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Who Moved My Chi?

(first published in The Writer magazine March 2002)

I'm in the zone. You know: when it's right and your fingers keep pace with your thoughts while the scene spills before you and--

My cat vomits.

I hesitate, fingers poised like a stenographer waiting to hear what's for the record.

He vomits again. It's getting closer.

I sigh, click 'save' then search for damage. With dripping paper towels, I scrub carpet, floor, and scratching post, fearing that my writing routine has been broken. Those magical events that need to take place in order to create may have been lost.

When I return to the computer, I'm stunned at what I read. Just moments before, I could swear I was flying. Now my eyes stumble over wordy sentences, trip on chopped phrases. I have no idea how to fix this.

Time for breakfast.

In the kitchen, my favorite, one of a kind, blue ceramic bowl is not on the shelf. I peer warily at the drying rack. My husband did the dishes last night and the pile he creates makes putting them away a game of skill; pull the wrong fork, you may be choosing new china patterns. My gaze probes the wooden slats from different angles and I conclude it's not buried beneath the salad shooter and EZ foil. Then I spy a splash of blue behind the garbage can. Aha! I reach for and frown at the remaining shard of my one of a kind bowl. I leave it in the middle of the counter, my message clear: I know.

After dumping cereal into topless Tupperware, I grab a Diet Pepsi and dubiously return to my protagonist and his plight.

But the break was effective. The words I'd stumbled over (post cat vomit, pre broken bowl) have reorganized themselves in my mind. Perhaps seeing my husband's haphazard placement of dishes reminded my subconscious of the importance of order. All the words were on the screen in front of me, only some weren't necessary and others belonged in different places. I make the changes and manage not to spill Cheerios on the keyboard. Carbo and caffeine loaded, I'm back.

A few paragraphs later, I hear a crash in the kitchen punctuated by profanity. Hubby must've pulled the wrong fork. I don't offer assistance; maybe that'll teach him to stack the dishes better... My character's thoughts replace my own; I'm soon lost in the scene. Sentences from the climax, the tension's rising, I'm so close--

Crunching in my ear. The smell of Count Chocula overwhelms me as my husband leans over my shoulder. "What the hell is going on out there?"

I part the mini-blinds of the north window to watch battling sparrows, wrens, and chickadees -- it looks like an avian West Side Story I'd put the feeder outside my writing room window because I thought birdsong would compliment my creativity. So much for the soothing sounds of nature. I bang my fist on the glass, gleaning satisfaction from the retreating flurry of feathers.

I snap the blinds shut and make a mental note to move the feeder. I didn't want to be next to this window anyway. I'd originally wanted the computer to face east. For Christmas, I'd gotten a book on Feng Shui, the Chinese art of placing objects in your "space" to maximize your energy output, or "chi". According to this book, my space was all wrong. I'd be lucky to write a coherent grocery list in here. But unless I wanted to knock down a load-bearing wall or saw off the end of the computer table, north it would have to be.

More crunching from behind me. I can picture his eyebrows lifting when he asks, "Tough going today?"

I've read this same paragraph three times. I mumble, "My chi is off."

"Your what?" He swallows, takes another bite, then says, "Sorry about your bowl."

I read it a fourth time. It's not quite right; something's missing--

"Hmm?" I say absently, changing some words. Then click 'undo'.

"Your bowl. The one that broke," he says. "How'd you find out?"

"You left a clue." I turn around. "Don't quit your day job for a life of crime." I watch him edging toward the door and feel torn between talking and writing. If I could only find the right words...

Before leaving he says, "I'd like to read whatever it is when you're done."

"Me, too," I say and reluctantly return to that stubborn paragraph. But it's different this time. I can see what's wrong. It's so obvious, how could I have missed it? My fingers fly for the last time and I click 'save'.

Maybe north's not so bad after all.

All speeches and articles are copyrighted by, and are the property of, Laurie Thurston, and may not be reprinted without permission of the author.