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talonkarrdeTheo met her in a dark street, after a long night of alcohol that tasted even cheaper than it cost. He had taken a wrong turn a street or six back, but he was doggedly going forward, sure he would eventually find the right path when he saw her, just about to round the corner. She wore a long, dark dress with a high belt, holding something round in one hand and something long in the longer. He squinted and for a second thought he saw a dagger in her hand, but then she turned and it must have been a trick of the light; all she had was a round handbag with a face on it in one hand and nothing at all in the other.
His unsteady steps echoing down the alley drew her attention, and she paused and turned.
"Lost?" she called out. He took a few more steps to her, trying his damnednest not to stagger like the drunkard he was, knowing that he must always make a good impression. Even in his state, though, his mind demanded that he answer her with wit, and started working on something. A few steps later, and he thought he had it.
"We all drift upon the rivers of destiny, miss, and we all end up where we ought to be." Pretty good, he thought, for who-knows-when-in-the-morning and eight-to-sixteen drinks in. His philosophy professor would be proud. Probably.
Her gaze sharpened, and for a brief instant he thought he saw the dagger again, and there was a moment where he thought this was absolutely the wrong way to be stumbling- er, walking. But his feet didn't get the signal, and then she smiled, and he forgot all about it.
"A writer, are we?" She asked him, with a deep, rich voice that sounded somehow both celebratory and somber, at the same time.
This time, his mouth answered on autopilot, having said the line far too often for a young man in his twenties.
"One to rival the greats," he boasted. "Er- I've yet to find a publisher, but know you this, miss, the world shall know my name." He nodded to punctuate his words, winking at her and expecting her to laugh and be charmed.
Instead, she simply looked him over, and he felt ever so small, so insignificant, in a way that he would ever struggle to describe. The silence built, and built, until he couldn't stand it anymore, and searched for anything at all to say.
"I just... need one break. One is all. The world will know me. I would bet anything on it. Er, anyway, what's... what's... your name?" Slick. So slick.
"You can call me Mel." she said. "That's close enough to the one that the world knows me as." She sized him up again, before he could think about her words, and then reached out to touch him.
"Just one break, Theo?"
The moment her hand reached his cheek, he knew that he would always remember the dark pools of her eyes. The curve of her lips, holding back a tremor. And the lightest of touches, a touch that he never was sure if it happened at all, or if he simply wanted it to enough that he imagined the sensation.
The cops found him the next morning still laying in that alleyway, sound asleep. Not the best part of town, but fools are often lucky, they remarked.
He never told anyone that story, though he recounted it to himself in quiet mornings and solitary evenings and through the halls of dream most of all. Night after night, week after week, month after month; it didn't happen every day it but it never left him. He recalled it differently each time - this time, she was wearing a nun's habit, instead of a dress. The next, her handbag a severed head, still dripping with gore, though neither of them commented on it. The meeting after that, she wears a crown and holds a scepter, and is clearly the queen regent. She wears a laurel wreath, and buskins. She wears a pantsuit, and cowboy boots.
Each time, they repeat the same lines to each other, and he feels like he is a lake, being filled steadily with ideas and images and purpose. She fills him until he is full, and then he writes. A month later, Theodore Alison's book takes the world by storm: Of Danae, a story about a princess and a god, raging against destiny, horrific events, and what befalls man when they disregard the gods. His publisher signs him to a ten-book decade-long deal on the strength of his freshman novel, and overnight, he becomes the star of the publishing world.
He wins the yearly award, and his name is known most of the world over. He sells the movie rights, and there are still a few languages that Of Danae has yet to be translated into, but he feels very, very good.
Except for one thing: overnight, she's gone from his thoughts and his dreams. Try as he might, he can't remember what she looked like, or what they said to each other. All he remembers was that he was very drunk on the streets, that he met someone, that he wrote a story for her, and now, that there is a particular hole where she used to be.
His next book comes out a year later, and it's called Eithne, and it's about a young man who finds a young woman, falls in love with her, loses her, and spends the rest of his life trying to find her again. Although he goes through the tour and the publicity, he knows - before anyone else even reads it - that it's not as good as his first. The critics mostly pull their punches. His first book was so transcendent, after all, and of course everyone goes through a sophomore slump, and yes, it's a bit derivative, and no, the ending isn't quite as good, and, yes, it does kind of feel like it's reaching, and well- he stops reading the reviews.
His editor calls him and tells him to take it easy, that there's no rush on the next one, to let the ideas marinate. Publisher speak for 'could you maybe re-do the first book and not this one' At the signings, his fans give a token effort to ask about his second book before returning to his first. He understands the unspoken question but doesn't know what to tell him, and so tells them nothing at all.
Instead, he spends three years wandering cities, earning nothing more than bruises, hangovers, and muggings for his increasingly desperate time. After three years, he has no ideas that he hasn't had before, and the publisher starts making noises about breach of contract, and so he writes a book. His publisher doesn't quite drop him after that, but there are no more celebratory parties or long readings; the book comes out to no fanfare and no advance and, as he expects, the critics consider it open season on him now, and he very, very much avoids the reviews.
His publisher does drop him after the next book, which, honestly, is a relief for him.
He spends the next two decades living, doing odd-jobs to get by, and resolutely being someone else from who he used to be. He thinks about the fame and fortune that he once had, and he thinks of how lucky - and unlucky - it is to be struck by lightning. He's lived a little more, and done a bit more research, and thinks he knows what happened, once upon a time - but also knows what happens when you call the attention of the gods to you, and he thinks he's gotten away rather light, considering.
Instead, he writes, here and there - character sketches and short stories, novellas and scenes, love found and lost, gods spurned and angry - but only for himself, and not for anyone else. He doesn't introduce himself as a writer to anyone, and is thankful that the world forgets quickly and has a very short memory.
As he searches through two decades of throwaways and drabbles, he sees a piece that might connect to another piece - a young girl who has a terrible secret; a wise old woman who weathers any storm. And then he sees a few more connections, and a few more, and something in his mind stirs as he pieces together one more story; one last story.
It takes him a week to find all the pieces, to put them all together, and to string each one to the next. Before he finishes, he thinks about what this means. Once upon a time, he was a young man, brave and bold, but all too cocky; now he is an old man, measured and thoughtful, and he wonders what he wants out of his next meeting.
He finishes his book and titles it: Melpomene.
And then he hears an expected knock on the door, and he rises to meet his visitor.
His unsteady steps echoing down the alley drew her attention, and she paused and turned.
"Lost?" she called out. He took a few more steps to her, trying his damnednest not to stagger like the drunkard he was, knowing that he must always make a good impression. Even in his state, though, his mind demanded that he answer her with wit, and started working on something. A few steps later, and he thought he had it.
"We all drift upon the rivers of destiny, miss, and we all end up where we ought to be." Pretty good, he thought, for who-knows-when-in-the-morning and eight-to-sixteen drinks in. His philosophy professor would be proud. Probably.
Her gaze sharpened, and for a brief instant he thought he saw the dagger again, and there was a moment where he thought this was absolutely the wrong way to be stumbling- er, walking. But his feet didn't get the signal, and then she smiled, and he forgot all about it.
"A writer, are we?" She asked him, with a deep, rich voice that sounded somehow both celebratory and somber, at the same time.
This time, his mouth answered on autopilot, having said the line far too often for a young man in his twenties.
"One to rival the greats," he boasted. "Er- I've yet to find a publisher, but know you this, miss, the world shall know my name." He nodded to punctuate his words, winking at her and expecting her to laugh and be charmed.
Instead, she simply looked him over, and he felt ever so small, so insignificant, in a way that he would ever struggle to describe. The silence built, and built, until he couldn't stand it anymore, and searched for anything at all to say.
"I just... need one break. One is all. The world will know me. I would bet anything on it. Er, anyway, what's... what's... your name?" Slick. So slick.
"You can call me Mel." she said. "That's close enough to the one that the world knows me as." She sized him up again, before he could think about her words, and then reached out to touch him.
"Just one break, Theo?"
The moment her hand reached his cheek, he knew that he would always remember the dark pools of her eyes. The curve of her lips, holding back a tremor. And the lightest of touches, a touch that he never was sure if it happened at all, or if he simply wanted it to enough that he imagined the sensation.
The cops found him the next morning still laying in that alleyway, sound asleep. Not the best part of town, but fools are often lucky, they remarked.
He never told anyone that story, though he recounted it to himself in quiet mornings and solitary evenings and through the halls of dream most of all. Night after night, week after week, month after month; it didn't happen every day it but it never left him. He recalled it differently each time - this time, she was wearing a nun's habit, instead of a dress. The next, her handbag a severed head, still dripping with gore, though neither of them commented on it. The meeting after that, she wears a crown and holds a scepter, and is clearly the queen regent. She wears a laurel wreath, and buskins. She wears a pantsuit, and cowboy boots.
Each time, they repeat the same lines to each other, and he feels like he is a lake, being filled steadily with ideas and images and purpose. She fills him until he is full, and then he writes. A month later, Theodore Alison's book takes the world by storm: Of Danae, a story about a princess and a god, raging against destiny, horrific events, and what befalls man when they disregard the gods. His publisher signs him to a ten-book decade-long deal on the strength of his freshman novel, and overnight, he becomes the star of the publishing world.
He wins the yearly award, and his name is known most of the world over. He sells the movie rights, and there are still a few languages that Of Danae has yet to be translated into, but he feels very, very good.
Except for one thing: overnight, she's gone from his thoughts and his dreams. Try as he might, he can't remember what she looked like, or what they said to each other. All he remembers was that he was very drunk on the streets, that he met someone, that he wrote a story for her, and now, that there is a particular hole where she used to be.
His next book comes out a year later, and it's called Eithne, and it's about a young man who finds a young woman, falls in love with her, loses her, and spends the rest of his life trying to find her again. Although he goes through the tour and the publicity, he knows - before anyone else even reads it - that it's not as good as his first. The critics mostly pull their punches. His first book was so transcendent, after all, and of course everyone goes through a sophomore slump, and yes, it's a bit derivative, and no, the ending isn't quite as good, and, yes, it does kind of feel like it's reaching, and well- he stops reading the reviews.
His editor calls him and tells him to take it easy, that there's no rush on the next one, to let the ideas marinate. Publisher speak for 'could you maybe re-do the first book and not this one' At the signings, his fans give a token effort to ask about his second book before returning to his first. He understands the unspoken question but doesn't know what to tell him, and so tells them nothing at all.
Instead, he spends three years wandering cities, earning nothing more than bruises, hangovers, and muggings for his increasingly desperate time. After three years, he has no ideas that he hasn't had before, and the publisher starts making noises about breach of contract, and so he writes a book. His publisher doesn't quite drop him after that, but there are no more celebratory parties or long readings; the book comes out to no fanfare and no advance and, as he expects, the critics consider it open season on him now, and he very, very much avoids the reviews.
His publisher does drop him after the next book, which, honestly, is a relief for him.
He spends the next two decades living, doing odd-jobs to get by, and resolutely being someone else from who he used to be. He thinks about the fame and fortune that he once had, and he thinks of how lucky - and unlucky - it is to be struck by lightning. He's lived a little more, and done a bit more research, and thinks he knows what happened, once upon a time - but also knows what happens when you call the attention of the gods to you, and he thinks he's gotten away rather light, considering.
Instead, he writes, here and there - character sketches and short stories, novellas and scenes, love found and lost, gods spurned and angry - but only for himself, and not for anyone else. He doesn't introduce himself as a writer to anyone, and is thankful that the world forgets quickly and has a very short memory.
As he searches through two decades of throwaways and drabbles, he sees a piece that might connect to another piece - a young girl who has a terrible secret; a wise old woman who weathers any storm. And then he sees a few more connections, and a few more, and something in his mind stirs as he pieces together one more story; one last story.
It takes him a week to find all the pieces, to put them all together, and to string each one to the next. Before he finishes, he thinks about what this means. Once upon a time, he was a young man, brave and bold, but all too cocky; now he is an old man, measured and thoughtful, and he wonders what he wants out of his next meeting.
He finishes his book and titles it: Melpomene.
And then he hears an expected knock on the door, and he rises to meet his visitor.
no subject
Date: 2024-07-24 12:26 am (UTC)no subject
Date: 2024-07-25 06:34 am (UTC)I'm a bit rusty. I have to say, it's good to be back, and good to be reading everyone!
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Date: 2024-07-24 01:00 am (UTC)Great entry!
Dan
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Date: 2024-07-24 03:08 pm (UTC)I like it.
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