Writer's Block (2/6)
Title: Writer's Block (2/6)Author: eevah14
Beta: labyrinthical
Pairing: Arthur/ Ariadne
Rating: PG- 13 (as of now)
Summary: Inspired by Karen Eiffel and Penny in Stranger Than Fiction. Arthur is a work consultant who is hired to help Ariadne, a famous writer (as well as a notorious recluse) to finish her work. He spends five weeks with her to finish her book, helping her with any task (from doing menial tasks like getting her pizza and coffee as well as helping her find inspiration). He counts on finishing the book, but doesn't count on falling in love with her.
Part 1
Part3
2. First Week: Establishing the problem, coffee runs, morning walks and how to kill Harold CrickArthur faced the door, eyes tracing the wood graining. He held his silver briefcase tightly in his right hand while he adjusted his tie with his left. It’s officially the first day of his job in assisting Ariadne Hollis, and he is somewhat dubious about this job’s success rate. Just beyond this door was the headstrong, autocratic, obnoxious and odd writer. Based on the first meeting he wasn’t eager to work closely with the likes of her for five weeks, the desk-climbing little fox that she is (and her gall to boss him, of all people, around). He’d be relegated as her pizza boy, or the man who cleaned up after the remnants of her creative brainstorming (chip bags and sweet wrappers everywhere, he could just imagine). This was NOT what he signed up for.
He raised his fist to rap smartly on the door, waiting for her to come and answer it. When no answer came, he ventured to twist the doorknob, frowning when he discovered it was unlocked. Wasn’t she concerned that someone might barge in and take her things? Or assault her? He was readying his lecture on security and safety when he walked into her office, his eyebrows shooting upward when he saw Ariadne’s prone form lying upside down in her arm chair, her tiny feet wiggling idly in the air as she stared at him.
“Hello, Mr. Maddox,” said Ariadne, making no move to right herself or tear her caramel-coloured eyes away from him. Arthur cleared his throat, “Hello Miss Hollis. Shall we get started for the day?” He eyed her desk, noting the mess of papers and sweet wrappers. “Are those the finished pages?” he asked pointedly.
“No, they’re letters addressed to me,” said Ariadne, still staring at him. “And are you writing back?” he asked sternly.
“No.”
He motioned to the pile of sweet wrappers on her desk, “I’m assuming you consumed these.” Consuming that many sweets is unhealthy; he’d have to curb her diet along with fixing her atrocious work ethic.
“They came pre-eaten, Mr. Maddox.”
For a while they just stared at each other, one of them aggravated and the other just uncaring. “Well, let’s start then. I’ve drawn up a schedule for you; I want to keep a close eye on you. You can’t be distracted,” he glanced at her pointedly, “if you want to get this job done.”
She stood up suddenly, turning towards her window. “I can’t write, Mr. Maddox. That’s why the publication sent you, isn’t it? They think I have writer’s block; they can’t squeeze any material out of me anymore,” she said dully. Arthur made no comment, partly because what she said was true and partly because he can’t make any personal sentiments about the matter. That wasn’t his job anyway. But as he looked at her petite form silhouetted by the dull light, he felt a twinge of sadness - sadness for her, for the pressure she must be going through, shelling out book after book, bestseller after bestseller. “I’m here to help you,” he said simply and she gave him a hard look before her features softened.
“I can’t kill Harold Crick.”
He gave a discreet cough, a fraction of the shocked reaction he was withholding. “I’m sorry, what?” Murder wasn’t part of the job description. Was this Harold Crick person her ex-boyfriend? An annoying neighbour? Someone who owed her money? Whoever he was, fuck this job and hell no to the sizeable pay; this job isn’t worth it.
“You want to help me, right? Well, I can’t finish my book if I can’t find a way to kill my character,” she admitted and Arthur felt foolish for over analysing her words. He fixed her with an attentive gaze, his professional mode on. Here she was, finally telling him her problems, being cooperative. Time to work.
“I can’t seem to find a good way to kill him off,” Ariadne said, frustration lacing her tone. Arthur had no knowledge about the creative aspect of the writing process, but he knew that research was key in the technicalities of writing. He knew he could help her in that area. He had done so many background checks for his clients (getting into the nitty gritty of his clients’ habits and preferences so he can customize a work schedule unique to the client) and he could honestly say that he was a professional in that arena.
“How about falling off a building?” he offered suddenly, remembering the first time they met; the vision of her standing atop her desk, eyes closed and arms out in front of her surfacing in his mind. She levelled her gaze at him and shook her head. “No, I can’t just kill him off by making him jump a building. It’s too mundane. Too… ordinary.” As her words drifted off, her eyes slanted downwards and her shoulders tensed slightly. She looked up at him again. “Harold Crick is an ordinary man who needs an extraordinary way to die.”
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“Tell me more about this Harold Crick character,” said Arthur as they stood by a bus stop, bag of groceries tucked in the crook of his right arm, umbrella clutched in his left hand. Ariadne just carried a paper cup of coffee, a paper stuck under her armpit. He’d gone for a walk with her, got drenched in the rain and now they were stuck in this awkward silence with him attempting to supply any sort of topic for conversation. All this started from this morning’s events and her sudden coffee craving.
The day had started out normally, Arthur sitting in front of the coffee table (his makeshift desk, he’ll acquire a proper desk tomorrow), keen on drafting her systematic schedule for the whole five weeks they are working together while she clacked away on her typewriter. Every now and again she’d stop and viciously rip out the paper and throw it away into the bin. Her frustration was audible and Arthur was feeling it, willing himself not to go over to her and ask her what’s wrong or, worse yet, get infected by her frustrations. It’s best if he kept a level head, for both their sakes. At least one of them is functioning and working on the task at hand.
“Arthur.” He was engrossed in making a time table for her when he heard her murmur. He looked up; adjusting the spectacles perched on his nose, looking at the doorway to the next room where her desk was located. “Yes? What is it, Ms. Hollis?” He saw the tips of her hand appear, making a waving motion then beckoning him. “Come here.”
He stared at her hand blandly for a while, his eyebrows rising up and his mouth pursing. Taking off his spectacles, he abandoned his work and strode to her desk. He found her slumped on her desk, the shredded remnants of her latest attempt at writing a chapter lying next to her head. The corners of his mouth tug into a frown; her writer’s block must be worse than they predicted. Looking at the pile of papers scattered around her work space, the legible ones all bearing the same unfinished sentence, he could only assume how frustrated she must really be, knowing that she was capable of so much more but reduced to these half-baked, half-finished ideas and sentences.
Ariadne raised her head and smiled sweetly. “I’m hungry,” she moaned and a frown appeared instantly on Arthur’s face. “Get back to work, Ms. Hollis.” She merely pouted and whined again, “But I can’t work when I’m hungry. Get me some coffee and melon bread.”
Arthur shut his eyes and exhaled, counting to ten in his head. This woman, this smidgen of a woman barely out of girlhood, was ordering him around like it was her goddamn business. He was tempted to tell her that no, he was most definitely not her bitch, so if she wanted to get her damn coffee and melon bread then she’d better march off and get it herself. But no, that would be unprofessional and he was anything but that. He refused to embarrass himself in front of a client (no matter how infuriating that client might be) but he wasn’t about to submit to the demands of a woman two heads shorter than him. That’s not how he rolled.
“Ok, but come with me,” he said calmly and he watched her pout and open her mouth, probably to argue but he beat her to it. “So you can pick out anything else you like. So grab your coat and let’s go.” He bustled her out of her chair and helped her shrug into a coat and into her shoes (she was always barefoot around the office, he observed). As this was happening, her rosy lips were set into a frown, her face contorted in annoyance but on her doll-like features it seemed more like a childish pout.
Before Ariadne knew it, Arthur had ushered her out and they were standing in line at the nearest coffee shop, picking out her melon bread while he took care of ordering coffee for her (Café au lait though he hazarded an inquiry if they had Café Bombon, and she has yet to question him how he knows her coffee preferences). They were out a moment later, carrying her coffee and her bread when it suddenly started to drizzle. With the rain pelting at them, they scrambled for cover at a nearby convenience store and purchased an umbrella and packages of sweets she insisted she needed to have.
So here they were, standing by the bus stop, Ariadne’s hair flopping around her face as she sipped her coffee delicately. He, on the other hand, miraculously looked like his usual impeccable self, his hair perfectly slicked back and the slight dampness of his waistcoat and pants the only indication that he had sprinted in the rain, shielding her from the drops although it was futile and she still came out looking like a sodden kitten.
“Tell me more about this Harold Crick character.”
She looked up when he spoke, fixing him with an inscrutable expression. She gripped her coffee cup tighter before she answered. “He’s a very methodical man, this Harold Crick character. Tall, curly-haired and blue-eyed; he’s an ordinary man, an ordinary man who had a very measured… and dull existence.” As she spoke, Arthur felt an odd sensation at her words; like she wasn’t describing Harold Crick, she was describing him instead. He pushed that thought away. How could she know about his life in the first place? He was just being paranoid, identifying with Harold Crick’s character.
“He is an auditor for the Internal Revenue Service and every day for the past nine years he’d brush his 32 teeth 76 times. 38 up and 38 down and while he’s doing this his wristwatch would wish for him to use a more colourful toothbrush.”
“His wristwatch?”
“Yes, you see, this is a story of Harold Crick and his wristwatch. Anyway, every day for the past nine years he’d tie his tie in a single Windsor knot, instead of the double thereby saving him 43 seconds. His wristwatch thought the single Windsor made his neck look fat... but said nothing. And…”
A bus came by but they didn’t get on, deciding to walk back instead as she twittered on, telling him more of Harold Crick and his mathematical and measured life. He eventually knew the time Harold’s bus arrived, the time he took for his lunch breaks and even the 7.134 tax files he’d complete every weekday. He absorbed every info she told him, his brain starting to think up ways to help her with this newfound knowledge. But the most surprising thing was he was fascinated with how she imagined this character, gave him a fully imagined and detailed background. It felt like he was beginning to understand her situation. She spoke about Harold Crick like this character was her offspring, and she probably thought that way too, her child who she’d have to kill off for her to finish Harold’s story. Arthur’s face faltered a bit and he asked her carefully.
“Why must you kill him, though?”
She’d gone silent for a while, staring off at the tops of the buildings. “I must kill him. I always do.” With that answer Arthur began to think that maybe he could never understand her at all.
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“How’s she coming along?” asked Cobb, pouring Arthur black tea as they sat in his study in his home. Arthur had to report to Cobb at the end of each week. The first week had come and gone and he was invited for tea at the editor’s family home. At his entrance he was greeted with a pair of curious wide, eyes, two children, a blond girl and a sandy haired boy staring at him curiously. At their father’s prodding they shrieked out excited welcomes, marching up to him and declaring him their uncle from now on. Arthur was flustered at the onslaught of affectionate human contact and had to balance the boy on his hip and handle the girl’s insistent tugging on his arm while Cobb looked on with mirth dancing in his blue eyes.
He was eventually rescued by a curly-haired brunette with stunning blue and a beguiling French accent. “Ah, monsieur Arthur, my husband told me a lot about you,” said Mal, Dom’s loving wife, her smile warm and welcoming. She gently pried the children away (“Now, now, James, Philippa, your Uncle Arthur and Daddy need to talk. Let’s play in the garden instead.” “Yes, Maman.”) and led them to partake in a game of fort. Arthur suddenly felt uncomfortable, feeling like he was intruding upon a happy home, taking his grimness and tainting this happy environment with it. But at Cobb’s understanding look and the memory of the small bodies hugging him (a complete stranger!) in welcome, he felt the sensation slip away.
Arthur noticed that Cobb didn’t ask how the book was coming along; it seemed that the man cared more for Ariadne’s welfare. Perhaps she was a family friend or something. Suddenly the thought of Ariadne, smiling and being wrestled by James or being hugged by Philippa made his lips quirk into a small smile. The image seemed so right, like she deserved to be relaxed for once and not have to worry about meeting her deadlines and the expectations others had for her. He caught himself and ceased the thoughts; he couldn’t be emotionally invested in this job. She was, first and foremost, a client.
“Not much progress. She managed to chuck a whole ream of paper into the dust bin after one week,” he reported and Cobb only nodded, sipping his tea. When he made no comment, Arthur ventured to ask, “She says that you guys think she has writer’s block. Is it true?”
“It’s true, for the publishers at least. For me, I don’t think she has writer’s block. She just hasn’t asked the right questions and looked in the right places,” Cobb replied honestly. “It’s hard when this type of thing happens, especially for her when she’s experiencing all this for the first time, after so many years of turning out masterpiece after masterpiece, to finally hit a road block.
“But she’ll get through, we know she will. And you’ll help her won’t you?” he asked Arthur and the younger man was silent, not trusting himself to speak his thoughts as of the moment. How could he help her when he couldn’t even begin to understand her the way Cobb did? Ariadne was the first client he felt uncertain about. “She’s going to finish the book, I promise,” was his reply. Stupid, don’t make promises you can’t possibly keep!
“Have confidence in yourself, Arthur. She’ll find her inspiration soon enough, just make her life easier for her for the time being,” said Cobb kindly. Arthur said nothing, thinking to himself that buying her food and taking her for walks (they’d been doing that for the past week, thinking it would clear her head and inspire her) might not be enough to help her.
“If you have any questions you can always visit us anytime. James and Philippa have taken a great liking to you, a bit like how they welcomed Ariadne the first time she visited. James was barely a month old though, but Philippa, oh she was inseparable from her.”
“You’ve known her that long?”
“Mal’s known her longer, when Ariadne was just a first year university student. She’s Mal’s father’s favourite, and perhaps most celebrated, student... which reminds me - if you are really having difficulty, just go talk to Professor Stephen Miles. He’ll point you in the right direction.”
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Later, when Arthur was sitting in his study, he mulled over the things Cobb said. Iprofessor Stephen Miles, Ariadne’s mentor, and probably the man who influenced and supported her in her writing career. If there’s anyone Ariadne might willingly listen to, this instructor was the best person to approach. Maybe he can help get the young writer back on track.
Taking his agenda, he scrawled a memo into his schedule.
2nd Week: Visit Professor Miles
Closing the agenda, he laid it down on his desk as he leaned against his arm chair, suddenly feeling exhaustion creep over him, sinking into his bones. He didn’t know what to do with Ariadne, like the various schedules and efficiency methods (things that had always guaranteed him success) he made for her weren’t helping her. Charts and systematized schedules will never inspire her to write. He has to help her; he’s determined to see her book finished. With that final thought, he felt sleep blanketing him, his lean form curling on the arm chair, the thoughts about the dangers of being emotionally invested in Ariadne dying in his sleep addled brain.
--------------Author's Notes:
Ariadne and Arthur's dialogue about the pre-eaten candy was borrowed from the Stranger Than Fiction script (I could read it all day long :D) as well as Ariadne's description of Harold Crick.
I do not own Harold crick, I am just borrowing his character.
Mal's not dead in this story, to make Cobb less of a troubled widower and more of a patient and understanding mentor to both Arthur and Ariadne. I really enjoyed writing the family scene, I actually felt the discomfort that Arthur must feel around these situations.
Cafe Bombon is a coffee beverage that is served with espresso with sweetened condensed milk at a 1:1 ratio and is popularly served in Spain although it is popular in Asia as well, commonly served in "mamak" stalls and uses ground coffee and sweetened condensed milk at the same ratio. Ariadne, as you all can probably tell in this story, has a bit of a sweet tooth (the numerous sweets she consumes have an explanation ;D) and i figured she'd be fond of a drink like thi(uncommon this drink must be) demand for sweet coffee or convince the server to increase the condensed milk/ sugar ratio in her coffee.