The Essence

San Francisco

Daniel was feeling like a damned fool sitting at the book signing table without a single person around him. He was used to crowds of adoring fans excited to meet him, clamoring for his autograph - he didn't understand it. The signage in the store window clearly stated that he would be here today; there was a pyramid-shaped display of his latest book and a very handsome photo of him in plain view there. The bookstore manager had announced him with ample enthusiasm - what was the problem? All of these thoughts were running rampant through his mind as he sat there with pen in hand ready to write greetings, appreciations and 'best of lucks' to the inside cover page of his readers' copies of his book.

He had the feeling that something strange was going on - he couldn't put his finger on it, but something wasn't right about this whole tour. The reception of his latest book, Daunted, had been lackluster at best in the last seven cities and sales were in the dumper. San Francisco was the last city on the tour and things weren't looking very promising here, either.

And the fact he was under contract for three more books didn't help the situation - the Murphy's Law proverb, 'whatever can go wrong will go wrong, and at the worst possible time, in the worst possible way,' certainly applied to Daniel at this point - because on top of all this, a nasty case of writer's block had paralyzed him of any creative thought whatsoever.

He needed a good idea for a story and he needed it now.

Daniel's eyes wandered about the bookstore searching for someone to make eye contact with him - as though he could will someone to the table just by staring into their eyes. He fixed his eyes on a few unluckies who had inadvertently met his gaze and stared intently at them without blinking - this clearly didn't work as the creepiness of his facial expression put people off and they hurried away even more swiftly from the table - in his distorted imagination he pictured them actually running from him - this left him feeling utterly ridiculous in his efforts to captivate them and draw them in. Thereby, his other idea to jump on top of the table and do a jig for attention was promptly squelched - besides singing for his supper wasn't in his DNA and he really wasn't feeling all that well. He popped a couple of bluish tablets into his mouth and followed them down with a swig of water to calm his jumpy stomach.

Then, at last, one female reader approached the table and pushed her copy of Daunted in front of him.

"I really love the series," she said.

"Thank you very much. What's your name, Miss?" he asked baffled, thinking what was different about her that drew her to the table? He opened her book and lifted his pen to write.

"Courtney," she said, with a nervous laugh. "Dick Sunday is my all-time favorite detective. So what's the next book going to be like? Will it be a gruesome stabbing or maybe a strangulation case?"

Daniel stopped writing; his stomach did a somersault. "I'm working on it now, you'll just have to wait and see," he answered, completing his signature.

It wasn't like Daniel to lie to his readers like that, but he couldn't let on that he didn't even have a next book in his head.

Daniel had never experienced writer's block in his entire writing career and he really didn't know how to handle it. He likened his endless reservoir of ideas to a once flourishing lake bed drying up in a drought.

Then just as he was about to give up, a few readers started approaching his table in dribs and drabs. Maybe Courtney had brought him some luck in that others had seen how she had come to the table and left with a smile on her face. A sort of testing of the waters, as it were, that Daniel was approachable and he was okay. He signed their copies; a half-hearted smile was all he could muster up in his deteriorating state of mind. He took no solace in their accolades of his past works; the praise only impressed upon him that his accomplishments really were behind him.