by Avi
"I suppose there's light. Unless the water's dark."
"It could be nighttime," said Avon.
"Wise creatures," said Edward, "always say you should look inside yourself to find the light."
"Is that what's meant by insight?"
"Perhaps light-headed. But in the end, being light-footed might be of more help," said Edward.
"Must I remind you one more time," said Avon a little peevishly, "I don't have feet."
"You may have no feet," said Edward, "but I have six. If we average them out, we'll each have three."
"Who said that?" boomed a voice.
"It's so dark I can't tell who's talking."
"It's not the kind of thing I would say."
"I wouldn't say it, either."
"Maybe somebody else said it."
"What happens if it wasn't one of us?"
"You might consider writing about it."
"I'd like to write about what I've seen, but I haven't seen anything."
"Use your imagination to come up with something."
"When the fish swallowed us, I left Something behind."
"Would you please stop talking!" came the booming voice again.
"Was that you?"
"No, was it you?"
"That depends on who you is. If it's you it can't be me."
"But if it is me, it can't be you."
"I think we'd better ask who it is."
"Hello there! Would you please say whether it's you or me who's talking?"
"It's me! The fish."
"Are you me or you?"
"Me!"
"Are you the one who swallowed us?"
"Who else could it be?"
"Since I can't see anything, I suppose it could be any number of creatures. Have you swallowed anyone else lately?"
"Just you."
"What about me?"
"I like to eat intelligently, but if I'd known what the two of you were going to say, I wouldn't have swallowed you. Neither of you seems very bright."
"Then let me enlighten you," said Edward. "We're in the dark."
"But you could always spit us out!" called Avon.
"I'll be happy to. I could use some inner peace."
"I guess," Avon whispered to Edward, "he doesn't realize what small pieces we are."
The next moment Avon and Edward were spit out of the fish's mouth and onto what felt like a beach.
"Well," said the fish as he swam away, "that certainly lightens my load."
But Avon and Edward could still see nothing.
"Are we in the fish anymore?" asked Avon.
"Not sure," said Edward. "I'm hoping it's nighttime. We'll have to wait and see if daylight comes."
"What if it doesn't?" asked Avon.
"Then perhaps we're still in the fish."
"I just wish," said Avon, "I was brighter."
"Just promise me you'll write about this whole adventure."
"What would its title be?"
"I'd call it Dialogue: The Dark Side of Writing."
"Sounds enlightening," agreed Avon.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
In Which Avon, in the End, Has an Idea
Dawn came.
Edward woke first. "Avon, good news. It's the next day!"
Avon looked around. "It sure looks an awful lot like yesterday to me."
"The point is," said Edward, "I think we'll be able to get home by tomorrow."
"I thought you just said that tomorrow was today."
"Avon, I was just mentioning the next day."
"Whatever happened to today?"
"Avon, you really are in a daze!"
"Exactly. But which one?"
Edward looked up. "The sun is shining."
"I love Sundays," cried Avon. "I can take the day off from my writing!"
The two friends left the beach, entered a forest, and headed for home. It was a long, slow journey, during which time nothing happened—except talking, thinking, feeling, sleeping, waking, and finally, eating. But at last Avon and Edward reached their tree.
"Edward," said Avon, "everything is exactly the way it was when we left."
"Did you think it would change?"
"I suppose I did. I'm very disappointed."
"Why?"
"As a writer, I'd like to bring some change to the world. But if I can't write, maybe the world can do the changing for itself."
"I suspect it will. It's just a question of paying attention."
"True enough," agreed Avon. "If you don't pay anything, you're not likely to get any change back."
"I just hope," said Edward, "you'll finally be able to write something."
"Actually, since I've already written Something and all it did was get us to the sea, I've decided not to write Something anymore but to instead write a book about my life. I'm hoping that writing will allow me to find myself."
"I had no idea you were lost," said Edward. "Have you got a title yet?"
"A Life Lived Backward."
"What kind of book will it be?"
"My autobiography."
"Why?"
"I suppose of all writing, it would be most automatic. Or do you think I should write a biography?"
"There's a huge difference," Edward pointed out. "An autobiography is about all the things you ought to have done. A biography is about all the things you should have said bye to."
"That makes sense," said Avon.
"Only if you sell the book," warned Edward.
Avon found a new piece of paper and was about to start writing again when he sighed and said, "I have to admit my thoughts are still in a muddle."
"Avon!" cried Edward. "That's exactly where a writer should be. After all, creatures generally have nothing to do with their beginnings. And it's not often they consider their ends. But in between there's all that muddle. The writer's job is to write about the muddle."
"Are you saying," said Avon, "that since I'm always in a muddle..."
"It proves you are a writer."
"But I have just one more question I've been worried about," said Avon. "Where do writers get their ideas?"
"Avon, that's the question most often asked of writers. But you see, writers don't get ideas. They give ideas."
"Ah!" cried Avon. "Now I understand!" Then on his paper—with great care—he wrote Idea. But he didn't just write it, he added curlicues, extra lines, doodads, doodles, cross-hatching, and all kinds of bits and pieces. Then he gave it to Edward.
Edward gazed at it admiringly. "Avon, I've never seen a writer write such an original idea."
And Avon, muddled as ever, but content at last, beamed.
About the Author
AVI has written many acclaimed novels for middle grade and teen readers, including his Newbery Medal–winning Crispin: The Cross of Lead and his two Newbery Honor books, Nothing But the Truth: A Documentary Novel and The True Confessions of Charlotte Doyle. He lives in Denver, Colorado.
