The Writer Read online

  She smiled. “Don’t worry about it, if I intended to get to class, I would have just kicked you out.”

  I suddenly felt awkward. Then again, this meant she wanted me to stay. “Oh okay…” was all I could come up with as a response.

  “I should probably get going anyway,” I added.

  “Where are we going?” she asked.

  I starred for a few seconds, until my mind caught up with the fact that she was planning to spend some more time with me. I could barely put two words in a row, let alone a full-length sentence, so did she not have anything better to do with her time?

  “Are you going to let me in on the conversation you’re having with yourself?” She asked.

  “Sorry” I said. “I was just thinking that I need to get home, shower and change.”

  “Sounds good,” she replied, putting her cup in the sink.

  It dawned on me then, that she had showered herself and changed. How had I not heard any of it?

  “You sleep like a big snoring rock,” she said.

  Great, I snore.

  We walked slowly, in minus 30˚ weather again to the metro. I could not believe she was actually going to follow me home. I ran the state of the house, through my mind. Was there anything embarrassing lying around somewhere in full view? Probably, I would need to ask her to wait outside while I did a quick tour of the place.

  “What are you thinking about?” she asked.

  “Nothing...” I said.

  She shook her head. “If you wrote down half of what you think about, you’d have a book by now.”

  I smiled. “I doubt it…”

  We were now sitting warmly in the Metro. “People like to read about things they can identify to, real emotion is what captivates an audience.”

  “What do you mean?” I asked.

  “I mean… raw emotion is the common thread among us. Regardless of our background, culture, and life experience, we all feel. Most people crave Love. We all want to know ourselves, have direction. We all want to get a glimpse of the big picture, what the point of all this is…”

  “True.” What else could I say? She had just planted a seed in my thoughts.

  I looked at this beautiful mysterious creature sitting next to me. I felt just by being with her, I was on the verge of something big. It is hard to explain. Have you ever felt that someone you were with, held the keys to something breathtaking, mysterious, life changing? I felt like Mulder about to open a door with little green men behind it – the portal to one’s life quest.

  We made our way to my place, my very small unfashionable apartment. I politely asked her to wait at the door, while I ran around inside like a maniac picking up rubbish from the floor.

  Moments later, she made her way to my desk, which was in perfect order. I stood proudly next to it.

  “How do you do it?” she asked, apparently shocked at the neatness of it.

  “I never let it get out of hand in the first place” I began.

  “No, I mean, how can you create in such a constricted atmosphere,” she asked, positively perplexed. “Passion is Chaos! When you’re burning with ideas and are jotting them all down, where do you put all those papers? Or do you just write like a speedy robot on your laptop?”

  “Oh. I write on papers sometimes. I just organize them here in my folders.” I opened a desk drawer to show her.

  Nice and neat little pieces of papers were stacked sideways in their own little story folder compartments.

  “If I don’t organize my papers, I won’t ever find them again. I write my thoughts whenever they come to me, hence the paper napkins you see in there…”

  “I see…” she said.

  We both stared at each other for a moment. I went to shower, while she read bits and pieces of my notes.

  “I can’t believe how perfect your sentences are…,” she shouted across the house.

  “Thanks” I replied from the bathroom, where I was finishing getting dressed.

  “Seriously,” she said, “it feels like you looked up every single word in a Thesaurus,” she laughed.

  There is nothing wrong with being concise.

  “You have lots of good ideas… Have you started on any of the stories themselves yet?”

  I walked into the room, where she was just sitting cross-legged on the floor now, surrounded by my stories.

  “No, not really…” I replied.

  “When did you start this specific project?” she asked, pointing to one of the folders.

  “A while ago,” I said. The heat of the spotlight beaming down on me was getting me uncomfortable.

  Silence crept between us.

  “You take everything so seriously. Art is meant to be fun… Writing, painting, Romance…”

  I laughed. “Romance is Art now?”

  “It can be…”

  We looked at each other for a while, saying nothing.

  Chapter 6

  When reality bites, it takes a whole chunk out of you. As I sat there, watching the lecturer’s monkey walking up and down the aisle, I knew I was in trouble. Looking over the exam I was about to hand back, I knew reality would come crashing down on me soon enough.

  I had not been in school for weeks. Professors were probably thinking I had joined the circus by now, considering the quality of the disappearance act I was presenting them with. I did feel quite sorry for the people that kept being paired up with me. The last person I had to fill out an assignment with actually told me she would write it all herself. She preferred the extra work to the stress of wondering if I would submit my share of the work on time. I could not really blame her.

  That being said, I managed to survive my semester, even pass my courses. By summertime, I was on a high. Of course, you would probably not notice it, but inside I was floating on a cloud.

  Joy decided that we needed to travel and explore the world, get some real inspirational creative juices that only came through experience: in other words, backpacking.

  “How on earth will we be able to afford that?” I asked.

  “We’ll just get jobs… work anywhere and everywhere we can!” her eyes lit up as she started envisioning our trip.

  “How are we going to afford our plane tickets? Where do you want to go anyway? Where would we actually stay?”

  “Calm down, half the fun is in the spontaneity, the freedom to go and do whatever we want, whenever we want to. Just see it: the open road, the Open Space, just you and me, the fresh air and our Art.”

  I felt a surge of panic.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked. “You’re making that Face again…”

  “What face?”

  “The face you make each time you’re freaked-out.”

  “Sorry about that.”

  “Just breathe in. Keep it… Breathe out.”

  I wish I could tell you that it annoyed me when she babysat my breathing like that. However, in reality, it did not. She actually amused me. I usually would not do what she said, but watching her close her eyes and start her Yoga poses, always made me laugh; it usually did the trick she intended, it calmed me.

  “Which part is freaking you out anyway?”

  “It’s hard to pick just one, really.”

  We laughed.

  “So where do you want to go exactly anyway? France? Italy?”

  Chapter 7

  I had not known Joy for a year yet, and here I was flying across the world to New Zealand by her side. She had forced me to bring a notebook into the plane to jot down my ‘feelings’ and ‘emotions’. She felt that all experiences had their creative worth.

  “You never know when something might be useful to you.” She said, sitting next to me, drawing in a little black leather book.

  “What do you mean?”

  “When you write a story, it’s like being an actor; you have to look into yourself to find the right emotions to deliver realness to your game, your story. If people can’t identify to what you’re saying, what’s the point? People have to believ
e your storytelling… get captivated by it. They need to immerse themselves in what you’re delivering, lose themselves in it. Art is all about escapetism…”

  “I’m sure that’s not a word: Escapatism” I said.

  “So, why are you correcting me then? Is that all you got out of what I just said to you? If you got the point, why are you getting stuck on the punctuation?”

  “You lost me…”

  She exhaled loudly and rolled her eyes at me. “The shape of the message doesn’t matter, it’s the content that does.”

  It was my turn to breathe in and out, lie back, and ponder on what I had just learned. Of course, I knew all this, but it sounded different coming from her. She was right. Sometimes, there was no point in picking at things, finding the exact right word. I had wasted a lot time worrying over things that seemed rather insignificant when listening to Joy.

  I smiled.

  She smiled back, and then rested her head on my shoulder. She drew out a camera from her bag and snapped a shot.

  “For Posterity,” she said.

  Chapter 8

  Looking out of the window, with the lights stretched out before us, I was overwhelmed with anticipation. At first, I had put up a fight about the whole idea, as I usually did about everything. My first reaction was rarely a positive one. I know it sounds stupid, but I could never really let go of my numerous reserves about any ideas coming from Joy. She was simply too disorganized to really allow me to feel secure in trying new things.

  Half the idea, in trying new things, was to go with the flow. I got that, but it did not mean I had to like it.

  So, yes, I tried to always start everything with: No. That way, it was sure to slow down any scary plans that popped into her head. At first, she would put up a fight, argue with me, trying to convince me to see her way. Obviously, that never worked. I enjoyed my well-planned, well-structured, well-organized way of life. It did not need improving, it was just perfect the way it was; that is what I liked to tell myself anyway.

  These days, it seemed I had overused the word “No,” as she did not acknowledge it anymore. It appeared to me that she no longer heard me, or my reservations, because they no longer held any weight. Hence, the reason I was sitting on a plane right now, instead of working throughout summer to pay next year’s tuition. It was not the smartest plan, but I would worry about that later.

  “Breathe,” I heard Joy say through my hyperventilation. “Chill out, Ben…”

  This time, I really needed to take a deep breath. I had sub-rented my apartment for the time being, so I did not need to worry about that. I had told my parents where I was going, which would eventually cause my mother an ulcer in the long term. Joy had insisted on meeting them, and explaining the need to “disconnect” from our Routine to really get the Creative “juices” going. No way, I had feigned a stomachache, headache, and nausea to avoid their meeting.

  After the third cancellation, Joy asked me why I was embarrassed to introduce her to my family… I had to tell her I was actually embarrassed of my parents, and did not want her to judge me through them. She had laughed and thought it silly. The reality of the matter was that I did not want my head to explode during the second course of the meal. My parents would be wondering all night what language Joy was actually speaking. Yes, it sounded like English, but she would simply make no sense to them. Do not laugh, but my parents were actual Accountants.

  Yes, I had used up most of my savings for the plane ticket. Yes, we were arriving in the middle of winter in New Zealand, which made the cost of the tickets a bit lower than the high season, but still… I had no idea how we would afford “life” there.

  It did not take too long to get through the customs, and get out of the airport. The first thing that hit me was the smell. It is hard to put a finger on what the difference is exactly, between Canada and New Zealand, but there is definitely something there.

  I took my notebook out and wrote it down, my first impressions of this new country. I looked around, wrote the details. As we started making our way out of Auckland and into the Waikato, I could not believe how many cows there were. Did these people keep them as pets or something?

  Joy bought us a very old rusted piece of can on wheels. It was going to be our Home for the next couple of months.

  “Where are we going to bathe?” I asked.

  “The sea…”

  “What about toilets?”

  “They have them everywhere here. Don’t worry! It’ll be great!”

  Her eyes lit up as she drove us around. We found rather easily the sea again once we made it to the Hawkes Bay, where we ended up spending most of our time.

  We worked left and right for various farmers and wineries, though there was not very much to do during the down season.

  Many days and evenings were spent on the beach, where the sun had not received the memo about being rain season.

  In the waters of the Mahia beach, Joy swam with a dolphin, which appeared to have fallen in love with us human folk. Watching Joy pet it, laughing and splashing around, I felt suddenly a pang of jealousy for her uncomplicated way of life.

  Jumping into the sea, with her t-shirt and jeans, was quite a sight to see. She did not think twice. How many opportunities to swim with a dolphin would come up throughout her life, she had said. She dove in, not looking back.

  This was the way she lived her life. The picture of the Fool from the Tarot came to mind. Yes, she lived her life with total freedom, but how many times would she fall off a cliff? Was it really worth taking that kind of risk? Why was I thinking about Tarot cards? Joy was most definitely becoming a strong influence in my life.

  “What if it was a Shark,” I said, “You couldn’t really tell from where we were standing…”

  “Don’t be ridiculous.” She laughed.

  I felt angry.

  “You always do that! You always do these crazy things without thinking!”

  She laughed, which poured gasoline on my fire.

  “This is Serious! You can’t always just do everything that crosses your mind. It’s not because you’re thinking it that it’s necessarily a good idea!”

  “Oh Ben…” She smiled. “If you wanted to swim with the dolphin, why didn’t you?”

  “What are you on about? This has nothing to do with it!” I said. “I’m talking about your thoughtlessness! Your Crazy impulsive ways that could throw you off a cliff and me with it!”

  “You could have just come with me… It’s not too late if you want to go in…”

  “Are you not listening to me? Which part did you not hear?”

  “All I can see right now is that you’re upset at yourself for not just having gone into the water with me.”

  “GAH!”

  In silence, I stared at her heavily, fuming.

  Why was she not she listening to me? Why did she not understand what I was trying to say? You could not just dive into anything anytime just because… you could.

  Why not? I could already hear her asking me. Well, why not? Because! Because who knows what might happen if you do!

  She rolled her eyes.

  “What?”

  “You could just say what’s on your mind, instead of just pissing yourself off all on your own. You seem unhappy even with your inner-monologue.”

  “Just be quiet!” I said.

  She looked at me as though I had just slapped her in the face. She was taken aback, and so was I. Why was I so angry? I deflated and just sat there, remorseful.

  “Sorry,” I managed to say.

  She nodded. We sat quietly for a few minutes, watching the sun setting slowly into the sea.

  “You want to go swimming?” She asked.

  “Yeah…”

  Chapter 9

  Road tripping through New Zealand became one of the most life changing experiences of my life. Learning about the Maori culture, their value of ancestry, their connectedness to nature, their Whanau, which means Family, – it all inspired me.

&nbsp
; Travelling into the depths of this breathtaking country, we made many friends or I should say Joy did. Wherever she went, people were attracted to her. We shared a hangi, were invited to a Marai to observe and be part of a ceremony. Watching the Haka being performed, the storytelling of it, even if I could not understand what they were saying, it captivated me.

  Turning the last page of my notebook, I sighed. I could not remember the last time I had written so much. I smiled in satisfaction. Even though my notebook was more like a travel journal, I felt like an accomplish writer.

  “You sound surprised,” said Joy.

  “Well, they’re just disparate ideas, thoughts, and feelings, nothing I can really use to produce anything substantial.”

  “What are you talking about?” she asked, “You just did produce something…”

  “Writing is easy, if you don’t care about the quality of it, but I want to be a Writer, you know?”

  She pushed her hair back, tying it.

  “It doesn’t work that way, Ben.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You are a Writer, because you write…”

  I smiled. Of course, she would say that. “You’re a painter, because you paint?”

  “It’s not because you haven’t been published yet, that you’re not a Writer….”

  “Well, I think you’d need to sell a few paintings to be considered in the Real world as a painter… With the talent you have, I’m sure that’s bound to happen sooner or later.”

  “Thanks,” she smiled, “but I disagree. I don’t think whether you sell a story or a painting, should change anything about the way you want to define yourself. In the end, your Art defines you, because it’s second nature to you, like breathing. You can’t live without it. You think about it day and night. Everything you see, you experience is seen through your Art’s Grid. You think in Words or in Colors, always in relations to your form of expression.”