An Evening With Jonathan Squire

The cabin was still.

Jonathan Squire sat near a crackling fireplace, a stiff drink in one hand, and a good book in the other. Sitting across from him on an antique coffee table was his black Smith Corona typewriter. Next to it, a stack of blank pages.

Cold wind howled all around the quaint cottage that he chose to confine himself to every winter. As the air blew, Jonathan detected a kind of breath-like quality to it, like the inexperienced cries of a newborn baby. It seemed to be trying to communicate something to him. Perhaps it was just his imagination.

Perhaps not.

He placed his glass on the coffee table, then combed back his thinning white hair with his free hand. He made a cursory glance to the typewriter, almost expectant of something. His eyes remained fixated on it for a moment or two, and then were drawn back to the novel. He held the hardcover book with two hands now, focusing all of his attention back on the book. As he went to turn the page, he caught a shadow moving in the cabin.

At sixty years old, Jonathan Squire was far too old (and logical) to be jumping at shadows. He instantly began making excuses for what he saw.

Trick of the light, he thought.

Isolation had never bothered him. He suspected that most writers were naturally introverted, therefore he took solace in the woods. It was a simple existence, away from all of the hustle and bustle of a modern society. When he started writing in the seventies, there was a real sense of focus on the work at hand. Despite his publisher’s many requests, Jonathan never upgraded to a computer, or even a word processor. He was a man stuck in time.

All twenty-three of his novels had been written on his family’s old Smith Corona. The constant clicking and clacking of the machine sounded like progress. The inability to go back and edit as you wrote taught Jonathan to be conscious of his thoughts before he wrote them down. He was always one step ahead of his brain.

Always.

He was prolific when he was able to write. He would spend the winter up in the cabin, away from all distractions, banging out page after page of certified genius (or so he thought). He never cared as much about the end product as he did the initial writing process. Outlining, he thought, was a practice reserved for chumps. When he came to the cabin, he was physically and emotionally opening himself up to allow the story to be told to him, not by him.

His writing routine was unorthodox, to say the least, but it was entirely his. Plus, it served a career that spanned decades. Every book that had been written with his old machine was like a license to print money. The first manuscript he sent to a publishing house was purchased, and he was paid a respectable amount of money for his efforts. Since then, he had made a living off of his writing.

Jonathan had a superstitious belief that if he was to write more successful novels, then everything would have to be done exactly the same way it was the first time. Over twenty bestsellers written in the same cabin on the same typewriter all while drinking the same drink. He was convinced that if a novel didn’t come to him as fully fleshed out as his first, he would never finish it outside of the cabin.

He would always allot himself two months of peace and quiet, holed up in his family’s cabin. If he didn’t have a finished manuscript by the end of the sixty days, then he would force himself to toss the incomplete work into a bonfire. This set a goal that he absolutely had to reach if he was enjoying his own story.

Over the years, he’d burned a dozen or more manuscripts. They were stories whose origins were similar to that of the bonfire itself. They both began with an initial spark. Whereas a bonfire was guaranteed to explode into gorgeous flames, a novel had potential to grow beyond the spark, but the outcome always remained to be seen.

The wind of winter grew stronger, completely blocking the three small windows on the sides of the cabin. Jonathan felt truly alone now. He took comfort in knowing that there was still a world to come out to once he was done writing. Now that he couldn’t see it, he couldn’t help but feel that he was alone in the world.

The cabin itself was hundreds of miles away from anyone he knew or cared about. He never brought a cell phone along with him, and no internet connection had ever been set up. In his increasing age, Jonathan was starting to feel the anxieties of being isolated so far from the real world.

He’d always quipped that he’d die after completing his twenty fifth book. Now that he was nearing that reality, he began to attribute his fear of the grave to a of writing.

It had already been one month since arriving at the cabin, and not a single word had been typed. His superstitions towards the more positive aspects of his life spilled over to the negative ones. He cringed at the notion that he was nearing the end of his life, and took even more umbrage with himself that he was the one to set this specific time frame for the end of his career, along with the end of his life.

Another glance to the typewriter.

He trembled.

The machine that he’d loved so much throughout his entire life, a token of his humble past and celebrated career, now brought him nothing but anxiety. He refused to look at the blank pages the way that someone refused to lay eyes on a deceased love one. If he didn’t acknowledge it, it would just go away.

Or so he thought.

His glass was empty, the fire was dying, and the book he was reading was nearing its end. He was unsure what time it even was, but he knew that it was late. The brewing snow storm blocked the moonlight from being cast onto the scenic grounds below. It had been hours since Jonathan had been able to see his car, which was now buried under accumulated snow.

There was a sense of entrapment. Even if he wanted to leave, he couldn’t. An incomplete novel was irrelevant now. Nature had forced him to stay. Nature had forced him to come to terms with the last chapter of his life. How many more winters would Jonathan Squire bring himself to the cabin in the woods?

It was all too much for him.

Aside from the crackling fire and the blistering winds, the area surrounding the cabin was dead quiet. Still, the silence was becoming maddening. He couldn’t take it anymore. He needed to hear something other than his own nagging thoughts.

Jonathan abruptly moved towards the small kitchenette in the corner of the cabin. He opened up the storage container in which he carried his drink of choice. He whistled all along the way, occupying his brain with a simple task, hoping to distract himself from the anxieties.

He placed his empty glass down, poured the drink, and closed his eyes before taking a sip. The alcohol was thick, burning his throat as it went down. It was the burn that he enjoyed most. The agony of it all only served to amplify the positive feelings he had towards it. He closed his eyes in ecstasy, savouring the moment.

Click-clack.

From behind him, the familiar clicking of keys on his Smith Corona.

A cold chill ran up Jonathan’s spine. The hairs on his neck stood straight. He forbade himself to turn and look, knowing full well that he was alone. There were no halls or other rooms for an intruder to have been hiding. He had not left the square enclosure for weeks. To his knowledge, no one else had known that this haven existed. He was so isolated in the cabin, left with only himself and his thoughts.

The old writer was mere inches away from the wooden wall before him, unsure what to do. He couldn’t bring himself to look at the old machine, and yet, he felt morbidly compelled to.

A few more keys were pressed, striking firmly onto paper. It was a sound that Jonathan had known so well. As the typing became more incessant, his curiosity got the best of him. He had to know who was in his cabin, working on his typewriter.

“Hello, Jonathan,” the Shadow said.

Jonathan Squire’s jaw hit the floor. There was no one anywhere near the typewriter, and yet the keys were still hitting their mark.

“Who’s there?” Jonathan called out.

“You are,” the Shadow replied.

The fire was almost out, and the room was growing darker with every minute. The old man thought that he could make out the outline of a man near the fireplace.

“Are you going to kill me?” Jonathan asked.

“No. We’re already dead.”

Jonathan took his glass and threw it into the darkness. He could only hear the sound of glass shattering, but hadn’t a clue where the pieces landed. He broke down. “What are you?”

“I am you,” the Shadow said.

“How are you me if you’re over there, and I’m over here?”

“I am your muse. We are the spark that ignites the flame of passion. Your vessel had a wonderful soul if it was able to hear me.”

Jonathan realized in that moment that he felt neither thirst nor hunger, cold or warmth, in weeks. He attempted to grapple the concepts that the Shadow was trying to impart.

“What are you doing with my typewriter?” he asked.

“You have called upon me many times during our journey together,” the Shadow said. “I am that burst of inspiration that drove you out of bed in the early hours of the morning. I am the space of energy in which you thrive in when you are at your best. And I am here to chronicle your final moments on this plane of existence.”

“Oh, yeah?” Jonathan said. “How’s that?”

The Shadow disappeared, leaving Jonathan alone with nothing but the typewriter and piece of paper. He noticed that it was no longer empty, there were definitely words emblazoned across it all.

The last thing that Jonathan Squire had written before his death was one standalone sentence.

It read :

“In the end, one must believe that it was all worth it. If not, life is wasted.”