I returned today to the garret at the top of the stairs. The lock hung powerless; the doorknob squealed as I turned it. The hinges whispered nothing as access was given.

I entered the room where I had spent so many years.

Stacked books on shelves were silent, waiting for a final sorting. Pictures on the walls looked back at me–family, friends. Among them were images of characters who had changed my life. I had created some of their lives. Interspersed were talismans and dream-pieces–pleas to the writing gods for well-turned phrases, but their magic had faded, their sparkle dimmed.

A muffled meow announced the presence of Ada Doom, tuxedo cat with sumptuous fur, her eyes half-blind. (She saw something nasty in the catbox.) Purring madly, she demanded pets and praise.

A crash from outside startled me. A garbage truck’s brakes shrieked to high heaven, and then it roared a metallic command: Bring out your dead! and moved down the alley. I could see it clearly in my mind as it proceeded. And I could feel its edges transforming, softening into flesh, taking on aspects of personality, of mischief, of intent. The birth of a character: The Trash Behemoth.

Really? I demanded out loud.

When’s the last time you came up with any kind of a new character? my bitter imagination hissed.

I didn’t answer.

How long has it been since you wrote anything? The voice was getting sharper.

Fifty percent of forever, I snapped.

My imagination didn’t answer.

“Meow,” said Ada Doom.

I let out a breath. “Okay. Sorry I blew up at you. You have a point.”

Nothing.

“I could try doing something with the ideas, I guess.” It’s come to this?

I started thinking about all the times my imagination has kept me from slitting my throat.

“What if we meet up here tomorrow, kick some ideas around?”

You have a dentist’s appointment!

My imagination was back to hissing, but was there an edge of tears to her voice?

“Before or after,” I hastened to add. “The dentist appointment.”

Do you mean it?

“Yeah.”