama.

 

Genius: Dodging.

 

Man: Prying.

 

Genius: Helping.

 

Man: Annoying.

 

Genius: (small pause) Concern.

 

Man: Thankful.

 

Genius: But?

 

Man: Personal.

 

Genius: Apology.

 

Man: For?

 

Genius: Prodding.

 

Man: Accepted. (pause) Hug?

 

Genius: Disembodied.

 

Man: Lifelong friend nonetheless. (They pause and he looks at his list.) I didn’t write anything.

 

Genius: Because that’s what happens now. (she indicates his laptop.)

 

(She gets up and he pushes the loveseat back. She sits in it again. He wheels his chair back to the desk and begins writing on his laptop. She looks at him as if she wants to say something, but then, she looks away. There is a small silence.)

 

Man: (turning to her) What?

 

Genius: (looking back at him) What?

 

Man: Didn’t you--- I thought you said something.

 

Genius: No.

 

Man: (quietly) Oh. (he slowly turns back to his computer and begins to type. She’s confused.) Where did you go for your walk last night?

 

Genius: No where special. Just around the park and things.

 

Man: Do you know, I’ve never asked you why you go for walks (laughs a bit).

 

Genius: Why is that funny?

 

Man: (shrugs) Well, sometimes you just disappear. I find it funny that I’ve never questioned it.

 

Genius: Questioned it or asked about it?

 

Man: Is there a difference?

 

Genius: Well, asking is about curiosity; questioning is about doubt.

 

Man: I don’t doubt you; I’m just curious.

 

Genius: Well, I guess it’s my way to recharge. Humans sleep; I walk.

 

Man: You can’t sleep?

 

Genius: I have no need to.

 

Man: Are you able to go to just other places if you like?

 

Genius: What you do mean?

 

Man: Say, for example, you want to go to Uluru. Can you just... go?

 

Genius: I don’t know. I’ve never tried.

 

Man: In all of your lives, you’ve never tried it?

 

Genius: No.

 

Man: You’ve never even been curious?

 

Genius: No.

 

Man: (to himself) If I could escape somewhere, I would.

 

Genius: What?

 

Man: Nothing. Just thinking out loud.

 

Genius: Ok (pause) Just so we’re on the same page, I don’t have a curiosity to go anywhere without you because that’s not my purpose.

 

Man: It’s not your purpose to be curious about the world around you?

 

Genius: Well, yeah, it is, but the world immediately around me, because that’s your world too. That’s why I go for walks, but always near you. And I always come back. My world is your world.

 

Man: But you go for walks without me. That implies that you can go anywhere without me.

 

Genius: No it doesn’t, because--- why suddenly this curiosity? Seriously. All your life, you’ve never asked questions because it is what it is. Why now suddenly?

 

Man: I just... want to know.

 

Genius: Well, I don’t know. I’ve never questioned it because I’ve never wanted to be anywhere else if it would be without my person. And even if I wanted to go to somewhere---

 

Man: (interrupting) Like Uluru?

 

Genius: Uluru, or somewhere less like a solitary rock, I don’t think I could go.

 

Man: Why?

 

Genius: It’s like a tether, I guess. One can’t go very far without the other. I’m part of your soul. And you can’t live without your soul.

 

Man: But people lose their souls sometimes.

 

Genius: That’s not a good thing though.

 

Man: Sometimes it is. If it’s lost and we find it again, it can give us a fresh perspective on things. The world around us becomes clearer and less chaotic.

 

Genius: I’m sorry, I’m confused. Are you saying you want to lose me?

 

Man: (snapping out of his daze) No that’s not---

 

Genius: Then are you saying that you want to write a story about Uluru?

 

Man: No, I don’t---

 

Genius: (interrupting) Because we can go to Uluru. I have nothing against it. And Australia is wonderful anyhow.

 

Man: I don’t want to write anything about Uluru. (pause) When were you in Australia?

 

Genius: (thinks) Mid 1800’s.

 

Man: Would I know who it was with?

 

Genius: She was--- (realizing what’s happened) No, no, NO! I can’t believe I walked right into this conversation, but it is stopping now! I have told you time and time again that I’m not allowed to tell you about the other people that I’ve lived with!

 

Man: Do you have a rule book or something?

 

Genius: No, that is the way that it’s been since the beginning of time. (sighs) I can’t believe I have to tell you this again. Watch my mouth as I speak: I do not talk about my other lives. If I do, then you’d start to compare yourself to others and then you get a big head, or you’d feel mediocre. Your life and your art are yours. Ok?

 

Man: Ok.

 

Genius: Are you going to write now?

 

Man: Yes.

 

Genius: And stop asking me asinine questions?

 

Man: (throws his hands up and turns back to his laptop) So hostile.

 

(He continues to type. There is a pause)

 

Man: (still facing his laptop) Not even one person?

 

Genius: Are you kidding me?!

 

Man: You can’t tell a person that you’ve lived with other people and not expect them to keep their curiosity to themselves!

 

Genius: Maybe not their curiosity, but their questions, yes!

 

Man: Please?

 

Genius: No.

 

Man: Come on.

 

Genius: No.

 

Man: (puts his hands together like he’s begging) Mmm?

 

Genius: No.

 

Man: Really?

 

Genius: Yes.

 

Man: HA! You said ‘yes’!

 

Genius: I said ‘yes’ to say ‘no’.

 

Man: But you said ‘yes’.

 

Genius: Yes, but it’s a ‘no’.

 

Man: But a ‘yes’ isn’t a ‘no’.

 

Genius: I know, but it’s meant as a ‘no’.

 

Man: So what are you saying now?

 

Genius: I don’t (collecting herself) --- no.

 

Man: ‘You don’t know’ or ‘you don’t’, new sentence, ‘no’?

 

Genius: NO to everything! Just, across the board, it’s one big resounding ‘no’! Understand?

 

Man: Yes.

 

Genius: Really?

 

Man: No, because according to you, ‘yes’ means ‘no’!

 

Genius: Oh my god…

 

Man: And now, I don’t know what ‘no’ means now.

 

Genius: (with her face in her hands) I’ve never felt the urge to go to Uluru… until now.

 

Man: No? I’d love to go. Such a natural anomaly.

 

Genius: (takes a big inhale) No, I am not going to tell you the name of anyone I’ve lived with before. And no means no.

 

Man: (makes a pouty face) Please. Look how cute I am.

 

Genius: ‘No’ still meaning ‘no’… no.

 

Man: I think you want to.

 

Genius: I know I don’t want to.

 

Man: Please?

 

Genius: No.

 

Man: Please.

 

Genius: No.

 

Man: Please.

 

Genius: No!

 

Man: Please.

 

Genius: You’re not going to stop, are you?

 

Man: Not anytime soon (he smiles).

 

Genius: (glaring) Alright then… if I tell you a name, one name only... will you leave me be?

 

Man: (brightening) Yes.

 

Genius: I mean it. You don’t ask any more questions, you stop hounding me and you get back to work on your writing.

 

Man: Yes. I promise. I swear!

 

Genius: (she sighs and looks back at the bookcase.) Take that book off of the shelf.

 

Man: Which one?

 

Genius: (points) That one. The blue one.

 

Man: (he pulls the book off of the shelf and reads the cover.) This is Dickens. It’s A Christmas Carol.

 

Genius: I know. Flip to a few pages before chapter two.

 

Man: What part?

 

Genius: Where Scrooge first sees Marley’s ghost.

 

Man: At the door?

 

Genius: No, in the house.

 

(The Man turns the pages and stops.)

 

Genius: Read out loud what it says. How Scrooge explains Marley.

 

Man: “You may be an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of underdone potato. There's more of gravy than of grave about you, whatever you are!”

 

Genius: In times previous, when I’ve appeared to people, they think I’m a ghost or a demon. Dickens was so scared by it that he wrote it into a story.

 

Man: (kneeling beside her) Dickens? (a small smile goes across his face) I share a creative genius with Dickens? (smiling) I can’t believe this!

 

Genius: I know.

 

Man: It’s unbelievable!

 

Genius: Well, you asked for a name.

 

Man: (beside himself with happiness) Seriously? Dickens?!

 

Genius: No!

 

Man: (dumbfounded) What?!

 

Genius: I’m totally screwing with you!

 

Man: I thought you were being serious!

 

Genius: I know you did! That’s what makes it so funny to me!

 

Man: So you didn’t live with Dickens then?

 

Genius: No means no. But I’ve wanted to play that joke for a long time. (She laughs and sees that he’s a bit downtrodden at this news.) Why would I be so adamant for your whole life about not telling you, and then just go ahead and tell you this easily? It shouldn’t matter to you who I have lived life with. Your art is your business and your priority.

 

Man: I know that, but it’s my choice to want to know! I want to know who I’ve shared a genius with!

 

Genius: Has it ever occurred to you that maybe I can’t tell you? There are things that happened in other’s lives. Things that... I shouldn’t talk about. There isn’t a rule book but there is decency. Do you want me telling someone in the future about your life now? The problems that you’ve had? (he shakes his head) They shared their deepest secrets with me. So let me keep them. Now go and write your own words.

 

(He gets up to go over to his desk. He stops and turns back.)

 

Man: I have one last question, and then I promise I’ll drop it.

 

Genius: (breath in) What?

 

Man: You said that you’re a part of my soul.

 

Genius: Yes.

 

Man: But you’ve also lived countless other lives.

 

Genius: Yes.

 

Man: Then does that mean that I have a little piece of every other artist who’s come before me?

 

Genius: (dumbfounded) I don’t know, I--- I guess so...

 

Man: It would have been nice to know that I had a bit of such a great writer inside of me. A poet’s soul.

 

Genius: You do have some of a great writer in you. (adding quickly) And a few poets, and some painters, and actors, dancers, composers. All of them are in you.

 

Man: Do you see the others?

 

Genius: Who?

 

Man: The other people that you’ve lived with. When you see me, do you see glimpses of them?

 

Genius: (regards him for a bit) Yes I do. Some more than others sometimes.

 

Man: What does that mean?

 

Genius: Don’t worry about it. Let’s write a story.

 

(He smiles and returns to his laptop. He tries to begin typing but doesn’t.)

 

Genius: What’s wrong?

 

Man: I don’t know how to start this.

 

Genius: Do you want to do another word blitz?

 

Man: No, it’s not that, it’s...

 

Genius: Should we put ‘doodle sack’ somewhere in there?

 

Man: (smiling at her) No, we don’t have to put in ‘doodle sack’, or ‘tittynope’. It’s just that--- the words aren’t---

 

Genius: The words aren’t what?

 

Man: Dancing.

 

Genius: They’re not dancing?

 

Man: Words dance to me. There is no other way to describe it except that they dance. Your voice is the music, and I’m the instrument, and together, we make words move any way we want. They can be coy, sultry, demanding, hurtful, or just... happening. But it always starts the same: At first, the words are halting, trying to find the right steps to take. But dancing isn’t about the right steps, it’s about the movement. So I just let my fingers move over the keys, and eventually my hands find the rhythm. The words dance their way into my breath and my blood. I feel them coursing through me, not because I need them to exist on paper, but because they themselves need to exist on paper. And all the while, I can still hear you, and I’m still conscious of what’s happening, and yet, I am not... of myself. (pause) But I don’t feel it this time.

Genius: I’ve never heard you talk about your writing that way before.

Man: Because I’ve never had to. It was just something that I knew about myself, and I didn’t really notice it until the words went away.

Genius: The words haven’t gone away. I am the words.

Man: Then why can’t I hear them?

Genius: Maybe because your inspiration is gone.

Man: Lots of things inspire me. Nature, people, connections, situations; I highly doubt that it all just turned off.

Genius: I doubt that too, but I’ve found that there is always that one thing. That one source of inspiration that kind of turns you on to everything else; it makes you see what you normally wouldn’t. But if you lose it, that one main connection, everything else is lost with it. (pause) If you wrote for yourself every time before, why do you feel the need to write for someone else now? Of all times?

Man: I don’t know.

Genius: (she takes a breath in to say something, but decides against it.) Well then. May I formally welcome you to Writer’s Block? Population: Everyone at some point.

Man: And what a s****y place it is.

Genius: I don’t know. Some people have been known to lose their souls here. I’ve been told that can be good for some people.

Man: Some people; not all.

Genius: Well, in my experience of writing with others, the only way to get over writer’s block is to continue writing.

Man: How do I continue writing when I haven’t even started? I don’t even know what to start with.

Genius: Start with something true.

Man: (thinking) Who said that?

Genius: Me. I said that.

Man: (angry) Of course you said it. Who else would have said it just now?!

Genius: I don’t--- I’m just confused, is all. I don’t know what you mean.

Man: (calming down) It’s a quote. I can’t remember who said it though.

Genius: I don’t think it matters who said it. What matters is that it was said and that they were right.

Man: (he thinks for a moment) I can’t write worth a damn. That’s something that’s true.

Genius: Uh, excuse me! How many books over there (points to the bookcase) are yours? And how many of them say ‘bestseller’ on the cover?

Man: Those are already written though. This (points to his laptop) has yet to be.

Genius: If the past is any indication, you’ll be fine.

Man: The past is no indication. Ever. There is no algorithm for Life; no pattern. What happened in the past was great, but that doesn’t give any clues for the future. Do you honestly think that just because I’ve done well in the past, it doesn’t make me susceptible to failure? It’s completely the opposite! Once someone does well, they get lazy thinking that they have conquered their problem when all that has happened is that they’ve gotten a bit farther up the hill. And once they’ve reached the top of the hill, they realize that it’s just a small part of an even bigger mountain! Do you honestly think that I’ve won this battle?!

Genius: I immediately regret tugging on this thread.

Man: (calming himself) But you know what I mean, don’t you? I’ve written all of my life. Ever since mom died, that’s how I escaped. A story a day; a book a year. But I kept writing because people kept telling me that I was good, and I believed them. There was always a new story to write. I didn’t count on the stories running out. It’s been three years since I wrote anything worthwhile. I’m starting to panic. What if my worst nightmares are coming true? What if I’m not a great writer, not even a good one, and my reality is a sham, and everyone but me has been aware of it until now?

Genius: Does that really scare you? Because if it does, you’ve never told me about it.

Man: I didn’t start to think this way until recently.

Genius: What is ‘recently’?

Man: For almost four years. (looks at her shocked face). Ok then, relatively recently.

Genius: You’ve felt this way for four years and didn’t tell me?

Man: Why tell you if I’m just going to get this reaction?

Genius: Because this reaction is from what helps you create! It’s not just your work that gets published! And to hear this makes me feel like I’ve not been doing my job!

Man: I’m sorry. I didn’t think you’d want to know.

Genius: Why wouldn’t I--- (she puts her face in her hands) Just tell me next time. Please?

Man: Yes, I will.

Genius: Do you promise? Because you tend to not tell me a lot of things lately.

Man: Yes, I promise. I will.

Genius: Anything else you want to tell me?

Man: (very small pause) No.

Genius: (sarcastic) Well that was super convincing. We can’t work together if we’re not honest with each other.

Man: So says the one who won’t reveal their past lives.

Genius: That is something completely different. I tell you what I can.

Man: So do I. But some things I can’t just put out there. They’re too big.

(Pause)

Genius: Do you think you can tell me at some point?

Man: (nodding) I want to.

Genius: Ok. Then, I’ll be patient.

(The Man nods, and turns back to his laptop. Silence.)

Man: (shaking his head and muttering) Stop it!

Genius: Are you ok?

Man: I’ll be fine!

(Pause.)

Genius: You said ‘escape’.

Man: What?

Genius: Before. You said that you write to escape. You write every day.

Man: Plenty of people write to escape. Writing is my therapy. And now that therapy is gone.

Genius: It seems like your writing was your medication, not your therapy.

Man: Drop it! Just drop it! (Pause) What if I’m right, hmm? What if I only did have a few good stories and now they’re used up? What do I do?

Genius: You aren’t used up. You’re blocked! I’ve lived through this so many times! And every time, I have continued by their side. I’m sorry that you’re having trouble, but I swear to you, the only way through it is to keep going.

Man: I don’t want to go anymore. I just want to stop.

Genius: What do you mean you want to stop?

Man: (looking straight at her) I want to stop.

Genius: (composing herself) What’s your biggest fear?

Man: What do you mean?

Genius: People stop because they’re terrified. Terrified of what will, or won’t, happen. So what terrifies you?

Man: Seaweed.

Genius: I’m being serious.

Man: Me too. It’s slimy and God knows what’s living in it.

(She looks at him, not amused.)

Man: Do you remember that awful review I got for my first book? When I read that review, as a new writer, I took it so much to heart. I felt like it didn’t matter that it was selling or that other critics loved it. That one didn’t, and they had no problem telling the world how much they didn’t like it. And it plagued me. For days afterward, I just pored over my book, reviewing every detail that she was critical of, and thinking maybe she was right. Maybe I was just mediocre, and who was I to think that I had talent? Then one day, it clicked in. Just out of the blue: She said in the review that she could have written a better novel and all I could think was, ‘well then, why didn’t she?’ If she was so great, and so sure of my lack of talent, why didn’t she prove me wrong? Why didn’t she write the book that I so clearly had not? But that’s it isn’t it? People look at a piece of art after it’s finished and tend to say, ‘I could have done that.’ But they didn’t; the artist did. So instead of having grace, they s**t all over the work of someone else that they deem as unworthy.

 

Genius: “A critic is someone who enters the battlefield after the war is over and shoots the wounded.”

 

Man: I don’t know about all critics, but certainly that one.

 

Genius: I don’t understand. If you felt that way, and you convinced yourself that she was wrong, why is it still a problem?

 

Man: Because humans are complex and we aren’t fixed so easily. Recognizing the problem isn’t the same as recognizing the solution.

 

Genius: Fear of a critic is just a symptom of something worse.

 

Man: Then I don’t want to know what it is.

 

Genius: How can you--- you don’t want to solve your problem?

 

Man: And what if my problem is so deep rooted that it buggers everything up? And I mean everything. My ideals, thoughts, job, relationships... everything. I don’t want to look in the mirror and realize that everything I’ve done in my life was based on a lie.

 

Genius: Even if you don’t deal with it, it will still be a lie. Do you think ignoring cancer makes cancer go away?

 

(He doesn’t answer.)

 

Genius: Fine, you want my opinion? You’re afraid of rejection.

 

Man: It doesn’t take a genius to see that.

 

Genius: Don’t joke.

 

Man: I’m not joking! I’d be willing to bet that every person in the world is afraid of some sort of rejection!

 

Genius: And somehow, that makes it ok? Answer me: are you afraid of rejection?

 

Man: (small pause) I’m f*****g petrified of it.

 

Genius: Is that why she’s gone?

 

Man: No, it isn’t.

 

Genius: Are you lying to me?

 

Man: No. I am not.

 

Genius: Because I loved her too. And I came back from a walk one day and she was gone, and I don’t know why. I deserve an explanation as to why she left.

 

Man: Sometimes, marriages don’t pan out.

 

Genius: And it always takes two people to break them. What happened?

 

Man: We fought. And I told her to go.

 

Genius: Why?

 

Man: Because I don’t love her anymore.

 

Genius: Liar.

 

Man: I don’t. I can’t love someone... who doesn’t love me for all that I am. Faults and everything. She gave me an ultimatum, but I beat her to the punch and told her to get the hell out!

 

Genius: Let me guess: Her ultimatum was either doing what she wanted or you could leave?

 

Man: Yes.

 

Genius: You idiot. You didn’t beat her to the punch. You switched the ultimatum around.

 

Man: I chose to be my own man!

 

Genius: You chose to be lonely! You didn’t choose to fight for love!

 

Man: There was no love to fight for!

 

Genius: There is always love to fight for. Always.

 

Man: Well, what’s done is done. Life goes on and so shall I.

 

Genius: As you say with a bandaged up wrist.

 

Man: F**k you! You don’t know what happened! You don’t know how I wound up here! You don’t know what she said to me!

 

Genius: Then tell me!

 

Man: She told me to start taking my medication again or she’d leave!

 

Genius: (she is scared) Your med--- you haven’t taken medication since you were thirteen.

 

Man: Yeah, when dad was concerned that I still had an imaginary friend. Those pills made you go away! You were gone! I had lost my best friend and I was devastated. So I stopped taking my medication and I lied. To everyone! I told them all that I didn’t see you anymore and so I didn’t need any more pills. I lied to bring you back. You have been my one constant my whole life. My only true friend. So when I am asked one day to choose again, I will choose you. Always. How’s that for fighting for love?

 

Genius: You can’t see the forest for the trees, can you? When did you start seeing me? (pause) It was after she killed herself. Only then did you first see me. Did you never realize that all this time, that I look like her? Look at me: I am a disembodied spirit, ageless, without gender or race. I shouldn’t have an appearance, and yet I look like a woman in her mid twenties. How old was your mom?

 

Man: (quiet) Mid twenties.

 

Genius: I didn’t want to show myself to you. I knew that if I did, you would need me. But at the time, I thought that you needed me anyway. I was ok with being a coping mechanism for a small child. And after a while, I thought, ‘Maybe he’s just used to seeing me this way.’ But after your wife left, my appearance started changing. Slowly, but its changing (she looks at what she’s wearing.) It is a curious thing that you see me in one of your favorite outfits of hers. So don’t tell me that you don’t want to fight for love, because we can both see that you do.

 

Man: She shouldn’t have left. If she thought I was so sick, then why would she leave me to my own devices? If she really loved me then she wouldn’t have left.

 

Genius: I’m sorry that she did. But what would you do? You humans... when you’re upset, you don’t think straight. She didn’t want you to take your medication so that she could be in control; she wanted you to take it so that you’d be healthy. If that isn’t love, I don’t know what is.

 

Man: Leaving the person you claim is the love of your life certainly isn’t. My dad didn’t leave my mom.

 

Genius: No, he didn’t. And do you remember what it did to him? To the both of you?

 

(Pause)

 

Man: I didn’t realize that I saw you as my mom.

 

Genius: I understand why you do. I remember watching you two together before she died. She loved you a lot.

 

Man: Not enough to stay alive.

 

Genius: Don’t be unfair. She was ill.

 

Man: Do you remember the print that she had? The print of Van Gogh’s Starry Night?

 

Genius: (nods) You really loved that print. You stared at it for hours.

 

Man: I had been noticing that my mom was sad. And so I asked my dad, would a picture make her feel better? And dad said yes. He told me to be nice to my mom, because she was sick. So I painted her my own rendition of Starry Night, because I thought if it made me happy, it would make her happy too. I remember walking into her room. It was dark; she had all the blinds closed. It smelled stale; old. And daddy always told me that fresh air does us good, so I opened the blinds and the window. I thought I was helping. My mommy woke up, and just started to scream. I couldn’t understand her; she was just shrieking. All I could think was, 'Give her the picture! Give her the picture and she’ll feel better!’ I offered it to her, and she snatched it away, and just tore it. I had never seen anyone that livid. I ran out so fast. I remember daddy running into the room and closing the door. All I could hear was mommy screaming and daddy telling her to calm down. She screamed for what felt like hours. After there was silence for a bit, my dad came out. It was dark in the room again. He picked me up and changed me because I had peed myself. And then he lay on my bed with me and as I was falling asleep, he kept saying over and over, ‘its ok, it’s ok...’ I don’t know if that was for me or for him. I woke up later that night, and went to go check on mom. I wanted to tell her that it was ok; I wasn’t angry that she got mad. Because dad always told me that she was sick; she didn’t mean any of it. I opened the door to her bedroom; she wasn’t in the bed, but the bathroom light was on. I heard dad call my name, but I didn’t answer. I opened the door. All I saw was red, and then darkness. My dad had put his hands on my eyes so that I wouldn’t see, but I already had.

 

Genius: I don’t remember that.

 

Man: It was night time. You had probably gone for a walk. I still wonder sometimes what would have happened had I not given her that picture.

 

Genius: Oh, love, that’s not your fault.

 

Man: I know it isn’t. But I don’t believe it.

 

(She looks at him, confused.)

 

Man: Knowledge is jumping into a void but knowing that there is a net. Its logic and fact. But belief is not logic; not at all. Belief is jumping into a void hoping there is a net, but having no proof of one. Believing is so much more potent because you don’t have proof, but you jump anyway. I know that my mother didn’t kill herself because of me. (pause) She was holding my drawing in her hand when she was found. She had taped it back together. (he breathes in, slowly and deeply) When it comes down to it, she thought her illness made her a terrible mother. I wish I could have told her otherwise (he shrugs). I know that my mother loved me; but I just don’t believe it. My heart won’t let me take the jump.

 

Genius: But you just said that you shouldn’t need to have evidence in order to believe something.

 

Man: You shouldn’t. (he looks up at her) I believe that you’re here. I don’t know that you are.

 

Genius: What?

 

Man: What are you?

 

Genius: I’m--- I’m your genius. I help you be creative.

 

Man: Prove it.

 

Genius: I--- I can’t. I don’t--- I don’t know how.

 

Man: (He sighs) I know you can’t. That’s what scares me.

 

Genius: Why? Why does it scare you now? Of all times, why now? Nothing’s changed! Yes, you hurt yourself, and I’m sorry for that, but your depressed! You need help!

 

Man: Depression is a side effect of what I have.

 

Genius: What do you have?

 

Man: My wife wanted me to start taking medication because--- because of the other voices.

 

Genius: (shocked) What other voices?

 

Man: The other ones I’m hearing right now, telling me not to tell you.

 

Genius: When--- when did you start hearing them?

 

Man: About four years ago.

 

Genius: For four years, you’ve kept this to yourself?! Why?!

 

Man: Because they weren’t there when you were. I thought you held them at bay. But now, I’ve started hearing them when you’re around too.

 

Genius: That’s why you’re asking questions about walks and things, aren’t you? Because you want as much proof as possible that I am here. (pause) Why won’t you take your medication?

 

Man: We’ve talked about this. I don’t take my meds because you would leave with the voices. You have before and it broke my heart. I can’t do any of this without you. I don’t want you to ever leave me.

 

Genius: Do you think--- do you think I’m a delusion?

 

Man: I don’t know. I don’t know if I should believe in you or know that I’m sick! The more I think, the more I realize that I don’t know and the uncertainty of this life is crushing and I just can’t handle it. I don’t know where magic ends and reason begins.

 

Genius: Why can’t there be both? Why? Why can’t there be whimsy and responsibility? Why can’t magic and reason happen at the same time? Why can’t I be here if you’re sick as well? Why not jump into the void not to question whether the net is there, but to see if you can fly?

 

Man: I’m already hearing voices; I really don’t need to add ‘trying to fly’ to my resume.

 

Genius: Don’t joke. Please. This isn’t funny for me.

 

Man: It’s not funny for me either; I just don’t like to see you crying.

 

Genius: There’s nothing wrong with crying. You humans need to get that into your thick skulls.

 

(She is quiet, thinking.)

 

Genius: What do you need?

 

Man: I need help. I need to believe that it will all be ok. But most importantly, I need to know that you’re real. I don’t want to live if you’re not.

 

Genius: Don’t say that! Don’t--- (she takes a breath) Do I make you happy? When I’m around?

 

Man: Yes.

 

Genius: And do you believe that I love you?

 

Man: Yes.

 

Genius: You believe that I love you? You don’t know it? You don’t need the net?

 

Man: I believe it with my whole heart.

 

Genius: Then it doesn’t matter if I’m here or not.

 

Man: What do you mean? What do you--- don’t say it! Please don’t.

 

Genius: I have to go.

 

Man: No (he sobs and collapses onto the floor. She sits next to him; close, but not touching.)

 

Genius: I can’t prove that I’m here. I don’t know how to show you that I am what I say I am. I have no way of proving that I’m not something that your brain just made up. But if you believe that I love you, then you know that I will do whatever I can to help make you better.

 

Man: You here with me. That will make me better.

 

Genius: Just because you won’t be able to see me doesn’t mean that I won’t be here.

 

Man: I need you to stay!

 

Genius: I can’t!

 

Man: Why not?!

 

Genius: I just--- I can’t.

 

Man: Please don’t leave me. You’re all I have!

 

Genius: Stop, please.

 

Man: Don’t leave---

 

Genius: Stop---

 

Man: I need you to---

 

Genius: I said stop it, Ernest!

 

(There is a pause. He stares at her confused and she looks away. Silence.)

 

Man: Why did you call me that?

 

(She’s quiet.)

 

Man: Why did you call me that?

 

Genius: I’ve never told--- not once. But you’re so much like him, I feel like it will do more harm to not say anything. (pause) Did you never wonder why you were such a great writer?

 

(He is silent, and then the thought sinks in.)

 

Man: Ernest Hemingway was the one who said, ‘Start with something true.’

 

Genius: No, he didn’t. I told you that I did. He was just the one who wrote it down. I told you that I see bit of each person that I’ve lived with, in everyone else subsequent.  I see so much of Ernest in you. Like you, he was sick. But he was good. He loved fiercely. And just couldn’t get enough words. He just couldn’t. He wrote incessantly, whatever I gave him. I loved that about him. So one day, when he told me that he needed help, I said, ‘No. No! You don’t need help! I am your help. All you need is me.’ I regret very few things. Almost always, I can see a reason in all that I do. But try as I might, I can’t seem to find the reason why I should have told him that. Do you see why I have to go? I refuse to be a crutch or a distraction to anyone, because I am a gift. And I meant what I said: just because you can’t see me doesn’t mean that I won’t be here. But if you are going to be better, you shouldn’t see me for a while.

 

Man: It will take a long time for me to get better.

 

Genius: Yes, it will.

 

Man: I’ll have to work hard for months, maybe even years.

 

Genius: Yes.

 

Man: Possibly my whole life.

 

Genius: That is your mission, should you choose to accept it.

 

Man: I won’t see you again, will I?

 

Genius: Do you want to be healthy again? (He nods.) Then I’ll go for a walk. But this time, you won’t see me come back. And tomorrow, you’re going to take whatever steps you need in order to start getting better. (He nods.) Good.

 

Man: You forgot about my wife.

 

Genius: What did I forget about her?

 

Man: That I’m going to call her, and tell her that I love her, and that there is no substitute for the love that I feel for her. And that she makes me want to be a better man.

 

Genius: What do you want to do with your story? I mean, if you could have one great outcome for it, what would it be?

 

Man: I would show the world how much I love her (pause) I think I found the someone that I want to write for.

 

Genius: You have just started with something true.

 

(They smile at each other. After a while, she gets up and walks slowly towards the door. She stops and looks at it.)

 

Man: Wait!

 

(She stops, but begrudgingly. He walks over to the door and opens it. He then looks at her.)

 

Man: I’m going to go sit at my desk and write. And when I’m done, I’ll close the door. But please don’t make me watch you leave. I can’t watch you go. I’ve seen too many people that I love leave me.

 

Genius: (she nods.) Ok.

 

(He stands awkwardly, almost seemingly like he wants to hug her good bye, but he knows that he can’t.)

 

Man: I don’t know what to say.

 

Genius: (she smiles at him.) Then go write and figure it out.

 

(After a while, he nods his head as if he’s ready and goes and sits in his desk chair. As he sits, the lights fade completely on stage except for a spotlight on him at his desk. He takes a few breaths, gaining his composure, then he begins to type. It is not halting; it is sure. He knows the words that he wants to write. As he continues to type, the spotlight fades slowly to black.)

 

(End.)

 

 

Author's Note

I wrote this play as my final project in theatre school when I was a student at Rosebud School of the Arts in Alberta, Canada.