A Novelist

The Inspiration

The next morning, Edmund came down the stairs, fixing his suspenders and yawning.  As usual, he hadn’t gotten enough rest the night before.  He heard chattering in the breakfast nook and commotion in the kitchen.  The smell of pork and sweet syrup filled his nostrils and warmed his heart.  He bounced into the nook and spotted Benjamin laughing politely at some ridiculous tale his grandmother was sharing.

“Morning, Edmund,” Benjamin greeted.  He watched Edmund nod to Mrs. Seymour on his way to his place at the table.  “How did you sleep?”

“Fine, thank you. Yourself?”

“The same.”

The two of them took their seats, exchanging questioning glances.  Edmund could see that Benjamin had discovered the mirrors.  Edmund had planned to remove them before any visitors arrived, but he hadn’t been expecting Benjamin to stay.

Benjamin knew there was more to Edmund than people saw.  He felt as if the boy was walking around in a world of secrets, crying to be exposed and freed.  Edmund’s soul had been consumed by something influential, but Benjamin couldn’t figure out what it was.

“What are you going to do today, Edmund?”  the grandmother inquired, pouring a ladle of syrup onto her sweet bread.  She passed it to Benjamin while keeping her attention on Edmund.

“Benjamin and I may spend quite a bit of time going over my novel.  He’s an editor.”

“He told me.  I’m quite impressed.  He’s awfully young; I hope he’s had enough experience.”

“I’m sure,” Edmund defended, taking a large bite so he wouldn’t have to say another word for a while.

“Mr. Howard, why did you decide to edit my grandson’s book?  How do you know if a story is good enough to publish?”

Benjamin dotted his mouth with his napkin and tucked it in his lap.  “Your grandson has written a superior novel.  There are really no words I can describe as to how marvelous it is.  If I am able to get a publishing house, he’ll be up there with Walt Whitman. Henry Longfellow. Thomas Carlyle—,”

“You are saying, dare I use this word, a prodigy?”

“Precisely,” Benjamin chirped.

“And you’re doing this for no money?”

“Precisely.”

“Why?”

Benjamin shrugged and forked a pile of eggs and sausage into his mouth.  “No reason, ma’am.”

Edmund eyed Benjamin and then his grandmother. After he had finished his course, he excused himself.

He went up to his room and closed the door.  He stared at his novel and walked over to it.  He both adored and hated his writing.  He loved it because he was able to relieve himself of what was on his mind.  And he hated it because he had no control over it.  He knew he would never stop writing.  The only end to the novel was at the end of a rope, and Edmund wasn’t mad enough to turn to death.

Months passed, and the two boys became reliable friends.  They worked steadily and determinedly on the novel, never breaking until both were delighted with what they had accomplished.  They quarreled rarely, and they began respecting one another for their oddities.  Edmund required long amounts of quiet time, while Benjamin took long walks in the town to escape the solitude of the house.  Yet, at the same time, they enjoyed one another’s company and found many similarities that brought them closer.  

On one warm afternoon, the two boys sat back to back on the bay window’s recessed ledge.  Edmund had his book scattered around him and a pen whirled across a new page.  Benjamin had a pen tucked behind his ear and another one making notes on the written pages.

“I smudged this bit.  You have a rag?”  Benjamin inquired.

“Yes.  Do you have another piece of paper?”

“Absolutely.”

The two of them traded writing materials and returned to their work.  Benjamin struck the paper firmly with his pen, getting Edmund’s immediate attention.

In a defeated voice, Benjamin spoke.  “We can't publish this.”

Edmund scoffed and looked over his shoulder.  “Why not?”

“People wouldn't be ready for it. This work is genius, but—,” Benjamin’s voiced trailed off.

“But what?”  Edmund scooted closer to Benjamin and leaned in, his breath held back in fear of the response.

“It's ahead of its time.  You could be questioned about the information.”

“It's all made up!” Edmund laughed in defense.

“No! That's just it. It feels frighteningly real. I-I can't edit it anymore for you.” Benjamin tidied up the last bit of writings and handed them over to Edmund. “I’m sorry. But either be rid of it, or start a new one.”

Benjamin turned towards the stairs before Edmund retorted in agony, “I can't.   And I can’t finish it either!  It just goes on and on, and no matter what I do, it still has control over me.  It still has to be written.”

“What has control over you?  Your novel?  Or do you mean something else?”  Benjamin approached Edmund, sending a chill up the boy’s spine.  He leveled his eyes with the author’s and asked in a lowered voice.  “Why do you lock your door at night?”

“Why did you want to edit my story in the first place?”  Edmund snapped.

Another bridge of piercing silence came between them. Edmund raised his chin, showing Benjamin he still had the authority.  “Help me publish my story and I'll tell you why I lock my door.”