Chris Orcutt, Writer

(No, not that kind of readjusting. Get your mind out of the gutter.)


After three months of hectic corporate work, capped off by an intense 2-week junket, I've been having a tough time adjusting to my regular life. Every day, the little voice in me asks, "Now what?"


It's understandable. I mean, the world I just returned from was surreal—almost too glam for this simple New England kid who loves his wife and cat and typewriter and Red Sox. A guy who prefers haddock chowder over caviar, and who plays golf with his 80-year-old neighbors on Mondays and Wednesdays (the old coots can still kick my ass).


It was a world of swanky resorts with sinfully large pools and flirty MILFs in hot tubs, powerful executives who deferred to my writing expertise, charming actors portraying characters I created, staggering light and sound systems, marble lobbies with exotic birds roosting in indoor palm trees, expensive suits with perfect drape, luscious buffets at every meal (at least in Scottsdale), whisking glass elevators, first-class upgrades, FedExed dirty clothes (profligate, I know), and big paychecks.


In other words, a world difficult to leave behind.


So now I'm back in the—literally—sleepy, one-traffic-light Village of Millbrook, where the most exciting (and saddest) thing to happen since I returned is that my neighbor's dog, which used to howl along with the noontime fire alarm, was put to sleep yesterday. Alexas and I bought a card for the owners and baked them brownies. Says Alexas, "Chocolate fixes everything." You know what? She's right.


My office, which, due to my wife's organizational skills, is a model of efficiency for creative pursuits, has sat in suspended animation since I left. The computers, the cubbies, the neatly arranged shelves of supplies—they've all waited patiently for my return and mock me every time I go in there. I know it's time for me to start a new writing project, but I can't seem to make the leap. I have folders for at least eight book or screenplay ideas, and I have the final draft of Welcome to Ricochet to complete, yet for some reason I can't get inspired.

Louis La'Amour, the prolific writer of westerns, once remarked that the only way to get inspired is to start writing. "You have to turn the faucet on," he said. Alexas uses this quote on me anytime I moan about writing and my perceived sense of futility surrounding it. (Note to other writers: Don't tell your spouses any of these quotes because they'll always use them against you later on.)


Here's what I have to say about that: "Hey, Louis...turn this faucet on."


I know what I have to do. I have to channel my feelings about the glitzy experiences during the junket into a new project. I need to start writing again, plain and simple.


The thing is, there's a part of me that's reluctant to invest so much time and energy in a new project when the fate of the ones I already have in the marketplace is uncertain. At this very moment, A Real Piece of Work is on the desk of an editor in New York and a producer in Hollywood, and I have no idea what's going to become of my baby. Deep down, I feel like this: "Why should I write anything new when you guys [the publishing and film worlds] haven't accepted this book?"


Unfortunately, I've established a stalemate I know I can't win. My writing or not writing anything new will have no effect on their lives. The only person hurt by my not creating new things is me. (Well, Alexas, too, because she has to put up with my miserable ass. Okay, and anybody who has contact with me because I'm such a dissatisfied, petulant prick when I'm not writing.)


I know that the key is to just make the leap again. That leap of faith and self-assuredness that I've made hundreds of times before. The question is, how do I get there?


As I seek answers to this question, I play golf and scribble in this blog and do ab crunches and watch my Red Sox and read philosophy and debate buying a new iMac and try to forget the fact that, any day, my entire life could change in an instant.


Well, the noon fire alarm just went off. Time to have lunch, get the mail, stroll to the bookstore and the library, and head off on my afternoon walk.


Maybe today the answers will be out there, like a herd of deer stone-still in a field.