the creative process

by John Sara

I keep a box of ideas stashed beneath my bed; misshapen balls of flesh I cut from my body and mail to my editor. (Um, thanks, but I didn’t actually ask you to do that). Nameless and half-finished, most don’t survive the extraction process. I sort their corpses by genre, stuff them away into jars of formaldehyde in a sad memorial for what could have been. They’ve taken over my apartment. I can’t have guests over. I barely have room to sleep. This morning, I find another one; a red lump on my side the size of a penny and easily mistaken for an ingrown hair. The thing hurts all the way to the coffee shop and by the time I’ve stepped on stage, it’s swelled up like a water balloon under my shirt. The other writers are jealous of my lump. They poke and prod at it; ask their usual questions (how far along are you?), mush it between their oily fingers and tell me oh yeah, this is gonna be a good one. I get to the third paragraph when I feel it. The expected sting. The first signs of life have appeared; tiny gray digits protruding through my skin. Desperate to escape. I have to call an Uber to get home. (Patience is key. Don’t you know you gotta nurture the thing first?) It doesn’t hurt, only a little, the way it might feel to tear out a hangnail, and the blood goes right down the drain. The thing looks just like me; even more than the others, and for a moment, I understand the pride of being a father. I’d cared for them, the others; fed them, bathed them, done everything in my power to ensure they’d live a fruitful life.  But none had survived longer than 24 hours, each sputtering– choking – on what seemed invisible air, convulsing into puddles of flesh. (You can’t demand too much of them). Things would be different this time. I sit him at the dinner table. We drink Dr. Pepper. I teach him to write. The basics; sentence structure, character, plot; how to tie it all together into something resembling a story. He grows remarkably fast. Just like the others. Before long, he’s half as tall as me and outgrown his chair.

I drag the thing to my office, sit him down at my desk and run my fingers through his scalp. Write, I tell him. Write me a modern-day myth with heavy Christian allusions. I lock the door. Drink more Dr. Pepper. Relax. Listen to the white noise of the TV. (It’s been a long time since you wrote anything). When I return, the manuscript is finished; one hundred freshly printed pages all double spaced in Times New Roman. He tells me he understands plot but not how to write an ending. I teach him again. (The character must grow. Every situation must be resolved). The story is just as I would have done it; the images layered, the foreshadowing nuanced and subtle. Every metaphor builds in a way which reinforces the main themes. If one didn’t know any better, they might say I wrote it myself. But there’s no ending. Not really. (Ambiguous. That’s the word I’m looking for). Everything meanders. And then the story stops. I put him to bed; crumple his creation into a paper ball I heave to the bottom of the trash. We’ll try again tomorrow. But then again, there is potential here. I type out a message to my editor.  first draft of something new. thoughts? It’s two-fifteen in the morning. My other half sleeps in the next room; on a leftover mattress and three blankets. I wonder if he dreams, and if his dreams are mine. I’m awoken in the morning by buzzing. My editor; cheerier than usual. (It’s dark. Experimental. Dare I say avant-garde! But it needs work.) I’m too focused on breakfast to answer all of his questions. Yes, Thank you, yes. It’s part of a new novel I’m working on. No, I don’t have a title for it yet. My creation has begun to walk; barely, each step like a wind-up toy let loose across the floor. He’s starting to grow hair. I watch as he types; eyes never fleeting from the screen, no need for food and water but the stray scraps I shovel into his lips. His fingers curve. Like a pianist; bleeding. He understands dialogue. When to end it. How it flows. (Every character needs a voice). I tell him to write me something new—something from deep within his soul. The story he writes is about a man; a carpenter, who lives in a big house with ten sons. One morning, the man asks the eldest; son, have you found a woman to marry? I need someone to carry on the family name. The son says no, and the father, enraged, grabs a kitchen knife and cuts the son’s throat. When the son is dead, he stuffs his body into the attic. The next day, he asks the second eldest son, son have you married yet? He says no, and the father takes an ice pick and gouges his eye out. Rinse and repeat, each morning, until the attic is filled with the corpses of his sons. The father, weeping, carves from their flesh and gets to work creating a new child. I wasn’t sure how else to end it, he tells me, and when I ask where it all came from, he smiles and whispers the soul.

Email #2; scrapped that last idea. Tapping into something darker. Psychological/familial type horror stuff. No title. An hour later, his response: didn’t expect all the gore but I like it! Can u send me more? Oh yes, yes, I can. I lock the office door and head out for groceries. If all goes well, the two of us can celebrate with dinner. That he’s still alive surprises (unnerves?) me. He hasn’t yet melted or even shown any signs of exhaustion. Perhaps this is it. The end of the cycle. The end of the lumps. All those scars running down my body. So many failures. I pick cereal from the shelf and imagine what it will be like when I finally reveal my novel to the world. The applause. Where did you get this idea? They’ll ask, and I’ll pause, imagining that fleshy thing typing away in my office. A toothy smile. Oh, you know. Life. Not the truth: How it had come clawing out of me with wild ferocity. How I’d seen the thing grow and develop with each passing minute. I’m so distracted I don’t notice the tap on my shoulder, the are you the one who wrote the thing? Yes. Yes, I suppose I am.

When I get home, he’s barricaded himself in the office: a bookshelf or heavy table. I’m not sure which. I knock on the door; loud, violent. Enough to wake the neighbors. Let me in or so help me God. He doesn’t answer, only for the clacking of keys. Again, I knock. You can’t come in, he tells me. I’m not ready. I do not want you to see what I have written. I quiet my voice, soothe my knocks to a gentle thud. Please, I assure him, I’m sure it will be perfect. My groceries are rotting in the car. (Sometimes you disturb me). The story sits in a pool of blood, fresh and ripe with the scent of iron. It’s just as before; the father, killing each of his sons one by one. But the ending has changed. When the father approaches his final child, he wraps his fingers around his neck, squeezing tightly. But the son clutches a knife in one hand, stabbing it into his father’s stomach. Standing over the corpse, he promises to bury his brothers in the morning. Does it frighten you? My creation asks, and when I tell him it does, he pulls me into a tight embrace. His cold fingers grace my throat, and the boxes of ideas, still lodged beneath the bed, begin to scream. The bits stir in place, not dead, but dormant, tearing themselves from their crypts with uproarious applause. (I think this one’s your big break). I’m in a hall of mirrors, staring back at distortions of my visage. Never finished. Never given a name. They smile. The air leaves my body and I remember the day he was nothing more than a stitch in my side. Desperate for the page. Something is emerging from his body now; swelling to the size of a stone. Oh yes, what an ending! What a twist!

Photo of John Sara

BIO: John Sara is a writer from Parma, Ohio. He received his MFA in Creative Writing from Ashland University, where he works as an adjunct professor and lead fiction editor for the student-run literary journal The Black Fork Review. His work has been featured in such places as Prairie Margins, Paper Dragon, Blood+Honey, Maudlin House, Schlock! Webzine, Cul-de-sac of Blood and more. You can follow him on Instagram @darkbat616.