Writing Laura: Procrastination
Well, there he was, staring at the blank page again. Occasionally he would stand and procrastinate, reading a page here, a line there, and throwing a glance towards the cabinet he tried not to touch. He had a feeling tonight would be a sleepless one.
Peter closed his eyes, pushed the book he’d been reading aside, and tried to conjure words. There was no shortage of material to write from; he knew Laura’s story extensively. She was in her late 30’s, blonde, possibly Australian. She couldn’t be from Britain. That would be too obvious.
Laura was an aspiring actress who had made a mistake and chose not to repeat it. She buries herself in auditions and roles that bring her no closer to stardom. She swings from partner to partner, dogmatically refusing love. Unafraid of manipulation, Laura uses her friends to give her a taste of the stardom that will never be hers, basking in the glow of her famous friends and smugly accepting her role as a celebrity confidant.
Now enter the problem: Laura, nonchalant when it comes to sex, finds herself irresistibly attracted to a quiet teacher who breezes into her life as she waits for her latte in a coffee house. She lets him slip away, but sees him again and again after that-and then they begin to talk.
He’s smart, funny, and attractive. Hone in on the attractive. Devastatingly attractive. So attractive he should be in the movies, not working some job where his beauty goes unnoticed. Laura has a rare moment of insecurity when she thinks this man isn’t attracted to her, but she’s surprised to learn he’s quite interested in her as more than a conversational partner. He asks her out on a date, Laura accepts, and the two dine and talk and dine and talk and dine and talk and Pete’s run into a brick wall. A writer’s block, you might say.
He knows her ex-husband will show up to throw a wedge in the budding relationship. He knows Laura and her new flame will wind up together in the end, and that Laura will begin to question her meaningless life and pursue something with more substance. He knows the story will be cheesy and unsubstantial until the rewrite. He just has to get it out first. All he has now is a blank page.
Pete stands up and walks to the kitchen. He wants to make tea. He reaches for a bag full of loose leaf tea and prepares a pot, eyes darting back to the cabinet. He pours a cup, stirs in a bit of sugar, and stares at the cabinet. What about Laura? What about her date?
Fuck it.
He almost slams the cup onto the counter and walks to the cabinet, pulling out a bottle of brandy and a glass shoved in among the various bottles. The intent was the pour the brandy into the tea, but he couldn’t resist an extra glass. He poured the brandy into the glass then down his throat in two smooth, consecutive moves.
So often had he done this that he was used to feeling disappointed in himself for caving, disappointed in the drink that never made him feel better, and disappointed that the inevitable, or the dreadfully possible, would go on until he fell asleep. An endless night of drink after drink, watching as the bottle drained into emptiness. Maybe he could control himself tonight. Maybe he could focus on Laura’s story, as he desperately wanted to. She was a catharsis for an old wound that filled the bottles beneath the cabinet.
But maybe he couldn’t control himself. It had happened before, and no amount of horror of the night before would stop him from doing it again. He’d been scared off of drugs easily enough, but alcohol was something he could slip into his routine and have none be the wiser. The only things that stopped him from indulging more was an occasional moral victory and his unpredictable sleeping patters.
And he had a feeling tonight was going to be a sleepless night.