Writer's Block

I turned.

Then I wished I hadn't.

There was a man, standing there in the doorway behind me. He had a gun in his hand.

I raised my hands.

'What are you doing?' he said.

'You've got a gun.'

'And?' He looked down at the pistol in his hand. It was a big one. The sort that Clint Eastwood would point at a street punk.

'And you are pointing it at me.'

'Oh, sorry.' He lowered the gun, but remained standing in the doorway.

'But... well, what's going on?'

'You... you're writing that story.' He nodded towards the computer on the desk.

'Well... yes. But what's that got to do with you?' I remembered about the gun. 'If you don't mind me asking?'

'It's that Raymond Chandler thing.'

'What Raymond Chandler thing?'

'Don't you know?'

I shook my head.

'But you are the writer?' He spoke as though it was something every writer should know. But, if he was so bloody smart then he'd know that writers don't know much at all, about anything. That's why there is Google.

'What do you mean?'

'Well, that story....' He pointed with the gun towards the computer. 'You are having trouble with it, aren't you?'

'Yes,' I said.

'Well, Raymond Chandler said once: When in doubt, have a man come through the door with a gun in his hand.' He shrugged. 'So here I am.'

'Ah, right.'

'What?'

'I'm not entirely sure that is what he meant.'

'Oh.' The man slumped. 'Should I go then?'

'Yes. I think that would probably be for the best.'

'Oh, right.' He turned. 'Bye.'

'Bye.' I said. 'Oh... one thing...?'

He turned back eagerly. 'Yes?'

'How did you know I was having problems?'

'Oh, your muse told me.' He trudged off down the hallway. 'Bye, again.'

'Bye,' I called, but he'd already gone.

[Books by David Hadley are available here (UK) or here (US).]