Every once in a while you come across a piece of writing that strikes a chord within you. When I read this short story, I immediately loved it. It touched, what I believe, every writer who has been at this craft for any length of time feels. I asked if I could share this story. You can find other writing from D.L. Strand here.
The Game
The old man sat at his desk, scanning the fresh-typed words. His Olympia Manual waited patiently. Silently. Eager to record any thoughts he felt like sharing.
The words wouldn’t flow as they once did. There was a time when the hammers struck sparks and the words exploded off the page for those who read them.
He pursued the revelation. The constant eureka. He didn’t know how the process worked. It just worked. Of course, some days were better than others.
Especially now.
This was the tragedy of age. He knew he wasn’t as fast as he once was. Not as sharp. The audience was smaller, many of them moved on, one way or another.
His fingers, like his back, grown bent and stiff with age, moved slow and ponderous on the keyboard. Still, like a well-worn hammer, they pounded out the words as they came.
Still, every morning he sat down at his well-worn chair – the one that leaned slightly to the right – and hunted.
There are those who think inspiration a gift. He knew better. He knew Inspiration as a fickle mistress, to be wooed, seduced, pampered. The more you romanced her, the more she’d flirt with you.
She never came on strong. Not at first. She’d lightly tease the fuzzy edges of his dreams. Stroke the embers of his imagination. Eventually, he’d lose himself in the seduction. The fire. Unaware of the world around him. Typing furiously. Images scorching the page. Fingers struggling to keep up with the drama playing out in his head.
Sometimes he chased her all day, it was true. Never catching a glimpse. But later, after he’d left his desk and put his labors behind him, she would tempt some half-formed dream out of his thoughts. It could be during the news, a movie, while drifting off to sleep, or in the shower.
It seemed, that sometimes, running water drew her to him. Obviously, it wasn’t his body. Not anymore. Not ever. He had after all, the frame of a writer, built through years of sitting – stooped over his typewriter – drinking black coffee, eating donuts or whatever his wife put in front of him. Some days, he was unaware that he had eaten at all. But the evidence was there. The empty cup, the smeared plate.
It wasn’t that life didn’t attract him. He loved his wife. He loved the mornings spent together over eggs and coffee. And he loved the children they’d raised together.
He knew that it hadn’t been easy. Artists are a selfish lot, after all. Everything takes a backseat to the muse.
He was committed to his muse. And why not? Had they not shared 1000 stories? Created people? Worlds? Gods? Had she not given him a life richer than any he’d hoped for, had he worked for a company or gotten a job?
Job! It should be a four letter word. Who cared if he ate. Art drove him. He could go days without eating, but never a day without his art. No, never that.
So he sat in the place where he knew, one day he would die, surrounded by his volumes of his work, and those his peers. His awards. A fan’s standout letter claiming his words changed her life. A framed note from an old teacher insisting he had no talent. In many ways, that letter gave him more pleasure than any of the awards or acclamations.
Today, he sensed a slight difference in the air. In the pressure on his face. In his lungs. Was it the weather? The season? No, he thought to himself. Nothing so mundane as that.
He searched for the cause. Not with his eyes or nose, but with his fingers. His mind. He knew that the change was not external. And yet…
He asked his muse, what was the change? If he could gain the truth of it, he could express it.
He sensed a stirring at his back. A bony hand on his shoulder. It was The Call. The one he’d dreaded. No Muse reached out for him today. No, it was her cousin, come to steal his breath.
He felt the icy breath on his ear. “Your efforts are done. Cease your toils.”
He typed on as if his fingers could flee for him.
‘I won’t leave with another story in me.’ He pressed on, struggling to remain, to complete just one more tale. To share another small slice of his soul with a hungry world.
“Come. She’s no longer yours. Moved on to younger fingers – agile minds. Her faithless eyes gaze elsewhere.”
Bitter sweat racing down his neck, he hunkered down, and continued his pursuit. His fingers floundered here and there.
“Stop this folly. Let someone else have their turn. Step back. Stand up. Release your pain and be free.”
He leaned in all the harder. His brow furrowed – squeezing words out of his mind. It dripped slowly, like juice from a spent orange.
“Come.” Another bony hand grasped his shoulder. An ache clutched his chest.
“NO!” He shrugged off the clasping hands. Not while I have breath in my lungs. Life in my fingers. They flailed for the formless. The story. The song. Just one touch to scratch another tale out of the scaly mind that once gushed forth prose and song like a fountain of shimmering water.
The Presence leaned in. Weight bore down on his shoulders. The final kiss to end his tale.
His fingers began to falter, to stumble, to slow.
‘Wait!’ He thought. “What was death, but the ultimate inspiration?”
He inhaled deep and righted himself. Ripped out the spent page, replaced it, and began the race anew.
He recognized The Shade for what it was. Just an outfit. A costume.
His Muse loved him. Loved the chase. She tried one final time. “Have an end.” She whispered.
He smiled. “No.” He whispered back “Let’s dance.”
She smiled and kissed his head. Her man. Her writer. He’d just needed a little push after all.
The shot fired. The game was on.
D.L. Strands Websites:
Billy tugged on the rope, and we plodded forward again, the snow crunched under the sled and his boots. We stopped a short distance away from a grove of Douglas firs of various sizes. The blue-green needles sparkled in the sunlight as the afternoon warmth had melted some of their frosty adornment.
Ok, maybe this is not a real malady, but there is a reason it is named, even if only in urban legend, after 
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I once was spiritually dead, but now I am spiritually alive. As such, I know my eternal home is with God through Jesus’ saving grace. I know I will physically die, but I will spend eternity in heaven. How do I know you may wonder? There are several proofs I have experienced that have settled this issue for me. The main proof is time. I have walked long enough with my Savior, Jesus to see the work He has done in my life and in the lives of others. I have read enough of His words to see the truths contained therein transform not only my life but the lives of others as well. I have labored long enough beside fellow believers to see the hand of God in them as they minister to others. I have witnessed enough of God’s supernatural intervention when it defied logic. I have suffered enough to feel the arms of Jesus wrap around me and comfort me. I failed enough, and each time God has picked me back up.
As my body lies in the casket, I want it draped with yellow daffodils (my favorite flower, I will have to tell why in another blog). I want the contemporary Christian music songs from my MP3 player playing in the background. Along the route where the line of visitors usually forms, I want there to be small ceramic planter type pillars (like the ones the plants stand on) strategically placed with the several candy jars from my office on each one. So, there will need to be at least three. This way the jars can be emptied for the last time. One friend jokingly commented that I am assuming there will be a line. True enough.
I will leave it to my wife and family as to how they want me positioned at this fancy affair. That’s how it worked when I was alive, so why stop now. I am good with it now; I will be good with it then. My friends can offer their eulogies, stories, and memories, etc. There are few songs I want the congregation to sing. Hopefully, I have more than four friends show up. If not then it can be a quartet. Here they are:
In this world, Jesus meant for us to be like salt. Salt adds flavor to something already good and can make the bad more palatable. Salt also is a purifier. I personally like salt (
It is my aim to be the salt in this world by sharing the insights by my place in it. I believe that I am here at this time and this generation for a purpose. All my writing reflects this. I cannot stress this enough to people. I know it is a cliché, but it is true: If I can touch but one life through my writing; if I can bring one soul to a renewed life with God; if I have brought one person inspiration, then I have succeeded at my goal.
I would love to take credit for this but I can’t. It’s not my idea. However, I can tell you without a doubt I have used it to my advantage many times and still do. I won’t recount the whole story here, but I think you can get the gist of it. During the grand railroad building and iron boom of the late 1800s and early 1900s, there was business advisor/consultant named Ivy Lee. He went to see a very successful Charles M. Schwab (not the investor). He promised Schwab that he could help him increase productivity. Schwab told Lee that he only had twenty-five minutes before he had to catch a train and that he needed more “doing” and less “knowing.” Lee took out a 3×5 card and handed it to Schwab. He further gave him directions. Here they are modified to some degree as I have used this method: 
mind is a true maxim. Never underestimate the value of a 3×5 card. List your goals on several and strategically place them so you see that list every day, several times a day. Put one on your bathroom mirror so you can see it in the morning when you get up and before you go to bed. Put one on your refrigerator, one on the dashboard of your car, one on your desk, in your lunch box and so on. Keep your mind focused on your goals.
You have a goal, and you have a plan. Now you have to measure the plan. There are several ways to do this, monthly, quarterly, biannually, and annually. In some cases, depending on the goal, you may have to measure and review weekly or daily. For you to save $1200.00 a year, you will have to save around $23.08 a week or $46.15 every two weeks. What if you get paid every two weeks, and you rounded it up to $50.00 a pay period? At the halfway point of the year, you would have $650.00. You would be $50.00 ahead of your goal for that timeframe.
The Salty Eclectic 