Nobodies Page 5

  “Raise the irony . . .”

  “Sacrifices must be made for the common good. Any leader will tell you that.”

  “Increase the difficulty . . .”

  “Humanity needs a hero, John. Not another coward or another ‘average reader.’ We have plenty of those already. Humanity needs a leader.”

  Feeling the force of his mentor’s vision—a spotless empire of sanity, courage, and happiness—John wiped his eyes and sprang off the chair, nearly dropping the shotgun on his mentor’s foot. After testing a few pens on the back of his only remaining pamphlet, John found one with ink and began mapping out his brave new world.

  “We’ll increase the irony . . . make it completely inaccessible . . . maybe even write some of it in Latin . . .”

  “Can’t do any harm.”

  “Maybe we can even put little cyanide tablets inside, you know, to really test their willpower.”

  “No argument here.”

  “Once they understand the message—if they understand the message—it will be that much more rewarding.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “And if they don’t survive the message . . .”

  “The loss is no disaster.”

  John stopped writing and turned to his mentor. “Ready to save the world, Dr. Swift?”

  “One suicide at a time.”

  WRITER’S BLOCK

  You want to write, but you have nothing to say. It’s been proven. By family and friends and exes. You’re too Canadian to complain.Too young, too spoiled, too boring. You haven’t lived. You haven’t lost. You haven’t suffered. Your only complaint is that you have no complaints.

  So you write about writing. About trying to write. You try to write about trying to write. And you fail.

  First, you try on a few styles, hoping to find one that fits:

  ERNEST HEMINGWAY

  It had started to rain. She sat at her desk and stared at the blank page in the typewriter. She thought about the style she would use for her story and about her favourite writers and their styles. She got up and grabbed a bottle of beer from the refrigerator and poured the beer in a glass that had been sitting on the shelf beside another glass. She drank the beer. Then she put down the glass and walked back to her desk and sat in her chair. She wrote a fine and true first sentence.

  CHARLES DICKENS

  It was the best of sentences; it was the worst of sentences.

  HENRY JAMES

  On a most devastating, tumultuous night, she sat poised over the page like a clenched wild dog, a vicious beast of an almost indescribable quality, until—frustrated by that most distressing, demoralizing, and disheartening of ailments: writer’s block—she swiftly stood, approached the cabinet, poured herself a large (but not embarrassingly large) glass of that undignified amber drink, returned to her study, rolled up her elegant sleeve and—dispelling every distraction, every counter-productive thought—began to write her monumental (though slightly awkward and ill-conceived) first sentence.

  WILLIAM SHAKESPEARE

  Shall I compare thee to a starting line?

  Thou art more clumsy and more [three-syllable adjective]

  T.S. ELIOT

  Writing is the cruellest art, breeding

  Tired narratives out of old experiences, mixing

  Metaphors and similes, stirring

  Readers’ expectations with dull plots.

  Speaking of plots, you think of a good one. Predictable, but reliable.

  You start a vomit draft. No names, no settings. Just outlines. Arcs. Shapes.

  J. woke up and

  [insert activity]

  Usually, she would

  [insert routine, background information]

  [This new activity] allowed her to

  [insert positive internal developments resulting from external developments]

  and J. felt that everything would be

  [insert optimistic platitudes, foreshadowing symbolic significance of new activity]

  J. wondered what [Love Interest 1] would think of [this new activity] considering

  [insert Conflict 1: unrequited love]

  J. concluded that [Love Interest 1] would be unimpressed, as always, but

  [insert Conflict 2: inability to accept rejection]

  J.’s family and friends felt

  [insert Conflict 3: disapproval of Love Interest 1]

  and begged J. to pursue other men.

  You stop to refill your glass. And stretch. And brainstorm the end of Act One.

  What does J. want? you ask yourself, as if expecting to know the answer.

  J. wants what everyone wants. A good story, well-told. In which she is the central character.

  What do you want? you ask the page, as if expecting to read the answer.

  The page replies, I want what you want.

  J. always wanted

  [insert comic anecdote about minor obstacle]

  but she never

  [insert pathetic ending to comic anecdote about minor obstacle]

  However, today J. finally overcame [minor obstacle] and vowed to ignore

  [insert Conflict 4: social, political, familial influences]

  as well as

  [insert Conflict 5: influences beyond her control: fate, circumstance, the will of the Gods]

  She would, from this day forward, always

  [insert resolution towards self-actualization]

  by

  [insert distinguished determination to determine and distinguish between distinguishing factors of pre-determined distinction and distinctive non-deterministic factors within her determination]

  But all that goes without saying.

  [insert conversational, self-conscious, self-deprecating remark, breaking illusion of narratorial authority and objectivity to illicit reader’s sympathy through ironic admission of (false) humility]

  And what I want, you tell yourself, is poetry. Life-altering, life-affirming poetry. On the page and on the stage. In mind. In body. In action.

  Poem 1: “Aesthetics”

  Art for its own sake

  is never always never out-of-date.

  (At least, not at this rate.)

  Poem 2: “A Poem Whose Title Is Longer Than the Poem”

  Is not worth reading.

  Or writing.

  And (starting now) the title is misleading.

  The lies deepen with every word.

  Every syl la ble.

  Every l e t t e r.

  Every .

  Poem 3: “Forty Seven Words for Snow”

  I read somewhere

  That Inuits have

  Forty seven

  Different words to describe

  Forty seven

  Different types of snow.

  I thought this would be

  A good subject for a poem.

  But I’m not sure

  Where to go with it.

  (I have to stop now.

  That’s forty seven words.)

  You love words but have no clue what to do with them. Like boys. You worship from afar. You fantasize. Idolize. Romanticize. Someone should tell you: when you worship, you belittle. When you approach, you retreat. Words won’t love you unless you let them. Unless you think you’re worthy of their affection. Words fear you more than you fear them. Like boys.

  Your story isn’t working. Even the page can tell. You need to write something real. Something personal. Start small and expand. Forget plot. Forget story. Start with a sentence. An idea. Hell, start with a verb. All you need is a word. And a boy. In that order.

  Start with a sentence. A style.

  JAMES JOYCE

  First sentence. Not the second. Second can’t come till the first. Sounds philosophical. Phi
losophicale. Pale ale. Good for the glands. Good for the soul. Writing equals soul. Soul equals glands. Glands swollen. Soul swollen. Soul-swilling sloshing soul-swab-bing sipping.Yes. Good first sentence. Will write. Yes.

  LEO TOLSTOY

  All good first sentences are alike; all bad first sentences are bad in their own way.

  WILLIAM CARLOS WILLIAMS

  so much depends

  upon

  a good first

  sentence

  written with authority

  and power

  beside the other

  sentences.

  WILLIAM FAULKNER

  because if it could just be the two of us me and the first sentence in some hell somewhere and I could do something dreadful I would say Father I have committed plagiarism it was not my first sentence it was someone else’s

  SAMUEL BECKETT

  No words. Never words. Blank page. Blank pen. Blank mind.

  First wine. Then words. First word. First sentence.

  Go on. Can’t go on. Go on.

  So

  [insert return to main narrative, apology for digression]

  J. called [Love Interest 1] to tell him

  [insert internal developments (which were inspired by external developments) and external developments (which were inspired by internal developments)]

  [Love Interest 1] asked why J. was really calling.

  [insert J.’s rambling, unconvincing response]

  Unconvinced by her rambling response, [Love Interest 1] hung up.

  [insert J.’s despair]

  Walking down the street,

  [insert plot twist: chance encounter with Love Interest 2, followed by clichéd conversation, number exchange, and successful first date]

  J. was

  [insert happiness]

  After a few months of dating, J. introduced [Love Interest 2] to her family and friends.

  [insert Conflict 6: disapproval of Love Interest 2]

  J. disowned her family and rejected her friends, but eventually

  [insert Conflict 7: disturbing discovery about Love Interest 2, confirming suspicions of family and friends]

  J.’s relationship with [Love Interest 2]

  [insert gradual decline of affection, resulting in break-up]

  Poem 4: “Dear Diary”

  What would you do

  with Love Interest 2,

  considering that 1

  was not very fun?

  Should I look for 3

  or possibly 4?

  Should I forget about 2

  and struggle no more?

  Seeking guidance, J.

  [insert unsuccessful phone calls to friends and family]

  Then, seeking comfort, J.

  [insert unsuccessful phone call to Love Interest 1]

  Then, seeking wisdom, J.

  [insert alcohol consumption]

  Then, seeking the sweet relief of death, J.

  [insert time-consuming search for accessible bridges and tall buildings]

  J. puked in an alley, blacked out on a bus, and woke up in jail with bruises and a hangover.

  [insert recovery]

  A week later, J. called [Love Interest 2] and apologized.

  [insert melodramatic, cathartic conversation]

  J. and [Love Interest 2] agreed to try again.

  [insert optimistic moral message]

  But

  [insert pessimistic moral message to override optimistic moral message]

  J. and [Love Interest 2] were finally

  [insert ironic, unrealistic happy ending]

  Poem 5: “Untitled”

  Sorry.

  I couldn’t

  think of anything

  clever.

  How about

  this:

  Poem 6: “Writer’s Block”

  [leave space blank]

  THE LOVE SONG OF J. ALFRE D KILLORAN

  “Women will never love you,” my brother informed me, “unless you know how to tame them.” Frank opened his textbook to a page entitled ‘Mating Habits of the Lowland Gorillas’ and slid it across the lunch table. “See what I mean?”

  “No.”

  He pointed to a gorilla: chest puffed, fists clenched, teeth bared. “What do you have in common with him?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Exactly. If you want Cindy to like you, you have to look like him.”

  “I don’t have any chest hair.”

  “I’m not talking about chest hair, Jeff.” He closed the textbook. “I’m talking about seduction. I’m talking about control. If the man’s not in control, he’s not a man.”

  Were you in control of Emily, I wanted to ask, when she dumped you for the football moron?

  “There’s a science to it,” he continued. “You have to treat it like an experiment. Research, prepare, analyze—”

  “Sounds romantic.”

  “You want my help or not?”

  “I’m still waiting to hear something helpful.”

  He took a deep breath and cleared his throat. “Okay, Casanova, listen carefully . . .” Twelfth graders think they have all the answers. “If you want to get girls—if you want to get Cindy—you have to have the mind of a gorilla to go with the body.”

  Emily’s new boyfriend certainly fit these criteria. Perhaps Frank was onto something.

  ***

  EXPERIMENT 1: THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO FRANK

  Plan A: Staring (a.k.a. “Alpha-male”) 1

  QUESTION: Will Cindy respond favourably if I stare at her in class?

  HYPOTHESIS: Yes.

  PROCEDURE: 1. Enter classroom.

  2. Sit in assigned seat.

  3. Stare at Cindy.

  VARIABLES: a) She responds positively: smiles, winks, blows kiss, etc.

  b) She responds negatively: throws something, tells teacher, tells police, etc.

  c) She does not notice.

  RESULTS: She did not notice.

  CONCLUSION: Attempt Plan B.

  ***

  “And if staring doesn’t seem to work,” Frank added, “she’s only testing your perseverance. That’s when you become aggressive, like the gorillas.”

  “Are you suggesting I punch her?”

  “That would probably get her attention.”

  “What if she punches back?”

  “She’s a girl. It won’t hurt.”

  “Is that how you got Emily to like you?”

  “I didn’t need to punch her. I just got her drunk.”

  “Do you have any wine I can borrow?”

  “Look. You just have to remind her that you’re the most important person in her life, whether she’s aware of it or not.”

  “What if she doesn’t want me to be—”

  “All girls want you to be, trust me. They love whoever loves them the most.”

  “I guess that’s only fair.”

  “Oh, yeah. Girls are always fair when it comes to love. It’s like a sport to them.”

  “So I guess the football moron loved Emily more than you did.”

  He looked away. “I guess so.”

  “Otherwise, you’d still be dating.”

  “That’s right.”

  “And she’d still love you.”

  “Something like that.”

  DIGRESSION:

  For all his encouragement, Frank never had much faith in me. Whenever he could, he’d remind me how Cindy was out of my league, how he would have a better chance of wooing her, how after two years of pining the best I could hope for was the girl in math class with the lazy eye. Whenever Cindy would pass us in the hall, Frank would pat me on the back and say, “Go get ’em, champ,” like a patron
izing father who is all too aware of his son’s limitations.

  ***

  Plan B: Aggression (a.k.a. “Primal Dominance”)

  QUESTION: Will Cindy respond favourably to some form of physical assault? 2

  HYPOTHESIS: No.

  SUB-QUESTIONS: a) Is Frank an idiot?

  b) Is Frank deliberately misleading me?

  SUB-HYPOTHESES: a) Yes and b) Possibly.

  PROCEDURE: 1. Enter classroom.

  2. Sit in assigned seat.

  3. Gauge Cindy’s mood.

  4. If neutral/negative, punch her shoulder.

  5. Ask her out.

  SUB-PROCEDURE: After execution of Plan B, interrogate Frank concerning his intentions/loyalty. If results are suspicious, disown Frank.

  VARIABLES: Too many to count.

  RESULT: Experiment abandoned.

  CONCLUSIONS: Confirmed cowardice.

  Consider Plan C.

  ***

  “If punching doesn’t work, I have one more idea.”

  “You’d like to see me in prison, wouldn’t you?”

  “If it works for gorillas, it’ll work for you.”

  “Prison?”

  “No, my plan.”

  “Oh.”

  “It’s complicated, so pay attention . . .”

  ***

  Plan C: Sensual Movement (a.k.a. “Mating Dance”)

  QUESTION: Why bother?

  HYPOTHESIS: No clue.

  PROCEDURE: (Cannot remember steps.)

  RESULT: N/A

  CONCLUSION: Spared dignity.

  ***

  “You’re out of options, Jeff.”

  “No, I’m out of your options.”

  “Don’t blame me if Cindy doesn’t like you. She’s allowed, you know.”

  “Was Emily allowed?” 3

  “After a suitable period of time, yes.”

  I studied his stoic green eyes, his poker face lips, searching for signs of duplicity.

  “Are you trying to screw things up with Cindy?” I finally asked.

  “What?”

  “Don’t lie to me.”

  “I’m your brother. Why would I do that?”

  “Because you’re my brother.”

  ***

  EXPERIMENT 2: THE GOSPEL ACCORDING TO JEFF

  Plan A: The Sensitive Poet 4

  HYPOTHESIS: Contrary to Frank’s “alpha male” approach, and based on the romantic films I’ve seen,women frequently seem fascinated by tortured, sensitive men. Therefore, if I appear “dark” and “mysterious,” Cindy will most likely develop feelings for me.