Conroy Knowles: twenty-six and counting

On the dancefloor there exists nothing but bodies continuously colliding with each other as they try to do some sort of drunken dance. The only thing that falls onto the vinyl colour-changing dancefloor is sweat. The dancefloor is crowded and barely anyone can move more than two feet from where they're standing. A drop of sweat followed by the drop of man; it causes a stir. Suddenly blood oozes out from his head and his mouth. The dance is stopped and bloody murder is screamed. Chaos ensues on the dancefloor as blood continuously flows with no sign of stopping. A shadow walks up to the body and it scoffs. A kick to the head and the scene ends there.

2:24 AM and all that existed was the nine lines and the twenty-six-year-old man. A few moments later and nine turns back to none as the blank white screen forces itself back into existence. The only thing he could think about was how to stop a migraine that threatened to start. Resting his eyes for a moment gave him time to contemplate. He can't remember the last time he's felt this pressured to do anything. He once again ruffles his lengthy hair and opens his eyes to see the blank white screen. Conroy knows he needs sleep but his body and mind refuses to leave the chair. His conscience is telling him to write but he argues back saying he can't come up with anything. A debate sparks between himself and his mind with the loser only being his body as it begs to be rested. His left hand presses on the shift key and stays there for moments on end while his right doesn't type a single character once again. His mind shuts down for a minute or two before he removes his hands from the laptop entirely. Everything around him seems to be a sign to stop working, from the frame leading to his bedroom to the now blurry window. Another look around his one-bedroom apartment and his tired eyes fixate on a picture frame on top of his bookshelf. It was a picture of four people posing on top of a cliff -- the sun was setting and the sky was a beautiful pink, everyone had smiles on their faces and it was a time Conroy remembers to be happy. A melancholy smile comes to his face; he should travel and visit them again. He hasn't visited them since he moved to the apartment and even then he hasn't talked to them as much as they would have wanted him to. A sense of both regret and embarrassment fills him. He turns back to his desk, ignoring the blank white screen and picks up his phone. Dread has risen above regret and embarrassment. He opens his messages and stops. Near the bottom was a picture of his mother, below was his father and last was his younger brother. A look to the top of his screen and he hesitates, thinking that it's far too late to chat. A barrage of excuses fill his head before he eventually turns the phone off altogether again. He sets his phone down and closes his laptop before heading to bed with the feeling of inadequateness following him.

11:21 AM and eyes open wide. The cool air around his room felt comfortable. A part of him wanted to continue to sleep in but at the look of the clock it tells him not to. He never liked waking up near lunch but he's been doing it every day. Conroy gets up and lazily fixes the bed before slowly walking up to his desk to check his phone. He clears up the cluttered notification screen and opens up his email and sees something he expected. It was a reminder once again from his publishing group; a rough draft was to be sent by 11:59 PM. The email also came with a footer noting that failure to send anything means a loss in a month of Wunderkind's revenue. All Conroy could think of right now was his need of black coffee. An indifference to the email was met as panic was long gone. The inevitable ought to happen but he was simply too tired to care much about it. The phone starts to ring, it was his agent. The picture of a smiling large man with black-square-glasses wearing a khaki suit made him feel uneasy. He knows that the smile will be long gone.

"Hello?"

"Knowles. Deadline day." his agent starts, "We need you to send the twenty-three-thousand words by today." His tone is relaxing but a certain sense of stern could be picked up on. "You can send it either now, later or a minute before midnight, it's your choice." The feeling of indifference has passed and no longer does Conroy need anything else.

"Conroy, you there?"

"U-uh yes Marv." Conroy's head is compressing and his throat tightens up. "Uh Marv? Wha-". The words were stumbling before he could even say it. It's been seventy-nine days since he's been tasked with writing and he hasn't written a single thing. He grabs his chair and sits, trying to calm down and say what he needs to say. Marv is silently waiting.

"Knowles? What happened? Can you hear me? Hold on, let me move." Conroy can hear Marv struggle as he moves around trying to get a signal that's already there.

"Marv no it's fine." Conroy says. He hears Marv shuffle once again, assumingly back to his chair. Conroy contemplates if he should even say the next words. A conversation starts in his mind as he weighs up his options. On one hand, Conroy could not tell him; but that would risk Marv getting even more upset for not telling him earlier. On the other, Conroy could tell him now; but the risk is that maybe he need not do it at all. As he hears the faint breathing of his agent on the other line, he decides to brave it.

"Marv, what if I can't have it by today?"

"What?" the tone isn't upset, but rather curious -- though Conroy knows it could turn to upset rather quickly. "What do you mean? We gave you two and a half months. That's ample time to write the needed words." Marv states matter-of-factly, "Hell, you made Wunderkind's first draft in a month! What happened?" The tone is more concerned if anything. Conroy knows to tread lightly as the news he has could devastate both Marv and anger his publishers.

"How much have you written?"

Conroy bites his lower lip and twirls his black hair. He is reminded by the black white screen. He creates an audible deep breath and says, "Honestly Marv, fuck all". So much for treading lightly.

"What?" Marv screams from the other line. He's clearly not happy.

"What do you mean you have nothing?" For as long as he can remember, Marv was a fair man, and he is a rather calm, calculated man; to make Marv yell is rather rare. Conroy never cared much for hard-nosed lectures, but he feels as if it's deserved.

"I don't know Marv. I don't know."

"What do you mean you don't know?" Marv asks in an angry tone, "It's your book for god sakes Conroy how could you have nothing after two and a half months!" Conroy takes his phone out of his ear for a second and puffs his cheeks as he knows what's coming next.

"I don't know, okay! I haven't been able to think about anything."

"Anything?" Marv sounds dumbfounded. "So you literally have nothing? Nothing, zero, zilch, nil, nada?" it's clear that he's trying to wrap his head around it. Conroy looks to the window. It's bright outside and snow is falling; it's disappointing to him that he has to spend it being berated. He looks down and looks at his left hand resting on his lap, he clenches the hand and quietly tries to calm himself down. He tells himself it's going to be okay.

"No. Nothing. I'm sorry."

"Sorry? Well, that fixes everything doesn't it?" Conroy doesn't like the sarcasm besieged onto him. He can hear Marv take deep breaths. After a few seconds of silence from the other line, Marv quietly says, "Okay. Listen up".

"Assuming you aren't just lying to me for some sadistic reason," he starts, "though hell I'd take that over you not actually having anything." Marv casually states in a quieter tone, "you have messed up hotshot".

"We gave you two and a half months to write something -- anything, and you've come up with nothing. Listen, you. You're a goddamned hit for the publishers. They haven't had such a big hit since like five years ago! They love you! People love both you and your book! But that was what? Ten months ago? Maybe more? You ain't exactly a hotshot anymore. Now, your publishers are depending on you to write something and guess what? You haven't written anything. Now, you're a talented guy. I know that. I wouldn't have said yes to you if you didn't have the potential. But let me tell you. Honestly, your work ethic is absolutely abysmal sometimes. There are times you write like you're running out of time but there are other times you don't write for weeks on end. I trust in you but I don't trust your work ethic quite frankly. Now, unless you want to be a has-been living off your number one seller which to tell you right now, you can't, then do some goddamned work. Anything. Literally anything! The publishers will eat it up because you're Conroy Knowles! A damned talent! Anything you make, I'm guaranteed someone will like it. Hell, even I like anything you write even if it's just a two word sentence! But, you don't even have a two word sentence. You have nothing. You have made nothing. Nothing. And that is a big gigantic no no. Do something about it. Now. Got it?"

Conroy was speechless. For a few seconds he just sat there frozen due to the monologue. He didn't know what to say. He hears Marv's breathing from the other line; he's patiently waiting for a reply. He couldn't think of one for no response could suffice from the lecture just given to him. A jumble of responses roamed around his mind but none were good responses. It took him a minute or two to respond with a measly "Yes." Even Conroy himself didn't believe his response. He hears a loud sigh come from Marv. He hears the squeak of his chair too.

"Okay. I can move your deadline." Marv says in a calm manner after a few moments of silence, "I'm sure I could convince them that your work would be better at a later date. It better be." Conroy internally sighs in relief. "But of course, you do have to lose a month of Wunderkind's revenue. I think that's fair and I think you should think that too."

"That's fine. I just need more time, that's all."

"Kid, we already gave you the time." Marv says in another stern voice. "Consider this as extra time because I cannot give you another two and a half months. At best, four weeks. At worst, one week." Conroy knew he had to accept either option regardless if he's stuck.

"Sure. That's alright with me."

"Good. I know you have it in you."