Walter arrived forty-five minutes later, wearing a short-sleeved button-up shirt that Oscar immediately detested and mocked. After the recitation of various idioms, insults, and expletives, the two men settled into the inner office, where Oscar then began a detailed account of the past three days while Walter sat quietly, listening.
"What do you think?" Oscar asked after everything else had been told.
"I'm sure it was nothing to worry about, Oscar. It may have been just a phase."
"No, a phase would entail buying a small, red convertible and dyeing my hair or a passing acceptance of libertarianism. I believe we're far from a phase. This is something else entirely."
Walter stared at his desk, nodding and absently scratching at his enormous mustache.
"What? What is it? I know that look, Walter."
"I'm just trying to get things straight. I'm reminded of something, though. Don't laugh, but how well do you know your physics?"
"I'm fairly certain that gravity exists. All else is beyond my realm of expertise."
"How about the law of the conservation of energy? Know that one?"
"Feel free to enlighten me."
"Basically, it states that energy cannot be created or destroyed. Instead, it's a constant--always there, focused on one thing if not another. See what I'm getting at? Now, I know it may sound absurd, but what if we consider, for lack of a better word, creativity to be a legitimate form of energy. Just imagine this scenario for a moment: you've lived most of your life as a writer, as a creator, and then comes the Death of the Novel, and all that creativity goes to waste."
"Would it, though?" Oscar asked. "If we're going by this law of conservation of energy of yours, wouldn't it just pass to--I don't know--some artist on the street?"
"But that's the thing, when it comes to this law of energy, we're talking about isolated systems. Just you, and no one else. That creative energy of yours, stowed up for so long, has to find an outlet, so it makes a new one. It creeps into your subconscious, taking over when you fall asleep, and you start over, harnessing that creativity from a slightly different angle this time."
"My first novel, all over again, and everything that went with it," Oscar mused.
"Exactly."
Oscar was silent for a moment, pondering everything Walter had just said, and then opened his mouth to address his contemplations.
"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Creative energy, indeed."
Walter shrugged.
"You should write another two-bit science fiction story about that, Walter. I'm sure it'd be a hit at some eight-year-old's birthday party."
"Fine, fine. Hey, at least I listened."
"I know, and I am grateful for that."
"And what about my students?"
"Student, Walter. Singular. Yes, I'm grateful for her, too."
"What you're doing for her is simply amazing. I've never seen someone so enthusiastic about becoming a writer. Were you the same way when you were her age?"
"I'd say so, yet I can't help but feel that she wants it more--more than I ever did. It's too bad she's wasting her time."
"She doesn't see it that way."
"No, I suppose not. If anyone were to bring the novel back to the prominence it so richly deserves, it would be her. I'd place money on that, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be around long enough to collect."
Walter frowned thoughtfully.
"Do you still think this is it, then?" he asked. "That you're going to die?"
"We all die sooner or later, my friend, but I'd prefer after this story is written to before."
"Oh, one more thing before you go, Oscar. I may have mentioned your endeavor to someone the other day."
"Anyone I know?" he asked, without the slightest hint of surprise in his voice.
"Remember old Diggory?"
"Yes, though to be quite honest, I thought he died years ago."
"Nope, still ticking."
"Then I can safely assume he's told Ezra about this--wait, is Ezra still alive, as well?"
"As far as I know."
"So we have our writers, an editor, and a publisher."
"Everything you need to make a book."
"Not everything," said Oscar. "There must still be a reader. Without that, we've simply wasted our time."
"Oh, there's one out there. I'm sure of it. Maybe more than one. Maybe an entire army of them, sleeping, like those terra cotta soldiers in China, just waiting for something to come along and rouse them from their stupor."
"I wouldn't go that far, Walter. I'm not looking to start a revolution."
"That's never stopped you before."
"No, I suppose it hasn't."
"Still, wouldn't you like to see it in print?"
"Of course I would. I'd love nothing more than to see it bound and solid, to hold it in my hands and feel the cool, slick cover against my skin. I'd give anything for that, really. Let's just hope that I'm still around to see it."
"And Kate?"
Oscar nodded.
"She'll survive. She'll be all right."
"What do you think?" Oscar asked after everything else had been told.
"I'm sure it was nothing to worry about, Oscar. It may have been just a phase."
"No, a phase would entail buying a small, red convertible and dyeing my hair or a passing acceptance of libertarianism. I believe we're far from a phase. This is something else entirely."
Walter stared at his desk, nodding and absently scratching at his enormous mustache.
"What? What is it? I know that look, Walter."
"I'm just trying to get things straight. I'm reminded of something, though. Don't laugh, but how well do you know your physics?"
"I'm fairly certain that gravity exists. All else is beyond my realm of expertise."
"How about the law of the conservation of energy? Know that one?"
"Feel free to enlighten me."
"Basically, it states that energy cannot be created or destroyed. Instead, it's a constant--always there, focused on one thing if not another. See what I'm getting at? Now, I know it may sound absurd, but what if we consider, for lack of a better word, creativity to be a legitimate form of energy. Just imagine this scenario for a moment: you've lived most of your life as a writer, as a creator, and then comes the Death of the Novel, and all that creativity goes to waste."
"Would it, though?" Oscar asked. "If we're going by this law of conservation of energy of yours, wouldn't it just pass to--I don't know--some artist on the street?"
"But that's the thing, when it comes to this law of energy, we're talking about isolated systems. Just you, and no one else. That creative energy of yours, stowed up for so long, has to find an outlet, so it makes a new one. It creeps into your subconscious, taking over when you fall asleep, and you start over, harnessing that creativity from a slightly different angle this time."
"My first novel, all over again, and everything that went with it," Oscar mused.
"Exactly."
Oscar was silent for a moment, pondering everything Walter had just said, and then opened his mouth to address his contemplations.
"That's the most ridiculous thing I've ever heard. Creative energy, indeed."
Walter shrugged.
"You should write another two-bit science fiction story about that, Walter. I'm sure it'd be a hit at some eight-year-old's birthday party."
"Fine, fine. Hey, at least I listened."
"I know, and I am grateful for that."
"And what about my students?"
"Student, Walter. Singular. Yes, I'm grateful for her, too."
"What you're doing for her is simply amazing. I've never seen someone so enthusiastic about becoming a writer. Were you the same way when you were her age?"
"I'd say so, yet I can't help but feel that she wants it more--more than I ever did. It's too bad she's wasting her time."
"She doesn't see it that way."
"No, I suppose not. If anyone were to bring the novel back to the prominence it so richly deserves, it would be her. I'd place money on that, but I'm afraid I wouldn't be around long enough to collect."
Walter frowned thoughtfully.
"Do you still think this is it, then?" he asked. "That you're going to die?"
"We all die sooner or later, my friend, but I'd prefer after this story is written to before."
"Oh, one more thing before you go, Oscar. I may have mentioned your endeavor to someone the other day."
"Anyone I know?" he asked, without the slightest hint of surprise in his voice.
"Remember old Diggory?"
"Yes, though to be quite honest, I thought he died years ago."
"Nope, still ticking."
"Then I can safely assume he's told Ezra about this--wait, is Ezra still alive, as well?"
"As far as I know."
"So we have our writers, an editor, and a publisher."
"Everything you need to make a book."
"Not everything," said Oscar. "There must still be a reader. Without that, we've simply wasted our time."
"Oh, there's one out there. I'm sure of it. Maybe more than one. Maybe an entire army of them, sleeping, like those terra cotta soldiers in China, just waiting for something to come along and rouse them from their stupor."
"I wouldn't go that far, Walter. I'm not looking to start a revolution."
"That's never stopped you before."
"No, I suppose it hasn't."
"Still, wouldn't you like to see it in print?"
"Of course I would. I'd love nothing more than to see it bound and solid, to hold it in my hands and feel the cool, slick cover against my skin. I'd give anything for that, really. Let's just hope that I'm still around to see it."
"And Kate?"
Oscar nodded.
"She'll survive. She'll be all right."
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