At First Sight - Nicholas Sparks [29]
Jed scowled. Jeremy had the sense that his conversational gambit wasn’t going well.
“Lexie says you’re quite a hunter, too,” he offered, wondering why it suddenly seemed so hot in there. “I’ve never been, of course. The only thing we hunted in Queens were rats.” He laughed, Jed didn’t, and in the ensuing silence, Jeremy found himself growing nervous. “I mean, it’s not like we had deer running down the block or anything. But even if we did, I probably wouldn’t have shot them. You know, after seeing Bambi and all.”
Staring at the knife in Jed’s hand, Jeremy realized he was beginning to ramble, but he couldn’t seem to help it.
“That’s just me, though. Not that I think there’s anything wrong with hunting, of course . . . NRA, Bill of Rights, Second Amendment. I’m all for that. I mean, hunting is an American tradition, right? Line up the deer in your sights, and bam. Little fella topples over.”
Jed moved the knife from one hand to the other, and Jeremy swallowed, wanting nothing more than to get out of there.
“Well, I just dropped by to say hey. And good luck with . . . well, whatever you’re doing there. Can’t wait to see it. Any messages?” He shifted from one foot to the other. “No? Okay, then. Nice talking to you.”
Jeremy took a seat at the desk in his room and stared at a blank screen, trying to forget what had just happened with Jed. He desperately wished he could think of something to write but gradually came to the conclusion that the well had run dry.
It happened to all writers at various times, he knew, and there was no magic cure, simply because all writers approached their craft in slightly different ways. Some wrote in the morning, others in the afternoon, still others late at night. Some wrote to music, others needed complete silence. He knew of one writer who supposedly worked naked, locking himself in his room and giving strict instructions to his assistant that he was not to receive his clothing until he slid five written pages beneath the door. He knew of others who watched the same movie over and over, still others who couldn’t write without drinking or smoking excessively. Jeremy wasn’t that eccentric; in the past, he’d written whenever and wherever he’d needed to, so it wasn’t as if he could make a simple change and all would be right again.
Though he wasn’t quite panicked yet, he was getting concerned. More than two months had passed since he’d written anything, but because of the magazine’s publishing schedule—it was usually put together six weeks in advance—he’d written enough columns to get him through July. Which meant he still had a bit of breathing room before he’d be in serious trouble with Scientific American. But because freelancing paid most of the bills and he’d practically emptied his brokerage account to buy his car, pay for his living expenses, put the down payment and closing costs in escrow, and continue the ever expanding renovations, he wasn’t sure he had even that much time. Money was being sucked from his accounts as if by a vampire on steroids.
And he was blocked, he was beginning to think. It wasn’t just that he was busy or life had changed, as he’d suggested to Alvin and Doris. After all, he’d been able to write after he’d divorced Maria. In fact, he’d needed to write just to keep from dwelling on it. Writing had been an escape back then, but now? What if he never got over this?
He would lose his job. He would lose his income, and how on earth was he supposed to support Lexie and his daughter? Would he be forced to become “Mr. Mom” while Lexie worked to support the family? The images were disconcerting.
From the corner of his eye, he caught sight of Doris’s journal. He could, he supposed, take her up on the offer. It might be just what he needed to get the juices flowing again—supernatural elements, interesting, original. If, of course, it was true. Could she really predict the sex of babies?
No, he decided again. And that was the