HE WASN'T FINISHED

Seven bottles of booze collecting dust on the liquor cabinet; each filled with varying quantities. One bottle of his favorite bourbon stood unopened. 

What was he waiting for? And better still, why did he feel the need to notice them at all?

The contents contained different keys that unlocked different memories. The vodka reminded him of his ex-father-in-law. The gin reminded him of a lost love. The rum reminded him of numerous youthful hangovers. The homemade wine reminded him of his old hometown. The Southern Comfort reminded him of a cheap hotel in Chicago - the night he shattered her heart into a thousand pieces. The flavored, blended whiskey - a gift from friends. He'd probably never drink it.

But the bourbon? The good stuff! For years it fueled his writing. When he still wrote a regular column, conducted interviews with notable figures, and was read by thousands every month, he would often finish half a bottle while typing the day away - and he never felt it. 

Then the words dried up, and with it his work. He tried looking for those misplaced metaphors and latent locutions in too many bottles, glasses, and cans. If they weren't just gone, they were well-hidden. It had become an annoying game of hide and seek with once overflowing notions, thoughts, and views. 

He didn't write another serious word for years. No more interviews. No more opinions. No more monotonous inner monologue. 

That particular well had run dry. 

He'd heard of writer's block but damn...this wasn't some psychic dam holding back a flow of ideas. It was like an intellectual desert. 

Even his personal correspondence suffered. Once known for lengthy, witty messages for birthdays, anniversaries, and congratulatory well-wishes, he had found himself reduced to almost monosyllabic pleasantries. Worse still, he had become dull and predictable.

He tried writing a daily journal. He bored himself to tears three lines in on the first day. Even a bottle of cheap Shiraz couldn't flush out any useable verbiage. 

So, he hung it up. 

If the words ever came back, he'd be ready and waiting. But they didn't and soon enough, he forgot to bother worrying about it. A few more years ticked by. As he aged, he accepted a more solitary life. He had his books, his music, his movies. His marriage was a good one. He settled into a quiet life of 'a man who used to'. 

He was still as social as he could be bothered to be and managed to make a number of new friends. Academics mostly. Lecturers, professors, folks with entire alphabets behind their name. The conversations and correspondence were never anything short of fascinating. He could feel word clusters forming in his head. Nothing exciting but enough to spark the recognition of writing ideas. He began scribbling ideas, summaries, and random thoughts.

For years he had been considered an expert on a few subjects. Lord knows he was convinced he was. The stacks of magazines featuring his work that littered his cluttered study attested that others were equally convinced. 

He had an idea to write a definitive history of American music; from the first fiddle player to saw his way through "I Saw Three Ships" to the birth of the blues and beyond. He knew he could write it and do so in a way that wasn't a mere textbook. He compiled a copious number of notes, researched hundreds of forgotten musicians and songs, and had a functional outline ready to go. 

He wrote the first three chapters. He made the mistake of mentioning it to a few people. Soon, he was inundated with questions and suggestions. The attention scared the words back into their secret hiding place. 

He scrapped the project completely. 

Under the current political environment, the book would have been viewed, officially, as divisive. "Too political" was a phrase that played over and over in his head. He just couldn't be bothered with it. Not now. Maybe not ever. 

Another six months went by with barely a typed word. Sure, he still scribbled ideas on random scraps of paper. Nine times out of ten they ended in the circular file. 

As many aging folks do, he found himself revisiting past adventures in the way few do any more. He would spend hours each day looking through old scrap books and photo albums. Physical mementos reminding him 'yes, he had been there'. 

An old idea came back to him. A brilliant idea, he convinced himself. 

"What if?"

"Then what...?"

He typed the first line...

"The old man fumbled for his keys."

He allowed the story to unfold bit by bit...an act of simply letting the words flow from his mind directly to the keyboard. Before long, he was 1500 words in. Six pages! He was writing again but writing something completely new to him. Fiction. No interviews or deep research - no, he was allowing what his parents had referred to as his "overactive imagination" to play. Images formed in his head. A room. A character. A thought, an idea, a conversation. Would this person say this? Would they say that? 

It was like watching a movie no one else could see. 

The first day, he'd written over three thousand words. He figured he better take a break. He knew that if he tried to pull it all out at once, he'd ruin it. He wasn't sure why or how he knew this - he just did. 

He clicked SAVE AS, made up a working title, and walked away. Heading into the living room, he stopped and looked at the liquor cabinet. Maybe a celebratory cocktail? What the hell...why not? 

He decided against it. 

His wife asked what he was writing. Was he working on the history book again?

He smirked and told her "no". New idea. Actually, an old idea but with a different perspective. She seemed happier than he was. 

The next day, he wrote another two - three thousand words. He kept this pace up for over a month. The story was going into some dark territory, and he knew he needed to step back from it. It was invading his dreams. A few times he woke screaming. He knew he was on to something really good.

He wanted to finish the bulk of the book by June. He was scheduled for surgery and would need a solid month to recuperate. 

He got close. 

He spent his recovery time trying to not think about the book, but the ideas came anyway. He started filling a notebook with bits and pieces, backstories, notes to himself to factcheck this or that quote or bit of background data. 

He finished the book in September. At least he thought he did.

After letting it sit for a while, he went back and reread his rough draft. He fixed bits here and there, changed things, added and deleted words, lines, sometimes whole paragraphs. Again, he thought he was finished. 

At this rate, the book was going to be insanely huge. He opted to remove two entire sections. Maybe he could save them for a follow-up, provided anyone ever read the book and requested a follow-up. He whittled it all down to a more manageable five - six hundred pages. Only.

Again, he thought he was finished with it. 

Again, he was mistaken.

The holidays came and went. He was corresponding with a few literary agents and small publishing houses. He was reminded why he'd never bothered to write a book before. He'd been asked, and always said no. 

His ability to write had returned. New voices were presenting themselves, along with new ideas and new stories. He was writing short stories, sometimes two or more a day. 

One short story felt almost too familiar. He realized it belonged in the novel. He wrote it, rewrote it, edited it, and started it again - with a clearer goal. When he pasted it into the novel he'd spent the past year on, it fit. Almost too well! 

The stories continued. He started work on a different novel. He made it five chapters in and shelved it. Then another. And another. Same thing each time.

He realized he'd gone from writer's block to backlog. He could never finish much when he knew he had a backlog. He guessed there was something to be said for consistency.

Before long he realized he had thousands of pages of short stories, one finished novel, and three unfinished manuscripts. He'd have to do something.

He started writing his old personal blog again. 

And here you are - reading it. 

The bottles on his liquor cabinet are still collecting dust. 

copyright notice © 2026 Michael C. Metzger