author intrusion

by roland goity

December 1

    “You’ll never make it as a writer,” Eloise said. “You can’t write your way out of a paper bag, let alone come up with a decent acceptance speech for Mrs. Hardcastle.”

      Richard grimaced, as if he’d unwittingly scooped and chewed a bitter pill from a bag of popcorn. Can’t make it as a writer, huh? Oh yeah? He’d show that bitch…

Wilson pondered the paragraphs, the last of his novel-to-be’s first chapter. He smiled ear to ear. The scene would serve double-duty: it would grab readers by the throat, and it would dig into the arrogant veneer of Ellen Kent, his harpy of a boss. Or ex-boss, to be more accurate.

Well, Wilson might be happy with it but I’m not so sure. He sounds as bitter as the pill found in the dreadful simile above….

Adam Goode here, and I’m writing a novel (ostensibly). Moreover, I’m taking you along to experience the process. It’s about a frustrated writer proving to doubters that he really can produce literature of note.  How so? Well, by writing about a frustrated writer whose novel introduces such a storyline once again. It’s based on my own recent experience. The term “metafiction” gets bandied about for such narratives.

The scurrilous words that instigated my “novel” idea came courtesy of Evelyn Kendall of Kendall Communications. The nemesises within the layers of the story are Ellen Kent of Kent Marketing Strategies—the harpy, as you read, who’s Wilson’s tormentor—and Eloise Klein of Klein Public Relations, whose putdown sent Wilson’s writer Richard for a loop. Richard’s so-called work of ineptitude was on behalf of client named Mrs. Hardcastle, Wilson’s for a Mrs. Higgenbottom. Mine, in the real world, the one that started Evelyn’s tirade, for a Mrs. Havisham. Yes, Havisham, I kid you not. Seems everyone had “great expectations” for the speech I prepared for her and it bombed big-time. I penned it for an awards reception acknowledging the old woman’s philanthropic endeavors on behalf of Hermit Warblers, and the new bird refuge a small percentage of her many millions helped establish in British Columbia. The speech was received like a shower of Warbler droppings, and then it was I in deep doo-doo, soon with my ass out the door. And so began this novel and—hopefully—a little poetic justice.

I’ve taken the liberty of styling text so that each meta-story is instantly recognizable by sight, not simply by word content. The story from Richard’s point of view uses a size-ten Verdana font. Wilson and I use the more traditional twelve-point Times Roman. Wilson’s story is italicized. Mine, of course, is in plain text (as you’re now reading); it’s also the only narrative in first-person. Such stylistic discrepancies are for my benefit as much as yours, believe me. 

So far not much is happening in the stories individually, or as a collective, other than what I’ve described: the authors have planned their masterpieces and await their retribution. However, a few sidebars of note have fixed themselves along. For story inspiration and ideas (and the ability to slog through the mire and attempt to bring such ideas to fruition), we writers have claimed our drinks of choice to help spur the process and progress of our undertakings. Richard’s gone old-school, and cornered the market on Manhattans. A bit dated for a guy yet to reach his thirtieth birthday, perhaps, but he sees it as central to the writing tradition, a tribute to those seated around the Algonquin round table so many decades ago: Dorothy Parker, Robert Sherwood, Edna Ferber, and Robert Benchley among them. He has yet to read even one word of their prose or verse—even Ms. Parker’s—but the thought sits well with him, especially after a couple of aforesaid Manhattans, ones that eschew cherry juice for grenadine, and don’t rely on more than a wisp of vermouth. Wilson, to get in the “zone,” fixes himself Cuba Libres, as he likes to call them. (Although I think that, technically speaking, they’re just plain old rum and Cokes—he doesn’t add lime juice, not even a twist.) I myself aspire to the grandest of heights as a writer, as evidenced by my keyboard cocktails. Only fine Scotch for my artistic epiphanies, straight up on occasion, but generally on the rocks. Right now, I’m sipping a twelve-year-old single-malt from Scotland’s highest moor…Ah yes…that definitely hit the spot.

Richard, Wilson and I differ in other ways. Richard, so far, finds himself writing most profusely in the morning and most profoundly at night. Wilson fashions himself as a professional who favors no time over another; I primarily am a night owl, ending my work just before sunrise. As far as background music goes, Richard says no way, but Wilson and I couldn’t write without it. (I’m a fusion/reggae guy; he’s into the poppiest pop.)

Really, it’s simply the storyline that ties us together, but I’m beginning to realize that this never-ending loop that we’ve (well, that I’ve) created has to end sometime. I mean, is Richard’s character going to plot the same self-reflexive novel as the rest? I sure hope not. So, for now, I’m going to store my thoughts and let them stew. Or ferment.  Yes, ferment, like a fine wine.

You’ll hear from me soon.

***

January 14

“These are for you”

“My rubies!” the princess gasped. “You’ve recovered the jewels!”

    Alexander beamed just as the clouds guarding the sun abandoned their watch, unveiling his bronze, Adonis-like frame. Mouth agape, Princess Alana admired his body, as if it too was an unexpected treasure. “When do you have to leave the island?” she asked.

    “Not until tomorrow,” Alexander answered, reaching out to clutch her by the elbow and draw her toward him.

    “Then we don’t have much time,” said the princess, throwing herself into Alexander’s arms. She withdrew a skeleton key from between her ample breasts and slipped it into his strong, rugged hand. “It will unlock everything,” she whispered. 

    Oh, the titillation! Richard thought. How the romance-genre minions would eat it up. The pages of his manuscript, working title “Alexander’s Quests and Conquests”, now appeared exponentially; at this rate he’d finish the novel in no time at all.  Certainly in time for the writers conference in the city next month. According to the promotional piece that Richard had seen, many literary bigwigs would be there. He’d have an agent before you could whistle Dixie, a publisher a week later. There was no doubt about it. 

    Richard chuckled to himself as he pictured Eloise Klein reading the Sunday paper, spitting out her coffee upon seeing his name at the top of the Times’ bestseller list. 

    The irony of it. Wilson had created a character whose novel was on the fast-track to fame and fortune, while Wilson himself experienced a writer’s block that clogged every creative artery in his atrophying brain. The synapses, full of sparks only weeks before, just weren’t firing. He’d churned out (randomly, it seemed) a few dozen paragraphs that could be culled into maybe ten pages of publishable material, but that was it. There was no hope anytime soon for interactions with agents and editors and publishers, the sorts of characters who quickly populated Richard’s world. No need to allocate time for national talk shows and White House invitations as his creation was presumptively preparing. Even the smart tunes of the master, Billy Joel, no longer moved him; the soothing voice of Jewel grew more irritating by the day.  Wilson, in essence, was undergoing every aspect of the frequent frustration and depression known to writers without experiencing any of the rewards. His new career produced no highs, only lows. He’d even begun to notice rum blossoms on the tip of his nose when he scrutinized himself in the mirror after still another night absent meaningful sleep. The life of a writer: it sucked. Totally sucked. 

Well, so far the New Year isn’t a happy one. Not for Wilson or me. We’re still dumbfounded that Richard has foregone literary accomplishment for a quick windfall by honing pablum for the masses. 

I’m ultimately responsible, of course. Last we spoke, I explained how Richard would have to break the cycle of the same tired story we were all plugging along. Well, he did that, oh yes indeedy. But such a narrative is really beneath me, and I refuse to comply with such a saccharine tale, no matter how involved I’ve become in the process.

While it’s anyone’s guess whether “Alexander’s Quests and Conquests” will enjoy even a smidgen of the success its author envisions, one thing’s for sure: Richard loves his new life as a novelist. That’s what really gets us down, Wilson particularly. His mind has slowed to a complete standstill, capable of generating but a few ideas. And when inspiration finally strikes, Wilson’s his own worst enemy, sabotaging thoughts of fiction for causes of fact. You see he’s a stickler for detail, so when he’s actually engaged in his writing he systematically requires banks of information on whatever topic might have come along, no matter how inconsequential. I’m a stickler for detail, too, but I’m a big fan of Google. Wilson’s a Luddite; it’s all he can do to write his manuscript on a typewriter rather than carve it in stone. And the thought of heading to the public library for a few hours of fact-checking only results in pouring himself another Cuba Libre. He’s a mess. 

Again, it’s my fault. Lately I’ve realized the problem stems from personal resentment, which has passed down through the chain of authors via meta-narrative. My passion to write the Great American Novel arose from vengeance, not inspiration, simply a plan to deliver a decisive blow to Evelyn and all her little brownnosers at Kendall Communications. To leave them speechless with envy, distraught with jealousy.  Evelyn’s scathing remark that I could only be relied upon for “slipshod work at sky-high prices!” still resonates in my ears today. It’s taken a while to stabilize my wounded pride from those five little words. But I’m making headway. Adam Goode will emerge out of this process in one piece. 

Though, most likely, not as I’d hoped—having made my mark as a writer.

***

June 26

    The words dripped off the television talk-show host’s tongue like glistening honey, “And so Alexander tiptoed along the marble tiles while she slept, passing quietly through the mahogany door and down the succession of sand-laden steps to the whitewashed beach below. He spread his arms in supplication to the vast sea before him. The Mediterranean, Alexander’s final quest. He knew they would remain there forever.”

He closed the book, dabbed at his eye, and sipped water from his glass. Then he said, “Simply breathtaking. A perfect end to a perfect novel.”

    “Thank you, Charlie.”

The early reviews were in, and like all the rest, Charlie Rose fawned like a starstruck schoolgirl over Alexander’s Valiant Quests the reworked title to Richard’s novel, which, as its prescient author knew from the get-go, was climbing the bestseller lists and on its way to a third printing since its debut two weeks before. Letterman, Leno, and Larry King already gave the book their blessing; tomorrow it would be Jon Stewart and on Friday the queen herself, Oprah. Richard’s agent already secured a new three-book deal with an advance of nearly $12 million. And Richard, who absolutely loved his new Manhattan address (he threw back Manhattans at the Algonquin Hotel bar with regularity), already looked to purchase additional real estate in Boca Raton, Pebble Beach, and Vail. Lake Tahoe, too.

“So tell me,” Rose said. “What inspired you to such magnificence?”

“Charlie, I thought you’d never ask.”

    Soon Eloise Klein’s ears seared from a five-alarm fire.

While he’d hoped to experience some closure now that his aspirations were dulled senseless by an island resort’s worth of Cuba Libres, the thought of Richard’s overwhelming acclaim achieved with such nonchalant ease and glib bravado irked Wilson to the brink of no-return. After experiencing chest pains and shortness of breath, he dialed a 9, and then a 1, but thought better of continuing when he realized he didn’t want to be saved. Not to endure more of a world that favored quick reads of formulaic mystery and romance titles to the real, innovative literature of which Wilson—the writer—aspired. 

For the first time since he could remember, an idea struck him. An idea that wasn’t especially clever, but an idea that would bring eternal solace. (And for what more could one ask?) Wilson rifled through his desk drawers, jettisoning small armies of miniature boxes and containers housing pens, staples, tacks, and paper clips—Lilliputian office supplies that at one time seemed necessary. The chest pains returned as he prepared to surrender his search, but then he found it: a prescription bottle of Seconal tablets. It wasn’t long before he washed them all down with a Cuba Libre. (Really, it was just a rum and Coke.)

Like a cowboy who realizes it’s time to hang up his spurs and saddle, a writer, too, must one day hang up his pen—or, in my case, toss it out the window. No one likes a quitter, as the old saying goes, but knowing when to quit is a talent to which everyone should aspire. It saves a lot of time and relieves a lot of agony.

As it turns out, I don’t necessarily regret my short stint as a writer, though I’ve become confused in months past as fictional characters seem to have ground themselves into my actual life, and I’ve found difficulty separating the surreal from the real, fantasy from reality. 

I’m still upset about Wilson’s troubling end. He scripted Richard’s success and never received a nod of appreciation. Wilson didn’t really know how to take life, and, thus, death took him. Taking life too hard is also a bad habit of mine. Such a problem magnified itself as I became a writer. Richard, slick little fucker that he is, has it right. He plays the world as if it were his own little chess game, treating people like pawns and rooks, knights and queens, depending on how it best suits him. Perhaps that’s the secret if one wants to make a killing in the publishing world, but that’s just not me.

I’m doing okay, now, I really am. I rarely think of Evelyn Kendall and her PR factory of ass-kissers these days, haven’t checked out their Web site in nearly a month.  Besides, I’ve decided to move on to another field altogether. Recently I managed to contact an old babysitter whom I terrorized regularly when I was ten. She’s an assistant principal now and has helped me land my first teaching gig. Come late August, I’ll instruct the many facets of our country’s storied history to pimply-faced middle schoolers in Olathe, Kansas.

Wish me luck.

END

Roland Goity received his MFA from San Diego State University in 2006. His stories appear or are forthcoming in Fiction International, Scrivener Creative Review, The Bryant Literary Review, Talking River Review, Conte and The Foliate Oak. He is editing a literary anthology on rock music and culture.