Forums » General Roleplay » A Walk to Beat Writer's Block (Open)

Huxley sat at the type writer, looking down at the keys. Nothing was coming to him, and he was growing more and more frustrated. As his brow knit in frustration he ran a hand through his hair. He looked up at the window.

No wonder writers become alcoholics. He let out a sigh at that sobering thought, he got up, grabbing his jacket. The weather was lousy, sheets of rain coming down, but Huxley didn't mind one bit. Rain was good weather for writing. Or walking, whichever.

As he stepped out of the house, he glanced at the umbrella for a moment and shook his head. He didn't need it for a stroll around the city. Getting soaked might clear his mind of cobwebs and terrors. Not good for his current project.

Evelyn Baker sighed as she swiveled in her desk chair to face the sheets of rain pelting the glass of her office. Her auburn hair was frizzing again because of the moisture, and that wasn't even the worst part.

Her eyes landed on the calendar on her desk. She had an appointment with a client at the park--rain or shine. She had hoped for sun all day, but it was not meant to be. With a sigh she shook her head to knock the pessimistic thoughts away.

Her client would show up at the park. And she would make a difference. She grabbed her purple raincoat, glad she had thought to bring it with her. And an umbrella from it's secluded spot in her desk drawer. Retrieving her purse from a locked drawer, she stood and was finally ready to go.

Huxley had his hands in his pockets, shouldered hunched, feeling the rain wash down his face. It felt good. Wonderful.

He let out a breath of air, finding a nice bench to sit on. He leaned his head back, looking up at the sky. He didn't enjoy the feel of rain in his eyes, but it certainly looked nice.

He hadn't shaved for three days and looked tired. He hadn't slept for almost four days, his writer's block attempting to kill him.

The patter of rain actually became soothing. To be honest, Evelyn didn't hate rain; she just hated getting wet. If she was dry, she liked the sound of fat raindrops hitting the ground, trees, umbrella and raincoat. It was like a mini musical serenade.

At that idea she snorted and shook her head. She had been meeting too many people lately; she should take a day off to rest and let her own mind come to terms with things.

At last she made it to the park and noted the bench that was taken. Must be her client--though she didn't recognize him. Well, it had been two weeks since their last session. It would figure he would change a little.

"Excuse me, is this bench taken?" she asked once she was within earshot, since the man seemed obsessed with looking up at the falling rain, rather than at his surroundings. He was definitely her client.

Huxley looked her over, his brow twitching as he took in her figure. Very nice. She could sit with him. He didn't mind.

"Nah, no one is here but me, and I'm not that big. YOu can sit." He went back to staring at the sky. He was feeling better already. Darren can meet her back at the library and mistake her for someone else. It would be perfect.

She realized only then that she hadn't brought anything to take notes, but that was alright. Anything she would have brought with her would have been saturated anyway.

She settled herself on the bench, taking mental notes of how he acted, or didn't by her presence. She kept the umbrella tilted so that the rain didn't roll off the edge to drip directly on him.

"So, how are you today? Interesting weather, isn't it?" Smooth, Evelyn. Why don't you ask if he likes the rain too? She stuffed the thoughts away. "You don't mind the rain?"

Huxley smiled, "Better. Getting over my writer's block. The rain helps. Very cleansing." He stretched out his arms, "I like the sound of it, the feel of it. Smell too, but it doesn't taste too good." He laughed softly, turning to look at her. She was certainly good looking.

He wouldn't mind taking her home and clearing his mind further, but he had a feeling she wouldn't be interested, "What about you?"

She smiled a little. "Well, once I'm over the getting wet part, I don't mind it. Although I must admit I much prefer being indoors while it's raining to being out in it. But fresh air is good for the spirit."

"You mentioned, ah, writer's block? How long have you been writing for?" How many times had she met with her client and not known he was a writer? It wasn't something she would skimmed over. "What do you write?"

A little bit of a doubt was niggling at her. Was this her client? Something wasn't adding up.

Huxley considered for a moment, "Eight years professionally, twenty-eight or so for fun." He smiled a bit, thinking of when was first learning to write. He still had some of his stories, made in crayon with big, bulky letters and mistakes that would make him cringe now, "I'm trying to work on a novel right now. It's harder than I thouhgt, and honestly, makes me realize why people think writers are drunks. It's pretty sobering a thought."

The pieces clicked together then. This man wasn't her client--pity; he was far too lucid to be one her patients.

"Oh, I see; you're an author! I'm sorry, I think I confused you for someone else. A client of mine I think." But given there was no one else in the park, it wasn't like she had to leave. "My name's Evelyn Baker. If you're having trouble, sometimes thinking out loud is a great way to get past those inhibitions."

Huxley offered a strong hand, "Huxley Alexander." He smiled at her, shaking hair from his face, "I'd talk out my problems, but I don't think my dogs will listen. Or the maid. Or my sister. Or her husband." He frowned for a moment, "The baby might, when he's born." He laughed softly, "It's nice you meet you, Miss Baker."

She returned his handshake with a firm grip of her own. "No one to talk to, what a shame, Mr. Alexander. You seem a nice sort. Certainly you have someone to speak with? Although I imagine if you make a habit of sitting out in the rain, you only have yourself to blame." She fidgeted with her glasses, taking them off briefly to wipe away the moisture collecting on them. "So what kind of book are you writing?"

"Trying my hand at this young adult craze. It's not easy though. I don't much remember being in high school or being a teenage girl in love. I imagine I'd have ended up with the wrong boy anyhow." He laughed, "I just needed a break from writing screen plays. Needed something new, fresh. I'm tired of dealing with actors. Antsy jerks, the lot of them."

Evelyn laughed in spite of herself. "Well, I can't say I know much about either," though she had clients from both categories. "I tended to study in all my spare time. Why not take an old story and spin it differently. What hasn't been done?"

"Non-sexualized vampires?" He rubbed his temples, "A story in which nothing spectacular happens and no one lives happily ever after? A zombie love story? I don't think that last one is possible." He let out a soft yawn, stretching.

She laughed a little. "Well, at least you have ideas. I daresay I couldn't write a book. My clients probably wouldn't appreciate it anyway." Was the rain letting up? She couldn't tell, but she hoped so.

"I should get back to my office, but it was a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Alexander. Good luck with that story of yours."

Huxley reached into his pocket and slipped a card into her hand, "If you ever get the urge to write, gimme a call." He gave her his best smile, doubting she would actually call him. She was a smart woman, after all, and no doubt left uncharmed by him.

What was it about stupid girls that made them likeable again? Oh yeah, they were easy.

Evelyn glanced at the card with a smile, before reaching into a pocket and retrieving one of her own. "Likewise, if you need any help, or just a sympathetic ear, you can give me a call."

Internally she was yelling at herself. She really was an idiot. It was no wonder she was single if that was the best she could come up with. Well, too late now, he probably lost interest upon seeing her name and title: psychotherapist.

He quirked a brow, "I've never gotten a smart woman's number before." He laughed, "Though, I suppose you're looking for work." He slipped her card into his wallet, "I suppose I would have a lot of talk about. They say writers are troubled." He laughed again, "I might take you up on that offer, Doc."

His easy going nature made her smile and she shook her head. "Please, call me Evelyn. And I might be looking for...something other than work." She flushed and looked down. Had that been too forward of her? He would think she was desperate, and she wasn't. Or rather, hoped she wasn't. "I, ah, should go. It was nice meeting you."