For All The Write...

For All The Write Reasons

Guy Wallace’s mind raced as he drove along the motorway. Every mile he drove, was bringing him nearer and nearer his destiny. What would he find when he got there? What welcome would he be given? With his mind still full of the possibilities of the encounter at the end of his journey, he pulled off the motorway and headed out into the Lancashire countryside to the small Northern town. He really felt that this was the start of something. This pilgrimage to find his hero would be the start of his own story, he was just convinced.

He wound his way through the town, following the map on his Sat Nav. After searching and digging online, Guy had managed to find the current address for James Douglas. Guy had been obsessed with the reclusive author for years. Guy had been so inspired by the works of James, he had become a writer himself. At twenty-seven years old Guy had published two novels. His books had sold moderately well and while debated what his next novel should be about, he busied himself writing for magazines and newspapers. It would only be a matter of time before the literary world, and the wider world in general, took notice of Guy’s talents. The word genius, he felt, was a stretch, but only slightly. If he managed to have a legacy like the great James Douglas, he would be a proud man. 

 He turned onto the narrow cobbled street and pulled up. He strolled down the street, savouring the moment and his surroundings, number seventeen. He took a deep breath. This was it. The moment he’d been waiting for. He would actually be face to face with his idol. He knocked on the door of the small terraced house and waited. And waited. No answer. He knocked again, harder this time, more impatient. He peered through the window. Through the net curtains, he could see no signs of life. 

This was definitely the right place. This was the address he’d found for the famous author. As far as anyone knew, James Douglas was residing here. Douglas had been a massive part of the 1990s literary scene. His book signings had been more like rock concerts. He had even appeared at Glastonbury and other music festivals. He had also appeared on the cover of a 1997 rock album by the cult band the Eccles Sheds. He had been known by the media and by fans as JD, after the whiskey of the same name. He had been riding a wave of popularity and his books and his personality seemed to capture the era perfectly. His books had sold millions and even those that didn’t read his books, became fans of his appearances on television.  

And then around the year 2000, as the 1990s were giving way to the new century, as Britpop and grunge was giving way to the tinny pop music, as real-life film stunts were being replaced by CGI, and as life as the world knew it was changing, James Douglas vanished from public view. There were no more talk show appearances, no award ceremonies, no more book tours, in fact, no more books. He hadn’t published anything in twenty years. And since then myth and legend had grown about the reclusive author. There were the inevitable comparisons to JD Salinger, and Harper Lee. It seemed that an author becoming a recluse was quite the stereotypical and predictable thing to do. And Guy was here to get the story. 

Come on, he chunnered, taking a step back on the pavement to look at the full length of the house. Where are you, James? Minutes later, after taking one last look at the place, he gave up. The author was either not home, or not answering the door. Mind you, he thought, that’s what made him a reclusive author. Guy walked slowly back to the car, reluctant to give up on his mission. He reached the car and was about to climb in, when a figure walked around the corner. The man was in his early fifties and he carried supermarket shopping bags full of groceries. It took Guy a moment to recognise him. Then it struck him. It was actually him. 

Legendary author James Douglas was standing on the pavement in front of him. His appearance had changed since his 1990’s rock-star heyday. His flowing locks of dark hair had given way to a thinning cropped hair-cut, and his once stick-thin figure had filled out a little over the years. He had once looked like a 90’s rock star, now, he looked like the aging rock musician, in faded jeans and a check shirt, his wrists adorned with beads and leather bracelets.

‘You’re James Douglas, the author. I’m a huge fan of your work. I’m a writer myself, actually.’ Guy said. 

The man simply shook his head, adjusted the shopping bags in his hands and walked on.

‘Can I talk to you for a moment?’ Guy asked.

The author side-stepped around him and walked away down the street, towards his house.

‘Why did you stop writing?’ Guy called out after him.

Douglas stopped, his back to Guy. He paused for a moment before glancing back over his shoulder.

‘What did you say?’ James Douglas asked.

‘You haven’t published a book since 1997. Why did you stop writing?’

Douglas glared at him for a long moment, anger and fury in his eyes. Guy couldn’t quite find the words to say under the sudden scrutiny of the author. Douglas finally turned and walked away without looked back. Guy watched as Douglas went into his house, slamming the front door shut behind him.

Guy felt the adrenalin rushing through him. Here he was, so close to the famous author, to his hero, and the story that would make the world sit up and notice Guy’s genius. Guy had a way with words, he was aware of his own talents, he had a style and wit all of his own, all he needed was the right topic, the right reason for everyone to get on board with his gift. And that lay with getting the scoop on the reclusive author. He’d come this far, was this close. He wasn’t about to call it quits just yet. 

He crossed the road and knocked on the door. This time he knew James Douglas was home. A moment later, Douglas answered the door, a large kitchen knife in his hand.

‘What do you want from me?’ He growled.

‘Woah, put the knife down. I only want to talk.’ Guy said, hands raised.

Douglas waved the knife, pointing inside.

’I’m cooking. Can you please leave me alone?’

Douglas slammed the door shut. Guy had to jump back to avoid the door hitting him in the face.

‘Fine, okay. I’ll go.’ Guy said to the closed door. 

Shaking his head in frustration, he crossed the road and jogged back to his car. As he drove home, his mind replayed the altercation with the author. That wasn’t how it should have gone. He should have been shown in, and they could have conducted the interview, and Guy could have left with the scoop. 

The next morning, Guy parked up his car around the corner from the writer’s house. It didn’t feel right just to pull up right outside, to stake out the place like he was a cop. He walked around the corner, staying on the other side of the street from the house. How should he play it this time? He wandered slowly down the street. Still pondering his next move, Guy leaned against the wall, facing Douglas’ house. He rummaged in his coat for his cigarettes. 

As he smoked and thought of his next move, he eyed the author’s house as though he was an archaeologist, and the house over the road was a new dig site waiting to be discovered. How should he handle things this morning? Yesterday, he’d gone in like a hack reporter, banging on doors, demanding the answers. And he’d been sent away. This time he had to play things differently. He would wait and see how things played out. 

An icy winter breeze blasted him. He shivered, tugging his coat tighter around him. How long would he wait? Was he wasting his time? He felt like a Shaolin apprentice monk seeking entrance to the monastery. He shifted and stamped his feet in attempt to generate a little warmth in his limbs. 

And he waited. As he waited, leaning against the wall, thinking, smoking, he went over how this would go. Would he catch the author the next time he ventured out? Maybe he would appreciate the efforts he was going to in order to speak to him. Maybe Douglas would do what hadn’t done in decades, and grant him an interview. Or maybe Douglas would call the police. 

As the morning turned to afternoon, the clouds overhead darkened. Guy eyed the clouds warily. You could always count on the Northern weather. Even in the middle of an August summer heatwave, the day you decided to have a barbecue or head to the beer garden, you could guarantee that your plans would be scuppered by the weather. The day chosen would be grey skies and torrential rain. 

Guy sighed as he felt the first drops of rain falling. He shook his head. Here it came. He held out his hand, palm upwards, in the spattering rain.

Sure enough, ten minutes later the rain was lashing down. He stared at the house, hoping for movement, a figure at the window. Would the author take pity on him? Or would he be glad of the turn in the weather so Guy would pack up and leave? Did the author even know he was out here watching and waiting in the pouring rain?

Guy turned his coat collar up and rubbed his arms. He tried to switch off, to forget about the rain that was soaking him, seeping into his shoulders and his hair. He tried not to dwell on the pointlessness of loitering outside the house of a known recluse. Finally he managed to switch off. He managed to lose track of time, of what day it was. 

He didn’t register the darkness falling. He did not notice the glow of lights in the windows of Douglas’ house. He was drifting in and out of sleep, strange dreams coming to him before the cold and rain brought him round again. He half-forgot why he was there, knowing only that he must wait, he had to hang on. Something would happen if he waited. He must wait. Guy was completely drenched and shivering with the cold, standing in the light of the street lamp, when the front door opened. Light spilled from the doorway, silhouetting the figure standing there. 

‘How long do you plan on staying out there?’ Douglas called.

Guy wiped the rain out of his eyes on his damp coat sleeve and staggered forwards on unsteady legs.

‘Come on.’ Douglas said. ‘I’ve just opened an Irish single malt. I think a drop of whiskey will warm you up.’

Guy nodded and stumbled across the road, still unsure if he was dreaming. The evening seemed to have a surreal, dream-like quality, as his hero, his literary idol, ushered him into the living room. Douglas peeled his wet coat from his shoulders, and handed him a towel.

As Guy dried himself with a towel, enjoying the warmth of the room, he took in his surroundings. The living room had the cool, alternative vibe of an old record shop. The walls were filled with dusty framed photographs from Douglas’ glory days back in the 1990s. There were framed magazine covers featuring Douglas, back when he’d looked like he should have been playing bass guitar for an indie band, rather than writing the novels that defined the literature of a generation. 

When Guy had dried off, Douglas handed him a glass of whiskey and invited him to sit down.

‘What were you thinking? Waiting out there in the rain all day? Are you out of your mind?’

‘I didn’t know what else to do.’ Guy said. ‘Maybe you’d have done the same back in the day.’

‘How’s that?’ Douglas said.

‘When you were starting out, If you knew where your writing hero lived, you would stake out their place, wouldn’t you?’ 

‘My writing heroes have been dead for years.’ Douglas said.

Guy went on, explaining his point, enjoying the whiskey and the debate with the writer he held in such high regard. He pointed to one of the pictures on the wall.  A younger version of Douglas glared out from the photo frame. He was standing next to the grave of Charles Barton, the science fiction writer who had died in the late 1960s. 

‘What if he was still around when you were young?’ Guy asked.

‘Are you suggesting that had Charles Barton still been with us in the 1990s, I’d have lurked outside his home and made a nuisance of myself, just to get the chance to speak to him?’ He paused for a moment, then grinned. ‘Yes, I probably would have.’

‘You were the voice of your generation, you had such talent, a rare gift.’

‘You call it a gift. It rather became a curse after a while.’ Douglas replied.

‘You were celebrated, you had it all. Everything you wrote was devoured and raved over by readers and critics alike.’ 

Douglas sighed, giving him a long look.

‘I’m a writer, you’re a writer.’ Douglas said, finally.

‘I’m not worthy to be mentioned in the same breath as you. I have published two novels and a collection of short stories, but I’m still working at it. If, by the time I’m done, I’m half the writer you are, then I’ll have done well.’ 

‘You’re a writer,’ Douglas insisted, ‘tell me, what’s the pay-off?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘The pay-off, the reward, the moment when you think, yes, all this is worth it?’

‘The pay-off for me is getting published, getting the recognition. To have people sit up and take notice of my work. That is the pay off.’ Guy replied.

Douglas said nothing. The conversation seemed to have run dry. Not wanted for the evening to be over, Guy changed the subject slightly. 

‘Why did you stop writing?’ Guy asked.

‘Who says I stopped?’

Without saying another word, he showed Guy upstairs, through to his study, his writing room. Guy gasped as he took in the small room. The room was crammed with notebooks, files and papers. Guy stared in awe and the decades’ worth of writing filling the room. 

‘You didn’t stop writing.’ Guy whispered.

The room was absolutely stuffed full of unpublished work by the famous author. The pages littering the place would cause a literary furore if released, and yet here the papers lay scattered like they were fliers for a new takeaway place opening on the high street. 

‘I may have stopped publishing my work, but I didn’t stop writing. I could stop being an author, but couldn’t stop being a writer.’

Guy simply stared at the archive, lost for words. His opinion of the author had completely changed. Guy had assumed that having shunned the celebrity author life-style, he had given up writing, as he had publishing nothing for years. Now, he saw, that he was a writer who had decided to take his writing back underground.

‘I need another drop of whiskey.’ Douglas said.

They spent the next few hours discussing writing, books, the 1990s, and life in general. Finally, Douglas showed Guy to the door. They shook hands on the doorstep.

‘Thank you so much for your time.’ Guy said. ‘It means a lot.’

‘Of course. I’ve enjoyed talking to you.’ Douglas admitted.

Three weeks later, Douglas headed out to the supermarket. He noticed a couple of shoppers staring at him as he went my. He turned down the aisle and caught sight of the newspaper front pages. Plastered across most of the pages was a grainy photo of himself in the street. His name was emblazoned in large lettering. A number of magazines were running with the same story. James Douglas, the reclusive author, breaks his silence in exclusive interview with reporter Guy Wallace. 

I couldn’t stop being a writer, says reclusive author, James Douglas.

Douglas swore and yelled, causing more people to stare. He stormed from the store, eyes stinging with tears at the betrayal. It just confirmed his suspicions of the outside world. This was why he didn’t want anything to do with anyone, was why he had shunned the publicity. Why couldn’t they just leave him alone? Guy Wallace had come to see him, declaring himself a fan of his work, a fellow author, and all he had been after was the story. Douglas charged back along the street, and kicked the front door shut behind him. 

The next day Guy knocked on the door. No answer. He cupped his hands against the door and called out, hoping his words reached the author.

‘James, it’s me. I’m sorry.’

Guy was just about to turn away, when the door opened. Douglas appeared in the doorway. He looked upset.

‘I think you’d better come in.’ He said.

He ushered the younger writer in as though he was a headmaster ordering a naughty pupil into his office. In the living room, Douglas poured them both a whiskey. 

‘Is it not a bit early for a drink?’ Guy asked.

‘Not at all. It’s never too early for a whiskey. Now, drink.’

For a moment they sipped their whiskies in silence, then Douglas spoke.

‘You lied to me.’

‘I got caught up in the moment. Here I was talking to my hero, my idol, the guy who inspired me to write in the first place. And I knew that the rest of the world would be as amazed as I was to hear from you. It just got out of control. I told a few people and before I knew it, I was being asked for the story.’ Guy said.

Douglas rubbed his face, the stress all too much for him.

‘I don’t want the publicity anymore. That’s not what it is about these days. I grew tired of it all, of the fame, of the fortune. There was always a party, a literature festival, an interview, the premier of a film based on my books. And it all got too much for me. I couldn’t carry on like that. I suddenly felt so uncomfortable in the media spotlight. I had started out as a writer and had become some kind of literary show-pony. The party lifestyle just burnt me out. I knew that if I carried on that way, the next thing people would be reading, would be my obituary. I just wanted to get back to the writing. I just wanted to write something I could be proud of. I no longer wanted to sit on a TV chat show sofa and be this character I had created. I knew that what I wrote would be acclaimed by critics and devoured by readers, but that actually meant nothing to me. It’s that old thing, the worst thing that can happen to you, is that you get what you dream of. Look at the Beatles, they worked hard to hit the big time, and when they got there, it wasn’t enough. They went off to India looking for answers, looking for enlightenment. That’s how I felt.’ Douglas said.

‘Can I use this? Can I write about this? There really is a massive audience for this. People want to hear from you, to hear about you.’ Guy said.

‘You want to write another article about this?’ Douglas asked.

‘With your permission, I think your story, all this would make a great book.’

‘I want no part of it. You keep me out of it.’ Douglas said, a look of disgust on his face.

Guy waved his hands, to dismiss the suggestion that he would have to do anything.

‘You wouldn’t have to be involved at all. All you’d have to do is talk to me, we can chat, you can get things off your chest, and I’ll go away and write a book about it. I’d do any promoting, any interviews. I will explain that you value your privacy. I will be the go-between, as it were. Once we’ve finished our sessions, you’re done. All you have to do is wait for the royalties to come in.’

‘I don’t want any royalties. You write the book, you do the work, you sort it. I don’t want a penny.’

‘So you mean you will do it?’

‘Yes. Come back next week. You can supply the whiskey.’ He smiled. 

‘Deal.’ Guy said.

For the next few months, Guy spent hour after hour, interviewing James Douglas. He would record the sessions on his tape recorder and also make notes. When he returned home to his girlfriend, Lisa, late at night, he would enthuse about how the interview and the book he was gathering was just golden. Lisa would reply that she had never seen him so happy. Like piecing together an intricate puzzle, the book began to take shape. 

After the end of their last session, when Guy was certain he had all he needed, he finished the last of his whiskey, and told Douglas that he thought they were done.  At the doorstep, Douglas went to shake his hand. Guy hugged Douglas tight, patting him on the back.

‘Thanks for everything, James.’

‘No, thank you.’ Douglas said, a tear in his eye. ‘I’ve rather enjoyed our little chats.’

Guy smiled, the ‘little chats’ had meant a lot to him and could put him on the map once the book came out.

The book was published to great reviews and much excitement. The public were eager to read the author’s life-story and discover what had happened in the years since he’d vanished into obscurity. It was lauded as a valuable insight into the life one of the country’s greatest living authors. Literary critics and the reading public raved over the book, also praising Guy’s writing and handling of the subject matter. 

Guy was invited on radio and television to promote and discuss the book. He would talk about the book and also about his time spent with James Douglas. A lot of the critics were saying that a torch had been passed from Douglas to Guy Wallace. This was just wonderful news. He was suddenly the hottest writer around. 

With the publication of the book, and the reception it had received, Guy found that he suddenly had everything he had ever wanted. For as long as he could remember, he had wanted to be a successful writer. After years of craving recognition, he was now being applauded and celebrated. He was finally getting the recognition he deserved. 

Lisa was absolutely thrilled that his work was being rewarded. She took him out to a city-centre restaurant to celebrate his success. When they entered the Indian restaurant, a thunderous round of applause went up. He was shocked to find the place full of family and friends. He was hugged and congratulated and told by those closest to him, how very proud of him they were. 

One evening, he and Lisa attended a prestigious book awards in Manchester. His book was short-listed for an award. Not that he would win, of course. He was still overwhelmed by the success he was having, to win the award would just be too much to take in, it was delightful enough that he was short-listed. 

On the day of the award ceremony, family and friends got in touch to wish him luck. Guy replied to all the messages saying he doubted very much he would win. His friends and family would be there in the crowd to support him. 

When his name was read out as the winner of the award, Lisa had burst into tears, telling him that she loved him. This was all just too much. This all felt like a dream. He headed up to the podium to accept the award. Looking back, he wouldn’t be able to recall what he said in his acceptance speech. He held the award aloft, as the crowd, made up of literary big-wigs, his peers, and his girlfriend, and family and friends, cheered and applauded. He smiled. This was his moment. He gave the audience one last wave, and stepped off the stage, clutching his award.

This was his night, he had finally achieved everything he’d ever wanted, the thing that he’d worked for all those years. There was champagne and celebrations. His friends and family were congratulating him on his success. He had finally made it. This really was the stuff dreams are made of. 

Later that evening full of champagne, in one of the city’s swankiest bars, he headed to the bathroom. As he was in the toilets washing his hands, he stared at his reflection in the mirror. His smile faded.  Away from all the praise, all alone, the rewards and adulation suddenly seemed hollow, empty. It was everything he’d ever wanted and yet it wasn’t enough somehow. 

The next morning, when he woke up, his girlfriend rolled over in bed and congratulated him again. 

‘You must be thrilled, love. That award,’ she pointed to the glass trophy, ‘is for your work.’

‘Yeah, yeah, I’m delighted.’ Guy managed.

He still felt empty, somehow. It was as though he’d dined on a wonderful meal, but didn’t feel full, didn’t feel satisfied. 

‘I can’t wait to tell all my friends. I’m meeting up with the girls this afternoon. I’ll be telling them all about my boyfriend, the award-winning author.’ Lisa said.

While his girlfriend went out with her friends, Guy paced the living room. He couldn’t explain this emptiness inside. He was finally reaping the rewards for his years of toil over the written word, and yet it didn’t thrill him the way he thought it would. 

His mobile phone pinged as several messages came in. There were two text messages from friends congratulating him and saying they’ll have to meet up for a drink to celebrate his well-earned success. One message was from his agent, one of the broadsheet newspapers wanted to do an interview for their Sunday supplement. 

Nobody knew how he felt. Nobody understood. He smiled as a thought occurred to him. There was one person who knew exactly how he was feeling. He grabbed his car keys and climbed in the car.

Douglas opened the door and gave him a knowing look.

‘I think you’d better come in.’

As they drank a new bottle of single malt whiskey, Guy explained how he’d finally achieved the success he had dreamed of, and it didn’t feel as good as he’d hoped.

‘I once asked you what the pay-off was with your writing. You told me it was the success and recognition. Well, you’ve got your pay-off. You have it.’

Guy said nothing, not sure quite what to say.

‘You know what the pay-off is for me?’ Douglas said. ‘It’s when I read my work back, go through my pages, and see the words and the worlds that I have created. That’s the pay-off. Knowing I wrote this. That’s why my study is full of notebooks. I write for the writing. The thrill I get is from writing, the craft itself.’ 

Douglas grabbed a book from the shelf and turned it so Guy could see the cover. Guy was surprised to find that the author had read his debut novel.

‘You’ve read that? Read my first novel?’ Guy asked.

‘Yes, I like to know who I’m dealing with.’ Douglas said.

‘What did you think?’

‘It was a good story, it had a beginning, middle and end. It was a bit clunky in parts, but, it was a good read. But, what really matters, is what you think.’ Douglas replied, tossing the book to him. 

‘Open it.’ Douglas said.

‘Sorry?’ Guy asked.

‘Open it and read.’

‘But, I wrote it.’

‘Yes, you did. Now, read your words.’ Douglas insisted.

Guy opened his novel at a random page, and started reading. He was quickly lost in the scene described on the page. He had originally written the book, but was now looking at the text with fresh eyes. It was really rather good. The words flowed better than he remembered during the difficult writing, redrafting and editing of the book.

He really was rather pleased with what was reading, with what he’d written. He smiled at Douglas.

‘Now, there’s the pay-off.’ Douglas said. ‘That look in your eyes, that thrill, that’s it. That’s why we do it.’ 

‘I really think you have something there. I’ve never seen it that way before.’ Guy said.

‘All you have to do is write one true sentence. Write the truest sentence that you know.’ Douglas replied.

‘I like that. The truest sentence you know. I think I’ll pinch that line.’ Guy replied.

‘Feel free, I nicked it from Ernest Hemingway.’

By Chris Platt

From: United Kingdom