A Portrait of the Graduate Student as an Anxious Man

            If you’ve ever written a novel, you know how awful it is. The nights you don’t swamp your brain in ethanol, you lie awake and fret. About everything. I didn’t know what compulsive worry was until I began to write novels. The whole endeavor is a special kind of hell into which you immerse yourself. Issues arise. Questions needle you at every moment. You wait in the line of idling, baking cars to pick up your children from school and a thought bubbles up. “What happens after Michael and Timbo start to cook the methamphetamine?” This is just the beginning. Another question follows. “How is it that they come to perfect the mixture? These two idiots couldn’t get out of a paper bag and they manage to master the complex chemistry required to produce street grade meth in only a week. Holy Mother of God. That’s all wrong. Quick, remember to send an email to Dave (a DEA agent you happen to know) if that’s even possible.” The cars inch forward in the sweltering North Carolina sun. A rabble of children wait under the brick pillared awning at the elementary school front. Your sons wave to you when they see you sitting in the van. “Maybe the ending needs to go. Kill your darlings. Whatever, the ending is good. Maybe the Mexican needs to go? Probably should go.” The teacher’s aide opens the side door and both your boys pile in. You tell them to get buckled quick and that things are going to be busy before soccer practice. “Jesus, Mary and Joseph. The entirety of the beginning is wrong. None of what happens there jives with the middle of the book. Go back and fix it.” At home you bustle the children through their homework. “The pious old lady should go. I like her. She doesn’t move the story forward at all. Dammit.” Dinner is chicken nuggets, microwave bagged broccoli and mac and cheese, wolfed down before piling the boys back into the van. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.” Saying the Rosary sub-vocally on the way to soccer practice is the only solace to be found from the barrage of doubt. You arrive at the fields and the sun dips toward the horizon as your oldest boy drills – passing, shooting, dribbling, far too much dribbling – finally the team breaks up for a scrimmage and you watch them from your blue camping chair. “Maybe you can push far into the Landlady’s head and it won’t seem so obtrusive, especially when she’s alone. Yeah. That makes more sense and then to pull back when she’s around other people, otherwise, you’d have to redo everyone so that you’re really close psychically to all of them. Maybe email Andromeda about it.” On the way back home, you listen to All the pretty horses on audiobook that you borrowed from the library. At home again, you hustle the children through showers and teeth brushing and bedtime rituals. Once abed, you snuff the light and bid them goodnight. “The part about the park setting has to stay. I can’t stay true to the type of vision I’m trying to pull off if that goes. Yeah, but maybe it’s too much like East of Eden. Whatever.” In the living room you sit and stare at your computer screen while your wife scrolls through facebook on her phone. You browse through some pointless and juvenile websites: 4chan, the Onion, BoingBoing. “Maybe all of it’s wrong. Maybe it’s all terrible and doesn’t need to be done at all. Christ Almighty. Why is it that Nicholas Sparks can get a whole bookshelf at Barnes and Noble and you can’t even get an encouraging rejection letter? It’s all awful. God. Maybe I should just give up.” Hours later you lie on your back in the darkened bedroom as next to you snoring emanates from the sleeping husk of your wife. You don’t think about it, but you know, somehow, she’s going to be your ex soon. You had read the Bible before bed and realize that the poetry of Job far outstrips any writing you might ever churn out. Turning to your side; you fold your hands under your head and close your eyes. “Hell. Just get up tomorrow and get back to work on it. 5 A.M. 1000 words. At least.” You sleep.