At precisely two o'clock in the afternoon, Kate stepped onto the red brick stoop and paused, her fist frozen in mid air as she pondered knocking on the thick wooden door in front of her. The house had surprised her, deemed at first glance to be much too small and ordinary to be the residence of a once well-renowned author. A cluster of thin, white-skinned birches stood guard in a low area of the yard, gathered where the water was most likely to flood and puddle in heavy rains, garnering her attention away from the door. Her mind temporarily cleared of the worries to follow, she knocked forcefully on the door.
Minutes passed, straining her to the point that she no longer believed anyone was home. Another debate sprung up in her mind: to knock again or to leave? The argument settled itself as the door swung open, and the gaunt face of Oscar Bruges appeared at the door.
He took one look at the girl beyond, uttered, "No solicitation, thank you," and then firmly closed it back, leaving Kate to gape helplessly on the outside steps. Before she could fully regain her bearings, the door opened again, Oscar peeking out the door.
"You aren't by chance selling cookies, are you? I've a sudden craving for Thin Mints."
She shook her head, still in shock.
"Ah, well," said the writer and closed the door.
Undeterred, and well aware that she was shown the door before even being admitted, Kate knocked again. Momentarily, the pale specter of a man reappeared at the door, clearly annoyed. He seemed to be wrapped in a plaid house robe, his feet neatly tucked in black, cotton slippers, an overall image that briefly made Kate think fondly of the concept of retirement.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Bruges? My name's Kate Knight. I'm a huge fan of your work."
Oscar frowned, his brow furrowed as he processed what he'd just heard. There was something about the name, though, that rang a distant bell in his head, like the toll of the church downtown that he could hear on Sunday mornings.
"How did you find me?" he asked.
"Sorry, sir. The Walrus told me."
The frown yielded, the corners of his mouth edged themselves upward, becoming a grin, and he burst with raucous laughter.
"You have no idea how much it pleases me to know that he's still called that. As if he could be called anything else. You're his student, aren't you?"
She nodded politely.
"Come in," he said. "Come in."
She stepped onto the hardwood flooring of the foyer, the black leather loafers she'd worn for the occasion tapping dully against the surface. He led her to a carpeted room occupied by a long couch and coffee table and a few short, full bookshelves that were scattered along the walls of the room.
"Nice place," she said half-heartedly.
"I suppose I could label myself utilitarian when it comes to the decoration of the home, but the terrible truth is that my creativity is confined to words. Anyway, it's a pleasure to meet you, young lady. Your professor told me you've been giving him a series of heart attacks."
She thought about telling him of their prior meeting on the campus grounds, after which he left her standing numb, alone, and slightly embarrassed, and ultimately decided to keep the incident to herself.
"I try," she said with a smile and a nod.
"And you say you're a fan of mine? I hope this to mean more than an overheard conversation about how your parents used to adore my work."
"I have a copy of Here Comes a Revolution that I read every year in the fall when the leaves start changing color."
"Oh?" He stared at her with some interest and an arched eyebrow.
"It's also a first edition."
"Oh!" His voice was tinged with measured surprise and something that Oscar would come to realize was respect. He flashed a self-assuring grin. "That's my first novel, you know."
"I know," she replied, her smile meek, half-hidden on a face gradually turning a perplexing shade of red.
"You seem a bit flustered."
"Sorry. This is kind of a big deal for me."
"Don't fret too much, dear. I'm just an old man, like any other. As you can see, I have the robe and slippers to prove it. Now what can I do for you?"
She paused, as if desperately searching to find the appropriate words for an otherwise formulaic response. Suddenly, it was as if she had gone completely, utterly blank--wiped clean of all goals and ambition, her ability to recall her own name, and the technique for the proper dispensation of words from the mouth. A deep breath later, however, all was as it should be.
"I want to write," she said.
"Really? Well, I suppose we all desire a round of fisticuffs with the ocean from time to time. What, exactly, do you want to write?"
She thought a moment.
"I don't know. I mean, I don't have a story yet, but I know what I want it to be--something with depth, something meaningful, something that grabs people by the hair and slams them against the wall until they've given their undivided attention."
"Oh, I like that," he added, with a click of his teeth. "Kate Knight, I've just met you, but I instantly have more reverence for you than the rest of your generation lumped together. It's a shame that people like us--people who want to tell stories, to make people listen--are a dying breed."
She crossed her arms, striking a defiant pose.
"It doesn't have to be that way. We can fight back."
"Against what, Kate? Culture? Society? Entropy cannot be fought. Believe me, I've tried. It cannot be stalled, cannot be reasoned with. It's a simple force of nature that invades every aspect of our lives. Our dear friend Yeats (and Achebe, by association) was right--Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold."
She exhaled audibly, relaxing her stance by a considerable amount, as if accepting a defeat that had not yet happened.
"I just want to write," she said, her sentence vaguely spoken like a plea. She stood before a being born of raw, creative power, begging for a boon, a simple crumb of the whole to grant her the strength she desired.
"So do I, my dear. I have something to show you."
He led her down the carpeted hallway, stopping abruptly in front of a room that opened to the right. Within this room, she could see bookshelves lining the side, a desk pressed against the far wall, and a powder blue typewriter atop it.
"This is my study," he said. "For the past two weeks, I've sat at this desk, struggling to find the words to write again. This was to be my final work, the bookend to my first novel, and my expression of frustration at the world. Not fiction or a memoir, but something in between. Look at my typewriter, and tell me how much I've written."
She examined the blank page rolled into place, the upside down title page laid to the side.
"Nothing?"
"Actually, about ten pages. Your beloved Walrus loaned me a laptop computer. The moment I switched it on and found the word processing program, I began writing, but it's tainted. I can barely stand that thing. It has no character, just quiet little taps with every keystroke. When I work on my typewriter, I can feel every letter, hear that loud click that tells me word has been put to paper. I swear, if I figure out how to print everything I've written on that damnable computer, I'll burn it."
Kate nodded politely, unsure of what any of this had to do with her.
"So what is it you're here for?" he asked. "Perhaps it isn't too far-fetched or egotistical for me to assume that I'm an influence on your work and what you ultimately want to say, but how can I help you?"
She panicked--mainly because she had no idea how to respond. Certainly, she'd come here for help, for inspiration, but she never pondered exactly how she would attain it. She paced absently along the walls, skimming the surface of the bookshelves, picking through the various folios and across the spines of dusty tomes packed tightly therein, as if the answer she sought was hidden somewhere within these stacks. Something entirely different entered her mind, though--a question she had no choice but to ask.
"Would you like to write fiction again?"
"Don't tell me you're here to stir me from retirement. I think I'm done, Kate. I have only this one expression, this one book, though doomed to never see publication, left in me. When it's done, I fully expect to never touch a typewriter again."
"Fiction's a powerful thing," she said. "You know it is. Sometimes more powerful than anyone else can realize. Not until it's too late, anyway, when they've already absorbed it."
"What exactly are you saying?"
"I'm saying that this last book you want to write, there's more than one way to tell it. More than one point of view. I think we should write it together."
Minutes passed, straining her to the point that she no longer believed anyone was home. Another debate sprung up in her mind: to knock again or to leave? The argument settled itself as the door swung open, and the gaunt face of Oscar Bruges appeared at the door.
He took one look at the girl beyond, uttered, "No solicitation, thank you," and then firmly closed it back, leaving Kate to gape helplessly on the outside steps. Before she could fully regain her bearings, the door opened again, Oscar peeking out the door.
"You aren't by chance selling cookies, are you? I've a sudden craving for Thin Mints."
She shook her head, still in shock.
"Ah, well," said the writer and closed the door.
Undeterred, and well aware that she was shown the door before even being admitted, Kate knocked again. Momentarily, the pale specter of a man reappeared at the door, clearly annoyed. He seemed to be wrapped in a plaid house robe, his feet neatly tucked in black, cotton slippers, an overall image that briefly made Kate think fondly of the concept of retirement.
"Yes?"
"Mr. Bruges? My name's Kate Knight. I'm a huge fan of your work."
Oscar frowned, his brow furrowed as he processed what he'd just heard. There was something about the name, though, that rang a distant bell in his head, like the toll of the church downtown that he could hear on Sunday mornings.
"How did you find me?" he asked.
"Sorry, sir. The Walrus told me."
The frown yielded, the corners of his mouth edged themselves upward, becoming a grin, and he burst with raucous laughter.
"You have no idea how much it pleases me to know that he's still called that. As if he could be called anything else. You're his student, aren't you?"
She nodded politely.
"Come in," he said. "Come in."
She stepped onto the hardwood flooring of the foyer, the black leather loafers she'd worn for the occasion tapping dully against the surface. He led her to a carpeted room occupied by a long couch and coffee table and a few short, full bookshelves that were scattered along the walls of the room.
"Nice place," she said half-heartedly.
"I suppose I could label myself utilitarian when it comes to the decoration of the home, but the terrible truth is that my creativity is confined to words. Anyway, it's a pleasure to meet you, young lady. Your professor told me you've been giving him a series of heart attacks."
She thought about telling him of their prior meeting on the campus grounds, after which he left her standing numb, alone, and slightly embarrassed, and ultimately decided to keep the incident to herself.
"I try," she said with a smile and a nod.
"And you say you're a fan of mine? I hope this to mean more than an overheard conversation about how your parents used to adore my work."
"I have a copy of Here Comes a Revolution that I read every year in the fall when the leaves start changing color."
"Oh?" He stared at her with some interest and an arched eyebrow.
"It's also a first edition."
"Oh!" His voice was tinged with measured surprise and something that Oscar would come to realize was respect. He flashed a self-assuring grin. "That's my first novel, you know."
"I know," she replied, her smile meek, half-hidden on a face gradually turning a perplexing shade of red.
"You seem a bit flustered."
"Sorry. This is kind of a big deal for me."
"Don't fret too much, dear. I'm just an old man, like any other. As you can see, I have the robe and slippers to prove it. Now what can I do for you?"
She paused, as if desperately searching to find the appropriate words for an otherwise formulaic response. Suddenly, it was as if she had gone completely, utterly blank--wiped clean of all goals and ambition, her ability to recall her own name, and the technique for the proper dispensation of words from the mouth. A deep breath later, however, all was as it should be.
"I want to write," she said.
"Really? Well, I suppose we all desire a round of fisticuffs with the ocean from time to time. What, exactly, do you want to write?"
She thought a moment.
"I don't know. I mean, I don't have a story yet, but I know what I want it to be--something with depth, something meaningful, something that grabs people by the hair and slams them against the wall until they've given their undivided attention."
"Oh, I like that," he added, with a click of his teeth. "Kate Knight, I've just met you, but I instantly have more reverence for you than the rest of your generation lumped together. It's a shame that people like us--people who want to tell stories, to make people listen--are a dying breed."
She crossed her arms, striking a defiant pose.
"It doesn't have to be that way. We can fight back."
"Against what, Kate? Culture? Society? Entropy cannot be fought. Believe me, I've tried. It cannot be stalled, cannot be reasoned with. It's a simple force of nature that invades every aspect of our lives. Our dear friend Yeats (and Achebe, by association) was right--Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold."
She exhaled audibly, relaxing her stance by a considerable amount, as if accepting a defeat that had not yet happened.
"I just want to write," she said, her sentence vaguely spoken like a plea. She stood before a being born of raw, creative power, begging for a boon, a simple crumb of the whole to grant her the strength she desired.
"So do I, my dear. I have something to show you."
He led her down the carpeted hallway, stopping abruptly in front of a room that opened to the right. Within this room, she could see bookshelves lining the side, a desk pressed against the far wall, and a powder blue typewriter atop it.
"This is my study," he said. "For the past two weeks, I've sat at this desk, struggling to find the words to write again. This was to be my final work, the bookend to my first novel, and my expression of frustration at the world. Not fiction or a memoir, but something in between. Look at my typewriter, and tell me how much I've written."
She examined the blank page rolled into place, the upside down title page laid to the side.
"Nothing?"
"Actually, about ten pages. Your beloved Walrus loaned me a laptop computer. The moment I switched it on and found the word processing program, I began writing, but it's tainted. I can barely stand that thing. It has no character, just quiet little taps with every keystroke. When I work on my typewriter, I can feel every letter, hear that loud click that tells me word has been put to paper. I swear, if I figure out how to print everything I've written on that damnable computer, I'll burn it."
Kate nodded politely, unsure of what any of this had to do with her.
"So what is it you're here for?" he asked. "Perhaps it isn't too far-fetched or egotistical for me to assume that I'm an influence on your work and what you ultimately want to say, but how can I help you?"
She panicked--mainly because she had no idea how to respond. Certainly, she'd come here for help, for inspiration, but she never pondered exactly how she would attain it. She paced absently along the walls, skimming the surface of the bookshelves, picking through the various folios and across the spines of dusty tomes packed tightly therein, as if the answer she sought was hidden somewhere within these stacks. Something entirely different entered her mind, though--a question she had no choice but to ask.
"Would you like to write fiction again?"
"Don't tell me you're here to stir me from retirement. I think I'm done, Kate. I have only this one expression, this one book, though doomed to never see publication, left in me. When it's done, I fully expect to never touch a typewriter again."
"Fiction's a powerful thing," she said. "You know it is. Sometimes more powerful than anyone else can realize. Not until it's too late, anyway, when they've already absorbed it."
"What exactly are you saying?"
"I'm saying that this last book you want to write, there's more than one way to tell it. More than one point of view. I think we should write it together."
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