Undermind: Nine Stories (19 page)

But even if he was able to get in touch with
Gutenberg one way or another, he doubted the man would publish his
ideas. Stephen was nothing but a carriage driver and he would never
be a nobleman. His only chance of being recognized as an author and
getting his work printed would be if he married into royalty or
acquired friends in very high places.

It wasn’t fair. Malory was known in multiple
countries, and everyone who could read talked about his tales of
King Arthur - which weren’t even his own tales. Malory didn’t come
up with them. Stephen however, had ideas that had not been told
over the centuries. They had not been acted out on the stage. They
were his original conjurations. He had thought them up.

Stephen decided that the following morning,
since he was free of his duties for the day, he would spend his
savings to purchase parchment, a quill, and ink in sufficient
quantity to write down one of the story ideas that swam about his
mind day after day. He had no interest in poems and he only thought
of his stories as just that, stories, but he felt they were good
enough for the stage, and possibly even good enough to be read – if
he could get them printed.

The next day he returned home with his supplies.
He couldn’t wait to get started. His only problem was deciding on
which tale he would commit to parchment first. Eventually, he
decided to write the tale of the thief who snuck into a Lord’s
castle and ended up getting caught by the Lady, who became smitten
with him and carried on a love-affair with him until the Lord died
one day. The thief believed she would then allow their relationship
to become public and perhaps even marry him, but in the end, she
rebukes him for she first must mourn, and then after sufficient
time has passed, she must entertain suitors to re-marry someone of
noble blood.

The first half of the story was one of Stephen’s
fantasies that he daydreamed about on long rides to pick up a
passenger from far away. The second half was how he assumed such a
scenario would eventually play out if it should ever happen in real
life. But an audience could be led along by the story and hope for
the hero to win the Lady’s love.

Stephen began writing the story. He infused it
with frightful tension as the thief snuck into the castle. He
imagined the audience being jolted with fear as the thief is caught
by Lady Wexford. Then the mood would change and the audience would
be shocked and outraged as the Lady falls for the thief and kisses
him while the Lord lies sleeping not far from where they stand. He
knew this scene would be controversial, but he felt the world
needed something new, something modern, and something theoretically
possible.

Stephen ended up using more parchment and ink
than he had ever imagined. He hadn’t thought about the fact that he
might make mistakes and have to start entire pages over again. But
eventually, he finished the story and felt a supreme satisfaction
that he had never known before. And now the truly hard work began;
finding a publisher and praying that someday his story would make
it to the theatre.

***

The old storyteller sat in his house and cursed
the cold draft that chilled his stocking feet. He could not get
them to warm up unless he dragged his chair over to the fire. He
was born with the arrival of Halley’s comet and he knew for a
certainty that he would die with its return in just over a few
week. If his conviction was correct, he didn’t have much time left.
With the house blessedly empty for a change, there were a few
things he wanted to do before everyone returned and ordered him
back to bed, which was the right and proper place to die as far as
all were concerned.

He had enjoyed success around the world with his
books and his speaking engagements where people gladly paid to hear
him tell stories. But now at the end of his life, he did not derive
pleasure from looking back on his career. He’d had a good run as an
author. He’d made a lot of money, but he’d lost a ton of it too.
Life was funny that way. He almost wondered for the millionth time,
what if he had invested in the linotype instead of the compositor,
but he swatted that thought like a fly. He’d kicked himself in the
head enough already. He no longer had the luxury of wasting time on
fool’s errands; not even mental ones.

He glanced over at his vanity bookshelf that
held one copy each of the books he had written. He felt a calm and
grateful assurance that Clara would not have trouble providing for
herself.
Intelligence is not hereditary, but money will suffice
in its absence
, he thought, resisting the temptation to ponder
another age-old mystery. He second-guessed his decision to allow
Clara to publish his most controversial manuscripts which he could
never bring himself to burn.
The Christians will probably dig up
my corpse and give it a lynching. Man loves to hate as much as he
loves to love, and the object of one is equally good for the
other.

As he thought of his long-awaited good fortune
at finally being relieved of this confounding coexistence with a
populace consisting mainly of idiots, he shook his head and
resolved to turn his last thoughts to the few good things in life.
The bad things had consumed his energy and good will for far too
long already. He took a deep breath and let the force and lure of
negativity deflate along with his lungs.

He thought of sunlight flashing like diamonds on
a stream. Roses startled and trembling under assault by drops of
rain. Gay smiles and fairy laughter from pretty and still innocent
girls. Ah… his Angel Fish. Now there was a fine place to lay his
mind to rest in advance of his body doing the same. A sad smile
slowly reshaped his face, pushing through the resistance forged by
anger, grief and melancholy.

His Angel Fish girls were among the few things
that could him smile since the loss of his wife and two of his
daughters; the second one just several months ago. Dorothy. Sweet
Dorothy. His favorite Angel Fish. She deserved a goodbye letter
from him. And if he was wrong about the comet and still alive after
it passed, he wouldn’t post the letter. Best to write it now, no
matter his fate. What if he did survive Halley’s comet, regained
his health and took a walk, then got smacked into oblivion by one
of Ford’s motor-cars driven by a jubilant friend racing over to
celebrate his revival? The raspy sound pushing through his whiskers
would’ve once been recognized as laughter. Best to write the letter
now to be safe.

My Dear angel-fish Dorothy,

It is with the utmost regret that I must
inform you that your upcoming trip to Redding, should you decide to
follow through with it after reading this letter, will not include
a visit with me in which I will be able to engage in conversation.
It is not for lack of desire, nor physical illness, but for the
reason that (I believe) I shall no longer be an animated member of
the human race.

I implore you to not feel sadness at this
news. By the time you hold this letter in your hands, I will
already have been deceased for several weeks and be finding the
experience quite enjoyable. Consider me to be re-united with Jean
and Susy. If there is an afterlife, and the evidence suggests that
there must be, I will not rest until I find them. No man or spirit
will have sufficient strength to prevent such a reunion.

Before my departure which (as I indicated to
you on your last visit) will coincide with the departure of
Halley’s comet, I wanted to convey my immeasurable gratitude for
your friendship, the joy you brought to my final years and the
light that still shines in my heart when I merely contemplate that
someone as wonderful as you exists and breathes and lightens this
world which can be such an awful and cruel place for some.

Thank you, thank you, thank you, dearest
Dorothy.

I will be leaving something behind for you
that is not mentioned in my will. (Jervis will contact you
directly.) In addition to that material token of my love, I will
attempt, if the metaphysical landscape in which I find myself
allows for it, to watch over you and keep you safe.

You are in my heart as I leave, and I hope I
remain in yours.

Love eternally,

***

The storyteller knew that he was born to be a
writer. He had always been one, although not one who could point
and say, “There. That is a book that I authored. See it on that
bookstore shelf.” He knew that writers were born and not made, and
that he was born one. To the world though, he was nothing and
nobody. Few people knew he was a writer. Those who were most
acquainted with his manuscripts were the editors of the publishing
houses who sent him rejection letters over the years. He might
never be known as a writer to anyone else – at least not with his
track-record of rejection.

He sat in the guard shack looking at his laptop
screen. He had just completed his fifth, and he insisted to
himself, his final revision of his latest novel. He felt an absurd
mixture of emotions. On one hand, he was elated. This was his best
work ever. He loved the story, and he was sure that others would
too. A lifetime of escalating skill had gone into this book. He
felt he had reached some sort of peak in his creative ability.

But that meant it was time for the next step –
submitting it to publishers and living with the ensuing hope, fear,
and eventual depression that came from the rejection. Did editors
even read his submissions? It was true he did not have an agent and
his submissions were unsolicited, but did they ever think that
there were talented people in the world who were capable of writing
a good book but who were perhaps lacking in the skill of acquiring
a literary agent?

This was the source of the other half of his
feelings which countered his happiness. He was elated at the
completion of what he was certain was a great novel, and yet facing
the ridiculous task of trying to find someone willing to give it a
fair reading and whether or not it would be allowed to see the
light of day; to let readers have a chance to make their own
judgment of it.

“Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance” had
been rejected 121 times before someone finally decided to grant
Robert Pirsig access to readers by publishing his book, and then it
sold over 5 million copies. Was Pirsig’s book of poor quality
before the 122
^nd
publisher accepted it? No. He just
wasn’t given a chance. The first 121 people who looked at it
decided for the reading populace that they wouldn’t be interested
in it. And thus Pirsig was not a good author, or even a
real
author until William Morrow Publishers signed him on.

Ted couldn’t imagine being told 121 times that
his book was no good and continuing to seek out someone who felt
otherwise. He didn’t want to do it. He couldn’t go through it
again. He didn’t know how Robert Pirsig, Stephen King, J.K. Rowling
and others could just keep submitting their work, rejection after
rejection. The system was broken. The same thing applied in music.
Ted wondered how it felt to be the man who turned down The Beatles.
Or one of the 33 people who told Jack Canfield that “Chicken Soup
for the Soul” would never sell, before it sold over 80 million
copies.

Ted tried to tell himself that maybe it was just
a matter of time. Maybe this time, someone would realize that his
story was good and people would at least like it, if not love it.
Maybe he wouldn’t be rejected this time. He tried to convince
himself to go out and buy some envelopes and stamps and go through
the motions once more of submitting to the all of the publishers he
had addresses for. But he couldn’t do it.

He imagined yet another editor reading the first
paragraph of his unsolicited manuscript, tossing his ten months of
mental labor into the trash, printing off a pre-written rejection
letter and giving it to his secretary to place in the next day’s
outgoing mail. He couldn’t go through it all again. Each rejection
letter was an invalidation of his ability as a writer.

He started to feel depressed and thought maybe
he wouldn’t even bother this time. He’d just write for himself. But
that didn’t make any sense. Stories were meant to be told. If he
was going to just write for himself, he might as well not bother
letting the stories out of his head and on to the page. He couldn’t
stop writing even if he wanted to. He didn’t choose to be a writer.
It’s just what he was. Ideas came to him. Characters were born in
his mind, unbidden. Plots formed, tensions developed, love and
betrayal happened.

A writer’s mind is like a small universe where a
Big Bang happened and worlds go hurling through it, waiting to
observed and communicated to others. No one chooses to have this
burning passion to create characters and bring them to life just to
have them float around in their minds forever. A writer writes
because he’s a writer. Not because he wants to, or to make money.
Whether it was a blessing or a curse, it’s what he was.