The Only Novel Ever Written

FIVE

After the near accident, I grew more focused than ever. The mantra became "more, more, more." Every day I would give everything I had to my craft, and every day, Strayer would ask for more. He encouraged me to steal from everyone in every genre and medium. On top of my ever-growing writing quota, he demanded that I read classics, science fiction, historical fiction, self-help, comicbooks, satire, even erotica. He told me that every writer had something to teach me - even the bad ones. He forced screenplays and excerpts and short stories down my throat and wouldn't let me into the apartment until I could prove I'd read them.

I fell asleep night after night with my head on my desk or lost in the piles of books.

"Ninety-nine percent of the time, you're going to feel like you're failing," he said. "Less, if you're lucky. But you have to outlast that sentiment. You have to get up every morning, same as the day before, and face that blank screen. Eventually, something will happen. It's like hypnosis. Wake up. Write. Read. Go to sleep. Wake up. Write. Read. Go to sleep. Develop a rhythm and never break it."

"Rhythm," I marvelled. After that, I began to rise early in the morning, molding my life into a predictable, unchanging routine. I was writing twice a day to meet Strayer's breakneck pace.

The story began with large, raw pieces - core ideas. I was instructed to chip away at it, sculpting its curves and intricacies until a form started to emerge. It was clear from the start that the work I was doing could never truly be finished. I could declare it complete, but it would never would be. There would always be one more thing I could have added or changed or perfected, and that thought maddened me.

One evening, Strayer assessed the outline had put together. A single sheet of paper still fluttered on his massive bulletin wall. The surviving idea from before.

"Put the pages here," he said, gesturing to the open space on the board. He cleared his throat. "Do you know what the greatest creative motivator is?" he said. My phone lit up, and I turned it off before he noticed. My mother had been calling for the last hour. "Well?" he said.

I shook my head. He stared at the wall, while I pinned up the treatment, page after page. Strayer sipped from a coffee mug, printed with a frame from Calvin and Hobbes. The speech bubble from Hobbes' mouth read, "if good things lasted forever, would we appreciate how precious they are?" He was scratching his head while he said it, grappling with the sentiment.

"Constraint," Strayer said. "We need constraint. You wouldn't tell a painter to produce a piece for you without giving her the dimensions of the canvas. This outline is how we determine our canvas. The boundaries, the twists and turns, the major and minor elements. Until this is complete, we can't proceed."

"Well that's the thing," I said.

He stared down his nose at me. "The thing?"

"I got stuck. I was hoping you could help..."

"Where's the rest of it?" he growled.

I didn't know what to say. I wasn't sure what he wanted to hear.

"Well?" He snorted. "Where?"

"I don't know how it ends yet," I said.

"You don't..." He pressed his palm to his face.

"I'm sorry," I said. Strayer whispered something under his breath. Then he took a few big breaths, in and out, and after a moment he looked at me. He was calm and collected.

"Have you ever been on a road trip?" he said.

"What?"

"A road trip?" he said.