The Writer
Page 22
“Didn’t mean to disturb your concentration. It’s just, I couldn’t help noticing your computer. Looks like a lot of text to get through. All that would make my eyes hurt.”
“I’m a writer, so the more text the better; the more evidence I have that I’m working and not wasting time in playing computer games or net surfing.”
“I’m a writer too. Trying to be, anyway.”
He smiled and nodded, took note of her nice figure and then decided to take a break and sit back to enjoy the scenery, both inside and out.
“There are days I wonder why I stick with it,” he admitted after a few moments. “To write, I mean. Some days you can sit and stare and nothing happens, or worse, you can write for hours and the next day delete it all and wonder what I was thinking.”
“I know what you mean,” she said. “You know what I do when that happens? I say to myself: writing is easier than not writing.”
“I like that,” he said, thinking that he may use the quote.
“But I don’t know how you can write on one of those things.”
“My laptop? It’s a wonder of modern science, I reckon. I’d be lost without it. That and my spellcheck, but I hardly need to use it. You know what I really like? The word count. Keeps me on my toes, knowing how many I’m putting down. How fast I can go an hour.”
“What I’d really prefer is one of those old-fashioned typewriters. Seeing the words forming on the paper, with actual ink, makes me feel like I’m part of the process of producing a book. Paper, ink, words, sentences. If I try on a computer it doesn’t seem real.”
“Yes, I know what you mean. Except those old typewriters have no word count. Or backspace. I like my backspace. Delete is good too. Cut and paste.”
“Everything you need for actual writing,” she agreed.
“I’m Max Marshall. You might have seen one or two of my books.”
“Sorry, but I haven’t. I’m Sophie Trent, and you wouldn’t have seen anything from me since I’ve never had anything published. Maybe one day.”
“What sort of writing do you want to do?”
“I want to try a novel. Maybe something dark and mysterious. I know you weren’t expecting me to say that.”
“Actually, I think it’s good to get away from our comfort zones, and take on worlds we don’t normal inhabit. As for myself, I’ve tapped all of what I know, and I wish I knew what else I could write about.”
“Why not write about a girl from the city going to live for a month with her grandmother in the quaint town of Gendry, to write her great novel?”
“Yes, that is well out of my comfort zone. Would this story be yours? Are you the girl from the city going to Gendry?”
“It is my story, but not the one I want to write about. But you can write that if you want to.”
“Write about you?”
“And all the interesting characters who live in the town.”
“Actually, that sounds interesting. But you couldn’t write about my life, it’s too dull. Writer sits at his desk all day, sometimes managing to put a sentence together, but mostly not. Massive attack of writer’s block. Okay, I’m not really like that, since I can usually get something done if I have to. Maybe for ten minutes once, I might have been. Last June, I think it was.”
Sophie laughed. “That line sounds better than anything I’ve come up with myself lately.”
“Could we really do that?” Max pondered.
“Do what?”
“If I wrote about you and you wrote about me?”
“Do you have something I can write about?”
“You want something dark and mysterious? What about dark and sad?”
“Is that what your life is?”
“Actually, yes, it is, I’m sorry to admit. I think my wife is cheating on me. No, I know she is. And you know what? It’s probably for the best. I don’t know if we’ve ever been happy together. Write about that; I dare you.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” They sat in silence for a few minutes before Sophie couldn’t resist asking, “Do you know who it is she’s seeing?”
“I do, actually. Craigfield is his name.”
“Craigfield? What an odd name.”
“Make him a bad guy, please. Who throws on the charm.”
“I will.”
Max shook his head. “I don’t know if this is a good idea or not.”
“No, it is. I like it. Why not do it? We have enough time on this trip to exchange info about all the interesting characters in our lives.”
“I mean if we get published. It might look suspicious.”
“Don’t worry, I have too much professional pride to admit to anyone that I’ve stolen my ideas from a real person. Tell me more about this Craigfield.”
“I might have to put him into your story.”
“Then make him tall and handsome, and he sweeps me off my feet.”
“I can do that, but only if he betrays you in the end.”
“You wouldn’t.”
“I’d have to. I’m not one for happy endings.”
“No, I like this idea, Max. But for it to work you’d need to tell me everything you can, about your life, your friends, their lives, as much as you want put into a book for people to read. And I’ll do the same for you. Whoever gets published first, the other one has to deny knowing anything about it, and throw their work away.”
“That’s a hard bargain. But you know, I think it’s intriguing enough to work.”
“We’ll see whose is the most believable, the one that can fool people the most and make them think it’s real.”
“What a devious mind you have.”
“Would I be a writer without that?”
When the train stopped at the Gendry station they went their separate ways, both with more than enough material. For some reason they both stopped and looked back at the same time, then smiled and waved.