Pillars Of Success
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I’ve come to appreciate that there are two kinds of people: those who know how to look good and those who don’t. If I were in charge of a world, it would be the latter; but since I’m not (at least not yet) this means I have to learn some tricks of my own.
Fortunately, I’m quite fond of being well dressed – and if you think that’s something, you should see what I’ve done with my hair! In fact, when it comes to looking your best at a party or on a date, I can tell you from experience that my new book will save you an awful lot of time and money.
It’ll teach you where all the best clothes shops are around town – as well as the ones that sell the very best brands. And I know just where to take you for dinner afterward: I’ve been everywhere, including the very latest restaurants, so I can help you out here too. You won’t go wrong if you follow these tips. Trust me.”
“The thing is,” I said, “my mother used to buy me books like that when I was younger… but they never really did anything for me.”
My publisher frowned at the screen before her. There had been no warning about how she would react. She’d seemed so nice, even sympathetic. I thought I knew her. But this reaction threw me right off balance. I felt a little sick inside.
I took another sip of coffee. It tasted better than usual today, somehow. Perhaps because I wasn’t expecting it to taste any particular way.
“Well, then,” I said, “there’s nothing for it except to go ahead and do it. Let’s start by getting back to basics. Do you know how to dress?”
She looked down at herself briefly. The image of a person wearing a suit came into view on one side of the display. On the other, there was a picture of a woman walking away. Both looked like pictures of real women.
The only difference between them was that the suits were made out of different materials, so they could stand up to wear and tear. They also appeared slightly more fashionable than they actually were, but then I knew how to do this sort of thing with Photoshop.
My publisher, however, didn’t seem to be able to spot any of these things. Her eyes simply kept wandering across the images on-screen. Then she looked up again.
“I’m not sure,” she said slowly. “There’s always someone telling me to try new styles. I suppose I must know enough. But why?”
“Because I’m going to teach you how to put yourself together. That’s the main thing, isn’t it? What kind of impression do you want to give.”
“You’re asking me whether I’m happy being me? Why don’t you ask my father about that? He’s the one who wanted me to be an author. I just did it.”
Her words sounded bitter. As if she’d rather have died in childbirth. I found myself hoping that wasn’t true. For both our sakes.
“Look, my point is…” I said, trying to steer us back on track before we got completely lost. “If you don’t know what makes you tick, you need my advice. Otherwise, you’ll be stumbling around blindfolded. Which might work once or twice, but sooner or later you’re bound to hit somebody else and end up hurting them instead – just like your daughter.”
“Yes, exactly!” said my publisher. “And if I don’t learn how to be a good woman, that’s what’s going to happen.”
That was when I remembered my father. I wondered if he’d ever spoken like this about me to my mother. But I couldn’t remember him saying such a thing. He would have preferred not to talk about his feelings.
Not that I would have understood any of them anyway. So I turned to the book. The one that belonged to my mother’s library. This time I was in luck: the spine was broken open, so I was able to scan the index.
I flipped to the relevant section: “How To Be A Good Woman.” There were three chapters in all. The first began with the letter ‘H.’ The second started with a ‘B.’ The third was blank.
“What are we looking for?” asked my publisher, sounding excited.
“This is where you’ll find the key to all my answers.”
We spent the next few minutes hunting through the volumes. The index showed that the words I was looking for were scattered throughout the text. When we finally found the relevant pages, I scanned down to the last paragraph in each chapter and read carefully:
“… and most important of all, you need to know how to be a woman without any of that old-fashioned stuff. You won’t have time for it now as you get older, so you need to start learning while you can still move properly.
I hope I’ve helped you, and that you will be kind enough to pass it on to your daughter when you get married someday. And don’t worry about me; I’ll figure out something. Maybe I’ll even get my own book written. Or I may have to turn to write pornography.”
***
“But what is it?” asked my publisher. “Where does this knowledge come from?”
I looked at the cover. It was printed entirely out of white and pink plastic. “It’s a self-help book,” I said.
“Is it any good?”
“Well, no. But that doesn’t matter. We’re looking for answers here, and if you’re lucky this is where they’ll be waiting for us.”
We sat on the sofa with the tablet in front of us. I tapped at the display, bringing up a list of books. Most were classics: The Great Gatsby, Madame Bovary, and Jane Eyre. Some were modern fiction: Lolita, A Separate Peace, and Catcher in the Rye.
Then there were biographies: The Autobiography of Malcolm X, The Last Days of Old China, and Memoirs of Stalin. I stopped on one called How to Be a Successful Man by a man named John D. MacDonald.
“Let’s see,” I said, tapping at the screen. “It has some pretty interesting titles, but this is what I want you to look at today.”
When the book popped into view, I pointed to one of its covers: ‘How to Keep a Girl in Love With You.'”
The publisher leaned forward eagerly, her hands resting on her knees. “Oh yes, that’s right,” she said. “I remember now. Your mother used to tell me that when you were younger I should have been paying more attention to these things. That’s what made all the difference.”
“You don’t really need all that fussing and fretting,” I said quietly. “My mother didn’t know much either. Look, let me show you the rest of the alphabet. Let’s try a different approach.”
We went through all the letters again until we’d scrolled through them all, then I brought up a new search. “Now I want you to type the word ‘man’ into the search field.”
She did as I told her.
The book is filled with pages of men and their various qualities. There were heroes from every culture. Every age had its own crop of great men. My father and his friends seemed to be everywhere. So did my mother’s friends.
In fact, it wasn’t just men who appeared, but women too. I skimmed the paragraphs quickly to pick up the gist of the book, and it came down to a simple message: “Men are born to rule, and women must make sure they do.”
“It’s all here,” said my publisher proudly. She turned the page and there it was, bolded and underlined in bright red ink: “If a man tells you to go away, he loves you.”
“‘Man’ is very broad,” said my editor. “There could be anything behind it.”
“Then we’ll narrow it down for you. I’ll give you a little help now.” I turned to a particular entry that had caught my eye earlier and tapped at it to bring it up on the screen. “‘M’: Men.” I held out a hand toward her. “Type in ‘woman’ after him.”
My editor typed in ‘woman,’ then waited patiently as my publisher took over and added in the rest of the letters, one by one. “W: Women.”
“And that’s where we’ll find the answer.”
She nodded. “I think so too.”
I tapped at the screen. “Look, there’s one right there. It says, ‘Women who love other women are the best.'”
“That sounds like it might be useful,” said my editor, “but why would it be hidden in all the rest of these things?”
“Maybe because we’re not supposed to look.”
A long pause followed as my publisher considered what she was seeing. She turned a corner and suddenly found herself confronted by something quite unexpected. It read: ‘The Best Way to Get What You Want.’ She frowned at it for a moment before continuing on to the next item on her list. She was silent. “What’s that? Who wrote that?”
“Me, actually. If we’ve got time, I can get back to you on that.”
She nodded curtly.
“Here’s one for you, my lady. I want you to search the word ‘woman’ in the context of ‘love’.”
My editor did as I asked; then glanced at the book beside her as she worked through the entries. She was smiling when she looked up. “Well, there’s no doubt about that. All the evidence seems to be pointing that way.”
“Good. Now try searching for ‘women'”
“Yes,” she agreed, “that works too.”
She typed in ‘woman,’ and then paused briefly as if to consider something. She turned another corner. This is all quite strange,” she said slowly, “but I think it may work.”
“Keep going, please.”
The last entry was one she’d spotted a while ago. “What does this say?”
She opened it up to show me. “Love your women well and tenderly… ‘
“And that’s all?”
“No, there’s more. Here’s a little gem. It says, ‘When a woman wants to leave a man she’s in love with, she will tell him that she loves another woman.'”
“Is that true?” asked my editor.
“I wouldn’t know.”
“Then we’ll put it to the test,” she said. “Try searching for the phrase ‘woman who loves other women in the same manner.”
My publisher turned to her computer. “This thing has a spell checker,” she said. “I’ll run it by you first…”
After a few moments of typing, she stopped and smiled. “Yes, that looks right. Let’s see where that leads us.”
I watched the two ladies as they read on together. They made good progress and soon they were deep in thought.
“‘Woman who loves other women,” said my editor, “there must be something we can find there, don’t you think? Maybe something you could write a story around?”
My publisher nodded thoughtfully. “Yes, perhaps we’ll come across an idea along those lines. It would be interesting to explore how such a woman might feel.”
“You can have that as a theme if you really want. Just let me know what you need. I’ll do my best.”
“Thank you,” said my publisher.
We both looked toward the door. The clock was ticking.
***
“I can’t take it anymore,” said my editor angrily. “Let me just turn off the spell-checker.”
“Wait,” I said. “Just leave it running. We’re looking for a very special kind of woman—and this may lead us to her. Don’t worry, I’ll be careful.”
“Okay,” she said, “but I’m done.”
“Are you sure?”
She nodded. “I’ll make up whatever happens next.”
She stood up. “Now you can go.”
My publisher left the room with the rest of the books still open. I followed her out into the corridor as she hurried to meet my editor, leaving me alone again. My publisher had been quiet for most of the time since the meeting, and as I followed my editor down the stairs, I tried to think about what might happen if we ran into her.
Would she recognize my name? Or would she know that she was dealing with a real live author? That’s not something many publishers would do. And yet my editor seemed perfectly capable of it. Perhaps she’d simply chosen the wrong book to work on… but surely that wasn’t possible, was it? No, something was clearly wrong here.
“There’s your editor,” said my agent as she walked past.
“Oh, hello!” I called after her. “Do you know what my editor thinks she knows? Do you know anything about it?”
“Not really,” she admitted. “But I’ve heard a rumor that something’s gone missing.”
“What exactly did you hear?”
“That someone stole some books from the publisher’s office.”
“Really! Are you sure it was the publisher? What did he say?”
“He didn’t say much, only that somebody took some books and he couldn’t find them.”
“So which book did they steal? Was it mine? Did they take the whole set?”
My agent shrugged. “Who can say?”
It sounded like they might have stolen everything except my own manuscript. That wasn’t good. My agent was probably telling the truth when she said she knew nothing more about it. If she’d known more, she wouldn’t have hesitated to tell me.
And yet, I could hardly believe that anyone would be fool enough to steal books from my publisher—they hadn’t even bothered to get in touch with me first, so why should they care what happened to my novel?
My agent disappeared into a side street before I could ask her any further questions, leaving me to return home with my head spinning. Why would anyone steal books? How had my books been stolen?
And if my agent was right, then how had the thief or thieves entered the publisher’s building? Had someone broken into their offices during business hours? It seemed too unlikely to be true.
I sat back at my desk and stared out the window, wondering how far I’d gotten with my writing by now. After all, I’d spent nearly eight hours working on it. Eight hours and not another word is written. It would be a long night ahead. And yet, if I wanted my manuscript completed, I had no choice but to sit down and get to work again.
I looked over to my shelves of books and picked up The Last of the Redmen. I opened the pages and started reading. As always, I found the book hard going and gave it up after just a few paragraphs, deciding instead to try one of the others.
I settled onto the sofa. “Here I am,” I said, trying to sound cheery. “And I’m ready to write a new chapter. What shall we do tonight, eh, boy?”
“No,” said my dog. “Don’t you remember what happened last time?”
“Ah yes… I suppose I do.” I closed The Last of the Redman and put it aside. “Well, maybe we won’t talk about that.”
“What else is there to do?” said my dog.
I shook my head slowly. “Nothing, it seems. Well, what are you waiting for? Let’s get on with it.”
The dog snorted. “As if I had a choice.” He trotted around my office until he reached his favorite chair. From there, he began scratching his stomach absentmindedly. I sighed and leaned forward to begin typing. A few minutes later, I stopped and glanced up. There was no way he was getting up, was there?
“If you don’t want to move, fine!” I called him. “But you can’t expect me to type while you do nothing but scratch your stomach.”
My dog growled. I returned my attention to my computer screen and tried to ignore the muttering coming from behind me. “Come on!” I told myself sternly, “it’s a good job, and if you work hard it will be worth it.” Then I typed a few words: “The story was interrupted by my dog.”
This was an old joke I used to use whenever I felt stuck. But despite that, the story continued. And this time the interruption came soon enough that it made sense to include it in the text. The next chapter began with the line: “And so they talked… for many weeks…”
“They?” I asked myself. “Are we talking about a couple? Or two characters in the same scene? No. We’re talking about a dog. A dog and a man. Two men. Who were friends? I’ve got to be clear about who these people are.”
I closed my eyes and tried to think of what else I could write. I pictured my main character sitting down at a table in the tavern and ordering food and drink for both of us. “There,” I thought. “It’s perfect. They’ll sit across from each other, chatting away over drinks. Maybe they’d even order the same meal… something simple like meat and vegetables.”
It was a good start; it worked for me. So I decided to keep it as is, and added a line where they spoke about the weather outside. It was winter, so there was snow everywhere. And although the two men were close friends, it was still cold, so they’d probably wear jackets.
Then I took a sip of coffee from my mug and smiled at my imagined reader. “You know that’s not quite right,” I told him. “Because if you were there, you’d find them in shirtsleeves. You’d see their bare arms, and perhaps their hands holding their drinks and eating their meals. And you’d notice that it was a cold day because you would hear the wind and feel the frost in the air.”
I went on writing. For some reason, my mind kept returning to the question of who the other man in the scene was. In the beginning, I imagined that he’d been someone important – an author himself, or a friend of mine. Then I tried making him a famous figure, such as Winston Churchill or Albert Einstein.
That didn’t work either. I couldn’t make it seem credible that he knew me. So then I tried making the other man a stranger to my main character, someone he met on his travels through time and space. At first, I tried to imagine a real-world person – one who might have traveled back in time from the nineteenth century to meet him, perhaps.
But then I realized I had to be more imaginative. After all, this was fantasy! I needed to create someone new.
So I let go of what my mind wanted and decided to simply enjoy the process of writing. I wrote quickly, enjoying every sentence. When I looked up again, it was dark outside. “How long did I spend doing that?” I asked myself. “An hour, surely.”
I sat back and listened to the sounds of silence. I hadn’t heard birds sing for ages. And when I lifted my gaze and looked out of my window, I saw only darkness. Only stars. And there was the moon, too, high above in the sky.
My dog had come over to see what was going on. His ears twitched excitedly as I told him it was past his bedtime. “But I haven’t finished telling you the story yet!” he said, wagging his tail.
When I returned my attention to the computer screen, it was morning. A fresh cup of coffee sat beside me, and I took another sip before opening my word processor and starting again.
***
“The second thing was much more interesting.”
My fingers moved fast, and my imagination flew free. “In a moment I’d be standing in a strange land… and I’d have to decide what I should do. What course to take.” I looked around me, seeing everything with my character’s senses.
He smelled the scent of wood smoke from the nearby forest; he tasted bread baking in a distant oven… “I could try walking straight through, just like this…” I tapped my finger against my forehead, then walked over to the door and opened it. Outside stood a young boy, dressed in black trousers and a white shirt, and wearing a wide-brimmed hat and cloak.
He gave me a smile, and then he pointed to a path ahead. “That way,” he said.
I turned to look at him, but his face blurred and disappeared. Then he came back into focus and nodded, and I stepped out of my room onto the landing.
“… or we can walk to the left, toward the city center,” my imaginary guide went on.
I frowned and shook my head. The voice belonged to my protagonist’s father, and I’d made the decision myself that the child had never met him. “We shouldn’t follow anyone,” I said firmly. “Not until we know who they really are. Because otherwise, we may not end up anywhere useful.”
Then I remembered the old woman’s words: “Don’t trust anyone. Not even your own kind.” But how could she have known that? I mean, why would she lie to me? She must be an expert on history – maybe she knew something about the future. That was certainly possible.
“If we’re going to talk to strangers, then let’s make sure we learn from them.”
So we followed my man, leaving behind the forest and the path he’d pointed towards. We crossed a field full of sheep, which gave us both a good laugh, and soon found ourselves on a road leading down toward the town. As we passed by, a small boy ran to stand beside the gate in front of our house; I could see its red wooden panels shining brightly in the sun.
“Is this the place?” the boy said, peering curiously into my eyes. I could barely hear him now because of his soft Scottish accent.
“You bet it is!” I said. “This is where we live.”
And so we walked on, heading for the busy street in front of the church. There were people everywhere, all of them hurrying somewhere and talking loudly. I could see the cathedral rising up through the crowd and a glimpse of the castle beyond.
I was fascinated by the bustle and noise, wondering if I might ever get used to the sound of human voices again. Then my mind wandered away, back to my imaginary friend, and to my real dog.
“Let me tell you a little more about these two boys,” I typed, knowing that my fingers wouldn’t always obey. So I made them listen to me anyway:
“They were both eleven years old, and they were playing together in the woods near their homes when they first met. It wasn’t exactly played as such, because they weren’t pretending to be soldiers or pirates, or anything like that.
They simply had a conversation.” My fingers stopped moving. “Because I wanted to write about how the two of them talked with one another without making any of their thoughts into stories or poems.”
I took a deep breath and continued typing. “There are no words in this tale because I want to show you just what happened during that time… when nothing really happened.” After a while, I glanced at my watch.
“It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken. I wonder if I can remember all those memories.” I sighed. “Yes,” I added after a pause. “I think I can. I can remember every last detail, although sometimes I forget whether we’re speaking now or then.”
My fingers danced across the keys. “I’m not going to ask you to believe all of what we say in this book, because there are some parts which I don’t understand either. If you choose to believe me, then I’ll be very happy.
I promise to tell you everything – and perhaps you can help me to work things out for yourself. In which case, you can tell other people what we’ve decided once we’re finished with this story.”
And so we walked together through the crowds. Soon enough, we came to a crossroads; the boy was pointing at each direction in turn. “What’s wrong with this place?” I asked, looking around nervously. “Why do we feel such dreadfulness here? Are you sure there aren’t any ghosts lurking in the shadows?”
For a moment, his fingers didn’t move at all. Then they tapped on the ground impatiently. “Look! Look down there,” he said, gesturing towards the road leading up to the castle and the cathedral. “See the stones?”
And sure enough, I saw a line of black figures standing before us. I shivered at their strange, angular faces; none of them looked friendly to me. “That’s where you and I came to play. It’s the graveyard, and it’s the safest place you and I will ever meet.”
“Are you serious?” I stared at the grave markers, which rose out of the grass in neat rows. “But we could walk straight past them and nobody would notice us.”
He nodded decisively, then turned away. “Come along.” He was heading directly to the castle gate. His hand gripped mine hard and suddenly he seemed to grow much taller than me. “I’ll go first.”
A cold breeze blew up ahead of us and suddenly we were walking down a narrow lane between the tall stones. The sky above was bright blue, and I could hear the birds singing from somewhere far away.
“Now then,” I heard my man say in my ear. “Who wants to hear a story? Who knows anything about the dark arts, the mysteries of the stars, the wonders of the world which only come to life in the night?”
I could see him grinning as he said it. “Well, then…” He paused, as though waiting for an answer. But nobody spoke, because no one knew how to begin.
“We could start by asking ourselves who is telling this tale,” he continued. “Who am I? What do you see when you look at me? Does anyone have any ideas?” A moment passed before I answered myself.
“No,” I said. “Nothing comes to mind.”
After a while, my voice broke: “Do you know what I’m doing right now? I’m trying to find my way home.”
His fingers were tapping on the ground, but I couldn’t hear what he was saying. “This must be quite a difficult job, finding your own house.”
At least, I thought, I haven’t got any children left to worry about. Not since my mother died ten years ago. She never did take any joy in our adventures together, even though she’d read all my books and listened to all of my songs.
I suppose her heart wasn’t made to leap with excitement like mine was. I used to think that she would be happier in a quiet village somewhere, reading quietly by herself. But now, I had learned better. My mother was the best listener I knew.
The End