John Irby's Blog - Posts Tagged "writing"
Pyramids Take Time
The building, constructed in 1914, was rather nondescript—a three-story brick affair tucked awkwardly in between much more recently built high-rise apartments and towering hospitals. Its main distinguishing touch, one of dated elegance, was a large dark green awning spanning the walkway leading up to the main entrance.
Seattle can be a rainy place and the approach to the Women’s University Club offers its members and guests momentary shelter from the elements. Parking on the street is next to impossible, and the nearest parking lot, two blocks away, almost guarantees the need for an umbrella.
There are four cement steps leading up to the massive double doors cut into a rounded facade of stylized and painted woodwork.
When Khyber entered the foyer and closed the door behind him it was as if he had entered another era. The carpet seemed deeper than normal, and together with the leaded glass windows, richly draped in a heavy fashion rarely seen these days, helped mute the road noise from the labored hill traffic just outside the club. Normally a quiet, serene room, today it swelled with movement and loud conversation, betraying the excitement and anticipation of a celebratory event.
Khyber stood for a moment, uncomfortable, gathering in the crowd. Recognizing no one, he carefully navigated across the large entrance hall to the temporary bar set up in a far corner. He requested a beer, but shunned the offered glass.
Seeking a bit of space, he wandered from room to room, not speaking, merely smiling at those who caught his eye. Silently, he admired the ornate furniture and the deeply set fireplaces, no longer used, but kept as if ready for comfortable chairs pulled close on a chilly evening. He sipped his beer in silent contemplation.
She was one of those willowy shaped women with a knack for intimidating men. A
classic black dress accentuated the look and heels bought even more leverage. Her martini glass was full, and it was still early so he assumed she was sober, though her voice sounded a bit thick.
He paused near her. When she smiled, to be polite, he said in his formal way, “Good evening.”
Her eyebrows lifted, showing surprise.
“What do you do for a living?” she purred over the tiny pond of gin.
It was not the most common of greetings. A narrow face, large blue eyes, and light brown hair piled high created an elegant image—an Egyptian pharaoh.
Your lipstick is one octave too red, he thought.
“I’m a writer.”
He spoke quickly and softly, as if his profession were an embarrassment. He sometimes wondered if carpenters or electricians hid similar feelings. He doubted doctors or architects did—at least those whose patients heal and designs get built.
Her extravagant lips posed on the rim of the glass, puckered, her eyes boldly locked on his.
“And what does the handsome man write?”
Now the gin roiled up under the glitz and cascaded quickly over the cataract.
He resisted the impulse to say, Stories that literary agents don’t care to read.
“Fiction,” he replied. “Memories and observations. Mostly, I write stories for children and teenagers. Bits and pieces of my life.”
He took a swig of cold beer and wiped his lips with the side of his hand. His eyes were also a light blue, almost matching hers in intensity, though his hair and complexion were
considerably darker.
Music and laughter sidled in through the open glass doors leading to a patio surrounded by a lush garden. A nearby kitchen belched food preparation noise. Other denizens edged past, clutching appetizers or drinks.
He momentarily forgot her—remembered bitter advice Rick Nelson had offered in an old song after being booed at Madison Square Garden—something about singing at garden parties. Apparently, for Rick, it had not been a happy gig. Khyber had always considered the song dishonest. Would Mr. Nelson really prefer driving a truck to earning a king’s ransom with his voice? Not likely, Khyber thought.
She coaxed him back. “Does the writer have a name?”
“Khyber,” he said. “Spelled the same as the pass.”
“What pass would that be?”
Her question caught him off guard. He wiped his thumb over the top of his beer bottle. Tilting his head slightly he took a long drink—made her wait.
“My father was a mountaineer. The Khyber Pass slices through the Safed Koh Mountains in northern Pakistan into Afghanistan. One of the most dangerous places on earth.”
Just then a black tied waiter arrived. Like the properly trained surgical scrub nurse handing the surgeon a clamp before he asks for it, the waiter’s anticipation was ahead of the cue. He held out his hand to gather the empty beer bottle.
“Another, sir?”
“Indeed,” said Khyber, smoothly making the transfer. “Thanks.”
He knew her next question in advance.
“Have you published any of those memories and observations or those bits and pieces of
your life? Anything I might have read, Khyber…” her lips went flat for an instant—scooped up a rivulet of alcohol, then curved into another teasing smile, “when I was a child or teenager?”
For the barest of moments she shifted her eyes down to her drink as if calculating the depth of the liquid. Her camel eyelashes, long and feathery, cast dark shadows below.
“I haven’t been published yet,” he admitted. “It’s a slow process, but I’m working on it.”
The waiter returned, granting a reprieve from the interrogation.
“Dinner will be served in about fifteen minutes.” He smiled at the lady.
“Would you care for a fresh martini?”
“Indeed,” she mimicked, gracefully placing her empty glass on the round tray. “Thank you.”
“Is it so difficult to become published?” She reached out and touched his arm, almost a sympathetic gesture.
“For me it seems to be.”
He drank again, filling his mouth with the cold beer before swallowing. “It helps if you’re famous. I’m not. Obscure, actually.”
She rested her fingertips lightly on his wrist.
He kept himself from looking downward toward the neckline of her dress, but his peripheral vision captured the edge of a tantalizing zone, a risky mountain pass cleaved through tantalizing territory of another sort.
She lifted her hand and asked, “Are you connected to the bride, or the groom?”
He smiled, revealing a boyish grin and straight teeth.
“Actually, she’s my step-sister.”
His smile faded and his eyes hardened, showed some pain.
“Dad died in an avalanche, and a few years later Mom remarried. That was almost twenty-five years ago. How about you?”
“We were roommates in college. Also best friends, and the nicest person I know.”
Her eyes challenged him.
“My name is Ann. Spell it anyway you like.”
She played ring around the rosy with one painted fingertip on the glass’s shoreline.
“You said you write fiction, but aren’t memories and observations just old facts?”
“I suppose they are,” he replied, “but I take things that have happened to me or a friend, or someone I’ve read about, and try to tell a story in a unique way. Usually elements get exaggerated or changed to make them more interesting.
“In a story I’m working on at the moment, there’s a young girl who accidentally falls into a well and is trapped there alone for some time. When I was nine years old, my stepfather lowered me into a well out at our summer place on the island. I dug with a short handled pick and shovel, filling a bucket with dirt and rocks. He waited up above in the light and fresh air until the bucket was full, winched it up and dumped it, then sent it back down to me. I’ve been terrified of being buried alive ever since.”
He took a long pull on his beer. “It scared the holy shit out of me.”
“You don’t look like the kind of man who frightens easily. Why write only for kids though? Why not create something of interest for grown up men and women?”
He turned his head toward the sounds on the patio, took a deep breath. He hadn’t rehearsed his reply, but it was something he believed.
“Everybody is or was a child. That’s a huge audience. Maybe something I write will help a kid get through a tough time in his life, or an adult might recall and deal with something that happened in their childhood. I’ve used a few books that way growing up.
“My fantasy is to be sitting in an airport somewhere in the world, and see some kid pull my book out of her backpack. I’ll pretend not to watch while she reads because it might freak her out if she notices some guy staring at her, but I’ll glance over every now and then to see if she smiles or giggles at something silly I’ve written.”
He grinned at the thought.
“One little giggle will make all the work and rejections worth it.”
She dipped the tip of her finger into the liquid and brought a clinging drip to her lips. Her eyes never left his.
“I prefer to read big girl stories—about murder, greed, sex. If you write about those perhaps the agents and publishers will like your stories.”
“You could be right,” he said.
He felt warm now, a bit of a buzz started.
“But in order to write well about something I need to know a lot about it. One of the cardinal rules of writing is to write about stuff you know.”
He smiled. “I’ve never murdered anyone and I’ve never had enough money for greed to grab me.”
She touched his arm again, ever so lightly.
“What about sex?”
“I doubt if I could write about it in an imaginative way. Some subjects are very complex and probably require lots more talent than I’ve got.”
He tipped the bottle above his lips. Drained it. Eager to change the subject, he asked,
“What kind of work do you do, Ann?”
“I design expensive clothing for beautiful women. Fabric, color, style—to tantalize and snare the hungry eyes of rich men. Adornment for the female form.”
She brought the delicate glass to her lips and spoke over it.
“You know, creations to inspire murder, greed, and sex.”
The waiter returned. “Guests are being seated for dinner now.”
“Thank you,” Khyber replied. “We’ll be along in just a minute.”
She smiled. The tip of her tongue darted out and touched her upper lip.
“Write something for us big girls, Khyber,” she ordered. “I want to see where your memories, observations, and imagination lead you.”
“It takes a long time from the writing to the published book,” he said. “We writers must be patient. It’s a tedious game the agents and publishers play. Query letters, heartless rejections, and replies that never arrive. There’s a lot of waiting for the phone to ring. A writer without patience is in the wrong business.”
He rattled the empty beer glass—wished he had another.
Ann smiled widely and stepped close, brushing seductive lips to his ear—“Are you patient with your love-making too, Khyber Pass, that dangerous place of Pakistan and Afghanistan?”
Her warmth and scent made him momentarily dizzy.
He grinned as she slid her lips lightly across his cheek, pausing at the corner of his mouth.
“Indeed,” he replied. “ Making love is just like building a pyramid. When done properly both take some time.”
His grin widened until he could almost, but not quite, taste the gin clinging to her lips.
She leaned away—retrieved a matching black rhinestone clutch.
“Here’s my card. Call me at quarter past ten tonight; lets get started building the foundation for one of those pyramids.”
She stretched across the crevasse; her lips briefly hesitated over, but never quite touched his.
“I need to eat, Mr. Writer. I’m starved.”
* * *
The next morning, much too early for sensible people, he began his work. He took a sip of coffee, and then clicked on the Word icon in the dock. Clicked on New Document.
He turned his head and glanced out the window. Darkness filled the expanse, but a hint of light to the east stirred him to gaze inward. He thought of a woman, her voice, her shape, her eyes, and her tantalizing mouth.
His fingers triggered the keys—words shot across the computer screen.
She was one of those willowy shaped women with a knack for intimidating men. At exactly ten o’clock she finished drying herself and dropped the warmed lavender towel on the bathroom’s tile floor. Glancing at the clock, she poured lotion into a cupped hand, propped a slender foot up on the side of the tub, and beginning at the ankle worked her way up. Hurrying now, she leaned close to the mirror and carefully applied fresh lipstick.
“Adornment for the male imagination,” she said to the nude reflection.
It was a coy pose, as if she were flirting with herself. Her lips came alive, fluffed up like a pair of goose down pillows—mocked her twin in the looking glass. A crimson flush, unrelated to the shower’s heat, rode high on her cheeks like the morning sun striking a cold and lonely mountain ridge.
She turned out her bedside lamp. Just as she lay back on the bed, her cell phone rang. Smiling, she closed her eyes.
“What memories and observations is my favorite writer sharing tonight?” she asked. Anything for the pleasure of big girls?”
Khyber, like morning light unleashed, grinned broadly, sipped coffee, and continued writing.
Seattle can be a rainy place and the approach to the Women’s University Club offers its members and guests momentary shelter from the elements. Parking on the street is next to impossible, and the nearest parking lot, two blocks away, almost guarantees the need for an umbrella.
There are four cement steps leading up to the massive double doors cut into a rounded facade of stylized and painted woodwork.
When Khyber entered the foyer and closed the door behind him it was as if he had entered another era. The carpet seemed deeper than normal, and together with the leaded glass windows, richly draped in a heavy fashion rarely seen these days, helped mute the road noise from the labored hill traffic just outside the club. Normally a quiet, serene room, today it swelled with movement and loud conversation, betraying the excitement and anticipation of a celebratory event.
Khyber stood for a moment, uncomfortable, gathering in the crowd. Recognizing no one, he carefully navigated across the large entrance hall to the temporary bar set up in a far corner. He requested a beer, but shunned the offered glass.
Seeking a bit of space, he wandered from room to room, not speaking, merely smiling at those who caught his eye. Silently, he admired the ornate furniture and the deeply set fireplaces, no longer used, but kept as if ready for comfortable chairs pulled close on a chilly evening. He sipped his beer in silent contemplation.
She was one of those willowy shaped women with a knack for intimidating men. A
classic black dress accentuated the look and heels bought even more leverage. Her martini glass was full, and it was still early so he assumed she was sober, though her voice sounded a bit thick.
He paused near her. When she smiled, to be polite, he said in his formal way, “Good evening.”
Her eyebrows lifted, showing surprise.
“What do you do for a living?” she purred over the tiny pond of gin.
It was not the most common of greetings. A narrow face, large blue eyes, and light brown hair piled high created an elegant image—an Egyptian pharaoh.
Your lipstick is one octave too red, he thought.
“I’m a writer.”
He spoke quickly and softly, as if his profession were an embarrassment. He sometimes wondered if carpenters or electricians hid similar feelings. He doubted doctors or architects did—at least those whose patients heal and designs get built.
Her extravagant lips posed on the rim of the glass, puckered, her eyes boldly locked on his.
“And what does the handsome man write?”
Now the gin roiled up under the glitz and cascaded quickly over the cataract.
He resisted the impulse to say, Stories that literary agents don’t care to read.
“Fiction,” he replied. “Memories and observations. Mostly, I write stories for children and teenagers. Bits and pieces of my life.”
He took a swig of cold beer and wiped his lips with the side of his hand. His eyes were also a light blue, almost matching hers in intensity, though his hair and complexion were
considerably darker.
Music and laughter sidled in through the open glass doors leading to a patio surrounded by a lush garden. A nearby kitchen belched food preparation noise. Other denizens edged past, clutching appetizers or drinks.
He momentarily forgot her—remembered bitter advice Rick Nelson had offered in an old song after being booed at Madison Square Garden—something about singing at garden parties. Apparently, for Rick, it had not been a happy gig. Khyber had always considered the song dishonest. Would Mr. Nelson really prefer driving a truck to earning a king’s ransom with his voice? Not likely, Khyber thought.
She coaxed him back. “Does the writer have a name?”
“Khyber,” he said. “Spelled the same as the pass.”
“What pass would that be?”
Her question caught him off guard. He wiped his thumb over the top of his beer bottle. Tilting his head slightly he took a long drink—made her wait.
“My father was a mountaineer. The Khyber Pass slices through the Safed Koh Mountains in northern Pakistan into Afghanistan. One of the most dangerous places on earth.”
Just then a black tied waiter arrived. Like the properly trained surgical scrub nurse handing the surgeon a clamp before he asks for it, the waiter’s anticipation was ahead of the cue. He held out his hand to gather the empty beer bottle.
“Another, sir?”
“Indeed,” said Khyber, smoothly making the transfer. “Thanks.”
He knew her next question in advance.
“Have you published any of those memories and observations or those bits and pieces of
your life? Anything I might have read, Khyber…” her lips went flat for an instant—scooped up a rivulet of alcohol, then curved into another teasing smile, “when I was a child or teenager?”
For the barest of moments she shifted her eyes down to her drink as if calculating the depth of the liquid. Her camel eyelashes, long and feathery, cast dark shadows below.
“I haven’t been published yet,” he admitted. “It’s a slow process, but I’m working on it.”
The waiter returned, granting a reprieve from the interrogation.
“Dinner will be served in about fifteen minutes.” He smiled at the lady.
“Would you care for a fresh martini?”
“Indeed,” she mimicked, gracefully placing her empty glass on the round tray. “Thank you.”
“Is it so difficult to become published?” She reached out and touched his arm, almost a sympathetic gesture.
“For me it seems to be.”
He drank again, filling his mouth with the cold beer before swallowing. “It helps if you’re famous. I’m not. Obscure, actually.”
She rested her fingertips lightly on his wrist.
He kept himself from looking downward toward the neckline of her dress, but his peripheral vision captured the edge of a tantalizing zone, a risky mountain pass cleaved through tantalizing territory of another sort.
She lifted her hand and asked, “Are you connected to the bride, or the groom?”
He smiled, revealing a boyish grin and straight teeth.
“Actually, she’s my step-sister.”
His smile faded and his eyes hardened, showed some pain.
“Dad died in an avalanche, and a few years later Mom remarried. That was almost twenty-five years ago. How about you?”
“We were roommates in college. Also best friends, and the nicest person I know.”
Her eyes challenged him.
“My name is Ann. Spell it anyway you like.”
She played ring around the rosy with one painted fingertip on the glass’s shoreline.
“You said you write fiction, but aren’t memories and observations just old facts?”
“I suppose they are,” he replied, “but I take things that have happened to me or a friend, or someone I’ve read about, and try to tell a story in a unique way. Usually elements get exaggerated or changed to make them more interesting.
“In a story I’m working on at the moment, there’s a young girl who accidentally falls into a well and is trapped there alone for some time. When I was nine years old, my stepfather lowered me into a well out at our summer place on the island. I dug with a short handled pick and shovel, filling a bucket with dirt and rocks. He waited up above in the light and fresh air until the bucket was full, winched it up and dumped it, then sent it back down to me. I’ve been terrified of being buried alive ever since.”
He took a long pull on his beer. “It scared the holy shit out of me.”
“You don’t look like the kind of man who frightens easily. Why write only for kids though? Why not create something of interest for grown up men and women?”
He turned his head toward the sounds on the patio, took a deep breath. He hadn’t rehearsed his reply, but it was something he believed.
“Everybody is or was a child. That’s a huge audience. Maybe something I write will help a kid get through a tough time in his life, or an adult might recall and deal with something that happened in their childhood. I’ve used a few books that way growing up.
“My fantasy is to be sitting in an airport somewhere in the world, and see some kid pull my book out of her backpack. I’ll pretend not to watch while she reads because it might freak her out if she notices some guy staring at her, but I’ll glance over every now and then to see if she smiles or giggles at something silly I’ve written.”
He grinned at the thought.
“One little giggle will make all the work and rejections worth it.”
She dipped the tip of her finger into the liquid and brought a clinging drip to her lips. Her eyes never left his.
“I prefer to read big girl stories—about murder, greed, sex. If you write about those perhaps the agents and publishers will like your stories.”
“You could be right,” he said.
He felt warm now, a bit of a buzz started.
“But in order to write well about something I need to know a lot about it. One of the cardinal rules of writing is to write about stuff you know.”
He smiled. “I’ve never murdered anyone and I’ve never had enough money for greed to grab me.”
She touched his arm again, ever so lightly.
“What about sex?”
“I doubt if I could write about it in an imaginative way. Some subjects are very complex and probably require lots more talent than I’ve got.”
He tipped the bottle above his lips. Drained it. Eager to change the subject, he asked,
“What kind of work do you do, Ann?”
“I design expensive clothing for beautiful women. Fabric, color, style—to tantalize and snare the hungry eyes of rich men. Adornment for the female form.”
She brought the delicate glass to her lips and spoke over it.
“You know, creations to inspire murder, greed, and sex.”
The waiter returned. “Guests are being seated for dinner now.”
“Thank you,” Khyber replied. “We’ll be along in just a minute.”
She smiled. The tip of her tongue darted out and touched her upper lip.
“Write something for us big girls, Khyber,” she ordered. “I want to see where your memories, observations, and imagination lead you.”
“It takes a long time from the writing to the published book,” he said. “We writers must be patient. It’s a tedious game the agents and publishers play. Query letters, heartless rejections, and replies that never arrive. There’s a lot of waiting for the phone to ring. A writer without patience is in the wrong business.”
He rattled the empty beer glass—wished he had another.
Ann smiled widely and stepped close, brushing seductive lips to his ear—“Are you patient with your love-making too, Khyber Pass, that dangerous place of Pakistan and Afghanistan?”
Her warmth and scent made him momentarily dizzy.
He grinned as she slid her lips lightly across his cheek, pausing at the corner of his mouth.
“Indeed,” he replied. “ Making love is just like building a pyramid. When done properly both take some time.”
His grin widened until he could almost, but not quite, taste the gin clinging to her lips.
She leaned away—retrieved a matching black rhinestone clutch.
“Here’s my card. Call me at quarter past ten tonight; lets get started building the foundation for one of those pyramids.”
She stretched across the crevasse; her lips briefly hesitated over, but never quite touched his.
“I need to eat, Mr. Writer. I’m starved.”
* * *
The next morning, much too early for sensible people, he began his work. He took a sip of coffee, and then clicked on the Word icon in the dock. Clicked on New Document.
He turned his head and glanced out the window. Darkness filled the expanse, but a hint of light to the east stirred him to gaze inward. He thought of a woman, her voice, her shape, her eyes, and her tantalizing mouth.
His fingers triggered the keys—words shot across the computer screen.
She was one of those willowy shaped women with a knack for intimidating men. At exactly ten o’clock she finished drying herself and dropped the warmed lavender towel on the bathroom’s tile floor. Glancing at the clock, she poured lotion into a cupped hand, propped a slender foot up on the side of the tub, and beginning at the ankle worked her way up. Hurrying now, she leaned close to the mirror and carefully applied fresh lipstick.
“Adornment for the male imagination,” she said to the nude reflection.
It was a coy pose, as if she were flirting with herself. Her lips came alive, fluffed up like a pair of goose down pillows—mocked her twin in the looking glass. A crimson flush, unrelated to the shower’s heat, rode high on her cheeks like the morning sun striking a cold and lonely mountain ridge.
She turned out her bedside lamp. Just as she lay back on the bed, her cell phone rang. Smiling, she closed her eyes.
“What memories and observations is my favorite writer sharing tonight?” she asked. Anything for the pleasure of big girls?”
Khyber, like morning light unleashed, grinned broadly, sipped coffee, and continued writing.
No Chance Encounter, This
The hall seethed with movement and noise,
teenager herding between classes.
He stepped in front of me, an adult out of place,
differentiated mostly by white shirt and tie.
He had two eyes like all of us, but one, unmoving,
stared off course, over my shoulder, sightless.
His good eye eyed mine, working for two.
He minced no words. “I hear you can write,” he said.
He might as well have accused me of breathing.
All of us had been taught the alphabet, the sound and
shape of each letter, the possible combinations.
We’d learned together—
See Jane run.
See Spot jump.
See Bob climb.
Ten years had passed by in the turn of a page—
Nouns. Verbs. Sentences. Punctuation. Paragraphs.
We all had been taught. We all could write.
I told no one I treasured books. Only Mother knew.
She had confiscated the flashlight more than once.
“My name is O’Sammon,” he said.
“I teach the journalism elective.”
“I’d like you to sign up.”
“I think you’ll be good at it.”
Someone had ratted me out.
I did. I was. A teacher made all the difference.
teenager herding between classes.
He stepped in front of me, an adult out of place,
differentiated mostly by white shirt and tie.
He had two eyes like all of us, but one, unmoving,
stared off course, over my shoulder, sightless.
His good eye eyed mine, working for two.
He minced no words. “I hear you can write,” he said.
He might as well have accused me of breathing.
All of us had been taught the alphabet, the sound and
shape of each letter, the possible combinations.
We’d learned together—
See Jane run.
See Spot jump.
See Bob climb.
Ten years had passed by in the turn of a page—
Nouns. Verbs. Sentences. Punctuation. Paragraphs.
We all had been taught. We all could write.
I told no one I treasured books. Only Mother knew.
She had confiscated the flashlight more than once.
“My name is O’Sammon,” he said.
“I teach the journalism elective.”
“I’d like you to sign up.”
“I think you’ll be good at it.”
Someone had ratted me out.
I did. I was. A teacher made all the difference.
