FAQ: Shock Treatment

[mbarker.livejournal.com]

original posting: Sat, 7 Aug 1993 17:57:01 JST

FAQ: Shock Treatment

I'm glad I never claimed to be a medical writer. Still, maybe this'll get some hearts beating...

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Shock Treatment

The body was still, unmoving on the table under the bright lights. The ER staff seemed to be moving twice as fast in compensation.

"What have we got here, Doctor?"

"OD'd. Full stop. And nothing seems to get him started again."

The traces on the monitors were flat.

"OK, I'll take charge now. Nurse! Yes, you. Quickly, 100 lines of Walt Whitman, right to the heart. Stet!"

"Now, you. Keep those pages of Faulkner turning. Steady, now, feed it to him steady."

"OK, Doctor, if you'd take the P.G. Wodehouse and apply it, we'll see if there's any reaction."

"What about Thurber?"

"Well, some times. Try one, then the other. But I'm afraid..."

The team moved. Still, the traces were flat.

"All right, everyone. I'm going to try one more thing. Clear!"

The body convulsed. The traces all jumped, then settled down.

Then, as everyone watched, one ticked. Another ticked. Bump, whoosh, bump, bump, bump, whoosh.


The young intern shook the older doctor's hand.

"Amazing. Simply amazing. What was that last dosage, Doctor?"

The older doctor leaned forward, letting a nurse wipe his forehead.

"That? Oh. Pure, hard SF. It's always a shock to the system, but I think it did the trick. I was ready to try space opera if that failed..."

The young intern nodded.

"Yes, I've heard of it, but I'd never seen it. Well, now I'm a believer. Uh, what kind of treatment would you prescribe for maintenance?"

The older doctor glanced once at the body, then at the intern.

"Keep him hooked up to WRITERS for a while, at least."

The intern grimaced.

"Yes, he'll have some disorientation, maybe some confusion. But remember, you're dealing with a serious block, and that's the best treatment I know for it."

The intern nodded.

"Well, I suppose. Imagine, a mainstream writer OD'd like that on mass media. Classical, grand writer's block. I know it happens a lot, but I hate to see them wasted like that."

The older doctor squeezed the intern's shoulder.

"Don't worry, you'll learn. Just keep those pages flowing, and .. oh, no T.V. in ICU, ok? When he comes to, would you let me know?"

"Sure, but why?"

"Well, as long as he's here, I've got this great idea for a book..."

If you get blocked, battered, or even bored, try WRITERS!
Recommended by better writing treatment centers everywhere...
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FAQ: The Joy of Fishing

[mbarker.livejournal.com]

original posting: Sat, 11 Sep 1993 18:00:06 JST

FAQ: The Joy of Fishing

The Joy of Fishing

On the Coast of Dreams, near the Bay of Profundity whose unplumbed depths have sucked many a brave soul out of mortal sight, moonbeams play across the beach where yawning crews and solitary drifters prepare for an early start. Lines slip through age-toughened and tender young hands, stiff with sleep or fumbling with eagerness. Gulls protest the early disturbance. Their cries sting ears pitched to hear the morning silence.

As night reluctantly pales and pastels slip faint shades across the black, the fleet slides into the waters. Waves chop and push, but each craft pulls slowly or quickly toward today's fishing spots. Sleek powerboats force their way along, foaming wakes shaking rowboats and cockleshells that creep softly across the water.

From time to time, and here and there, one casts a line, weighted sinker leading, baited hook flailing the air, spidery filament tying fisher to tackle. Splash! The offering sinks beneath the waves, and the fisher waits. Perhaps, impatient, they tug a time or two, then reel back the filament so fine, to check the line, inspect the hook, and make sure the bait is still fastened firm. Others, wise to the wiles of their prey, stolidly wait, patiently watching for a twitch or a tug, letting their soul slip out to the horizon and rock in the waves while they have some time.

Plugs, spoons, bright spinning tin, wavering veils of colored plastic - all manner of bait and of lure, both shining and rusty, stinking and clean, those fisherman try as they sail once again. Their lines sometimes tangle, some even break, but always they try again and again, for the thrill of the bite, the teasing work of the play, and the joy of landing.

Though the catch be quite big or ever so small, the fisherfolk smile and stand proud as they work at their trade. Some landlubbers may laugh, but the fisherfolk don't, for they've cast their lines again and again, determined to land their own.

Fresh flounder, fat tuna, swordfish arcing into the sky, shark's sullen muscular battle, even sardines that some might scorn as bait - ah, they all are fine sport.

Nothing beats fishing.

Was that a tug on my line? Gently, gently... YES!

Gotcha! A fine, fighting reader! How could any writer ask for more?

Try out the fishing for yourself, why don't you? Join the fleet, spend a while on stormy waters, and cast your own lines.

Your life may never be the same, once you've tried it.
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