Why do they call it writer's "block" -- which sounds like something wooden and practical that you might pick up at Home Depot?

Really, "writer's ugly gray fog of despair" would be more accurate.

Anyway, regardless of what you call it, and for fun let's call it Fred, it has descended on my brain, infected my laptop and frankly, I think it's making my hair flat. Every time I sit down at the computer to work on my book, an evil troll pops out of my head and whispers increasingly depressing and just plain rude comments until I sigh and get distracted by something less difficult.

You know you have writer's block when giving the dog a bath sounds like a really good thing to do RIGHT NOW. Or you're suddenly tempted to start on those 23 thank-you notes from a 5-year-old's birthday party that are two months late.

I'm almost too scared to stay in front of the keys, worried what other task that I've been procrastinating might sound like a good idea. If I start on the family Christmas card that I haven't sent in two years, I'm totally screwed.

It's like one of those stupid summer colds that show up in July and you can't seem to shake. And you just know if writer's block were an actual disease, it wouldn't be one of those bacterial infections you could clear up with a z-pack. Nah, it'd be a virus, long and lingering. The kind that makes you want to climb into bed, read OK magazine and eat Cheez-its.

Wait, that's what I want to do all the time.

Damn.

I knew things were bad when I actually took the latest issue of Parenting magazine to bed with me at 9:30 last night. To be fair, I'd already read all the trashy stuff and I was left with Time or Parenting. Food and Wine I considered, but it's for happier days. Deep down in my funk, twenty recipes for pea shoots was just more than I could handle. And let's be honest, I couldn't muster the brain power to fake my way through Time. Especially now that they've taken away my once-reliable Joel Stein column. WTF, Time? Why not take away the Tooth Fairy while you're at it. Speaking of which, my mental fog caused me to forget to put money under the pillow just last week. Sure, I spun it -- "look, the tooth fairy left you money in your shoe instead, you must have missed her. Silly tooth fairy!" but it was a close call. And clearly a distress signal that my writer's block is now morphing into mommy block. Possibly person block. Probably at some point I will just turn into a block.

Sigh.

Hold on. My computer just lost power. I plugged it in, turned it back on and came back to this post. That's gotta be a sign, right? Maybe writer's block isn't winning after all.

Take a hike, Fred. There's a new beast in town.

And she's fresh out of Cheez-its.

The beginning of Chapter 6...



“You definitely have a problem.” Maribel said, studying my hair in her pink princess mirror. Her face twisted as she grabbed a sparkly barrette out of her mouth and jammed it a little too close to my scalp.

“Ow!”

“Sorry, but you gotta sit still for this to work.” I bit my lip and tried not to yelp as she yanked another hank of hair back with the hairbrush.

Maribel's grandmother was home from work in the afternoon for once, so Mama was letting me play at her house. Since we almost never got to play at Maribel's, anytime we did was an occasion for makeovers. At my house, Mama didn’t let me wear makeup and I didn’t really care – but Maribel told me if I wanted to make it in middle school I better learn to get cute now.

Maribel had all kinds of fancy hair accessories, hot rollers, a curling iron she actually knew how to use – and best of all, real makeup. Maribel's grandma brought home tons of stuff from her salon. I was jealous; my grandparents were all dead and the only things my Aunt Becky ever brought over was bad news and my cousin Preston.

“So you don't think I'm crazy?” I asked, as I handed Maribel the curling iron. I'd decided I had to tell somebody about what was going on at our house. My parents were clearly in no condition to help Bailey and me solve the closet door mystery.

“Nah.” She stretched the tip of her finger toward the end of the iron.

“Doesn't that burn?” I asked.

“You gotta test it to make sure it's hot enough,” she said. “Abuela does it all the time.” She nodded like this was something even I should have known, and then touched the iron.

“Oww!” She yanked back her finger and stuck it in her mouth.

“Guess it's hot enough,” I said.

Maribel muttered something in Spanish that I'm not allowed to say in English before she continued, “I heard Abuela tell plenty of ghost stories from back in Mexico. That kind of thing happens all the time down there.”

“Really? You think we have a ghost in the closet?” I was nervous, but also hopeful; maybe Maribel's grandmother would know what to do.

“Maybe it’s a ghost. Maybe it’s something worse.”

“What could be worse than a ghost?”

“El chupacabra. The goat-sucker.”

“A what?” I asked.

“This monster, he’s like a vampire for animals, and he sucks out their blood.”

“That’s gross.” I told her. “And we don’t have any goats, so he’d be out of luck at our house.”

Maribel shrugged. “Maybe he ate all the goats, and he’s going after people now.”

“Somehow, I don’t see a goat vampire hanging out in my closet.”

Maribel nodded. “Probably not. Maybe it’s the demon that sucks out people’s souls.”

I shook my head. “Now you’re just making stuff up.”

Maribel waved the curling iron around and I hoped she wouldn’t jab me by accident. “Not according to Abuela. El chupacabra is just something people made up to explain why their animals died. But the soul-sucking demon – they call him The Man – well, she said he’s real.”

“Maribel, there’s no such things as demons. That’s just in scary movies.”

Maribel looked me in the mirror, her big black eyes staring into mine. “But there’s demons in the Bible. And in church. And Abuela said The Man is a real demon.”

We didn’t read the Bible much at my house, and when we did go to church the minister just talked about helping people and giving money. But Maribel went to a different church and, for all I knew, we weren’t there the days our minister talked about demons. So I asked her, “how come the demon’s called The Man?”

Maribel shrugged. “I guess he looks sort of like a man, but the main reason is that he goes after the women. The moms.”

I felt all the hairs on my arm stand up. “The moms?”

“Yeah, Abuela said it happened in a village near where she lived in Mexico. The Man sucked the souls out of the women and just left their bodies behind. All the kids ran away and the whole village turned into a ghost town.”

“What about the dads? Didn’t they do anything?”

“Abuela said The Man steals from the men, too, but just enough to make them weak, so they don’t notice when he comes for their wives.”

My hands got all sweaty. “Is this for real?”

“If I was going to make something up, I’d come up with a much better story than that.” Maribel said, grinning. “Like my mom comes back and she’s totally rich and Abuela could stop working and we’d all go shopping together every day.”

“If you’re making stuff up, why don’t you make up a dad, too?”

Maribel sneered. “He left when I was two weeks old, so I already know he’s a total dud. At least my mom waited till I was in first grade to ditch me. Now, let’s check out your hair.”

Maribel cocked her head to one side as she looked at me. The front was pulled back in super-tight twists and the rest was supposed to curl around my shoulders like the prom hairdo we'd seen in a magazine. My hair wasn't cooperating, though, the curls hung limp like old banana peels and the twists were tight enough to yank my eyes up on the sides. I had an awful headache and I didn’t look like a cute middle schooler. I looked like a squinty, cranky ten-year-old with bad hair.

“Not bad, but I think we need more hairspray,” Maribel decided, and I closed my eyes at the sight of the giant aerosol can.

“Do you know anything more about The Man?” I asked, trying not to breathe in the fumes.

“No, that’s all Abuela told me.” Maribel frowned, then waved her brush in the air. “Hey, you know what they do in the movies when there’s a ghost or demon in their house? They move. In the movies, they never do it till the end when somebody’s dead or possessed or the whole house collapses, but you don’t have to wait that long.”

“Daddy lost his job, so we can't move, and Mama would have a fit. She'd never believe me anyway.”

Maribel nodded. “You're probably right; grownups never believe kids about anything – not in the movies or real life.”

“Maribel? What are you girls doing in there?” Maribel's grandma came into the room, dressed in a hot pink tracksuit.

“We're playing beauty salon; can't you tell? EJ's my customer, doesn't she look pretty?”

Mrs. Rodriguez smiled at me. “Of course she does, but why do you always have to play beauty salon? Why don't you ever play lawyer or brain surgeon?”

Maribel crossed her arms. “But I want to be like you.”

Mrs. Rodriguez laughed. “You are, more than you know.” Then she turned to me. “One of my clients just called, I’ve got to run over to her house. Mr. Nackett came by to give you a ride home, EJ.”

Maribel looked from me to her grandma, and asked in a small voice, “What about me?”

“You’ll come with me. Bring your homework and we’ll make dinner when we get back. EJ, let’s get your things.”

I grabbed my backpack and followed her to the door. “Find out everything you can about The Man,” I whispered to Maribel. “I need to know more.”

The tail end of Chapter Five of The Man on Little Creek Drive. Happy Friday.

Amy tossed and turned in the too-hot quilt, Dan’s words flashing in her brain.

CLICK.

A cool wisp of air blew over Amy’s toes and she stopped moving. The visions from the fight disappeared as she slipped into sleep.

Amy sat a park bench. Huge trees towered overhead, creating a cool green canopy, and the sweet scent of honeysuckle hung heavy in the air.

“Excuse me, is this seat taken?”

A man wearing a leather jacket sat down next to Amy. His face turned slightly away from hers, obscured by chin-length dark curls. “Do you mind if I sit here?”

Amy shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”

The man perched on the bench and darted a quick glance at her. “I used to know an Amy Mullins – that wouldn’t be you, would it?”

Taken aback, she scooted slightly away as she asked, “Who wants to know?”

He ducked his head. “A friend of a friend, you could say.” He nodded around the park. “I don’t mean to bother you. Just came out to enjoy this lovely day.”

His voice was warm, friendly, and Amy relaxed. She nodded, enjoying the breeze blowing across her cheek.

“I hear things are a little tricky at your house right now.”

Amy’s face burned. She didn’t know how to reply, but that didn’t seem to bother the man.

“It’s all right, Amy. I know. It’s rough when your husband loses his job and takes it out on you, isn’t it?”

Yes, she thought, and she could tell the man understood.

“You’re hoping someone can tell you what to do, how to help your husband and make everything better again, aren’t you?”

Amy could only nod.

“I wish I could be that someone.” He sighed, running his hands through his hair. Amy noticed that his nails were edged with greenish-black, and an odor drifted from the air around him. Like the spoiled scent of a flower left to rot in a vase.

A shiver ran through her, and she wanted to pull away again, but there wasn’t any room left on the bench to move. And there was something oddly peaceful about him. What did dirty fingernails say about a man anyway? A gardener might have those nails.

“What’s your name?” Amy asked, but the man shook his head.

“You don’t need my name. You need my advice.”

“Fine,” she replied, curious what words of wisdom this odd stranger might have for her. “Go ahead, advise me.”

“I’ll tell you the truth, Amy,” he leaned in close, as he tilted his head to the side as if telling her an important secret he didn’t want anyone else to hear. “Dan’s weak.”

“That’s not a very nice thing to say,” she protested, choosing to ignore the tiny voice in her head that agreed with the man. “Dan is not weak, and you shouldn’t talk about him like that.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s true, and he isn’t going to improve anytime soon.”

“Sure he will. He’ll find a job and things are going to be back to normal. Better than normal, even.”

The man lowered his head and slowly turned toward her. He reached out a dirty-nailed hand to place over hers. His palm was cool and damp. She didn’t pull her hand away.

“He won’t get better, Amy. He’ll just keep drinking and before you know it, you’ll become your friend Jean, waiting and watching for him to turn violent.”

“No! No, Dan would never hit me.”

The man’s voice was soft and low, but insistent. “Amy, do you really want to take that chance? What about EJ? Is this how you want her to grow up?”

“You don’t know what you’re talking about!” Amy snatched her hand back and quickly shifted her body away from his.
She jerked her chin and looked straight ahead at a large live oak tree, staring at the heavy, knotted black branches curling into a cloud of green leaves.

The air felt heavy, earthy and hot. Amy’s eyelids began to close. She was so tired. And his words, despite upsetting
her, had the strangest effect on her; almost hypnotic. All she wanted to do was drift into a long, dark sleep.

The man slid closer, whispering, “I know. I’ve seen it too many times before. I know what you’re going through, Amy. I only want to help you.”

Amy blinked through the dull fog of fatigue, and jumped to her feet. “No. You’re wrong. You have to be.”

“Mama?”

Amy reached out her hand as the man faded from her sight. The park disappeared, and all the lovely trees and quiet green. She was left standing in a carpeted hallway, looking at a ten-year-old girl.

“Mama? Were you sleepwalking?”

Amy felt such an instant wave of sadness, she almost fell over.

“Mama!”

Amy sighed. “Sorry, EJ, I was just… I was just coming out for a glass of water.”

EJ stared up at Amy, her hands on the hips of her purple polka-dot pajamas. “But you always bring water to your room, so –”

“I ran out.” Amy cut her off, patting her daughter’s shoulder. “Good night, EJ.”

“Mama, can you come into our room for a second? I need you to check the closet door.” EJ bit her lip, hoping desperately that Amy would come into the bedroom, check the door, and discover some funny little problem with the lock that made it open and close without anyone touching it.

Amy shook her head. “I need to go back to sleep, EJ. Busy day tomorrow. You, too.”

“But Mama, I really need you to look at this –”

“Go back to bed, EJ!” Amy pointed to the bedroom door. “In your room. Now!” Then Amy headed back down the hall.

EJ watched as her mother disappeared, and she returned to her bed, feeling sick to her stomach. She closed her eyes.

CLICK.

The closet door closed.

Atkins hasn't bested me yet, back to the book! Another quickie from The Man on Little Creek -- work in progress...

“Damn it, Amy, just leave me alone!”

Loud yelling echoed down the hallway, waking me up, sticky and hot. My pajama top was damp with sweat. My heart was beating so fast, for a moment I couldn't place who was hollering; I thought Daddy must be back in the den and had fallen asleep with the TV on too loud.

“Dan, please be quiet, you're gonna wake the kids!” Mama's voice sounded just like it did when she was trying to be calm, but really wasn’t. That’s when I realized it wasn't a movie I was hearing.

“Be quiet, you'll wake the kids!” Daddy fake-whined in a lousy imitation of Mama's voice. “I'm so sick of you trying to blame me for everything, Amy! You just jab, jab, jab, and then pretend you didn't start the argument every time.”

“Dan, come on –” Mama tried, but Daddy cut her off again.

“No, you come on! You know, I almost think you're glad I lost my job just so you can say 'I told you so' and complain about me to your friends!”

“Dan, you cannot honestly believe –”

“Really? Really? You think I can't believe that about you? You love being right. You want me to be the bad guy. Well, I'm done, do you hear me?”

The whole house can hear you, Daddy, I thought, squashing my hands so hard over my ears that my head hurt. I didn't hear what Mama answered but Daddy's stomping through the house and out the garage door was plain as day.

SLAM!

I heard Mama mutter, “For the hundredth time, Dan, don't slam the door!” Then she started to cry. Out loud. My stomach was doing flip flops now and I felt really hot. Should I get out of bed and go find Mama, or should I pretend I hadn't heard a thing?

Her footsteps outside my door made the decision easy and I quickly closed my eyes and curled up on my side. I heard her come into the room and pull the blanket back over Bailey and then she tugged my sheet up onto my shoulders. As she walked back out the door, I opened my eyes and looked across the room at Bailey. His eyes were open, too, and his bottom lip stuck out in an upside down half-moon. I put my finger to my lips and he nodded his head, pulling in his lip and sniffling quietly.

“It's OK, Bailey,” I whispered when I was sure Mama had gone back to her room. “Daddy's just mad 'cause of his job.”

Bailey shook his head, and pointed a chubby, shaking finger at the closet door. I turned to look and saw the tiniest beam of orange light coming from inside and then, with a click so quiet I almost missed it, the door shut.

I turned back to Bailey and we looked at each other for the longest time.

“Monster in our house,” Bailey whispered.

I didn't say a word.

Why Atkins Sucks

I told myself I'd write another chapter this week, but lethargy (ahem, laziness) got in the way. I blame Atkins.

Disclaimer: I am not a dietician. I am not an expert on anything. I only care about losing 5 pounds before my vacation, so that I can gain it all back eating Cuban food in Florida. But that being said, here's why I think (as of Day 5) that Atkins SUCKS:


1. I got tired of meat by dinner on Day 1, and the sight of grilled chicken made me gag. I'm more of a "meat flavors my carbs" kind of girl.

2. Any diet that says a steak is better for me than a whole tomato is stupid.

3. Burgers wrapped in lettuce are impossible to eat. Especially in a movie theater. Especially when taking in a special showing of the 1986 classic, "The Lost Boys" at the Alamo, where they served yummy-sounding vampire-themed cocktails that I had to forgo, because they are "not approved" in Phase I of this lame diet.

4. I'm sick of eggs. Eaten them the first 3 mornings, and then on Day 4 I skipped breakfast because I lost my will to eat another egg.

5. It's not even that I'm craving bread or anything, I just want a damn orange.

6. This must be how people get scurvy. See above.

7. If you can explain to me how pure cream in my coffee is better than milk, you should probably invent something because you are a DAMN GENIUS. Don't get me wrong - I love cream. But come on, how's taking the teaspoon of sugar out of my coffee and replacing the milk with cream possibly a good idea? That sounds like a one-way ticket to cholesterol town.

8. The diet has made me too tired get out of bed early to exercise. I've read all the message boards about how it's just the first few days, and my body is going into withdrawal, blah, blah, blah. But still. Doesn't that seem intrinsically wrong? And the whole "withdrawal" argument, frankly, isn't very convincing. It's not HEROIN folks, it's just bread.

9. Failing a magical transformation over the weekend, I'm thinking if I just cut out grains, rice and potatoes that should work just as well. And not worry about how many tomatoes, veggies or fresh fruit I consume. Or having a glass of wine. Before Christmas, I was following the "glass of wine and handful of pecans for dinner" diet (patent pending) and that seemed pretty effective (sure, it also leads to alcoholism, but sacrifices must be made). I fell off that wagon between Christmas and New Year's and never got back on, but I think it's worth reviving.

10. The only reason I am doing this is to feel cuter in a swimsuit in Florida. The second I get there, I'm eating whatever the hell I want. Because life is too short to go without Cuban bread. :)

More Monster Monday ... on Wednesday. Another excerpt from The Man on Little Creek Drive:


A strange noise woke me. Metal on metal, like the time Mama’s brakes almost wore out and the mechanic told her if she’d waited one more week to bring in the car, she could have been killed.

I glanced at the clock; 3:30 a.m. I looked toward the closet door, but it was closed. I got up and tiptoed down the hallway.
Daddy was still passed out in the den, but I could hear the noise getting louder. The kitchen light was on, and I peered around the corner.

“Mama?”

She was standing with her back to me, at the back stretch of the counter where she kept the crock pot and the toaster. And the knives.

“Mama?” I repeated, but she didn’t answer. Still wearing a tank top and pajama pants, she must have just gotten out of bed. Her hair twisted around her shoulders like messy brown ropes.

I walked closer. The noise, I realized, was coming from the automatic knife sharpener build into the back of the butcher block, the block that held the sharp knives me and Bailey weren’t allowed to touch.

Who would sharpen knives in the middle of the night? Martha Stewart, maybe, but not Mama.

Something told me to make as much noise as possible as I walked across the cold tile floor. Whatever the reason for early morning kitchen duties, I wasn’t looking to get stabbed by accident if I surprised her. Despite my stomping around, she didn’t seem to notice. Her head cocked at an angle, she stared at the sharpener and she didn’t pay me the least bit of attention.

She held the big knife; the one she used to slice tomatoes, and pressed it to the metal wheel of the stone. The screech made my ears hurt. How could Daddy possibly sleep through this?

“What are you doing?” I finally reached out and tapped her on the back.

My mistake.

She whirled around, holding the knife by its wooden handle out in front of her. The blade was shiny in the bright kitchen light…And about six inches from my gut.

I jumped backwards, waiting for her to say something. But her mouth was closed and her eyes stared right through me, blue and empty.

“Mama, be careful!” I watched as she touched the edge of her finger to the blade, drawing a tiny bubble of blood. She didn’t even blink. She walked past me, holding the blade out at an angle, exactly the way she’d taught me never to walk with something sharp.

I followed her as she headed into the den. Toward Daddy.

“Mama, don’t you want to put that knife away before you hurt somebody?”

She stopped, turned and, this time, she looked in my direction. Not exactly like she was looking at me, but like she’d heard a noise and was trying to find out who made it.

“It’s really late. You should put the knife away and go to bed. You’re working tomorrow, remember?”

Her eye twitched.

Daddy groaned in his sleep.

Wake up, Daddy.

He snored instead, and Mama’s head jerked at the sound. Ignoring me, she took three steps across the carpet.
“MAMA!” I screamed and knocked a vase from the end table, whacking it into the corner of the brick fireplace, where it shattered into a million little green pottery pieces.

“Dan?” Mama glanced down at Daddy, asleep on the couch. Then she saw me and the broken vase.

“EJ! How could you? That was my mother’s. What were you doing?” She started to kneel down, but I pointed to her hand.

“Don’t you want to put that away first?”

Her eyes shifted down, and she gasped at the sight of the knife.

“I don’t…” She stared at me, maybe hoping I could fill her in on what just happened. Yeah, right. She’d never believe me, and she still had a weapon.

“It’s OK, Mama. I’ll clean this up. Just put the knife away. Please?”

Her eyes moved from me to Daddy and back again. She backed out of the room, whispering to herself.

I cleaned up the vase, picking green slivers of pottery from the carpet so Bailey wouldn’t cut his feet in the morning. I hated to break Grandma’s vase, and Mama was going to be way angrier at me tomorrow when she remembered all of this.

Or maybe she wouldn’t remember a thing, I thought, as I heard her crying in the kitchen.

“What’s happening to me?”

If only you knew, Mama. If only you knew.

Who doesn't need a monster on Monday? A little excerpt from The Man on Little Creek Drive...


She sat on a wrought iron chair outside the art gallery, a steaming cup of coffee in one hand. The sounds of jazz spilled out from the white stone building. The opening had been a huge success – as she peered inside, she could see her assistant beaming as he counted the paintings sold.

“Excuse me, Amy?” A man walked out of the gallery, right behind her. She turned, and so did he, leaving her with a glimpse of curling black hair slipping from a ponytail and an expensive-looking suit. As he ducked away, Amy caught a flash of sharp white teeth.

“Yes,” Amy answered, slightly irritated by the interruption.

“May I join you for just a moment?”

Amy nodded.

The mystery man pointed toward the gallery. “You arranged this show?”

Amy felt her face flush. “Yes I did. Did you like it?”

The man laughed. “Like? I loved it. I could hardly tear myself away.”

“In that case, let me introduce you to the artist,” Amy started to stand, but the man averted his face again and gestured for her to take her seat.

“Oh,” she gulped, confused by his furtiveness, “I just thought you might like to meet the person responsible, since you enjoyed it so much.”

The man shook his head, and a few more stray strands of hair came loose, falling over snow-pale skin. “I’m not interested in the artist. I came here to admire your work. The skill and the work you poured into arranging this – it’s obvious how gifted you are. Every little detail was perfection.”

Amy was flattered, but a little thrown by the compliment. Was she good at her job? She couldn’t remember. She used to be good at doing things. People told her so, didn’t they?

The man circled around behind her, murmuring, “You should be complimented all the time, Amy. You were so smart, so clever. Talent like yours shouldn’t be wasted.”

Amy peered at him, and stepped closer. “Who are you? And what do you mean, wasted? Do we know each other?”

The man deftly stepped to the side and began to walk away. But not before Amy reached out, grabbing the soft fabric of his suit jacket. He stopped and turned partially, a pointy white chin and straight nose visible in profile. Then he twisted his head further, his neck swiveling in a movement that looked almost unnatural, and just for a moment, he raised his eyes.

They were red, almost glowing through the tangled strands of black hair falling across his face.

Like headlights in a dark forest.

“Oh, I know you, Amy.”