It’s always the same pattern.
I write.
I write long and hard.
That’s the best way to put it.
I write hard.
I become so engrossed in it that time passes with barely any notice from me.
When I finally pull my fingers back from the keyboard, it’s…well, it’s as if I’ve just finished an exhausting round of sex.
The toll taken on me is the same.
My body trembles.
My muscles relax, almost too much, after being tensed for so long.
Moments pass before I can move from my chair.
My breathing is labored, as if I had not breathed enough during the session.
I have ejaculated my mind seeds all over the pages in front of me, and now my thoughts are barren.
I am spent and ready for a cigarette.
I recover at a leisurely pace, taking in the fumes from the cig and the glorious mess I have made on my computer screen.
I don’t want to think, yet, about what inevitably comes next.
The cleaning up.
Sentences will need to be refined.
Grammar needs to be checked – spelling, too.
And my plots are always, in the beginning, shot full of holes.
Those holes will need to be plugged.
The story will, inevitably, be adjusted – by me, as well as those who edit my works.
This explosion was only the big bang.
The initial casting out of material.
There is still a long path from here to a finished universe.
But this isn’t the first world I’ve created.
It’s my 54th.
I’ve become rather good at it, what, with all the practice I’ve had.
I could say the same about my sex life.
In the world of intimate relations, I have not leaned uncomfortably against the wall, waiting for someone to “bloom” me.
I have danced.
I have loved.
I have lost.
And though my heart has suffered, and my brain has lashed out, my writing has benefited from each and every tryst.
I have loved them all, each in turn, and each has left its own distinct mark on my world.
Some are deep scratches.
Others, barely a mark at all.
Most of my wounds have healed over and made me better for having survived their fever.
Those that still burn, I cover with a mental salve of my own making.
I poultice them with the belief that everything, and I mean everything, will one day make sense.
I have seen it too many times, with my own eyes, to doubt its truth.
Some of my greatest strengths were born of moments I did not think I would survive.
Moments I did not fathom.
And yet, here I am.
Born of that chaos.
Not only living, not just standing tall, but telling the tale.
Speaking the truth I have found in all the pages of my life.
Of all my 54 manuscripts, none can equal the book I have written with my words and deeds in this realest of worlds.
They can only mirror it – reflecting back to you the secret things that laid in wait for me along my path.
These were my epiphanies.
My lessons.
And though they were left for me, by whatever, or whomever, I cannot help but share them with all of you.
Perhaps that was the intent, all along, of their original author?
“Mycah? Why have you brought me here? Who is this, and why is he important?”
“You expressed a desire to know everything, Ravenna, and the Frog Prince, your prince, has graciously agreed to provide it to you.”
“He has?”
“Of course. And this is simply our first stop.”
“What is there for me to learn here?”
“The contemplative male you see before you, writing in his journal, is Roana Ignah, also known as the Great Ro’I. He is one of this planet’s leading authors. As he said, he has penned over fifty-four books.”
“He said fifty-four, exactly. And he hasn’t finished the fifty-fourth, yet.”
“Ah! You were paying attention. That’s imperative. Roana will finish this book, and several more after. In fact, his most controversial work, the one that will cause shockwaves across the entire surface of this world, is still not much more than a gleam in his eye.”
“Is that what we’re here to see? Him write his greatest work?”
“I don’t wish to spoil everything for you. Some things you need to witness for yourself. But yes, we are here for that, and to study the arc of his own story. You see, there is much to learn from the lives of others. Whether it’s how they succeeded, or how they fell. There are lessons in both.”
“How so?”
“You will come to understand that there are two types of children in the world. Those who fall down and pull themselves up with little or no assistance from others, and those who lay on the ground crying until someone comes to see about them. In most cases, both kinds of child live in the same body. It is the choice of the individual as to which they show to the outside world.”
“So Roana Ignah is going to fall down.”
“Everyone falls down. Even, and perhaps especially, great writers.”
At that moment a sharp ringing drew our attention back to Roana and the simple office space where he performed his miracles.
“Hello?” He said, even before the receiver met his ear. “This is he.” I could not hear the voice coming across the telephone wire, much less the content of its message, but Roana straightened noticeably in his chair. “Yes, of course. Three-O’clock. I’ll be there.” He said, then ended the call with a curt “Goodbye.”
He sprung violently to his feet, loosing a whirlwind of papers that tumbled higgledy-piggledy to the floor. He ignored them, stripping off his leisure wear on his way toward the bathroom.
“Do I have to see his junk, Mycah?”
“You can always turn away, Ravenna. But you did wish to know everything.”
“When I said that, I wasn’t thinking about naked authors. And I’ve already seen him, so, I guess it’s too late to turn away.”
“I don’t think you fully understand, yet, what knowing everything actually entails. This person’s “junk” as you call it, is just the tip of the iceberg. There is far more waiting for you in the depths we are going to plumb.”
“Oh no! Is he…”
“It appears he is urinating.”
“If only his aim was as good as his writing.”
“Our Mr. Ignah, though he appears tidy, is only that way because of the hard work of others. He does not clean up his messy writing any more than he cleans the floor around his toilet. He has editorial assistants for the former, and a maid for the latter.”
“Oh, poor thing!”
“Mr. Ignah pays her very well. She is, in no sense of the word, poor. If only he could find someone to clean out his dirty mind. Pay attention, now. You never know when something important might happen.”
Nothing important did happen, as far as I could tell. We watched the great author shake the dew from his lily, then scrub himself in the shower, and brush his teeth at the sink. He hocked and spat, then washed away the last of his uncleanliness with a swig of bluish-green mouthwash. He dressed quickly, but efficiently, then – slowing some, as if not wanting to appear excited – sauntered through the kitchen into the garage where a clean, crisp-lined sports coupe waited for him. It was candy apple red, and I really don’t know why I was surprised. He was, after all, very well off and obviously, stereotypically, living out some sort of mid-life crisis – or so I thought. I guess I just wasn’t expecting something that bright in the dim light of the garage.
“Is he married, Mycah?”
“Yes. His wife is currently enjoying a nice lunch at a rather posh restaurant downtown, with a few of her girlfriends.”
“I bet he’s got a girlfriend on the side. What are they having?”
“Salad and wine, at the moment. Their main courses have not yet been served. And no, Mr. Ignah does not cheat on his wife outside of his mind.”
“How do you know these things? Wait…outside his mind?”
“To put it simply, I am where you wish to be. And everyone cheats on their spouse in their dreams.”
The garage door distracted me from my next question about Mycah and his seemingly bottomless cup of knowledge. Ro’I was on the move, backing easily down the driveway, spinning carelessly into the road, then bolting like a jack rabbit south toward the bulk of the city. He lived in a very high-class, gated community, I saw, as Mycah whisked me along behind him.
“When are you going to teach me to fly?” I asked, wishing for sooner rather than later.
“That is not up to me.” My mentor said, and I did not think to ask who it was up to. I was distracted, again, by events in Ro’I’s world. Time had sped up, as if Mycah, or someone, had pushed the fast-forward button, and we were now watching the great author toss his keys to an attendant and make his way through an ornate revolving door. It was spotless glass and polished brass with Savannah Sun Media written in fancy lettering above it. As the attendant screeched away in Roana’s car, toward the parking structure, Mycah led me inside to a bank of lifts. We rode a well-trimmed elevator, with Roana, to the penthouse office where a pert secretary announced our arrival to its occupant through an intercom on her desk.
“See them in, thank you, Cheryl.” A deep voice said, and Cheryl did as she was bid. We entered a modern, very lavish office whose walls were adorned with pictures of – what I assume were – some of the planet Creat’s most famous people. At least in this day and age. They would have hardly been recognized five-hundred years before, or five-hundred years after, this moment. I can say that with some certainty, because I didn’t recognize any of them and these events are far in the past from the time I live in.
“Come in, Roana, come in. It’s good to see you.” The deep voice said, coming this time from the most immaculate lion I have ever seen. The speaker on the secretary’s desk, and its wiring, had not done the voice justice. It carried so much more power and authority across the open, slightly scented air of the office.
Perhaps this is a good time to mention the fact that on the planet Creat more than just monkeys have evolved. Thus the immaculate lion behind the desk.
“David, you’re looking well.” Roana said, shaking the extended hand. His own mitt swallowed easily by the massive paw of the well-groomed leo.
The owner of that paw, David King, was nearly as tall sitting down as the great author was standing up – and considerably taller than me, as I stand a mere four foot nine inches fully stretched. David King was a towering six-foot seven inches, with broad shoulders and a flowing mane of sandy blonde hair that very nearly touched his buttocks. He was an impressive sight, and not just for me, in his tailored suit under that perfect coif. Roana, even, who had met him before, was still as awestruck by him on this visit as he had been on his first. Or so Mycah informed me. The majesty of him - the King family patriarch - is something you never quite get used to. And the eyes. I was struck most by his eyes. They were pure gold, lustrous and filled with energy. His overall air made it impossible to calculate his age. But there was no doubt for anyone who looked on him that he was in charge.
“It’s wrong for someone to be that…”
“Pretty?” Mycah said, finishing my thought.
“And masculine.” I said, wondering what kind of female you would have to be to win the love of a male like that. “I bet if you look up male in the dictionary there’s a picture of him.” I said, not really joking.
“Pay attention.” Mycah ordered, centering me back on the meeting. Roana was taking the seat David offered, and both were clearing out the formalities before getting to the meat of the matter.
“I want you to tell me a story.” David said, finally bringing them round to it.
“What sort of story?”
“The story I’m thinking of involves the loss of innocence.”
“My favorite kind.”
“The world agrees with you. They, too, love to hear about people growing up.”
“Is this a story about a boy, or a girl?”
“I know that you are rather fond of the latter. That’s why I called you here. I need a story about a young girl who is thrust abruptly into adulthood at the hands of a wicked male. Would you like to tell me a story like that?”
“I would.”
“Good. Then you’re hired. Our people can work out the subsequent terms.”
“I’m sure, based on previous experience, that the terms will be more than acceptable.”
“Of course. I have always believed in spoiling those who provide me with substantive content. You, of course, are among my top providers.”
“Thank you for that. I aim to please.”
“Good. There is one stipulation, if I may…”
“Of course, anything.”
“As far as the leading lady goes, I’d like you to consider my daughter, Ailani, for the role.”
“David…are you sure?”
“Quite sure. And Roana, don’t spare the gristle.”
Roana smiled wryly as if he believed David King was not ready to swallow all the gristle he could deliver. But he had been bidden, and so he would deliver what was bid of him.
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