I have been kicking around the idea for a story like this ever since reading Nick Bantock’s beautiful book Griffin & Sabine. I’ve actually got an outline in place and am several chapters ahead. What’s been fun is fleshing out the characters and there story more with each subsequent addition. Plus, you really don’t know for awhile whether these are both men, childhood friends, or lovers. All in good time. I’m not getting too hung up on the editing at this point as I find I am going back to change things as I go. I’ll wait until the end for that. I did go to the bookstore tonight for some additional research and updated it a bit. Will it go anywhere? Will I finish? Who knows at this point? I hope to. In the end we write for ourselves anyhow. Here’s a trifle…
Dear B –
I am writing to you tonight from a chair at my local bookstore. I’m sitting with my left leg crossed over my right, balancing my Starbucks on the armrest in my right hand while writing to you with my left. These words are going into the journal I just purchased for us, the one which I intend to fill with my thoughts and words that you told me you enjoy so much. I selected the brown leather cover instead of the black despite my mood being of the same color this evening. I’m sure it will improve. More on the journal later.
Anyhow, I am here because I am not there. Nor am I at home. Home? Is it home anymore? It’s a house, that’s true. Tonight there’s member of the family missing at the supper table because I had to get out. After yet another argument I thought it best. And so I am here. Seeking solace amongst my friends. Amongst these silent pages and my coffee beans.
Have you noticed that books are more and more of a slim variety of genres? There’s the ever-present memoir. Some poor soul spilling their angst all over the pages. I swear that the book is sopping wet with tears and blood when you pick one up. There’s the historical conspiracy thriller. You know…of the DaVinci Code / National Treasure variety. Everyone’s a conspiracy theorist these days. I swear I read one intro that promised a view into the “cutthroat world of high-stakes publishing.” This made me chuckle. I saw a new entry into that genre tonight called Jesus, Interrupted. Yeah, some overeducated tenured professor sitting in his office “decoded” the New Testament and is going to disprove over 2,000 years of theology and philosophy? No thanks. I’ll stick with Matthew, Mark, Luke & John, as well as Ignatius, Irenaeus, Augustine and Aquinas. Two books of this genre did catch my eye though. It seems our Charles is making a comeback. I saw two new hardbacks, both having to do with his death and the famous unfinished final novel he was working on. Both Drood and The Last Dickens looked wonderful, but at $26 a pop I figured I’d wait for the softcovers.
Then there’s all that Harry wrought. Potter, that is. Dragons, witches, warlocks, vampires. As you know I’m a huge fan of Tolkien and Rowling, but it sure has spread. Not an original idea in the lot. Well…maybe the Twilight series. I’ve heard good things about them but I’ll never read ‘em. There’s more, of course, but I’ll just digress. Suffice to say everything I stumbled across tonight seemed so damned sad. So I bought this journal and scored an open chair to write.
I did try to find our mutual friend but was unable to locate it on the shelves. This got me to thinking. Do you know that the only time I ever found our book on these shelves was the copy I bought for you all those years ago? I’ve never seen it since. I wish it had been there tonight.
As you can see from the photo I did find some of our favorites though. What was that line from The Pickwick Papers?
“Drink with me, my dear,” said Mr. Weller. “Put your lips to this here tumbler, and then I can kiss you by deputy.”
Yes…that was it. In every one of Charles’s books that I’ve read there have been lines like that. He was nothing if not a romantic to be sure. I think that’s where you and I find our common bond with him. The subtle ache of romance within. As I just began reading A Tale of Two Cities this week I doubt I’ll purchase anything tonight. I’m just sipping my coffee, watching the always interesting store patrons, and writing to you.
This brings me to the purpose of the journal. As you and I are unable to talk on the phone due to our busy schedules or email with any regularity at all, I decided to take up the pen again and write to you there. Letters, quotes, song lyrics, snippets…a photo or funny postcard or two. Things of that nature. I will fill its 192 lined pages, place it in a large yellow envelope, and mail it off to you. This will be yours. Ours. You’ve always “got” my writing more than anyone and I thought this would be fun. We get to share so little, so I thought “Why not revisit the ancient and forgotten art of being a pen pal?” Wow…remember them? Remember when you would join a club to get on a list (or something like that) and scan the list of names of other students in states or countries around the world to write to? Do they even do that anymore? I doubt it, as email and the internet has rendered that all but obsolete. Now we have hundreds of pen pals around the world simultaneously. But we lose something in this. We lose the intimacy. The closeness. That special bond of friendship that comes more than with a casual status update on a Facebook page or a few quickly typed lines in an email or discussion thread.
Hell, if it’s pretty good maybe we’ll turn it into a memoir! See? My mood’s improved.
I’ll write again soon my friend. Tousle the children’s hair for me as you’re tucking them in. Tell them it’s from their long-lost hillbilly uncle from the other side of the country. Giggle with them at this joke. If I do no good tonight at least let it be to provide a giggle (f)or three.
©2009 Jeff Walker. All rights reserved.
