The Reluctant Writer and the SubConscious of DOOM

By: Dr. D.A. SillyWiggle

The reluctant writer sat frozen at his desk. He was afflicted by a most terrible malady. A deep desire to write arose in his mind and he tried with all his might to press his fingers on the keys but his tanned hands only trembled. His prominent veins swelled from the effort and the trembling worsened.

The frozenness the author suffered was quite terrible. This was no normal hesitation, the reluctant writer was sure it was punishment for opening the SubConscious of DOOM. If only he had listened to his parents, elders, and peers and stuck with the scripts and stories permitted by them, he would still be able to write and he would be without this curse.

Another failure of a cursed buffoon! The reluctant writer walked away from his desk for the two hundredth and thirty second time since that terrible day he had decided to open the SubConscious of DOOM. He tried to remember why he had opened it in the first place. He recalled it was curiosity and a sense of something in his life being off or incomplete that led him to open it, a decision he now deeply regretted. The old saying, curiosity killed the cat, echoed throughout his brain as guilt about his stupidity melted through his body and tensed his muscles.

Automatically and without thought, he opened up YouTube on his cellular and proceeded to mindlessly scroll through videos that he scarcely cared about. He consumed political dramas, horse hoof restorations, eating habits of famous celebrities, and horrific economic predictions until his mind was numb and he had forgotten about his writing malady.

In between his zombified viewing, an ad came up on the YouTube. A tall man with long hair parted to the right and shaved short underneath talked in a deeply booming tone. He spoke in the overly dramatic sensational style of an old school used car sales commercial. The reluctant writer never watched the ads between the videos, but this ad was so strangely applicable to his current situation that he couldn’t help but watch it.

“Have you opened the SubConscious of DOOM? Are you completely stuck and frozen? Unable to move and create the life of your dreams? What if everything you have been told about the SubConscious of DOOM was wrong? Have you ever considered that the subconscious might not be filled with doom at all? What if the SubConscious of DOOM is not what you believe it to be because it is what you believe it to be? Want to know more! You can’t wait! Call 1-888-SUB-C777 to learn more about Penelope Primrose’s Primer on the Proper Placement of Subconscious Proclivities.”

The reluctant writer squinted his eyes and reached beneath his long and curly brown hair to scratch his scalp. ‘Nonsense!” he shouted out loud. If this was legitimate why would no one have told me about it before? The SubConscious of DOOM is not what what you believe it to be because it is what you believe it to be? Utter non-sensical hogwash!

The reluctant writer tried to forget about the ad but it continued to make its way to his awareness. It played several more times during his zombified YouTube rotations and its message frequently interrupted his thoughts. He continued to sit and try to write. Each time his hands sat frozen. At the peaks of frustration the ad would pop back into his mind - Penelope Primrose’s Primer on the Proper Placement of Subconscious Proclivities.

After 32 more attempts to write, something in him snapped. If I’m ever to write again I’m going to need some help. The reluctant writer set his fears aside and opened YouTube. He watched the ad and jotted down the phone number. Slowly and consciously he dialed the numbers on his phone. The phone rang twice before transitioning to an elevator style musical tune. A few minutes later someone picked up on the other end.

“Hello?” someone answered. It was the same voice of the man from the YouTube ad but he had abandoned his used care salesman tone for something quite a bit more calming.

“Hi,” the reluctant writer answered, “is this the number for information on the subconscious?”

“Yes Indeed!” The man on the other end answered. “Roger Rosenthal at your service. How can I help you?”

“I thought that is what you were supposed to tell me,” the reluctant writer said.

“You are funny, you thought I could give you the answers about your own subconscious?” Roger replied. “What a minute. You’re serious! You really thought I could just give you all the answers?” Roger let out booming laughter that blasted through the phone speaker. He stopped after a few moments. “I shouldn’t be so rude. Let me guess, you’re calling for the Primer?” Roger asked.

“I think so,” the reluctant writer said.

“Right, so tell me how long has it been since you opened the, quote, SubConscious of DOOM, unquote?” Roger asked.

“One year, two months, and twelve days,” the reluctant writer replied.

“I see,” Roger replied. “What’s happened since then?”

“I can’t write,” the reluctant writer replied. “I try to write about what I’ve always known and I can’t. Plus, my heart is beating faster and I’m feeling a constant sense of fear and anxiety.”

“Typical SubConscious of DOOM stuff then,” Roger replied. “Are you having thoughts and new ideas that you are ignoring?”

“I don’t think so,” the reluctant writer replied.

“This is worse than I thought!” Roger screamed. “I will send over a representative right away. If you aren’t experiencing new ideas after opening the subconscious then you must really be bamboozled.”

“A representative?” the reluctant writer asked. “I’m still not so sure I want your services?”

The phone hung up suddenly. The reluctant writer stared blankly at his wall. A representative? He wasn’t sure he trusted this Roger Rosenthal but on the other hand Roger’s tone on the phone call suggested he was comfortable with the subject and didn’t seem to fear The SubConscious of Doom. In fact, the reluctant writer felt like Roger was almost mocking it.

The reluctant writer noticed his chest. His heart thumped even harder than usual. He was eventually able to calm himself and laid down for his usual agitated and restless sleep. That night he was visited by a frightful nightmare. The reluctant write was trapped in a prison and the other prisoners were all out to get him. They threatened him and postured but never attacked. The dream fueled in him a state of worry and panic about what was to come.

At exactly 12:52 AM he woke in a sweat. His bed and clothes were drenched. The red digital numbers of his alarm illuminated the room just enough to contribute to the writers insomnia. The reluctant writers restless misery was disrupted by a tapping on the back window of his bedroom. It was purposeful and rhythmic. Tap - Tap - Tap. A few moments of silence. Tap - Tap - Tap. The reluctant writer wondered what it could be. His bedroom was on the second story of the home and too high for a person to be there. Tap - Tap - Tap. His heart beat faster, adrenaline surged and allowed him to move and investigate. Tap - Tap - Tap.

The reluctant writer propped himself up on his elbows and swiveled his head towards the window. On the windowsill was a large bird tapping the glass with it’s beak. It’s tan and red feathers approached the window with each tap. Tap - Tap - Tap. He looked closely and noticed the hawk’s tail was a brilliant amber red. The hawks eyes squinted and stared at the reluctant writer.

The hawk stopped tapping and stared intently at the reluctant writer. Thoughts entered the reluctant writer’s mind that he knew were not of his own origin.

(Let me in.)

The reluctant writer stared. The thought suspended his logical and rational mind and his own usual storm of thoughts ceased.

(That’s right! You heard me. Let me in! Do you think I came here to tap on your back window all

night?!?)

The reluctant writer examined the red hawk closer. Sitting next to the bird was a small book. The cover read Penelope Primrose’s Primer on the Proper Placement of SubConscious Proclivities. The letters of the title on the cover were surrounded by a glowing neon outline. The colors cycled between oranges, blues, purples, reds, yellows and greens. A white and grey swirling border flowed around the letters like a three dimensional illuminated smoke. The reluctant writer took a deep breath. The window creaked and cracked as the reluctant writer lifted it open.

(About Time!) the reluctant writer heard the strange voice again.

“Wait a minute!” the reluctant writer shouted. “You can talk?”

(It’s telepathy,) the reluctant writer heard again in his head. (Telepathy is in Chapter 3 of the primer so we won’t get to it for while.)

“A telepathic hawk?” The reluctant writer asked. “Now I know I shouldn’t have opened the SubConscious of Doom. I’m going completely mad!”

(Or what if most of your society are really the insane ones and telepathy is perfectly sane, natural even? And - where are my manners, I’m Rodrigo Roja, an associate of Penelope Primrose. May I come in?)

“Sure,” answered the reluctant writer, “but I still can’t believe I’m talking with a telepathic hawk.”

(I’m not so sure why you are so surprised, all animals communicate in this fashion.)

The red tailed hawk hastily entered the bedroom of the reluctant writer. He perched himself on the night stand next to the bed and dragged in the glowing primer. Rodrigo’s eyes darted around the room and took in his surroundings. He noticed the reluctant writers cloths were color coded and the neatness of the room bordered on obsessive. The room had hardly any color at all, plain and utilitarian.

(Now, where is your writing desk?)

“But I can’t write, why would we go there?” The reluctant writer asked.

(To begin your education on the subconscious. You will be writing in no time!) the red hawk transmitted to the reluctant writer.

The reluctant writer hesitated. I don’t really have anything to lose. “It’s in the next room, out the bedroom door and to the right.”

The writing room was cream in color, a brown and blocky desk held a grey laptop. The room was poorly illuminated by a spall desk lamp. A black high backed office chair with swivel wheels sat in front of the desk. The corners and edges of the desk were dusty from disuse.

(Sit,) Rodrigo commanded telepathically. The reluctant writer sat in the high backed swivel chair. (Penelope Primrose was the first to develop a bio-book to help those struggling with understand the subconscious.)

“A Bio-book, what’s that?” The reluctant writer asked.

(It’s a living book. Penelope learned to compress consciousness enough so that the ideas in the book function outside of space and time. The idea constructions contained within come alive immediately. This book doesn’t just contain words but living experiences.) Rodrigo Roja’s thoughts intensified which caught the reluctant writer’s attention. (Lesson number one - the way this bio-book works is exactly the same way that the subconscious works.)

Rodrigo dropped the large primer on the desk which landed with a thud. The room was dark and the illuminated three dimensional letters of the titled colored the ceiling as the colors continued to cycle. The light illuminated the red hawk and the reluctant writer marveled at the brilliant animal. The red hawk was feisty but the reluctant writer felt at ease with him, as if behind the feistiness was a loving intent.

(Go on! Chapter 4!) the red hawk transmitted. (Your SubConscious of DOOM issue isn’t going to fix itself. Well, check that - it could actually - but we don’t have that kind of time.)

The reluctant writer hesitated. A paralyzing fear rose up as he wondered if opening the bio-book would bring the same punishments that befell him when he first opened the SubConscious of Doom. I can’t keep going on like this. His hand trembled as it reached towards the glowing bio-book. His muscles were tense and adrenaline surged through his bulging veins. The thumping of his heart became visible from outside his blue T-shirt.

He opened the book.

(Quickly!) Rodrigo transmitted. (If you move too slow you might get stuck on another chapter! Chapter 4!)

The reluctant writer turned the pages now at a feverish pace. He took note of the chapter headings as he approached Chapter 4. Chapter 1 - Your subconscious and You, Chapter 2 - Emotions, Feelings, and Imaginings and Multi-Dimensional Personality Disorders, Chapter 3 - Inner Mechanisms of Telepathy. His rested when he reached Chapter 4 - Out of Body Travel.

Before he could look any further in the chapter, a strange stretching feeling came over the reluctant writer. It was as if his mind was being pulled multiple ways at once. His bodily senses all dissolved, and, in just moments, he was in another room above his previous room. The floor of the new room was transparent and he was looking down at himself looking at the bio-book. His laptop sat next to him on a new desk in this room overlooking his previous position. This room was much brighter. Rodrigo Roja had also moved with him to this new room and was perched on the peak of a curved black lamp with a white crystalline shade.

(Very Nice!) Rodrigo thought. (To be honest, I didn’t know if you had it in you.)

“What just happened?” The reluctant writer asked.

(You traveled out of your body.)

“But I still have a body?” The reluctant writer both asked and declared simultaneously.

(Precisely. There’s always another body. What did you expect? Annihilation?)

“Maybe,” the reluctant writer replied. “I thought I was only that body there.” The reluctant writer pointed down through the translucent floor at his other body sitting at his writing desk looking at the primer. “And now that I’m here, what’s that body there?”

(And this is also you here, two places at once. Quite remarkable! Isn’t it?)

“What do we do now?” The reluctant writer asked.

(Now we write)

“But I can’t write?”

(In this new body, you might even call it a different perspective, you aren’t limited by your previous beliefs about the SubConscious of Doom. You will be able to write. I’m sure of it. Your laptop is right there.).

Rodrigo Roja pointed his beak towards the reluctant writers silver laptop sitting on the desk. (Go on. Give it a try.)

The reluctant writer reached for his laptop. His arms in this new body moved much easier and he overall felt a lighter and deeper sense of freedom. He opened the laptop’s lid to reveal the black lit keys of the keyboard. He rested his hands on the base of the laptop and hovered his fingers over the keys at the ready to type.

“What shall I write?” The reluctant writer asked.

(If I were in your position, I would write about the subconscious being filled with something other than doom. Maybe it’s filled with love? Maybe its filled with intelligent pink talking dolphins? Maybe it’s a never-ending landscape that takes up no space at all? Let your imagination run wild. It’s your story after all.)

The reluctant writer’s eye brows raised. A sentence appeared in his mind somewhere just behind his forehead. He felt the excitement build in his fingers and to his surprise they depressed the lit numbers and symbols on the keys. In just seconds his fingers were one fire. The ideas and words flowed like never before. The ideas felt like they were his own, not recycled ideas that others had asked him to believe. His eyes watered and soon welled with tears that plopped upon the wooden desk as they rolled from his face. The tears washed the floor which allowed some of the light from his current room leak into the darker room below.

After being lost in a the writing for some time the reluctant writer lifted his head. Rodrigo Roja, the brilliant red hawk, looked on patiently, beak slightly open. To anyone versed in the intricacies of red hawk body language, they would know that this was a grin.

(Look down,) Rodrigo transmitted.

The reluctant writer looked down through the transparent floor. His jaw dropped. Rather than staring at the bio-book, the old body of the reluctant writer was now also writing in the room below. His fingers were also blazing across the laptop keyboard.

“Wait a minute!” The reluctant writer shouted. “Why is that me now writing?”

(I will let you in on a little secret. This body you are in now is fresh perspective that is free from the ideas holding that version of you back. By writing a new story here you have influenced what you think of as your present. Your excitement in this moment helped create the impulses to get that body moving. A brilliant little trick really.)

“It’s amazing! I can’t believe it!”

(Who would have imagined that the only way to overcome fears of the subconscious would be to utilize the subconscious? Ready for part 2 of the lesson?)

“Yes,” answered the reluctant writer without any hesitation.

(Excellent. Let’s work on Chapter 6 - Subconscious and the Shadow. This one is more difficult but well worth the effort.) Rodrigo Roja bowed his beak towards the glowing bio-book. The books pages began to emit a bright light. After a few moments, the light inverted into the book and began to suck everything into the book like a hungry vacuum. It took in the nearest objects first and eventually the reluctant writer and Rodrigo Roja were sucked into the book as well.

When he awakened in his new environment the reluctant writer was both cold and dizzy. Rodrigo Roja was perched to his side on a block of ice. They sat on the edge of large and frozen Fjord that was opening into the ocean. Snow and ice covered everything they could see. To the right of them was the ocean and an enormous floating iceberg that bobbed amongst the waves.

(Welcome to your subconscious,) Rodrigo transmitted.

“It’s cold!” The reluctant writer shouted.

(This is what happens when you fill it with nothing but doom and fears. Not your fault really, but it’s time to do something about. Name a fear about the SubConscious of Doom that you might have stored here.)

“I will be punished because I looked in the subconscious,” the reluctant writer said hesitantly.

(Great! Now take a few deep slow breaths. Relax, clear your mind.)

The reluctant writer closed his eyes. He drew a few deep a slow breaths from the depths of his belly. He noticed his almost constant barrage of thoughts begin to slow.

(Now imagine if those ideas about punishment were not true. What if connecting to the subconscious meant connecting to a deep well of nourishment. Feel it. Feel it in your breath.)

The reluctant writer sunk deeper into his feelings. Warmth overcame his body. He felt as if he was wrapped in a blanket of loving energy. His breathing and heart rate slowed.

(What else might you have placed in your subconscious, either from yourself or others? Dig deeper into this SubConscious of Doom your species has become so fond of.)

“Other’s ideas and comfort are more important than my own,” said the reluctant writer. “If they say doom and fear is what’s in the subsconcious, then who am I to question them?”

(Who are these people?) asked Rodrigo Rojas.

“Family, friends, educational institutions, the media, basically everyone.”

(Listen for them. What do they sound like here and now?)

“A bunch of monkeys screaming an insane gibberish. They are angry and throwing all that anger at me asking me to fix it for them. They want me to change their situations without them doing any work.”

(Excellent! Take a few more deep breaths.)

The reluctant writer closed his eyes again. The sound of the chattering of the monkeys slowed but was still present. He cracked open an eyelid to notice that the monkeys were scattered across the frozen fjord. They were not your typical fuzzy brown and tan monkeys, but made of shadows. They jumped wildly and fought with each other and flung shadowy poo as well.

(Laugh at them!)

“Really?!?”

(It will break their spell on you)

The reluctant writer was hesitant to laugh. His mind drifted to the gibberish of the monkeys. As he payed close mind to the cackling monkeys, he could hear moments of coherent speech within their laughter. ‘You’re not good enough!’ ‘How dare you question me!’ ‘I will only rub your back if you rub mine.’ ‘You’ll keep my dirty secrets or pay!’

(You’ve listened to their voices long enough! Laugh! They will only get louder and more terrible if you don’t.)

The reluctant writer felt the tug of the monkeys maniacal laughter. Each cackle tugged at his emotions, dragging him down. Fear and panic deepened. A hand grasped his right ankle, he opened his eyes in response to the grasp and noticed hands attached to long bungee arms had sprouted from the icy ocean. Another arm grabbed his left ankle.

(Laugh!!! Now!!!)

In his own heart, the reluctant writer felt the bravery of the hawk. The absurdity of the situation set in. He felt a chuckle rise from his gut. His diaphragm muscle jiggled just a little. Small bursts of air shot up his trachea. He felt some warmth return. The grasp on his ankle loosened. His laughter deepened. Deeper still. His laughter was uncontrollable, the reluctant writer was now rolling around the fjord and gathering snow all over his clothing.

His own inner warmth deepened with each laugh. With each laugh, warmth emanated from his body and the frozen floor of the Fjord melted around him. The monkeys continued to laugh their wild laugh but something had changed. They were now laughing with him instead of at him. The reluctant writer could see heat and steam now coming from the laughing monkeys and they were now adding to the overall warmth of the atmosphere. The hands grasping his ankle receded and retreated back into the water. The monkey’s color began to fill in and they turned from shadows into brown fuzzy and silly monkeys. The poo flinging stopped as well. The heat from his body became so intense the enormous iceberg began to melt. Next, the monkeys stopped laughing altogether and morphed into flowers that anchored themselves in the ground.

The reluctant writer watched the iceberg as the area warmed. The top layers were beginning to melt. He noticed that as the iceberg rose, the layers that were hidden under the water looked different than what he had seen on the surface. The lower layers rising to the surface were deeper blue and had a smoother texture than the exposed top layer that was now melting.

(Fantastic! You have exposed a new layer. Your old ideas about your subconscious are melting and new ones are rising to the surface. It’s what happens when you face your fears rather than stuffing them away in some shadowy realm to be dealt with another day.)

“Wow,” said the reluctant writer with a sigh of relief.

(It will take a little while for this new layer to be your constant mode of operation. You’re probably exhausted.)

The reluctant writer did notice his fatigue. He simply nodded. He face looked drained but he was grinning from ear to ear. He felt lighter and more at ease.

“Are we done?” The reluctant writer asked. Spring continued to bloom at the fjord and bright sun appeared out from behind a set of clouds. “I’m exhausted.”

(Almost. Take it in for a moment. I have taken you into your subconscious. Does this look like it is filled with doom?)

The reluctant writer looked around. A spotted young fawn now drank peacefully from a stream that was now flowing briskly into the ocean. The sound of water trickled through the writer’s ear drums. The aromas of the flowers wafted in the writer’s nose. He felt at peace, a peace he didn’t recall feeling ever in his present lifetime.

“I see,” replied the writer.

(Good. It’s time to return then.)

The writer became tired. His eyelids closed and he laid down on the floor of the now peaceful fjord for a nap.

The writer awoke in his bedroom. He looked around and rubbed his eyes. Rodrigo Roja was gone. His window was closed. He wondered if it had all been a dream. He was disappointed until he spotted Penelope Primrose’s Primer on the Proper Placement of Subscious Proclivities still sitting on his nightstand.

He went back to bed and slept a deep restful sleep filled with peaceful dreams. After breakfast he went to his laptop. He put his fingers on the keyboard. A few fears swam through his mind. His fingers locked. But this time he knew where the hesitation came from. He let out a few chuckles and he heard the monkey’s begin to laugh with him. He knew what to do. The writer’s fingers depressed the keys. The words flowed naturally from his brain to his fingers. His thoughts were slow and calm and were no longer in the way. These new thoughts became his helpful companions.

He wrote - “Let me tell you a story - the SubConscious of Doom is not what you believe it to be because the SubConscious of Doom is what you believe it to be. How do I know? I’ve changed what’s in mine and now hope to show you the way...”