The Writer

This story is copyrighted 2006 by Kaereni, may not be excerpted, reprinted, reproduced, or reposted in any form without the express written consent of the author. Visitors to this web site may read or temporarily download pages but are not permitted to modify or re-distribute them.

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Author's Note: I normally don't dedicate stories anymore, but this one is special. It goes to an unknown fan I met and had a cup of coffee with after a book signing. I would like to publicly say to her, "Thank you for understanding." ~Kaereni

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I first saw her at a book signing. She was thinner then I had imagined and had her red hair pulled back in a ponytail. Though she was the person from the photographs in the back of the book, she looked lost and almost childlike amid the stacks of her books at the signing table. As I moved forward in the line I could hear her pen scratching on the pages and murmured replies to people fawning over her.

And then it was my turn. Clutching her two books I handed them over and gushed how much I loved her work. My words of phrase died mid sentence when I saw her eyes behind the glasses. There was a weariness there that transcended tired and went all the way too exhausted. I said the only thing that came to me, "I'm sorry."

She stopped signing and looked at me. At first I could see she was confused but then she signed heavily and glancing at her watch said, "It's ok, only forty-five more minutes." She handed me the books back and the next person moved in pushing me off to the side before I could reply.

As I walked away I opened the books to run my hands over her signature. In the second one she had added the inscription, Thanks for caring, above her name. I sat outside the bookstore and waited. The first time she looked up and out there was a shock of recognition followed by a nod. Ever so often she would glance out and see me sitting there watching her. Soon her look changed to a smile that would brighten a cloudy day.

For the remaining time she would sign and glance up between people see me, nod and smile. It was closer to an hour and fifteen minutes before she finished the last person. I watched as she shook hands with the manager before coming out. Walking out she sat down next to me and sighed. Without looking at me she asked, "Care for a cup of coffee or something?"

I was flabbergasted, to be offered a chance to talk with one of my favorite authors was something more then I could ever ask for. "Would I? Sure" I said the words tumbling out in a rush.

She looked at me and smiled, "Like a breath of fresh air she came into my life." Standing, "Let see if the coffee is as bad here as I expect it to be."

We walked down to the food court side by side, me clutching my precious cargo, and her shaking out her hand from writers' cramp. We got fast food coffee and after a taste I pushed mine off to the side. She looked at it and then at her own cup. "Yes every bit as vile as I imagined it would be," she said after sipping it. She looked at me and asked, "Why did you wait around?"

I had prepared for this question while waiting but as I opened my mouth to answer, the prepared speech fled leaving me high and dry. Looking at her I ended up saying simply, "You looked like you needed someone to talk to."

She let out a small snort of amusement, "Over a bad cup of coffee, in the middle of a food court in..." She looked around confused for a moment and then looked at me, "Where am I anyways?" She shook her head as if to ward off the cobwebs, "No matter, they all look the same inside." She sipped her coffee and grimaced at it, "Let me guess, you have a book, a story idea that would be great for me." When I didn't reply she looked at me, "No? You want to break into the biz and want my help."

"No" I said looking at her. I looked down and added, "I just wanted to know why you're so sad and if I could help somehow." She didn't reply for so long I finally had to look up to see her face.

She looked at me a long time and once I made eye contact with her she said, "Your serious aren't you." When I nodded she continued, "I could spin you a tale of lost loves and passion, but somehow I think you would know better."

As she talked I could feel the age and weariness on her shoulders. Though she was only a year or two older than I, she talked as if she had walked the earth for ages and had seen and experienced it all. For her, that day, I became a confessor instead of a fan. I saw the woman behind the words; the longer she talked the more I felt a kind of kinship with her.

"You would think book signing would be exciting for an author. And you would be right. It is exciting the first day or two." She sighed and looked at her hand, "What you don't see or understand is that I end up sitting behind tables all day, hearing the same words over and over again. Oh I love this or that... When's your next book coming out?" I guess she saw confusion in my eyes, "If one person says it's great you feel good, if one hundred say so the feeling wears thin, if a thousand say the same thing over and over, you just want it to end."

I was floored I had never thought about it from her side. Imagine going from city to city, sitting in malls signing books. I had always thought of it as a dream job. But even the best job gets old after awhile. And yet, you still have to keep signing a smile of your face.

She looked at me, her haunted eyes brimming with tears, "The worse part is what you hold tightly against your breast, isn't what I wrote." She dabbed at her eyes with a napkin, "What people love, what they sing praises for, is an abomination of my baby. It's not even mine anymore." She sighed heavily and sipped her cooling coffee. "God this really is vile," she said as she pushed her cup away.

I looked at her not understanding, "You didn't write these?"

"When you write and sell to a publisher they assign you an editor." Her voice took on the tone of a school teacher lecturing, "The editor's job is to make your baby fit the needs and wants of the publisher. He does not work for you nor have your best interests in mind. What starts out as a simple love story turns into a tangled web of intrigue. Oh sure you can refuse to change anything in which case the publisher will not publish you and you have to pay back what they paid you in the first place. Or you go along and make the changes the editor wants and watch your child, your creation die in the process."

Her eyes bored holes in mine, "Then you see your book in the stores. You know you made it, you're an author. When it starts selling and you get the royalty checks you really feel good. You can buy that new car, or dishwasher you have been wanting. Even so, there is a little voice in the back of your mind reminding you that this is not what you created; it is not your vision."

I could not help myself, "Why write another then if it was so hateful?"

She smiled sadly, "The money was too good."

I nodded understanding, "I understand."

The force which her hand hit the table sent the cups dancing, "No, no you don't. Writing is supposed to be fun. It turned into work, a job, just like any other." She took a couple of deep breaths and sighed, "I put my heart and soul into each word and then the bastards rip and shred it to make my baby fit their cubbyholes. This last time was even worse then the first."

She looked down and said in a whisper, "I can't take it anymore. I used to love sitting in front of the typewriter watching the words spin out from my fingers." She looked at me, the tears rolling down her cheeks, "Now, I look at the typewriter, think about writing again and shudder."

"Then you need to quit," I said my hand reaching out to grasp hers.

"Yes." Without another word, she squeezed my hand, and stood. As she walked away she stopped, turned back towards me, "Thanks for listening," and gave me one of her winning smiles.

She gave up publishing her work after that day, and went back to being mortal. She eventually started to write again, but this time she wrote for her own pleasure.