A Book Hitting the Wall ...Part 2

We are all apprentices in a craft where no one ever becomes a master.
—Ernest Hemingway

Nanette

I'm working with a ghost writer who's an actual ghost—Sir Palmer Couch, the mystery writer.

We have a practical arrangement that enables him to go on writing despite his being deceased.

I'm his avatar in the material realm and we work comfortably together producing crime novels.

And we've become great friends and I call him Harry—his other titles are too stuffy.

Our first collaboration, Cold As Death, hit number one on the New York Times bestseller list—even Oprah oohed and aahed over it.

Harry taught me a lot.

“If you’re describing a murder in graphic detail, Kent, make sure the reader feels emotionally involved.”

I liked that. I realized my previous writing did more to invoke isolation than reader involvement.

Harry and I were interviewed on television—Harry being the silent partner, so to speak, since only I could hear or see him.

Still, his answers to the most probing questions were brilliant. I began at first to feel awe, and then by gradual declension to become dissatisfied, despondent and depressed.

Harry was the real genius behind the novel—I was exactly what he said—a mere hack.

“You’re looking peeked lately, Kent.”

He gazed at me compassionately, “Maybe I’ve been pushing you too hard.”

I shook my head. “No, Harry—it’s not that—it’s me. I realized I’m a sham. You were right about me—I’m just a hack.”

“Well, perhaps I was a little harsh, my boy—you’ve come a long way since then. You told me yourself how you’ve grown.”

“Yeah, sure Harry—grown rich because of you. Face it—I’m a light-duty imitation of you. You’re the heart and soul behind the novel—I’m just your errand boy.”

Harry protested, but I’d made up my mind. I went into seclusion—took a small beach house in Florida on the Gulf coast and didn’t come back to New York for six months.

Harry was waiting in the study when I got in.

“Did you learn anything?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I grimaced, “what a poor slob of a writer I am.”

“You wrote in Florida?”

“Oh sure—reams and reams—sentimental slop, I’m sure.”

“Let me see it.”

I opened my suitcase and tossed him my draft of In the Cold Ground.

He sat by the fire leafing through it and I went on up to bed—I was completely drained.

The next morning, Harry was ecstatic. “You did it, Kent! I believe I’ve made a writer of you.”

“What are you talking about, Harry?”

“Your passion—the feeling in this book. It’s you Kent. It’s genuine, it’s deep and it’s real. Don’t you see? You just had to go and get your own pain. This is brilliant.”

It turns out Harry was right. The novel rocketed up the bestseller lists, doing even better than Cold As Death. Harry was as proud as if I were his son.

One day, just before Christmas, he called me aside.

“Our collaboration has been beneficial for both of us, Kent. You got me out of this house and opened up the world to me again. I’ve decided to move on.”

“You mean you’re going to the light?”

Harry rolled his eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Kent—not that rot! I’ve found another young writer to mentor. She’s delicious—even worse than you were. I’ve already thrown her book at the wall, so to speak.”

“Gee, that’s great, Harry—who is she?”

“Her name's Nanette. Turns out she’s one of Hattie’s descendants—even looks like her—the same auburn hair.”

“Um, remember Harry—you’re dead.”

“You don’t think I’d cultivate her for romantic purposes, do you? I’ll turn her into a Charlotte Bronte—she’s not like you, Kent, she writes romances.”

“Sounds like another best seller’s in the making.”

Harry paused and his eyes grew warm. “Don’t worry, Boy, I’ll come back and visit. She’s quite an attractive girl, really and you two might just hit it off.”

“So, you’re a matchmaker now, Harry?”

“Just let me give you a word of advice—don’t build a house to suit her tastes.”

“I won’t Harry. Actually, I’ve become quite fond of this one now, although it’s a bit big and lonely.”

Harry winked. “I have a feeling it won’t stay that way long.”

© 2019, John J Geddes. All rights reserved

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