Blink, blink, blink… the cursor on the blank computer screen stood idle, relentlessly flashing as a reminder that the page remained empty. Microsoft Works, 1990. Sitting at the computer, biting his nails even closer, the author’s face was pensive. To most people, such a situation might seem trivial, but for Mortimer Henschel, it was the direst of circumstances. In fact, it was hopeless. His “condition”, for so he called it, wasn’t necessarily medical, although it was most certainly a detriment to his health. 
	Mortimer had “hypergraphia”, that is, a neurological phenomenon (usually associated with temporal lobe epilepsy, but for Mortimer, that wasn’t likely) characterized by an uncontrollable urge to write. As a professional author, it would seem as though hypergraphia would be a blessing, rather than a curse; in earlier years, it seemed to be the key to his literary success. 
	Spending hours at his typewriter (what primitive days those were, just four years ago since his college graduation) he used to shine above his peers for his ability to produce a piece of quality literature in remarkable time. When a newspaper in town needed to compose a breaking story only hours before the publication of the headlines, Mortimer could be trusted to take on the job. Ever victorious, his fame as a literary “machine” spread from his hometown of Monkey Run, Missouri, until his name was hallowed in the publisher’s offices and newspapers of the neighboring city of Hannibal. 
	Every day, he received at least a dozen emails from reporters around the area, asking him to compose an easily readable story based on their probably unintelligible or boring facts. But Mortimer knew he was made for more than journalism. The non-fiction monotony of life in Monkey Run, Missouri paid his bills. But somewhere at his core, he was more than that; he was an author of fiction.
	Hannibal, Missouri, in case you don’t already know, was the birthplace of the famous American novelist, Mark Twain. In case you don’t know who Mark Twain is, it’s probably time for you to stop reading this and go look him up. Growing up in “Misery” (as he pronounced his home-state’s name, not without cynicism), Mortimer had always needed to get away. As a young boy, he’d discovered that his writing could take him there. And if he’d been famous for his non-fiction reporting, he was a local celebrity for his prowess as a storyteller. With no written outline, after spending hours in the library reading, and hours more at his typewriter (it wasn’t until mid 1990 that Mortimer got onboard with a brand new Microsoft computer…) he could tell a story faster and better than a Missouri farmer can milk a cow, which is pretty neat, if you’ve ever seen it done right. His career depended on his hypergraphia. 
	But… one day, it happened. 
	Coming out of the grocery store on Main Street, groceries haphazardly piled in a bag, his mind rushing through his latest plot concept, Mortimer’s normal, commonplace, humdrum life came to a stop. And so did his literary genius. 
	No, he didn’t die; although he’d always remember that it was a pretty close call. The gravity of this situation was even worse than that. As he crossed the street, his imagination already typing the keys waiting at home, somebody crossed from the opposite direction. Now, making eye-contact with a stranger, as we all know, is a well calculated and carefully executed operation. Too soon, and it will be awkward. Too late, and it might seem antisocial. So approximately twelve feet from his target, Mortimer raised his eyes, his mind still hovering on the minutiae of his current novel. 
	She was about five-foot-five, had dark eyes, an endearing nose, rosy cheeks, and a cheerful smile that had left many a schoolboy stunned in the recent days of her education. And “stunned” is exactly what happened to Mortimer. He didn’t drop his groceries; he actually didn’t even stop walking. His mouth remained politely closed, but he wanted to speak. Twenty seven years of literary composition can really put some verbose felicitations on a guy’s tongue, and the elaborate pickup lines ran through his mind faster than the Mississippi river, a few miles away. But common sense ordered him to refrain from such a spectacle. 
	Blessedly, he managed to reach the other curb safely. Except for one thing; for the first time in his life, for a split second, he’d forgotten his next story! Now, Mortimer was no recluse, and hypergraphia certainly didn’t affect his corporeal inclinations either. He’d been around lots of girls before, some of them quite attractive. When he was a senior at Hannibal High School, he’d even been asked to prom by the most popular girl in school, Barbara Dahl… which is quite an achievement for any guy, let alone one whose name is Mortimer. 
	But this girl was different. He couldn’t tell why. And all the way home (just over three blocks), he couldn’t figure it out. Which means, all the way home, he wasn’t thinking about his story. That evening, when he sat down at his typewriter, he couldn’t bring himself to remember what came next. Panicking, he read through the previous chapter of the novel, something about an agnostic scientist and his hallucination-inducing guilt complex… Now where did that come from? And where was it going? Wasn’t this supposed to be his greatest work ever? He hadn’t the foggiest, and that’s not a cliché exaggeration either. 
	It was really quite astounding, and the next sentence remained blank. Hours slipped by. The story remained elusive, but his memory of that girl crossing the street burned fresh in his mind. Why hadn’t he talked to her? Had he even smiled? Where did she come from? In a town like Monkey Run, it wasn’t every day you’d see a total stranger; especially not one like that. 
	And so it went. His mind wandered for hours. The next day, he even forgot to let his faithful dog Rusty outside, so Rusty left a nice reminder on his kitchen floor not to let it happen again. But it did. Several days in a row.
	It isn’t as though Mortimer did nothing but write, grocery shop, and let his dog out. He did sleep, eat, attend Service on Sundays at Riverview Nazarene Church in Hannibal, and a great many other things. He had family, a few friends, and a fairly busy social life. Top that with the constant journalism requests he received, and he truly did have little time for fiction writing anyway. But with hypergraphia, he’d find time somewhere. So life moved on at its ordinary frantic pace, but every time he’d go to finish his story, the world stopped again, and he couldn’t put the words on the paper. 
	And so the days rolled along. He’d keep writing newspaper stories. Keep living his life. But even more than that, he’d keep crossing that street in front of the grocery store. One more chance was all he needed. Then he would talk to her, learn her name, and win her heart. For a guy like Mortimer, that was heavy stuff, and he fought the inclination with every moment not spent dreaming it up. He’d been ready. He’d almost opened his mouth and spoken to her. He’d almost done it. But he’d chickened out…
	Every time he’d go to write again, Mortimer would think about what he’d do “next time“. He tried to distract himself; he bought a computer, transitioning all of his work into the digital age. He even retyped the entire remnant of the story about the scientist, in an attempt to jog his recollection. But nothing helped. “Next time” didn’t come… and so here he was, the computer cursor blinking away, and once again, he was thinking about her. 
	He let out a deep sigh. Today he’d go grocery shopping again; he was all out of dog food, and he dreaded what might happen if he didn’t FEED Rusty. He’d cross that same street, think that same thought, and come home, melancholy as ever, with no story to finish, and no woman to love. 
	And so he shut down the computer. Grabbed his coat, (because it was September, and the wind had picked up a bit lately) and headed for the door. Shopping was the same as ever. He grabbed a carton of eggs, a jug of orange juice, and of course, the dog food. Once again, the store clerk looked at his menu rather skeptically, but said nothing, and soon Mortimer was out on the sidewalk again.
	Crossing the street, he was aware of another person coming towards him. It wasn’t the first time since “that day” that he’d encountered someone here; it was a busy street, and he was used to it by now. As usual, his eyes remained uncommitted until an approximate twelve feet from the approaching pedestrian. 
	He raised his eyes, and bam. There she was again. Five-foot-five, dark eyes, endearing nose, cheeks a little rosier due to the cold, and the smile which had haunted Mortimer for the last three years. 
	Crash! The orange juice, eggs, and dog food hit the pavement. Mortimer stopped. So did she. He opened his mouth to speak, and all the carefully prepared verbiage of the last three years disappeared. “Hi,” he said, with a moment of hesitation. “I think I’ve seen you here before. I’m Mortimer Henschel.” 
	Her smile got a little bigger, and he thought he saw her cheeks get even a little rosier, if that were possible. “Hi. I’m Cary Dwynn. I think I remember you too, but why did you just dropped your groceries all over the pavement?”
	Mortimer’s face dropped, and so did he as he scrambled to collect the rubble of his mistake. A car waiting to go through the intersection honked. As he scrambled to pick up the last of the unbroken eggs, Cary Dwynn let out an entertained laugh. The car honked again as the two of them made their way to one side of the intersection. Collecting himself, Mortimer settled the grocery bag in one hand, and his eyes finally met hers again. She smiled, began a polite conversation, and the last three years of desperation fell off Mortimer like the leaves off the autumn trees around them. 
	Any hope of every recovering the end of that story about the agnostic scientist, his hallucinations, and whatever other gibberish he’d been working on, was long gone by now. Hypergraphia had vanished. But that was okay, because for Mortimer Henschel of Monkey Run, Missouri, the best story he’d ever tell, had yet to be written.
	                                                                                              Mortimer of Monkey Run, 11-12, p. 1