“Watson, we are in difficulty!”
These words rang out from the interior of our shared sitting room where, through the smog of his acrid pipe tobacco, I could see Sherlock Holmes stooped hungrily over documents at his desk.
“What’s the problem, Holmes?” I inquired.
“What’s the problem?” he laughed back. “If I knew that, Watson, I would scarce have a problem!”
“And those papers . . .?” I asked with pointed interest.
“Both the source of the puzzle and the key to its solution, I suspect.” Derisively, he lifted four or five sheets of paper, remarking, “I refer, of course, to these, our notes – yours and mine, Watson — taken during the initial interview with our overwrought client, Paul Steven Stone. And never a more inconclusive set of notes have my eyes traversed.”
“And what exactly are you looking for?”
“A reason, Watson – any reason will do – to explain why a perfectly good writer like our client should suddenly run out of election-related blog posts to write about. And, perhaps, a reason to explain why, of all the possible resulting actions he might undertake, he chooses to confide his difficulties in me.
“Why me, Watson?” he queried sharply. “I’m a consulting detective, not a spiritualist, literary muse or election pundit. On the surface of things, it appears quite inexplicable.”
“Inexplicable, indeed!” I affirmed, recalling the frightening loss of ideas and inspiration described by our client only yesterday in these very rooms. And recalling, too, my sense of utter incomprehension as to how Holmes and I could possibly be of service to him.
But our client saw nothing of our ill ease as he continued to detail the scope of his affliction.
“Just look on the front page of The New York Times,” he challenged, standing up from his chair and offering the paper in question for our review. “Read it for yourself, gentlemen. Sadly, it is the same story that’s been told since the day Donald J. Trump first rode down his golden escalator and into America’s presidential politics. Quid pro quo deals with foreign enemies, the shameful self-emasculation of weak and corrupt Republican politicians, the building of immense personal fortunes at the public’s expense.”
“Yes,” Holmes replied, “it appears there is much these days, as there always is, for a writer to write about.”
“And think of all the lunacy that surrounds us!” our client exclaimed. “Should Donald J. Trump win in less than two weeks time, America will have her first fascist president living in the white House. And with Trump as Commander-in-Chief our army will be led with no sense of moral purpose; our federal giovernment will be staffed with lackeys who pledge their allegiance to one clearly confused, bitter and ignorant man. Not only that, but lobbyists and religious zealots will take control of our national agenda while millionaires in all branches of government will decide how best to serve the interests and assets of their fellow millionaires. In ordinary circumstances, Mr. Holmes, I should be able to write a dozen of my commentaries with that kind of inspiration waiting to be tapped. Yet, here I am a week late and … ?”
“You are bereft,” Holmes finished dryly.
“Yes, bereft,” our client affirmed. “That is a very good word to describe it. I have already written so many posts highlighting Trump’s ignorance and cruelty that I find myself losing my capacity for indignation. And that, just when my readers are about to make the most critical voting decision of their lives. There is no shortage of good subjects for a new Trump expose, Mr. Holmes , but I have no inclination to write about any of them. I am here before you, sad to admit, bereft of any inclination.”
And here we were but a day later, feeling bereft of answers, Holmes and I, as we ponder the curious parade of events that brought our client both to his state of desperation and to our set of rooms at 221B. Baker Street.
“Forgive me, Watson,” Sherlock Holmes said, walking over to the window, “but I feel the need to restate the particulars of our case. I know you will forbear me your ire or impatience.”
“Impatience!” I puffed as a protest through my pipe. “Not at all, my good man. No such thing.”
“As you say, good friend,” he smiled back. “But as to the facts, allow me to postulate . . .
“Our client is a writer with a variety of possibilities for the subject of his next blog post.
“’A Stone’s Throw’ being the name of his blog,” I offered.
“Yes, very clever how he injects his last name into the formal title of his blog post. But enough of these incidentals…
“Our client, Mr. Paul Steven Stone, comes to us because an apparent writer’s block or severed connection with his muse has left him going weeks without publishing a suitable essay to describe—and help combat—the frightening peril in which America now stands. Yet, even though he laments his woeful lack of inspiration, he still finds he has no inclination to author a post that might help America’s voters wake up in time to avert disaster. He makes no claim to understand the changeable nature of his normally aggressive muse or why he would suddenly start acting in this timid, unhelpful manner.
“But there’s the funny thing, Holmes,” I interrupt. “Mr. Stone does not ask us to divine the cause of his writer’s block…”
“About which even the simplest of theories must consider the poor man’s emotional and physical exhaustion.,” Holmes interjected. “This is a man under great stress, Wason; a writer wound ever so tightly as he tries to produce a series of blog posts that would sound the alarm. And sound it loud enough for all to hear.
“But, no, you are correct, Watson. Paul Steven Stone does not ask us to unearth the cause of his difficulties, but rather to help him prevent a mystery that could arise as the result of his difficulties.”
“And what mystery is that, Holmes . . . ?”
“It is a mystery in the minds of Paul Steven Stone’s readers, Watson, as his tardiness continues and they begin to worry about his state of mind; and especially worry that they might have lost one of their most trusted voices for sanity, moral probity and correct action. That is why Mr. Stone encouraged us to create a document that could slyly—and ever so deftly—take the place of a missing blog post, with no one being any the wiser. A course of action, Watson, we not only have taken, you may notice, but in fact are near to completing. By the way, for your future notes, you may wish to file this as “The Case of the Missing Inclination.”
“And what would you call it, Sherlock?”
“I’m a little more practical, Watson. I’d call it, ‘Better late than never.’”
