Ezra Sherman lay in his bed, sleeping soundly beneath several layers of blankets. Though the weather had been quite pleasant lately, he still found himself waking in the middle of the night, chilled and shivering. Had any of his friends still been alive, he would've joked about it, perhaps claiming that at night he sleepwalked to the grocery store for another case of beer. He often thought about what it would be like if his friends were still alive, knowing full well that they would have groaned at his stupid, little jokes. He would've taken their gibes and jeers, too, if it meant seeing them again. Summarily, Ezra decided that he was dying--the nightly chills a series of small deaths, night by night.
On this particular morning, the sun just beginning to shine and filling his room with a warm light that revealed thick shades of gray even in the absence of shadows, he was in the middle of one of his recurring dreams--in which he finds himself on a boat (a cruise ship this time) that's slowly sinking, water lapping at his ankles as he stands helpless on the deck--when the phone rang. He muttered something unintelligible as he woke and reached for the dust-coated telephone on the nightstand.
"Hello?"
"Morning, Ezra. I didn't wake you, did I?"
"No. Of course not. Who's this? Diggory, is that you?"
"It sure is. Have you heard the news?"
Ezra's heart suddenly sank. At his age, this question was usually followed by the revelation of the death of yet another old friend or acquaintance.
"What's happened?"
"Walter called me last night. You remember him, right? Big walrus mustache? It seems Oscar Bruges is writing a new novel. Time to fire up that press again!"
"A new novel," he repeated the words to himself, incredulous. "Are you sure?"
"He's writing it with a girl, one of Walter's students."
The old printer smiled. He whisked a pair of golden pince-nez from a silken pouch on the nightstand, placing them firmly upon the bridge of his nose with a final enthusiastic thump. A feeling rushed through his body, surging through his blood stream with every heartbeat, seeping into his muscles which no longer seemed to needlessly ache, and into his bones, affirming, supporting. It was a sudden feeling of vitality, of youthful idealism, of usefulness. He could already hear the dull, mechanical clacks and smell the ink, heavy in the air.
Ezra Sherman and his old friend Diggory spent the next half hour talking, joking, reminiscing, and for a brief time, this world seemed anything but lonely.
Kate Knight awoke in her bed, where she lay for a few moments longer with bleary, half-opened eyes, making certain that her dreams had ended and that she was in the real world once again. Sunlight filtered in through the blinds, illuminating her scattered stacks of books, the nearest of which was crowned by her perennial favorite, Here Comes a Revolution. At first she thought it had all been part of her dream. She'd met the author, spoken to him, and convinced him to write another novel with her, as a collaborator. It was so absurdly fortunate, so naturally, it had to have been a dream. Then the remainder of her mind (and the memories contained therein) awoke, stirred to life belatedly by a body still at rest, and she remembered everything. It had happened. It only felt like a dream.
"So how do you start a novel?" she had asked him the day before, when he accepted her offer, though she could detect an underlying ambivalence in the way he moved and spoke.
"It depends on the novel and the particular mood I'm in. Here Comes a Revolution, for example, was written in a solid, three-month period with absolutely no prior plotting or planning. Sometimes, though, I feel the need to take a few days beforehand and sketch out the characters, so that I know exactly with whom I am dealing. There are those writers who swear by the structure and order of meticulous outlines, spending weeks--even months--perfecting the story, every plot point, line of dialogue, and hidden metaphor included, and then there are those who believe that all art, ours included, should be born of chaos. It's a personal preference, really."
"So how do you think we should start this one?"
"That, my dear, I leave in your hands. I'll be your guide--Virgil to your Dante, but the first step must be yours to take."
She took a deep breath.
"All right, then. Tomorrow morning I'm going to the library. There's no use writing about historical events if they're grossly inaccurate, right?"
"Well, there is something to be said about the writer's prerogative. We're licensed to make alterations for the good of our stories, as long as they're done in a believable way, mind you."
"Okay, then. I'll take that as a yes."
"So you'll do your research first, and then--?"
"I think if we have a basic grasp of the culture, we can embellish the rest--give our characters former occupations, motivations, that sort of thing. Today's... what, Tuesday? I think by Saturday I'll be ready to write."
Oscar made a sour face.
"What's wrong?"
"Oh, nothing. I believe I may have a prior engagement Saturday afternoon, but it'll only be a brief diversion. I'm sure you can work without me for an hour or two."
She nodded thoughtfully.
"Well, then," he began, "prepare yourself, Kate, for this weekend, we write."
She smiled then, and again now as she lay in bed, reflecting. It was only seven, she noticed with a glance at the clock, and the library wasn't open until eight, so she rolled over with great satisfaction, wrapping herself within the thick, soft trappings of her bed. Today, she felt, was going to be a good day.
Oscar Bruges awoke at the sound of a crunch. He could feel solid earth beneath him, crumbs of dry soil loose against his fingertips, the crackle of dead leaves with every slight movement he made, and his eyes opened just in time to see a large gray squirrel bounding noisily away and scurrying up to the boughs of an old, knotted sycamore tree.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright, brushing away the decomposing leaves that clung to his thin clothing. At the very least, he was relieved to see that his black slippers were still firmly on his feet, though the worn soles led him to believe they had been ruined by the walk to wherever he now found himself.
It was a forest. That much was obvious. Trees surrounded him like an army of wiry old troops ordering his surrender. A thin path ran beneath him, winding away and disappearing from sight behind a cluster of thick hickories. At once, he began following it, knowing there was no better way to find out exactly where he was.
"Well," he muttered to himself, "this is different."
On this particular morning, the sun just beginning to shine and filling his room with a warm light that revealed thick shades of gray even in the absence of shadows, he was in the middle of one of his recurring dreams--in which he finds himself on a boat (a cruise ship this time) that's slowly sinking, water lapping at his ankles as he stands helpless on the deck--when the phone rang. He muttered something unintelligible as he woke and reached for the dust-coated telephone on the nightstand.
"Hello?"
"Morning, Ezra. I didn't wake you, did I?"
"No. Of course not. Who's this? Diggory, is that you?"
"It sure is. Have you heard the news?"
Ezra's heart suddenly sank. At his age, this question was usually followed by the revelation of the death of yet another old friend or acquaintance.
"What's happened?"
"Walter called me last night. You remember him, right? Big walrus mustache? It seems Oscar Bruges is writing a new novel. Time to fire up that press again!"
"A new novel," he repeated the words to himself, incredulous. "Are you sure?"
"He's writing it with a girl, one of Walter's students."
The old printer smiled. He whisked a pair of golden pince-nez from a silken pouch on the nightstand, placing them firmly upon the bridge of his nose with a final enthusiastic thump. A feeling rushed through his body, surging through his blood stream with every heartbeat, seeping into his muscles which no longer seemed to needlessly ache, and into his bones, affirming, supporting. It was a sudden feeling of vitality, of youthful idealism, of usefulness. He could already hear the dull, mechanical clacks and smell the ink, heavy in the air.
Ezra Sherman and his old friend Diggory spent the next half hour talking, joking, reminiscing, and for a brief time, this world seemed anything but lonely.
***
Kate Knight awoke in her bed, where she lay for a few moments longer with bleary, half-opened eyes, making certain that her dreams had ended and that she was in the real world once again. Sunlight filtered in through the blinds, illuminating her scattered stacks of books, the nearest of which was crowned by her perennial favorite, Here Comes a Revolution. At first she thought it had all been part of her dream. She'd met the author, spoken to him, and convinced him to write another novel with her, as a collaborator. It was so absurdly fortunate, so naturally, it had to have been a dream. Then the remainder of her mind (and the memories contained therein) awoke, stirred to life belatedly by a body still at rest, and she remembered everything. It had happened. It only felt like a dream.
"So how do you start a novel?" she had asked him the day before, when he accepted her offer, though she could detect an underlying ambivalence in the way he moved and spoke.
"It depends on the novel and the particular mood I'm in. Here Comes a Revolution, for example, was written in a solid, three-month period with absolutely no prior plotting or planning. Sometimes, though, I feel the need to take a few days beforehand and sketch out the characters, so that I know exactly with whom I am dealing. There are those writers who swear by the structure and order of meticulous outlines, spending weeks--even months--perfecting the story, every plot point, line of dialogue, and hidden metaphor included, and then there are those who believe that all art, ours included, should be born of chaos. It's a personal preference, really."
"So how do you think we should start this one?"
"That, my dear, I leave in your hands. I'll be your guide--Virgil to your Dante, but the first step must be yours to take."
She took a deep breath.
"All right, then. Tomorrow morning I'm going to the library. There's no use writing about historical events if they're grossly inaccurate, right?"
"Well, there is something to be said about the writer's prerogative. We're licensed to make alterations for the good of our stories, as long as they're done in a believable way, mind you."
"Okay, then. I'll take that as a yes."
"So you'll do your research first, and then--?"
"I think if we have a basic grasp of the culture, we can embellish the rest--give our characters former occupations, motivations, that sort of thing. Today's... what, Tuesday? I think by Saturday I'll be ready to write."
Oscar made a sour face.
"What's wrong?"
"Oh, nothing. I believe I may have a prior engagement Saturday afternoon, but it'll only be a brief diversion. I'm sure you can work without me for an hour or two."
She nodded thoughtfully.
"Well, then," he began, "prepare yourself, Kate, for this weekend, we write."
She smiled then, and again now as she lay in bed, reflecting. It was only seven, she noticed with a glance at the clock, and the library wasn't open until eight, so she rolled over with great satisfaction, wrapping herself within the thick, soft trappings of her bed. Today, she felt, was going to be a good day.
***
Oscar Bruges awoke at the sound of a crunch. He could feel solid earth beneath him, crumbs of dry soil loose against his fingertips, the crackle of dead leaves with every slight movement he made, and his eyes opened just in time to see a large gray squirrel bounding noisily away and scurrying up to the boughs of an old, knotted sycamore tree.
Slowly, he pushed himself upright, brushing away the decomposing leaves that clung to his thin clothing. At the very least, he was relieved to see that his black slippers were still firmly on his feet, though the worn soles led him to believe they had been ruined by the walk to wherever he now found himself.
It was a forest. That much was obvious. Trees surrounded him like an army of wiry old troops ordering his surrender. A thin path ran beneath him, winding away and disappearing from sight behind a cluster of thick hickories. At once, he began following it, knowing there was no better way to find out exactly where he was.
"Well," he muttered to himself, "this is different."
No comments:
Post a Comment