Muse

He’s right. I hate it when he’s right.

David is the real thing. For years he has pursued screenwriting and actually gotten some real attention for his efforts. It’s unnerving to know this when we discuss writing, though he does treat me as an equal. I still see myself as a pretender, who frequently talks about being an author of many brilliant works of literature, but still can’t seem to finish anything. So tonight, he asks me how my efforts are going. I tell him.

“Damn, you know I was going to write tonight but I left my laptop at work.”

“That’s no excuse. You can write on anything. And what about that room you have upstairs? Do you go up there much?”

I cringe as he says this, because I haven’t and he’s about to make a very good point.

“That’s a really cool room. If I had a room like that I’d be up there writing all the time.”

The last person I expected any support from was David. I guess I can’t seem to let go of the guy I went to high school with who was sarcastic and incredibly insensitive most of the time – a typical honor roll nerd guy. This was his personality up to our early 30’s, and I would actually go for long periods of time not contacting him because of some offense, which he still refers to as the “anti-David” periods. This would last up to six months, during which I wouldn’t respond to his emails or instant messages or simply wouldn’t acknowledge him when we crossed paths. He’d get the message, though he would call me petty later on after I forgave him.

But I could never stay mad at him. He was David. He was a good person who made me laugh with his hilarious mock German and intimidating intellect. I knew we would be friends until we were old and decrepit, sipping our peach Metamucils during Bingo and being quietly content with the other’s presence. That’s just how it was going to be.

And he’s been full of surprises.

The first occurred last November. I decided to take part in “National Novel Writing Month” which is sponsored annually by Nanowrimo out of San Francisco. Basically, you’re given one month to write a novel of 50,000 words, and if you reach your goal you print the winner’s certificate (which is absolutely delightful to look at) and feel really quite proud of yourself. Also, you get congratulations from all the people who knew you were doing it.

I wasn’t going to tell David, but I ended up including him in the email announcing my participation. I really didn’t expect any response from someone who has an agent and regularly talks to producers, but he surprised me by responding a few minutes later with some brief but very helpful advice and encouragement. It was unexpected. I mean, really unexpected. Like he had finally consented to lend me his precious copy of Animal Farm and said “Go ahead. Keep it.”

This was the same person who had, not too many months ago, pissed me off for making a condescending comment about my band. The same guy who, on occasion, would bring up the name of an ex-boyfriend and follow it with “What were you thinking?” Also the same guy who, on this cold February night, reminded me that I had a very delightful room upstairs that was perfect for pursuing my literary aspirations – and why wasn’t I using it?

Which brings us to the second surprise. I thought his visit tonight was just to catch up on life, but instead David takes a sip of his tea and announces he’s getting a divorce. He’s moving out of his house this week and being alone again for the first time in eight years. He says these things without drama but not entirely without emotion, because I can sense in his voice and see in his eyes that this wasn’t something he expected to happen, but he’d been thinking about it for a long time. Nobody’s fault, he explains, and certainly not hers. He had thought maybe coming over might take his mind off things. So there we were, sipping green tea in my living room, the sky going from grey to black as the evening passed. We end up talking about everything but the changes he’s about to go through. We end up talking about my writing.

One doesn’t argue with inspiration, whatever form it might take. Tonight it came in the form of a friend who took comfort through helping another. I don’t know if I did anything for him but listen to his advice for me, but maybe that was enough for now. He got up to leave, and we hugged as only old friends can – deeply and as intensely as our situation allowed. I watched him walk to his car, a tall figure obscured by darkness, no longer the irritating boy from high school but a man in my eyes for the first time. Then I closed the door against the evening chill, and headed up to my attic room to heed the advice of an unexpected source of inspiration. I looked around at my dark Asian-themed furniture, my bookshelves filled with my favorite authors and illustrated novels and thought, Yeah, he’s right. This is a cool room.

Damn, I hate it when he’s right.