Chapter 18

The Novelist
Chapter 2

Bernard stared out the window, not typing. From the window, all he could see through the trees were rooftops. Squirrels ran from branch to branch, making a tightrope out of electrical lines when the trees were separated by the road. He wondered how they weren’t electrocuted. He supposed it was because they weren’t grounded or something, but what did he know about electricity? He thought if he was going to be a successful writer, he should learn about things like that. Maybe he would write about an electrician. Ha! What a joke. Him, writing about an electrician.

Bernard listened for sounds from the ground floor of the house. He heard nothing. There had been no front door slam, only one inside the house, so he knew Marcus was still in the house - probably doing what he accused him of doing. Damn computer. He would have liked them if they didn’t steal Marcus from him. He shook his head. He didn’t understand men. He thought it would be so much easier if he were straight. Women, he understood. All his friends were women. Men got on his nerves. Marcus especially.

Bernard shook his head again. He had to get these negative vibes out of his head. Nothing productive was going to come from them. Then, it occurred to him what he could write about that would prevent him from slamming on Marcus: his main character could be heterosexual. A woman. He understood women. That would keep the ghost of Marcus out of his story. If his main character was heterosexual, then she would have a boyfriend, and her boyfriend would necessarily have to be completely unlike Marcus, who was the gayest man Bernard had ever met. What would he have her do? He didn’t know. The heterosexual thing was a lot as it was. He would have to really stretch his imagination to create heterosexual main characters. He thought about drawing on the one time he had slept with a woman, but decided against it. Obviously heterosexuals didn’t feel that way about fucking each other or else they wouldn’t do it. He had found it disgusting, unnatural, and he swore he would never have sex with a woman again.

Bernard stood, focusing on his reflection in the window. He stared at himself staring at himself, absently playing with himself. He stepped away from the window and walked around the room. He looked in his closet. Maybe he would get redressed. Maybe a blouse and nice skirt. That would put him in the mood to write a good heterosexual female. Bernard rarely cross-dressed - he never cross-dressed in public, not even for Halloween. But when he was writing a female character, he always put on a skirt or a dress, something to put him in a more female space. Panties especially put him in that mood, so he went to his desk and opened the bottom drawer. There lay a half dozen pair of panties, cotton and silk, different shades of pink, one with white daisies. He wore the daisies when he was writing young girls. That put him in a little girl mood, and made him think like one. He’d only worn those for a few short stories.

Bernard grabbed a pair of pale pink panties, silk, and slipped them on. He chose silk because his protagonist was going to be beautiful and sexy. People loved beautiful, sexy women. There’s a selling point. But she was a beautiful, sexy what? Maybe he would discover that as he wrote. He thought, as he went back to his closet and pulled out a miniskirt, he should start the story with her at a party. A glamorous party. Bernard grabbed a white silk blouse from the closet and put it on. He loved the feel of silk against his skin, tantalizing his sensitive nipples. He was definitely in a sexy mood. He just had to be careful to avoid becoming pornographic or overly sentimental. Bernard sat in front of his typewriter again and started writing.

Chapter 17

I’m torn today between writing about what is really important, or what only seems really important. Several weeks ago, I saw a show on (I think) the Learning Channel about the biological basis of pleasure, and the consequences of the pursuit for pleasure at all costs. Also, we are involved in wars in Afghanistan, Iraq, and Libya. In the short term, this is obviously a problem, both in the real world, and in this novel - because, after all, Michel is the right age to be drafted, and though I had not planned on this being a war novel, since I am following the events of 2011 in helping to construct this novel, it could very well become one.

But wars are temporary, sporadic. The problem of pleasure is something that will be with us always, something which we have to deal with every day. The show I watched talked about addicted gamblers and addicted athletes, both of whom overdo their gambling or exercising for the pleasure it brings - the gamblers through losing (surprise, it’s not winning that keep gamblers gambling, but losing!) and the athletes through pushing themselves until they feel pain, causing the body to produce morphine-like chemicals called endorphins that bring pleasure to the body. However, none of these characters are gamblers, nor do any of them exercise excessively. I don’t see Michel as the exercising type.

But each of these people are interested in maximizing their own pleasure, some more than others. Sarah finds her pleasure in writing -- secondarily through sex, if she has a competent lover. Michel is interested in both sex and writing in equal measure. Freud would say Michel’s writing was a manifestation of his sexual desire, and for Michel, I could see how Freud would be right. Since he cannot have sex quite as often as he would like -- despite having sex with two different women -- he has to release his sexual tension in other ways. He chose to do it through his writing. As a chronic dreamer, writing seemed the most obvious choice, since he could create his dreams on paper. Jackie’s search for pleasure is almost exclusively sexual, as is Pat’s and Jessie’s. But Jackie’s differs from Pat’s and Jessie’s, who are both sex addicts (much like Donna's friend Maddy, making this another strange episode of fact mirroring fiction), in that she, like Michel, has found an outlet for her sexual energies in her academic work. Her source of pleasure is in discovery.

To follow Jackie through her day is to follow peaks of pleasure chemicals flowing through her body. Jackie wakes most mornings horny, and so goes into the living room to wake Michel, pulling back the bed covers, telling him to wake up and go take a piss so he can fuck her. Michel never objects, just complies.

After cleaning herself up after sex, she makes breakfast. She loves cooking, loves the work, the smells, the slow taste of things as she tries what she’s making, making sure it tastes just right. She makes enough for both her and Michel, not because she particularly cares if he eats, but because she’s making something anyway, and it’s just as easy to make for two as for one.

A warm shower after breakfast brings pleasure to her skin, the warm water rolling over her, the gentle sting of water shooting in small streams at her, the joy of feeling clean.

One of the few things she dislikes is getting dressed. Were it up to her, she would go everywhere naked, out in public, to the store, to restaurants. She doesn’t because it’s illegal. She wonders why it is obscene to show her breasts, but not for men to show theirs. The only difference is in size and, occasionally, the amount of hair on the men’s chests. She wonders what is obscene about the female body -- she finds it beautiful, curvaceous. She understands why painters want to paint women. There is nothing more beautiful in nature. She finds it a shame there are people who find something so beautiful obscene.

After dressing, she goes to class. She loves learning, sits in rapt attention, leaning forward, as if proximity to the teacher could make her learn more. After class, she goes to the library, reads articles, learns more than the teacher teaches, learns the latest advances, cannot wait to see the professor in two days to tell him he was wrong.

After lunch, another time of joyful cooking, she returns to the biology department to do her research. She is trying to prove triple-stranded DNA is used biologically for gene regulation. At first, she was discouraged from doing this work by a professor who did not believe triple-stranded DNA actually existed in the cell, since it required such a low pH to be created in the test tube, but when she read an article that said antibodies were used to show the existence of triple-stranded DNA in cells, and another that showed triple-stranded DNA could be made in a pH of 7.0, close to the pH of the cell, through the use of high concentrations of magnesium, she decided to do the project anyway. The professor, who was being contrary to get a rise out of her as much as anything, was happy to let her do her project, warning her he would be her harshest critic. She told him that would only ensure her work would be as close to perfect as possible. Her research gave her the dual pleasures found in the search for knowledge and in the potential of proving someone wrong who was more educated and more experienced.

After spending most of her day in the lab, she went home and, on weekdays, did homework. On weekends, though, she goes to bars, enjoying an occasional beer, the loud music, the feel of men brushing against her, flirting with her, touching her. She loves picking up men, hoping they want to sleep with her that night, rarely disappointed, the smoke and haze and beer gaze making men try to pick up any woman -- let alone someone as pretty as Jackie. Some shy away from her with her tattoos and piercings, but others are even more attracted, men she would rather go out with anyway. The beer brings on a lightheadedness that is pleasant, fun. The thrill of the hunt adds to that -- the potential for sex only more so, even more than the sex itself sometimes. On those weekends, she ends the day with the pleasant feel of someone’s arms around her, holding her with a comfortable warmth that makes her feel secure. On weekdays, she hopes Michel doesn’t have a date with Sarah, so she can have sex with him before she goes to bed.

This is what Jackie’s days are like, excepting the occasional surprise or impulse, which also bring Jackie pleasure, since she loves the unexpected and embraces change. To Jackie, life is joy, pleasure, the most wonderful thing that could exist. She has a joy in existence Michel, or even Sarah, who also loves life, though she doesn’t celebrate it like Jackie does, cannot understand. Perhaps that is why she and Michel broke up, why they could not work together as a couple. Michel spent too much time complaining about life, while Jackie spent too much time (in his opinion) loving it.

Chapter 16

Today, it is raining. No, that is an understatement. I’ll rectify it by saying I nearly drowned today when I went to K-Mart to get some oil for my worthless, oil-leaking car. The truth (about the rain) is somewhere in between.

I am sure some critic (assuming this novel is worthy of the time of critics) in the future will look at meteorological data to learn if it really was raining on October 13, 2011 in Richardson, TX at 2:00 P.M. -- as if that would give him some sort of insight into the novel. It won’t. It is a simple statement of fact. It is raining, I came home soaked, and Donna saw me and laughed. I pretended to pout. Now that’s something that might be more interesting for critics to think about. Either way, I think I’ll write about rain today.

It was raining and lighting flashed every few seconds, so Michel had his computer off and unplugged (I am only writing now because there is no lightning). He had been on the phone with Sarah, but the lightning scared her, so she hung up. She was afraid the lightning would hit a phone line and kill one of them. She said she had heard of it happening to someone. Michel had not, but decided not to argue.

He sat, looking out the window, watching the rain cut the gray sky into lines, watching the world burst yellow with every lightning flash. Thunder crackled, boomed, rolled. Jackie came up behind him.

“What are you doing?”

“Watching the rain.”

“I love it when there’s lightning, cutting through the air, fusing oxygen into ozone. It smells so good, so sweet.”

“You’re weird.”

“Maybe, but I’m also horny. Wanna fuck?”

“Why? Ran out of things to do?”

“Don’t piss me off, or you won’t be getting any pussy.”

“I get all the pussy I want off Sarah.”

“Apparently not. You’re still fucking me.”

“Your rule, remember?”

“Yep. My rule. So, you gonna come in here and fuck me, or what? What else you have to do?”

“That’s always an incentive. ‘I’m bored. Wanna fuck?’”

“Works for me. I’m bored. Wanna fuck?”

“Gee, since you put it so nicely...”

“Just get your clothes off and get in here.”

Michel stood. Jackie turned and walked into her bedroom. Michel followed. She thought she was in a power position because he had a girlfriend and was still fucking her. But she was the one always asking him to have sex with her, so who really had the power? Michel was not completely aware of the new position he held between them, but he was beginning to. That’s why he smiled. That’s why he followed her into the bedroom every time she asked.

Chapter 15

Michel watched Sarah over the table. She was looking at his first chapter. She looked up.

“Well?”

“Well, they’re colorful characters. Sort of stereotypically gay, though.”

“First chapter. Plenty of room for character development.”

“Not a very long first chapter.”

“Faulkner has short chapters in As I Lay Dying.”

“Well, you’re no... anyway, let’s deal with what we have here . . . All things considered, I kind of like it.”

“Really?” It was the first positive thing Sarah had said about his fiction.

“Yeah. So far, no women -- though one was mentioned -- so I have nothing to complain about. Interesting choice of characters, though. Why gay?”

“Trying to go for as eclectic as possible.”

“You’ll end up alienating a lot of readers that way -- though you will also pick up another distinct group.”

“Fine with me. Most of the people who read are educated and have money. That’s a perfect description of gay men.”

“Well, it’s a definite market. Still, I think you need to get away from stereotypes.”

“I will. Admittedly, these two are sort of like Jack on “Will and Grace,” only stranger, as you’ll soon see -- especially Bernard. But I’ll try to have some other characters who are more “normal” - more like Will in “Will and Grace.” That’s what I had in mind, anyway -- to balance things out and set up a contrast to Bernard and Marcus.”

“Okay. Good luck. I hope you do that. It should be interesting to see how your book comes along.”

Michel smiled as he took his chapter from Sarah. “Thanks. I appreciate the help and feedback.”

“That’s what I’m here for.”

“I hope that’s not all you’re here for.”

“Oh, do you have something in mind?”

“Sure. You want to go rent a movie tonight?”

“Oh. Yeah. Sure. I guess.”

Michel feigned surprise. “Or did you have something else in mind?”

Sarah smiled at him. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”

“Yeah. What about it?”

“Just thought you should know. So, are you going to fuck me or what?”

Michel looked at his watch. “I think I could fit it into my busy schedule.”

Sarah leaned forward. “You better or else you won’t be getting any for a very long time.”

“As much as I like it, I’m not dating your pussy, Sarah.”

Sarah sat back, surprised. “Oh? What happened to you?”

“Nothing,” Michel said. It was the truth. Nothing had happened to him. As far as he was concerned, he was dating her pussy. All the dinners and movies and entertainment were merely ways of making her pussy more accessible - though he did also appreciate her help with his fiction. But he was getting that before he started dating her. So where did the comment come from? Michel was a misogynist, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew Sarah well enough to know what she wanted to hear -- and that it was the surest way to continue having sex with her in the future.

Sarah was pleased. She thought she had finally made some progress with Michel. She would have to think of some way to reward him for it.

Chapter 14

Recently, I have been doing a lot of writing. Not on this novel, obviously, but on short stories. I have been reading from a collection of Donald Barthelme’s short stories, and they have been very inspiring. I’ve noticed that the truly great writers have the ability to inspire other writers. Thus, Milan Kundera, Andre Gide, and Andre Breton (who gave me automatic writing) contributed to this novel. Donald Barthelme now joins this list, since I have written several short stories this week while I have been reading his stories. He, as Gide and Kundera, has actually given me a new way of thinking about how to write stories, which has opened the gates of my creativity.

I don’t doubt this happens with other writers. Homer inspired Virgil, who inspired Dante. Thus, we can expect Sarah and Michel to have inspirational writers as well. I think Sarah and Michel are both influenced mostly by modern writers - writers of the Twentieth Century in any case. They both have in common Kundera, James Joyce, Faulkner. But the differences are interesting as well. Sarah likes Virginia Woolf, Henry Miller, Anais Nin, and Toni Morrison. Michel prefers William S. Burroughs, Nabokov, Andre Gide, and Oscar Wilde.

It was during the time he was seeing Sarah that Michel decided to start writing a novel. He decided, between having the time, and having a girlfriend who was a writer and who could help him, that it was a good time to start writing his first novel. He didn’t know what it was going to be about, but he decided if he was going to make money as a writer, short stories would not do it. He had to write a novel. He decided to tell Sarah.

“Well, you have to know what you’re going to write about before you start it,” Sarah said. She sat forward on her couch, looking at Michel. He had come over quite unexpectedly, so she had clothes on the floor that had previously been on the couch -- moved when she offered Michel a seat.

“Why do I have to do that?” Michel asked. “Why not just start it?”

“You have to have a plot. You have to have characters.”

“So I’ll make up characters. I’ll let them decide where the plot’s going once I make them up.”

“This is stupid. It’ll never work. What will hold it together?”

“Character. Plot doesn’t have to be the only thing holding a novel together. Kundera uses his own experiences to hold some of his novels together.”

“But he still has a plot. Even Gide has a plot in The Counterfeiters, no matter what his intentions.”

“I’ll think of something. Something will come to me as I write it. You want to see it as I write it?”

“You know I’d love to. Let me see your first chapter if you can pull one out of the air using this method of nothing you plan to use.”

“I think you underestimate me.”

“You forget, I’ve read your stuff. And while I must admit, you have gotten better since that awful story “Reciprocation,” you still have a lot of work to do.”

“You know, I was thinking, maybe short stories aren’t my genre. Maybe novels are. Maybe I’ve been thinking too small. I need to think larger. Besides, you gave me the first line of “Reciprocation.” It’s your fault it’s so bad.”

“I’m not just talking about the misogyny.”

“Thanks.”

“Just being honest. That’s the only way we’ll be able to help each other with our writing, remember?”

“You’re right. I just have to remember you’re both my girlfriend and my critic.”

Michel went home, undaunted. He believed he could write a novel without having to worry about the plot. Character development. If you had really great characters, who needed plot? Or, if you have a really cool idea. How about if he wrote a novel about a novelist writing a novel about a novelist, ad infinitum, ad absurdum? Now that would be interesting. You’d still have to have character development in order to drive it - that is, the writers themselves would have to be interesting and quirky and strange in order for you to want to read about them or their books or their characters in their books.

Then Michel had an idea. He went home and began writing.

Michel’s Novel
The Novelist
Chapter 1

Bernard Lochs sat in front of his typewriter, staring at the blank page. Nothing. Nothing was coming. He thought if he had a computer, this would not be happening. No. He knew better than that. He hated computers. He was uncomfortable. That’s what it was - he was uncomfortable. It was the damn clothes he was wearing. He stripped. There, that was better. He was free now. Aired out. He sat in front of the computer, placed his fingers on the keyboard, and . . . the insistent pounding on the door made him jump, then stand to open the door. Marcus had his arms crossed, his lips pouting. He looked at Bernard. Marcus had not expected to see him naked.

“What do you need, Marcus? I’m trying to write.”

“Trying to write naked, huh? I’m so sure. Who are you showing off to in the window?”

“Anybody who wants to look. You think I care?”

“No. No, I don’t. I don’t think you care. I don’t think you care a thing about anyone or anybody but yourself.”

“What? What’s this all about?”

“Where were you last night? You promised. I was lying in bed all horny, waiting for you, and you never came home.”

“I came home.”

“I was asleep. You didn’t even wake me.”

“You looked so adorable there, baby, I couldn’t disturb you.”

“You know you can always disturb me if you’re gonna give me some dick. Where were you?”

“Out with Megan. We went to hear a band play at Molier’s. You didn’t want to go, remember?”

“Still, you didn’t have to come home so late.”

“You’re always on the computer chatting with every guy who says he’s gay, so I’m surprised you even notice when I’m not here. You never want to do anything or go anywhere with me anymore. How am I supposed to feel? You prefer those people in the chat rooms and Facebook over me...”

“I do not!”

“Oh please. You do so. The only time you care what I’m doing is if I want to go out. Then you go on about how we never spend any time together. It’s so convenient. I don’t know why you want me to sit around the house bored when you’re in the other room with the door shut, chatting with people you’ll never meet.”

“Look, I’m not having this discussion right now,” Marcus said, turning to go down the stairs.

Bernard huffed, and said, “Of course not. You never do. Now I suppose you’ll go sit in front of the computer for the next ten hours...”

“They at least don’t bore me. And you can forget about getting any tonight.”

“I don’t need you, bitch. I’ve got myself.” With that, Bernard slammed the door, sending echos past Marcus, descending the stairs.

Bernard sat in front of his typewriter again. Nothing. It was worse than before. How could he write after getting into a fight like that? If anything did come to him, it would only be vindictive, pure poison aimed at Marcus. Not that he thought Marcus didn’t deserve it. He did. But that was another story for another time, when he was calmer and could see things in a clearer light. Right now, he wanted to start his next novel. He didn’t know where to begin.

Chapter 13

Yesterday I heard from the agent who was reading my first novel, Malthusian Cockroaches. He didn’t like it. He said my characters didn’t sound like high school Freshmen, that he didn’t believe any high school offered Economics (even though mine did, and since it was a rural high school in Alaska, I figured an urban high school in a middle-classed suburb of Chicago surely would, but whatever) and that it didn’t hold his interest. I don’t care if they’re going to an economics class or a history class, so that can change. And I can make them sound less mature. I guess I’ll have to get to work on that.

Still, it was disappointing to hear someone say they have no interest in representing something I have worked three years on and have had many others tell you they can’t wait to see it in print because of what it’s about. I wish I knew more about what the problem was, but the agent said he had a lot of other things to work on and so he didn’t have time for me. I guess that’s what I get for being introduced to him by a mutual acquaintance rather than working my ass off like other new writers. The other explanation is that I sent out the work before it was ready, which is likely, since I’ve only had one person read it. I had planned to get others to read the book and help me with it before I sent it out. Now I definitely will. Still, it’s disappointing.

Writers live in a world ruled by disappointment. We wouldn’t have become writers if we hadn’t been disappointed by something. Life, lost loves, lack of love. And then, when we decide to become writers, we are disappointed to hear in workshops that our characters are too flat, the plot unbelievable, the symbolism too symbolic, the dialogue too stiff, and any number of other problems you would have never thought of outside workshops. Then let’s suppose you have the story “finished.” First of all, you rarely have a story finished, so you are disappointed every time you pick up the story to see it is not as good as you want it. Then you decide it is “good enough” - usually by having a number of people say it’s finished, that it and you are genius, etc. -- and you send it out to a half dozen magazines (if it is a short story) only to receive a half dozen rejections. Then you look at it again, try to figure out what’s wrong with it, fix a word or two, then send it out to another half dozen places. To be rejected. Repeat as instructed.

Then the glorious day comes when you finally get your short story published in a tiny literary magazine that can only afford to pay you three contributor’s copies, and when you get it, your name is wrong in the table of contents, and the editor has revised the story, changing dialogue and dialect, altering description, making the story as much hers as it was yours -- all without your permission, destroying what you perceive to be the integrity of the piece. This disappointment is almost as bad as having never been accepted at all.

That’s why Michel and Sarah both knew about disappointment. They were both writers, and so had experienced all the disappointments peculiar to writers, as well as the disappointments of life. Sarah was disappointed by every boyfriend she had -- except one (forget about Kim -- he’s in the future) -- and she disappointed herself by letting him get away.

She was in love with Robert, but did not think Robert was in love with her. He had never said he loved her, though they were friends and went places together -- dinner, the movies, the occasional bar. She had told him she loved him, and he always smiled, reached out his hand for her jaw, and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Frustrated, Sarah began dating other people.

That’s when she met Matthew. He was handsome, went places with her, and told her he loved her. She still went places with Robert, but he never seemed jealous when she wanted to go out with other men. But when she started seeing Matthew, he went to her apartment and told her he loved her.

How could he do this to her? There had been so many opportunities before she met Matthew, and now he had to come over her apartment and tell her he loved her? Where was he before Matthew? She had loved him -- still loved him, though she would never tell him that -- but he was too late. She was with Matthew, and it wouldn’t be fair to him -- especially since she loved him. Robert hung his head, and tears trickled down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said, and walked out of her apartment. Sarah wanted to run after him, but felt it would be too much like a romantic movie if she did, so she let him go.

A month later, Robert was seeing someone else. Sarah saw him with his new girlfriend at the movies. She was now alone, having broke up with Matthew after he crashed into her parked car while driving drunk to her apartment. Robert smiled and waved. Sarah returned the favor, but didn’t say anything, turning away as she stood in line.

Michel mostly disappointed himself. He didn’t understand women and didn’t care to. He lost every girlfriend he had because of it. He kissed a guy once, to see what it was like -- if he could make anything come out of it -- but the man’s mustache tickled his lips when he kissed him, and that bothered him, so he didn’t go any further. Whenever he was in a new relationship with a woman, he wondered if he should have gone through with it. He was a man. He understood men. Surely he could get along with them better than he did with women. But then, he always heard his gay friends saying how they wished they were straight, because they didn’t understand men, so he decided nobody understood anybody, so you might as well fuck who you like. But most of Michel’s disappointments came in being unable to has sex with someone he was really attracted to. Until he met Pat and Jessie. Until he was given permission to sleep with Jessie, he had never realized he was attracted to little girls. Once he had been with Jessie, though, he found he could not get enough of her. Pat didn’t care. She had plenty of other lovers.