At three o'clock in the afternoon, Oscar still found himself unable to type a single word--not even the most basic of articles, including the word the, which despite its status as the most common word in the English language, still seemed a somehow inappropriate and trite way to begin what he hoped would be his defining work. Thus he abandoned the world of non-fiction for a quick perusal of a row of folios that lined the bookshelves on his study walls, containing the hundreds of short stories he'd written over the years. He was looking, primarily, for one that had gone unpublished to keep his act fresh and, he hoped, interesting.
Like many of his contemporaries, most of whom had given up on writing novels several years back for more successful ventures, Oscar sought money wherever it could be made--namely by hiring himself out, with a hefty swallowing of his pride, as a storyteller. The recent trend among the affluent to rent once-famous writers and novelists as acts for their children's birthday parties and various mitzvahs proved to be a quick and successful way to pad the bank account, and the only damage that was done was another pounding to Oscar's already dented sense of decency. Like all writers, he was once a proud, somewhat egotistical man that, when left alone with a mirror, could stare at his own physique, no matter how frail and imperfect, for hours at a time, but the emotional blow of the cultural movement often referred to as The Death of the Novel, a name popularized by news blurbs around the world, was a bout from which he never fully recovered.
Finally, he settled on a story he felt was strangely appropriate and laid it to the side as he shuffled his way to the master bedroom, where his finest seersucker suit hung on the closet door, waiting. He found that the morning's walk was finally catching up to him, and with no small amount of effort, he wrestled with his suit until it was fully on and well straightened. Then, with his story's folio clasped beneath his seersucker arm, he retired to the kitchen for a drink to better prepare himself. Tonight's party was one to celebrate the thirteenth birthday of a boy named Eagle McIntosh. He felt an intense dislike toward the boy's parents already.
He poured himself a small glass of Baliol whiskey, downing it nearly in half the time it took to prepare, and then searched the counter top for the directions to the party, which had been scribbled hastily on a slightly used napkin. The clock on the wall told him that there was still an hour before his appointed time, so he passed it by looking over the printed story in his folder, determined not to set a single foot into the party until deemed absolutely necessary to receive his paycheck.
This particular story was perhaps a decade old, he determined with an appraising eye. It concerned a member of the ancient Hashshashin society, who, in Damascus in the year 1111, becomes consumed by stray feelings of guilt collected from his various assassinations throughout his career and wanders the city streets searching for someone willing to kill him before, ultimately, going against his core beliefs and taking his own life atop a grassy hillside. It wasn't exactly the sort of fare for children, but Oscar didn't care. He realized that, for the most part, he was only there for his name, a half-hearted effort by the child's parents to inflate their own cultural credentials to better compete with the parents of their child's friends, who waved about names such as Chabon, Franzen, and McCarthy like banners of war.
He could imagine the scene now: the children running about, laughing and yelling, as if thrown in a drunken round of darts; the fathers gathered around the enormous barbecue pit, blathering about proper grilling techniques; the gaggle of mothers gossiping in a circle, occasionally turning their half-attention to the old man behind the lectern, reciting a deep, moving segment of his life's work. Soon it became time to leave, and Oscar sighed, wondering where, exactly, he'd taken his first misstep down this path.
Like many of his contemporaries, most of whom had given up on writing novels several years back for more successful ventures, Oscar sought money wherever it could be made--namely by hiring himself out, with a hefty swallowing of his pride, as a storyteller. The recent trend among the affluent to rent once-famous writers and novelists as acts for their children's birthday parties and various mitzvahs proved to be a quick and successful way to pad the bank account, and the only damage that was done was another pounding to Oscar's already dented sense of decency. Like all writers, he was once a proud, somewhat egotistical man that, when left alone with a mirror, could stare at his own physique, no matter how frail and imperfect, for hours at a time, but the emotional blow of the cultural movement often referred to as The Death of the Novel, a name popularized by news blurbs around the world, was a bout from which he never fully recovered.
Finally, he settled on a story he felt was strangely appropriate and laid it to the side as he shuffled his way to the master bedroom, where his finest seersucker suit hung on the closet door, waiting. He found that the morning's walk was finally catching up to him, and with no small amount of effort, he wrestled with his suit until it was fully on and well straightened. Then, with his story's folio clasped beneath his seersucker arm, he retired to the kitchen for a drink to better prepare himself. Tonight's party was one to celebrate the thirteenth birthday of a boy named Eagle McIntosh. He felt an intense dislike toward the boy's parents already.
He poured himself a small glass of Baliol whiskey, downing it nearly in half the time it took to prepare, and then searched the counter top for the directions to the party, which had been scribbled hastily on a slightly used napkin. The clock on the wall told him that there was still an hour before his appointed time, so he passed it by looking over the printed story in his folder, determined not to set a single foot into the party until deemed absolutely necessary to receive his paycheck.
This particular story was perhaps a decade old, he determined with an appraising eye. It concerned a member of the ancient Hashshashin society, who, in Damascus in the year 1111, becomes consumed by stray feelings of guilt collected from his various assassinations throughout his career and wanders the city streets searching for someone willing to kill him before, ultimately, going against his core beliefs and taking his own life atop a grassy hillside. It wasn't exactly the sort of fare for children, but Oscar didn't care. He realized that, for the most part, he was only there for his name, a half-hearted effort by the child's parents to inflate their own cultural credentials to better compete with the parents of their child's friends, who waved about names such as Chabon, Franzen, and McCarthy like banners of war.
He could imagine the scene now: the children running about, laughing and yelling, as if thrown in a drunken round of darts; the fathers gathered around the enormous barbecue pit, blathering about proper grilling techniques; the gaggle of mothers gossiping in a circle, occasionally turning their half-attention to the old man behind the lectern, reciting a deep, moving segment of his life's work. Soon it became time to leave, and Oscar sighed, wondering where, exactly, he'd taken his first misstep down this path.
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