“God damn, I love Kurt Vonnegut,” the writer said.

“What’s that,” his wife said.

“Kurt Vonnegut, I love him,” the writer said.

“That is nice,” his wife said and went back to entering numbers in her spreadsheet.

“You don’t understand,” the writer said, standing up and taking his wife by the shoulders. “You don’t understand. I love Kurt Vonnegut. He’s changing my life.”

“I said that was nice,” his wife said, twisting her shoulders to release them from the writer’s hold. She leaned over and continued plugging numbers into the spreadsheet.

The writer looked at his wife in bewilderment. “Don’t you want to know how he changed my life?” the writer said. “I’ve sat here for the last four hours reading through this book, and I yell out that it changed my life, and you don’t even so much as bat an eyelash. If you yelled out that you calculated the numbers right and they changed your life or even just made your day better, I’d be interested in knowing what, how, and why. You know I would.”

His wife wrote in a few more numbers and turned her shoulders to face the writer. “Okay, dear,” his wife said. “You have my undivided attention. What did this Kurt guy do, how has it changed your life, and why—why did it have to happen now?”

“It’s too late to ask those questions,” the writer said. “I know you’re not really interested. If I were a number in your spreadsheet, maybe then you’d care about changes in me, major changes, life-changing changes. But I’m not, and it’s time I accepted that.” The writer sighed deeply, going as far as saying “sigh” when he exhaled.

“How about I go back and finish the final column I was calculating,” his wife said. “I know this doesn’t mean much to you, but before you interrupted me about Kurt what’s-his-name, I was juggling fifteen numbers in my head trying to complete this calculation. I have to turn this in by tomorrow morning, and it’s going to take me another thirty minutes to find my place and get those numbers back in my head.”

“This is what I’m talking about,” the writer said. “I’m different from you. I know what you do is important, and I try to support you in it. I never said what I’m trying to do is more important. It’s just different—my motivations are different, my inspirations are different. It might take you thirty minutes to get those numbers back into your head to finish your calculations, but my work doesn’t happen that way. I can’t force myself to start writing. I have to find the inspiration where I can find it, and hope it hits me long enough to put it down. That’s why I want to share it with you—it’s because you understand, or, at least, I thought you understood.”

“Okay, I’m sorry,” his wife said. “I’m under a lot of pressure. Tell me how this author changed you.” His wife turned her entire body to face the writer. “What is it today?”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” the writer said.

“Well,” his wife said. “Two weeks ago, you finished a book by that guy who wrote the movie “Fight Club,” which you claimed altered your existence—the book, not the movie, since you never bothered to watch the movie, even though I loved it. And then last Wednesday after you finished reading a book by Rand something-or-other, you turned to me and told me that he changed your life too—something about architecture and great men. You even wondered if you had wasted your life writing when your real calling might have been architectural design.”

“He’s a she, and she did change my life,” the writer said.

“See, dear, I do listen to you,” his wife said. “The thing is, you didn’t write anything afterwards,” his wife said. “Neither time. You didn’t write notes, you didn’t write stories, you didn’t write anything. You talked about the books for days, and by the weekend, you had forgotten about them and started reading your next book, unchanged. I wouldn’t have minded if you at least signed up for an architecture class. That at least would have shown that that book changed something in you.”

“I was changed,” the writer said. ”She changed the way I look out on the world and she changed my writing forever. Writing isn’t like number crunching. Your experiences and knowledge have to ferment deep inside of you. You have no control over the inspiration until it bursts out, sometimes the next day, sometimes years later.”

“How can anything ferment if you never write?” his wife said. “When was the last time you wrote a word? And don’t give me this crock about research. You’ve been researching for three years now, and nothing has come of it. How does this Kurt author fit into your research?”

“He’s taught me about beliefs and values in my writing,” the writer said. “He’s taught me to simplify my voice and tell shorter stories. He’s taught me not to use semicolons in my work. All of these lessons are very important, very life-changing ideas. They will improve my writing tenfold.”

“That’s all well and good,” his wife said. “Why don’t you grab your loose-leaf paper and one of those hand-sharpened pencils, and apply Kurt’s lessons to a story? That way, I can get back to the numbers on my spreadsheet and I’ll make sure we have food for this week. You do like eating, don’t you dear?”

“But he’s a genius,” the writer said. “Kurt Vonnegut is a genius. If I could capture his voice, I too would be a genius. Don’t you see? I am searching for genius, for greatness, and Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. is showing me the way.” The writer held up Welcome to the Monkey House, his forefinger stuck into the closed book to hold his place. “It’s like he’s showing me the first steps on the path of greatness.”

“Genius, huh,” his wife said. “Why don’t you take it one step at a time? First write something worth reading, and then we’ll banter with the term ‘genius.’”

“You still don’t understand,” the writer said. “Greatness is not about creating something worth reading. It’s about exposing yourself and sharing your nakedness, no matter how embarrassing or misunderstood by others. I’m not looking for your approval. I’m looking for a larger truth.”

“Before you can find truth, you have to put yourself out there, dear,” his wife said. “You have to write something. I’m not saying to stop reading. All I’m saying is that if you want to write, you have to write. Stop looking for perfection or inspiration and put your nose to the grindstone. Writing is hard work, like my work on spreadsheets. It takes me hours to fill in each spreadsheet and double check the calculations. But when I’m done and reasonably sure it’s correct, it’s a great feeling of accomplishment. I don’t see why your writing can’t be the same thing.”

The writer saw his wife in a different light at that moment. He felt that she understood writing more deeply than he did. The feeling passed, however, and he blamed his misunderstanding on the setting sun and the shaded windows. His wife was always beautiful when the evening light hit her just so. But she was a number pusher. And he was a true artist. A number pusher can never understand what a true artist was feeling. The best a true artist could hope for was for the support and understanding of the number pusher.

“It’s different, my love,” the writer said. “I love you very much, but you’ll never understand how I feel when I read Kurt Vonnegut, Jr. It’s almost a spiritual transformation.”

“Be that as it may, honey,” his wife said and turned back to her spreadsheet. “Now, go finish reading Mr. Vonnegut, and afterwards I’m sure you’ll find inspiration to write a story or two, maybe even finish a bit more research for your masterpiece.” There was no bitterness in his wife’s voice. Even had she shared some of her bitterness, the writer would not have heard it. He leaned back in his chair, opened the monkey book, and read the next story.

***

Story Ideas: Relaxation, Yogurts.