I should be working on my novel, the unfinishable novel which is temporarily called The Unfinishable Novel, the novel which is causing me to second guess that I have any idea how to write a novel, that I have any idea how to do anything other than piss and shit. I should be working on my novel, but what I do instead is sneak downstairs to play Dance Dance Revolution on our new game system. This game is something I bought for my wife. It was her request. I wanted nothing to do with it. What do I care about a stupid video game when I'm working on a novel?
But when no one is watching, when my wife and my 11-year-old son are out shopping or doing whatever it is they do on a Saturday morning when I should be working on my novel, I go down into the basement to play this game. It's a fun game, I admit, and I've gotten shamefully good at it. I'm so good that I have to intentionally mess up when playing with them so that they don't know exactly how good I have become. But I must confess, it isn't the dancing that I love — it's the way the computer insults me when I'm dancing. It's this voice that talks trash about you when you're not dancing properly. At the beginner and intermediate levels, I've gotten too good to merit insults from him, so I turn it up to Difficult and then I listen to him as he calls me out for who I really am:
That ISN'T the way to do it!
You are in danger!
What a letdown!
You have to redeem yourself!
Every minute of this is a joy for me. I'm nearly aroused by his insults. I want to tell him: Yes! Yes! You're right! This isn't the way to do it! Don't stop! Please! Don't stop! I know I'm a letdown! Tell me about my redemption!
When I hear my wife and son driving up to the house after their shopping, I shut off the game system and run back into my office. I'm out of breath from all that shamefully bad dancing. My back aches — a burn at the bottom of my spine. I try to get back to my unfinishable novel. The novel doesn't bend or shape more easily just because I've been dancing. It is unmoved by my desperate hip movements. I want that voice to insult my novel the way it insults my dancing, but he won't speak. So I keep going at it blindly. I keep hacking away at this novel that is grinding into my bones.
After a few minutes, I hear my son yell out, "Who left the dance mat out on the floor again?"
We'll all laugh about this soon, but for now, I make sure that my door is closed and I beg this 75,000-word creature to give me another chance to redeem myself.
Yuvi Zalkow is getting his MFA at Antioch University while he fakes a day job that nearly pays the bills. Yuvi's writing has been published in Carve Magazine, Rosebud, Storyglossia, The Clackamas Literary Review, and other magazines. He is currently trying to find a home for a novel and a short story collection. More information about Yuvi can be found at www.yuvizalkow.com/writing.html.