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.
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