I don’t remember being an idea.
It must have been strange being pulled from human’s mind bit by bit, my very existence in fragments of space and time dependent on the click of a typewriter keyboard. My first recollections go back to my days as an ignored, imbecile manuscript, finally a tangible collection of words and phrases on a sickeningly thickly stapled stack of flimsy paper. Now of course I try to forget that scornful period of coffee stains, red pen, and sallow skinned sticky notes, but at the time, it was the best place a growing idea could be. With each passing day something immeasurably exciting would occur. Additions were the absolute best news, because a part of me, maybe the human equivalent of an idea or feeling, would experience the most pleasurable spurt of growth and abundance. All other forms of revision were tolerable enough, but cuts had me moping for days on end until I realized how light and concentrated I felt without their extra weight. But of course, this was only the beginning. When word got out that I was to be published, some extraordinary metamorphosis occurred. I was now a being, a complete and perfected story, and living was a wonderful feeling. Like a caterpillar emerging from his delicate cocoon, I was finally a novel, a beautifully unique butterfly.
My final form was an honorable but soft-spoken, hard cover first edition. Needless to say, I looked stunning on the shelf. Next to all the busy covers I stood a proud sea crest turquoise, shining and elegant but not too ostentatious. My binding was of a tough but welcoming texture, and shone golden as soft sand. And as for my pages, they fit perfectly; because some heavy novels are too congested, page after page, to be physically welcoming to read, and some flimsy soft covers simply worm around in one’s hands to a point of extreme exasperation. On my cover, in crisp silver capitals, the name of my creator, Norton Juster, was inscribed with valor, and I could not have worn his name with more pride. As a knight bearing a royal crest of arms, I set off into battle, ready to meet head on whatever my young life would throw at me.
My universe consisted of a cozy, well-lit bookstore; the kind one might pass into just to breathe its glorious scent on a rainy day. Dust and warmth intermingled to stew the perfectly balanced stereotypical library-smell, an aroma of delicate whispers, crinkling pages, cups of steamy coffee and sweetly stale air. Without any idea of the outside world I was perfectly happy perched on my display shelf, sitting a proud front row volume next to the chatty and somewhat obnoxious “Pride and Prejudice” section of books, and to my right the “Gone With the Wind” works, whose southern drawl was a comfort in my youth as opposed to the former’s persnickety British accents. No matter what hour, there was always the steady hum of conversation, singed with the padding of curious feet and the jovial song of the bell on the shop’s door as yet another customer would emerge from the frightening unknown. From my seat facing forward from the farthest wall of the entrance, I could see a misty glow of white light as humans trekked through the gate to my realm. Every breath of cool air and flash of iridescent radiance was a mystery to me, and I was more than glad to be positioned far away from this dangerous gap in the walls of books and aged mahogany. In one of the many conversations I upheld with the books around me, I discovered that many books went by a name that they knew and liked from the story they held, and forever after I would introduce myself as what I thought seemed understated, interesting, wise, and quite catchy: Milo.
On a slow afternoon I managed to peek at a lonesome newspaper headline, barely visible on his side on the table below me. The paper lay, most likely asleep, for papers were notoriously lazy; only having to carry the whining opinions and concise summarize of shallow public happenings, they were far below a respected, creative, thick, and well-regarded novel. It read, “Yuri Gagarin Becomes First Human in Space”, and I discovered with wonder that it was the year 1961 and some human somewhere was floating in a bookstore called “the universe”. In due time I also got my mind around the purpose of being displayed in a bookstore at all. The thought of trying to sell ones self to a completely unknown passerby was too below my sense of dignity to accept, but after seeing a few lucky novels be chosen over me, to be purchased became one of my strongest desires.
