He’s trying to write. That’s the thing. The mistake, maybe. What he should be doing is something else. Anything that doesn’t require concentration, quiet, and some modicum of normalcy.

Normalcy has been blown to bits.

The voices rush up the stairs from the living room, bound down the hallway, and find him in his hiding place - the spare bedroom that he calls his office. Sharp-edged words barge through the door and infiltrate his ears:

“I don’t want to!” (a high, shrill, old woman’s voice)

“I didn’t ask if you wanted to.” (a younger woman’s voice)

“No!” (angry)

“You have to take your meds and...” (insistent)

“No!!!” (a bona fide shriek)

“...And I’m...! (voice rising)

“NO!!!!!” (a scream of bloody murder)

“...And I’m taking you to the bathroom!!” (rising to match the scream)

He ignores this. Actually, he doesn’t ignore it at all. He listens to the battle, wondering if the skirmish will soon turn to the issue of butter or salt. That’s when they really throw down. She (the old woman) requests, talks about, obsesses over butter and salt. She (the younger woman), knowing well the parameters of the old woman’s dietary restrictions, sternly refuses to satisfy this strange demand.

The thing about writing, he thinks, as he hears the woman-on-woman war escalating, hears the wheelchair rolling, and realizes the trip to the bathroom is underway, in spite of the impressive protest, is that sometimes it happens and sometimes it doesn’t.

“All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.” - Ernest Hemingway

By that he means that the results of writing tend to be inconsistent. What he doesn’t mean is that he believes in blocks or the necessity of excessive surges of creativity or appropriate moods or muses. He sees writing as an exercise, like pushups. You either write or you don’t. There’s no sitting around whining about how you don’t feel like writing and waiting for inspiration to suddenly strike.

You just have to start slamming those keys, or maybe caressing them, pleading with them, coercing them, bartering with them until you get somewhere.

As Hemingway once put it: “All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.”

Good old Hemingway.

Focusing on the keyboard with Hemingway-like determination, he pounds out a sentence. It’s terrible. He deletes it. Pounds out another. Deletes it with emphatic keystrokes. Tries a third. Leaves it. Assesses it. Swears at it. Calls Hemingway a few choice names.

He smiles. This is writing. He recalls something and types another sentence. It isn’t Hemingway’s one true sentence, but it isn’t totally terrible either. He manages another. Another. None of them qualify as the one true sentence. But he doesn’t hate them.

He examines the growing congregation of words for a moment. Types another sentence, then another. Then he recalls something else.

Yesterday morning, sitting on the porch with the old woman, mariachi music blaring, the flag waving in a decidedly patriotic wind. The conversation trickling along:

(Long pause with only the breeze and the enthusiastic, ay-yi-yi-ing breaking the silence, then...)

Old Woman: (looking up from her word puzzle book): You know those corn chips? Not Fritos. But those other corn chips?

Him: (looking up from his laptop, nodding with no idea what chips she might be referring to)

Old Woman: How far is Walmart?

Him: Not that close.

Old Woman: Is there a bus?

Him: What do you need at Walmart?

Old Woman: Where’s the closest store? (and before he can answer) Can you take me to Texas?

Him: It’s a long ways to Texas.

Old Woman: What about donuts?

Him: What about them?

Old Woman: Where can we get some?

Him: Um...

Old Woman: I need some kerosene.

Him: For what?

Old Woman: (displaying her fingernails) To get this off.

Him: How about polish remover?

Old Woman: How far is Walgreens?

Him: Wal-greens? Oh... about...

Old Woman: These houses are too close together. (waving across the street) (pause) I was in a fire once. I barely got out.

Him: Really?

Old Woman: Do you have a stool?

Him: What for?

Old Woman: To get into the truck so we can go to the store.

Him: Uh...

Old Woman: Is there any more Diet Coke?

Him: (rising to get a Diet Coke)

When he returned with the Coke, the old woman was asleep, hunched crookedly over her word puzzle.

Then he remembered this: On Facebook recently, he had seen a post that said, simply and succinctly: “People suck.” It was a profound and rather timely sentiment. Hundreds of social media aficionados had “liked” it.

He agreed, but with a caveat. People did suck. Sometimes. They could be horrible, selfish creatures, brimming with evil intent, unable to manage two breaths, two steps, or two eyeblinks without doing something stupid or mean.

The problem was, occasionally, people didn’t suck. And that always took him by surprise. For that reason, he hadn’t clicked “like.”

Then he remembered yesterday afternoon - on the porch, mariachi music still blaring, the flag still dancing in the good, old American wind. The old woman was working on the same page in her puzzle book, examining it intently.

Old Woman: (squinting at her book) How far is Walmart?

Him: Far.

Old Woman: I could get an Uber.

Him: (shrugging, nodding)

Old Woman: There was a little rabbit out here. (pointing at the yard)

Him: Oh, yeah?

Old Woman: (says something about the rabbit but a passing school bus obliterates her words)

Him: (nodding)

Old Woman: Will that bus take me to Texas?

Him: No.

Old Woman: Where will it take me?

(before he can answer)

Old Woman: I wish I had my car. I have a car, you know. And I’ve got a license.

Him: Really?

Old Woman: There are worse drivers than me. The girls don’t think I can drive. But I can.

Him: (nodding)

Old Woman: How far is Texas?

Him: A long ways.

Old Woman: Mexican men are liars.

Him: What??

Old Woman: Especially when they tell you they love you.

Him: Um...

Old Woman: Can you drive me?

Him: To where? Walmart?

Old: Texas. I’ll pay for gas.

Him: No.

Old Woman: I want to see that little rabbit again.

Him: (glancing at the empty yard)

Old Woman: How far is the airport?

Him: Not far.

Old Woman: Will it take me there?

Him: Where? Texas?

Old Woman: No. Walmart.

Him: Uh...

Old Woman: I used to work under cars with my father. He didn’t get along with my brothers. I put in alternators and ignitions. I changed tires.

Him: Really?

Old Woman: I did sheet rock too.

Him: Wow!

And now the voices are back, clamoring up the stairs, slamming together in his head, bickering over toast. The old woman is demanding two pieces and wants lots of butter. The younger woman is saying, “No, Mama. Just one. And it already has enough butter.”

He starts writing again. He makes himself write. Writing is like that. Like pushups. It takes discipline - discipline in the face of distraction. He continues collecting words. Maybe he’ll find that one true sentence. Or maybe not.