Where I’m Writing From eli.cranor@gmail.com October 16, 2022 Eli Cranor is an Arkansas novelist whose debut novel, Don’t Know Tough, is available wherever books are sold. He can be reached using the “Contact” page at elicranor.com and found on Twitter @elicranor

I’m writing from my office with two darts clenched in my left hand.

There are four darts on the board already, three blue and one red. Which, if you’re following along, means the darts in my hand both have red flights (or fletches, if you prefer).

If this all sounds strange, it’s because it is. Writing is strange. There’s no way around it. If I think about it too long, I kick myself for spending so much time alone in the basement playing with my imaginary friends.

It doesn’t help matters that there are so many other things I could do/be doing. This week’s schedule is already full: daily classes, a trip to Arkadelphia, a volleyball game, dance practice, a camp out, and at least three more calls to make before I’m sure Arkansas Benefits has our insurance coverage correct in their often-erring online system.

Which brings me back to the darts.

Writers are a salt-throwing, crack-avoiding lot. It comes with the territory. Anything this monotonous lends itself to superstition. Think baseball players and their rally caps, batter’s box tics, and unwashed hats.

The darts are my newest ritual.

When I first enter my office every morning, I throw six darts. No more. No less. I will, however, throw more throughout the day. Anytime I need a mental break, I stand up and throw six darts. But I never throw more than six in one outing. That would be cheating.

The darts are, of course, a distraction from writing, but they’re also necessary. They break the day up, give me something tangible to do with my hands, a goal that doesn’t involve tiny black symbols on a white (or yellow, if I’m working on my legal pads) backdrop.

My goal is to hit the bullseye, that tiny red dot inside a small circle of green. And when I do, I’m done throwing darts for the day. Sometimes I hit the bullseye on my first throw, which is cool but sad at the same time. Sad because no matter how bad I want to throw another dart, I will not allow myself the pleasure (that would also be cheating).

Other days, I make it all the way to the afternoon and still haven’t even hit that green circle, much less a bullseye.

There’s no real point to any of this, but I do wager things in my mind. I’ve played this same sort of game since I was a kid. We had a basketball goal in our front drive. I’d stay out there and shoot free throws for hours. I got to where I couldn’t miss. Got so confident, in fact, that I started making deals with myself, started wagering things like a kiss at the movies from that cute girl in my Civics class.

As confident as I was in my free-throw shooting skills, I never got that kiss. I don’t think I ever even worked up the nerve to ask her out.

Which is fine. Who knows what might’ve happened if I had. I might not be here, right now, writing this strange column about throwing darts while I’m supposed to be writing.

Only The Shadow knows…

Somebody wrote that line once for a radio show way back in the 1930s, and here I am, alluding to it in 2022. I wonder if that writer threw darts, or drank a whole cup of black coffee and smoked one unfiltered cigarette before penning his first word each day. All writers have something, some ritual or talisman that allows them to slip from one world to another.

As for me, well, I’ve got two red darts, and a bullseye I still haven’t hit today.