Creating Donovan’s Brain by Bev Hamel

I am always thankful when the day’s rush hours are over and although each day typically ends in frenzy the same as the day begins, the ending frenzy is more relaxed and fun. Sometimes we all make dinner then homework, baths, hugs, giggles, and a monster mom story, which usually turns into bedlam when girls, dogs, and cats, chase after me from room to room. We act out each story; one of my silly ‘monster mom versus girls’ where the villain is always subdued with hugs and kisses.

Tonight I rushed through the routine because of my own homework; a writing assignment for one of Forsyth Tech classes. Finally, the girls are settled in their room pretending to be asleep but will probably be for real soon, so it was okay for me to attend to my own needs.

I head to the kitchen for a glass of wine, look in on my husband who is in the den watching a football game. “Goodnight, Hon – have story to write,” I say. He mumbles something back unintelligible. I think he said bring me a beer, so I grab one from the fridge, give it a few shakes and toss it in to him. Another unintelligible yell comes from the den as I head up the stairs. I probably didn’t want to hear what he said anyway.

I eyed the small tattered paper back book lying face up on my nightstand; a favorite long ago used book store purchase called “Donovan’s Brain.” Careful not to set my wine glass on its cover, I turned on the bedside lamp at the same time I heard a faint snore coming from behind the piles of pillows. The cat growled and flew off the bed as I settled in to claim the pillows and space for myself. There would be no reading tonight as my writing class assignment was at the deadline hour. My lap top was at the computer shop being de-bugged so I had to revert to writing with pen and ink unless I wanted to go across the street to my shop where my main PC was located.

I sat my folder and note book on the bed and enjoyed, though briefly, as quiet settled throughout the house. But the book beckoned me. Maybe a little reading before I write would stimulate my mind I thought? I gave into temptation; grabbed the book from the stand. I had read “Donovan’s Brain” a long time ago – knew it was a science fiction story about a physician who experiments keeping a brain alive. The brain eventually takes over the doctor’s brain and makes the doctor do the brain’s bidding. I quickly become lost in the story flipping page after page to devour the writer’s words and style while my writing folder and note book remained painfully naked.

There is a soft pounce on my chest and my eyes open to a room full of darkness. Reaching towards the lamp on the bedside table, I feel first and then hear the wineglass tumble to the carpeted floor. The cat from hell strikes again, and I grope for my glasses then try to focus on the lighted digital clock, I barely make out the numbers – 12:00 and realize that my glasses are still on my head.

There is a rustle and stir besides me – deeper snores pierces the room. I poke my husband and gently try to roll him over. I want to get back to sleep and try to catch the dream that I had been dreaming, but the old grandfather clock in the hall continues to chime the twelve o’clock hour. I feel the sharp corner edge of my folio lying like a lump underneath me, a cruel reminder that I neglected a task whose deadline was here.

Both sleep and dreams eludes me – rightly so because a quiet panic told me I needed to finish my story so I left the warmth of my bed and with folder in hand, head downstairs to the kitchen.

First things first and I set about to make coffee. The coffee grinder swirls and churns the beans to a fine ground. The aroma of vanilla and Hazelnut permeate the air. I make my own special blend of coffee, expensive, but the rich flavor and taste far out weighs the cost. If I’m going to drink coffee, it’s going to be freshly ground. The coffee pot sputters and hisses, steam evaporates into the air. I savor the smells and the first taste, then move into the sunroom to settle at my desk. I stare blankly at my notebook, waiting for inspiration to hit. It doesn’t. I’d rather be staring at a blank computer screen.

I long for my computer and think why not. I am already dressed having fallen asleep with my clothes on (which is quite typical of me when I am burning the midnight oil).

Back to the kitchen, I fill a thermos of coffee and head across the street. There is no traffic and even the streetlights seem as dim and dark as the starless sky. I fumble with my key ring and unlock the front door. The neon red ring glows ominously on the Budweiser clock, which hangs over my computer and lights my way towards back of the shop. I turn on a few lamps as I make my way towards my desk.

I wander through the store looking, touching. Here, among the weathered and timeworn antiques, the forgotten memories of centuries spill forth into my mind. On a nearby wall is a gilded-framed photograph of a man and woman. I know that the picture was taken on their wedding day because that same dress, her dress, hangs from a hook on the wall next to it. The gown is still elegant and I marvel at the workmanship as it was done by hand.

I stare again at the picture – the woman stares back at me through eyes that speak of a lifetime past. I touch the ivory silk of the gown again, feel the woman’s story, live her life as vividly as I have lived my own, and suddenly I no longer am concerned over needing inspiration.

In seconds the computer whirls to life at the same time perfectly synchronized bells chime and a digital voice that reminds me of Mr. Ed, announce that it is now three a.m.

My fingers itch, tingle, burn as if on fire, and then jump across the hard plastic keyboard. Words explode on the screen and I become lost in the world of writing, of creating my own Donovan’s Brain.