Fallen Short
Merton rubbed his eyes; they were stinging but he had to finish looking through the submitted artwork. He'd insisted on control of every minute detail of his fifth book, using the name he had made for himself to back his impulse for control, so he wasn't going to delegate or slack off because he'd been staring at a blank page of Word for five hours. He could have looked at the submissions earlier but he had thought he might be able to conquer his writer's block if he went straight to the computer and dove right into writing. He had been wrong, and five hours later all he had was his the memory of numerous failures at writing the most pivotal scene of the book and eyes that felt like they were on fire. Picking up the last portfolio, Merton let out a sigh and prayed the artist had an understanding about his characters and the series. He'd given three possibilities in writing for a cover and every submission thus far had been a caricature or bland unimaginative drawing. Merton wondered if they had read what he had written, or if they could read at all. He flattened the portfolio on his desk and at the name, noting that once again the person had no experience. Of course, he had said to look for untapped talent; maybe that had been his mistake. Merton shook his head and braced himself for another horrid depiction of his characters and their lives.
He gasped. The other rough drafts had been pencil sketches or charcoal. No life, no color - not to mention unprofessional - which had left him wanting more. Also he wondered if there were any artists out there who could draw what he craved and had lost when his prior artist took a leave of absence for motherhood. His heart pounded as he stared at the vibrant colors that were almost hurting his sore eyes, but he didn't care. Merton took in a breathtaking portrait of the Dark Castle with the four heroes figures cloaked in shadow by the side of it. The image held all he wanted, all he'd envisioned in his mind's eye. Realizing he wasn't breathing, he laughed at himself and could see the imaginary headlines, 'Merton J. Dingle, Best Selling Author, dies of shock from seeing a fantastic drawing.' Taking a breath, he reached over and grabbed a can of orange soda and sipped it, to steady himself before looking at the second picture. Then he flipped the page to see what the artist had captured for the second image he'd requested and a smile spread across his face. The half monster/half butterfly was swooping down over a crystal clear lake was perfection. The reflection of the creature's rainbow of colors and graceful yet monstrous size was precisely what Merton had imagined, and had described in words. If the artist was there, Merton was sure he'd be hugging and smothering him with kisses. He flipped the portfolio closed and read the name - Ian Nikola - yep he'd be smothering and kissing a him with absolute glee. Merton opened the portfolio again, he had to look at the last picture. The last picture was the true litmus test because it would contain the most pivotal moment of the fifth book; the moment that he couldn't bring to life. A scene of importance and emotion that he couldn't write and was blocked on in a way that he'd never succumbed to before. Maybe this artist's beautiful handling of his vision would find a way to unlock the door to the words and the emotion Merton needed.
The drawing was perfect, too perfect and Merton paled and his blood pressure plummeted, making him dizzy. How had the artist done it, how had he done it? On the page in Merton's hands was a drawing that pulled you into another world. It was two young men and they were reaching out for each other, but they couldn't reach. One of the young men was over a cliff, his other hand trying desperately to stay locked onto a crevice in the rock, as the second man was flat on his stomach stretching his arms down to the one in peril. It was the expressions on their faces, not the action, that drew Merton in and made his stomach lurch. He saw fear, terror, guilt and hope clearly on both of their faces. He could almost feel the heat of their emotions and the determined struggle as they reached for each other. It was his book's cover, this picture, just the way it was, without any changes. Now if only Merton could write the scene. His hope faded about the picture helping him, because instead seeing the picture, Merton felt panicked. Could he do it, could he live up to the emotion and pay off he had been leading to? Could he bring his two main characters, Macen and Rorke, back together? Mending the hurt feelings, broken promises, and betrayals? Their partnership was to be reborn as Rorke grabs Macen's hand, only Merton couldn't write it and he couldn't comprehend why. Why something that had been in his mind since the story popped into his mind years ago was eluding his grasp when its time had finally come. He'd written drafts a million times but they all felt flat, detached, unemotional and worst of all they didn't ring true to Merton's heart.
Merton closed his eyes, trying to shake away the doubt and fear filling him about his work and took a few deep breaths to try to clear his mind. When he opened them again the brilliant green of Rorke's eyes caught his eye and he found himself staring. There was a look of fierce and obstinate resolve, drawn into the character's expression. A familiar face and familiar eyes -- Memories overwhelmed Merton against his will.
Tommy leaning against a locker with a grin on his face the first time they spoke. Tommy patiently teaching him how to throw a free throw, so they could play basketball together. Small moments of all the times, Tommy fell asleep at his place while they watched movie. Or the incredulous looks Tommy gave, when Merton started spinning tales of fantasy off the top of his head. All the encouragement and support when Merton talked about maybe writing the tales down. Merton inhaled sharply and felt choked because pain came with memories of Tommy.
All the memories came at once, as if a closet door that been too full had been unlocked . And with all the good came all the bad. The inane fights they'd had their first year of college, mostly near the end of the year. They'd fought about living space, phone time, forgotten plans, dirty clothes and none of it had felt right or made sense to Merton. Then came the worst and last memory - an empty dorm room. Tommy had packed everything he owned and left without an explanation, a goodbye. He hadn't even left Merton a note. In a blink the best friend Merton had ever had walked out of his life as quickly as he had walked in. Merton's greatest fear had been realized; he lost Tommy, and he would never know why or how.
Dropping the drawing of his two main characters, Merton rubbed his eyes. This was not the time to be thinking of Tommy. He was tired and seeing things that weren't there in the picture. Tommy had no resemblance to the image of Rorke Ian Nikola had drawn. Merton turned his mind back to business, he needed to let someone know he wanted this artist because his take on the 'rescue scene' was dead on. It was perfect, Merton didn't want a thing changed, that was what he would tell everyone. He closed the portfolio, turned off the computer and the desk light before standing up, wincing. He'd been sitting for hours, drinking flat soda and staring at a blank screen and his muscles were revolting. Merton felt a wave of exhaustion threaten to overcome him and forced his legs cross the room, so he could grab his jacket. It was time to go to his apartment and obsess about his writers block. At least he had found a new cover artist, but Merton frowned as he realized that a stranger had captured his pivotal scene in a drawing, while he couldn't write it to save his own life. Standing at the door, Merton was stuck between an urge to go back to his computer or to go home to obsess over it instead. His cell phone rang, distracting him from his dilemma. "Hello?"
"Is this Merton Dingle?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"I am calling from County Universal Hospital. is Rebecca Dingle your sister?
Merton paled and squeaked a yes. The woman informed him that Becky had been in a car accident and his protective instincts took over. He started demanding answers the woman on the phone didn't have or refused to give. He cursed her, as he shouted something about it being his only sister before disconnecting and racing to the stairwell. Everything was forgotten; the cover art, his writer's block and Tommy Dawkins because his sister's life flashed before his eyes. His heartbeat became his soul focus as it pounded in his ears, nothing could happen to Becky, she was all the family he had left.
Merton rubbed his eyes; they were stinging but he had to finish looking through the submitted artwork. He'd insisted on control of every minute detail of his fifth book, using the name he had made for himself to back his impulse for control, so he wasn't going to delegate or slack off because he'd been staring at a blank page of Word for five hours. He could have looked at the submissions earlier but he had thought he might be able to conquer his writer's block if he went straight to the computer and dove right into writing. He had been wrong, and five hours later all he had was his the memory of numerous failures at writing the most pivotal scene of the book and eyes that felt like they were on fire. Picking up the last portfolio, Merton let out a sigh and prayed the artist had an understanding about his characters and the series. He'd given three possibilities in writing for a cover and every submission thus far had been a caricature or bland unimaginative drawing. Merton wondered if they had read what he had written, or if they could read at all. He flattened the portfolio on his desk and at the name, noting that once again the person had no experience. Of course, he had said to look for untapped talent; maybe that had been his mistake. Merton shook his head and braced himself for another horrid depiction of his characters and their lives.
He gasped. The other rough drafts had been pencil sketches or charcoal. No life, no color - not to mention unprofessional - which had left him wanting more. Also he wondered if there were any artists out there who could draw what he craved and had lost when his prior artist took a leave of absence for motherhood. His heart pounded as he stared at the vibrant colors that were almost hurting his sore eyes, but he didn't care. Merton took in a breathtaking portrait of the Dark Castle with the four heroes figures cloaked in shadow by the side of it. The image held all he wanted, all he'd envisioned in his mind's eye. Realizing he wasn't breathing, he laughed at himself and could see the imaginary headlines, 'Merton J. Dingle, Best Selling Author, dies of shock from seeing a fantastic drawing.' Taking a breath, he reached over and grabbed a can of orange soda and sipped it, to steady himself before looking at the second picture. Then he flipped the page to see what the artist had captured for the second image he'd requested and a smile spread across his face. The half monster/half butterfly was swooping down over a crystal clear lake was perfection. The reflection of the creature's rainbow of colors and graceful yet monstrous size was precisely what Merton had imagined, and had described in words. If the artist was there, Merton was sure he'd be hugging and smothering him with kisses. He flipped the portfolio closed and read the name - Ian Nikola - yep he'd be smothering and kissing a him with absolute glee. Merton opened the portfolio again, he had to look at the last picture. The last picture was the true litmus test because it would contain the most pivotal moment of the fifth book; the moment that he couldn't bring to life. A scene of importance and emotion that he couldn't write and was blocked on in a way that he'd never succumbed to before. Maybe this artist's beautiful handling of his vision would find a way to unlock the door to the words and the emotion Merton needed.
The drawing was perfect, too perfect and Merton paled and his blood pressure plummeted, making him dizzy. How had the artist done it, how had he done it? On the page in Merton's hands was a drawing that pulled you into another world. It was two young men and they were reaching out for each other, but they couldn't reach. One of the young men was over a cliff, his other hand trying desperately to stay locked onto a crevice in the rock, as the second man was flat on his stomach stretching his arms down to the one in peril. It was the expressions on their faces, not the action, that drew Merton in and made his stomach lurch. He saw fear, terror, guilt and hope clearly on both of their faces. He could almost feel the heat of their emotions and the determined struggle as they reached for each other. It was his book's cover, this picture, just the way it was, without any changes. Now if only Merton could write the scene. His hope faded about the picture helping him, because instead seeing the picture, Merton felt panicked. Could he do it, could he live up to the emotion and pay off he had been leading to? Could he bring his two main characters, Macen and Rorke, back together? Mending the hurt feelings, broken promises, and betrayals? Their partnership was to be reborn as Rorke grabs Macen's hand, only Merton couldn't write it and he couldn't comprehend why. Why something that had been in his mind since the story popped into his mind years ago was eluding his grasp when its time had finally come. He'd written drafts a million times but they all felt flat, detached, unemotional and worst of all they didn't ring true to Merton's heart.
Merton closed his eyes, trying to shake away the doubt and fear filling him about his work and took a few deep breaths to try to clear his mind. When he opened them again the brilliant green of Rorke's eyes caught his eye and he found himself staring. There was a look of fierce and obstinate resolve, drawn into the character's expression. A familiar face and familiar eyes -- Memories overwhelmed Merton against his will.
Tommy leaning against a locker with a grin on his face the first time they spoke. Tommy patiently teaching him how to throw a free throw, so they could play basketball together. Small moments of all the times, Tommy fell asleep at his place while they watched movie. Or the incredulous looks Tommy gave, when Merton started spinning tales of fantasy off the top of his head. All the encouragement and support when Merton talked about maybe writing the tales down. Merton inhaled sharply and felt choked because pain came with memories of Tommy.
All the memories came at once, as if a closet door that been too full had been unlocked . And with all the good came all the bad. The inane fights they'd had their first year of college, mostly near the end of the year. They'd fought about living space, phone time, forgotten plans, dirty clothes and none of it had felt right or made sense to Merton. Then came the worst and last memory - an empty dorm room. Tommy had packed everything he owned and left without an explanation, a goodbye. He hadn't even left Merton a note. In a blink the best friend Merton had ever had walked out of his life as quickly as he had walked in. Merton's greatest fear had been realized; he lost Tommy, and he would never know why or how.
Dropping the drawing of his two main characters, Merton rubbed his eyes. This was not the time to be thinking of Tommy. He was tired and seeing things that weren't there in the picture. Tommy had no resemblance to the image of Rorke Ian Nikola had drawn. Merton turned his mind back to business, he needed to let someone know he wanted this artist because his take on the 'rescue scene' was dead on. It was perfect, Merton didn't want a thing changed, that was what he would tell everyone. He closed the portfolio, turned off the computer and the desk light before standing up, wincing. He'd been sitting for hours, drinking flat soda and staring at a blank screen and his muscles were revolting. Merton felt a wave of exhaustion threaten to overcome him and forced his legs cross the room, so he could grab his jacket. It was time to go to his apartment and obsess about his writers block. At least he had found a new cover artist, but Merton frowned as he realized that a stranger had captured his pivotal scene in a drawing, while he couldn't write it to save his own life. Standing at the door, Merton was stuck between an urge to go back to his computer or to go home to obsess over it instead. His cell phone rang, distracting him from his dilemma. "Hello?"
"Is this Merton Dingle?"
"Yes. Who is this?"
"I am calling from County Universal Hospital. is Rebecca Dingle your sister?
Merton paled and squeaked a yes. The woman informed him that Becky had been in a car accident and his protective instincts took over. He started demanding answers the woman on the phone didn't have or refused to give. He cursed her, as he shouted something about it being his only sister before disconnecting and racing to the stairwell. Everything was forgotten; the cover art, his writer's block and Tommy Dawkins because his sister's life flashed before his eyes. His heartbeat became his soul focus as it pounded in his ears, nothing could happen to Becky, she was all the family he had left.
