I Kicked Writer's Block's Ass

I started a story last night. It felt so good to be able to write again. It's a noir set in L.A., I'll give you just a taste...


I watched her leave while I woke on the bathroom tile. They always do that. One of these days I'll find someone who stays. Someone who helps me when I drink too much. Someone whose name I'll remember in the morning. But that morning, I had to do things the way I always had. I climbed into the shower to wash off my sick and I left the towel on the floor to take care of the rest. I buckled my belt and tightened my tie and lit a cigarette for breakfast. I couldn't remember where I left my car, so I walked to my office. The sun felt like weight pressing down on me and there were waves on the pavement ahead. Where the hell was my car?


---skipping a little ahead, past some dialogue, noir case set up. Here's more---


I went out to try and find my car. I played back the last night's events and it was hazy. I decided to start at my usual haunt, The Bronze. The Bronze was a seedy little bar full of has-beens and guys with no teeth. It was the closest place to home and nobody bothered me. I don't think I had ever seen the place in the light of the sun, if I had it was dark by the time I left. It was weird. My car wasn't in the lot so I went to the beach to think. It's a funny feeling, the burning sand beneath the soles of your shoes. I stood there watching the waves and the tide, my sleeves rolled up over my elbows, my jacket slung over my shoulder. That was the only view that never had a palm tree in it, I'm sick of them. Two things other than tourists love palm trees, roof rats and crows. I loosened my tie, unbuttoned my collar, and sat in the sand. No one seemed to be out there that day, which I was thankful for. I tend to spend a lot of time at that spot on the beach. It's calming. It feels like time doesn't matter, nor does all the other shit that life throws at you. There on the beach I feel free. When I find myself somewhere and I can't get out, I imagine the smell of salt and fish and the sound of the waves and the gulls and I try to imagine the feel of the spray on my face and the hot sand beneath my shoes. I need this place. So as much as I hate Los Angeles, I know I can never leave. Anyone can hate anywhere if you live there long enough. I've never lived anywhere else. And no, I don't know any celebrities. You tell anyone who's not a Californian that you're from L.A., and they ask you who you've met. They also ask you why you're not tan. Assumptions are why I stay here. I don't have to explain myself here, people leave you alone because they already understand. I had to think. Where the hell was my car?