Ghost Author

I’m a retired extreme athlete, an old man with a worn-out body. Within the last year, like my lumbar disks, I noticed my mind slipping. I cared for my Grandmother and mom through their final decade of life as they slowly slipped into dementia. I was determined to stave off brain rot. I started walking regularly again and reduced my intake of saturated fats. Mentally, I had become inactive, addicted to movies and audiobooks. I decided to exercise my neurons, in some way, beyond online games. I have always enjoyed reading, so I enrolled in a short story writing workshop in the quaint seaside town of Jenner.

As an old man on a fixed income, I needed to minimize my expenses. To finance the course, I found a job as a night desk clerk at the Jenner Inn. I decided to relive my teen adventure when I left home “in search of myself.” I packed my bicycle with the bare necessities and peddled up the California coast highway. I pitched my tent on the beach alongside the Russian River, where it meets the sea at Jenner. At seventy years old, I lay back on the beach stargazing when I realized how wonderful I felt to turn my life around. ‘Live free or die,’ lost for five long decades, once again became my motto.

It was the night before the course when, sitting at the Jenner Inn desk, I heard a stirring of voices. Initially, they were incomprehensible and dulled as if heard at a distance through a dense fog. Gradually, the voices became clearer, individualized, and moved around the front entry room. The voices began to clear, becoming distinguishable as greetings, discussions, and laughter, as one would hear during a gathering of old friends. Despite clearly hearing voices, I saw no one. I was not fearful in the least as the conversations were quite jolly and friendly. Perhaps I was listening to a radio show? Then, to my amazement and utter astonishment, the voices began to emerge from forms that slowly developed into a roomful of the most singularly attired costumed characters I had ever witnessed. More folks entered the room, greeting each other like dear old comrades or long-lost friends.

How odd, I thought as I stood to get a better look at this most unique cast of characters. I glanced at my watch. It was midnight. I realized I must have fallen asleep at the desk chair. After all, I was exhausted after the week-long ride from Shasta to this sleepy artist's town, Jenner by the Sea.

An elderly gentleman, dressed in what appeared to be Victorian-era attire and sporting a goatee, approached the desk. He greeted me with a strong English accent, “Good evening, sir. Reservation for Dickens. Room twelve, please.”

I turned the register. “Please sign in here, Mr. Dickens.” I handed him key number twelve.

The next gentleman with a stout, deep voice announced himself, “London, room fourteen.”

A petite lady in a flowery conservative dress and quiet voice spoke, “Emily Dickinson, room ten if you please, sir.”

As Miss Dickenson walked away, she let out a sharp shriek, “Jack London, you Bohemian Brute. Leave me this instant.”

Jack laughed so hard he spilled his glass of liquor. “Oh, Miss Emily, I’m harmless. I do love your verse.”

Emily, her head held high, stomped off and ran up the stairs.

Mary Shelly followed after her and, looking back, yelled, “Mr. London, must you be such a ghastly ruffian?”

Jack, “I am my nature, dearest Mary. Surely you can understand that. I only requested a poem whispered in my ear. I did promise to keep my hands in my lap.”

One after the other, the guests signed in until I handed out the last room key for the small hotel that had long ago been transformed from a Victorian-style mansion. The entry room became void of guests. I turned the register my way to check the list. I was curious, as the characters were all dressed oddly. I thought, perhaps, there was some sort of festival requiring period clothing that was happening in the forthcoming week. All were checked in for a period of seven days.

I saw the signatures of Jack London, Arthur Conan Doyle, and Daniel Defoe, and discovered that all were authors from past generations. Thus, I figured there must be another writer's convention coming up, akin to a Trekkie convention where participants dress like their favorite writers. In my mind's eye, I revisited the registration process and recalled that the signatories were excellent make-up artists. I thought that if these folks were as serious about their writing skills as they were about their makeup, costumes, and voice, I might learn a lot about famous authors.

I decided right then and there. My writing course story would revolve around this set of fascinating characters, or at least as many as I could reasonably fit into a three-thousand-word short story. I wrote down their names, and that night, I would research my favorite ones. Not necessarily classic authors, but the ones whose stories I enjoyed. I also needed to pick a genre. I suddenly became very excited and motivated about my first story. I was on a tight schedule. Our stories were due for feedback at the end of the course, seven days from tomorrow.

Day 1.

I woke at 7 AM after a late night of research. After shaking sand from my sleeping bag and clothes, I got dressed. I brewed a cup of fresh-ground medium roast coffee and sat on the beach, enjoying the foggy morning, the crashing waves, and the questionably fresh, fishy smells. The squawking seagulls glided inches above the waves. They would be waiting for me each morning to be fed the food I brought from the hotel. I never tired of their aerial acrobatics as they swooped and dove, catching the food scraps in midair, I tossed them skyward. I walked to the 8 AM class. This became my morning schedule for the next seven days.

On day one, Miss Pelly discussed the short story genre, its structure, style, and point of view (POV). She read examples to illustrate her points. She was interesting, but not any better than what I found on internet videos.

I returned to my tent for a nourishing breakfast, fixed my lunch, and wrote the introduction of this episodic narrative, a journal structured with the daily events that will unfold over the next week. I chose the third-person omniscient perspective to encompass my narrative, the characters' descriptions, and their insights about the authors they portrayed. That is, if I were allowed an audience to interview them, which did come to be that evening.

By the day's end, I had achieved my goal. I had a POV, genre, the story's structural plan, and a thousand words. I arrived at the Inn at sunset. All the rooms were rented for the week, and I had time to write while being caretaker to the renters.

The phone rang, “Hello, Barney, the busboy was in an accident. I need you to help in the dining room.”

“Sure, I would be happy to help.” I headed to the dining room, delighted to see the cast of author characters thinking, ‘Perfect, how serendipitous, I have been given an in to pick their brains.”

After I cleared the dining room, I brought coffee, desserts, and later drinks to the cast of “authors” in the parlor while they sat discussing the things authors discuss. My ears were perked. Tomorrow's lesson was on themes, symbolism, & premise.

Finding the right point, I posed my first query to Jack London, “Mr. London, may I inquire how you picked your themes?”

Mr. London, “Of course, sir. Who are you, and why do you ask?”

“Yes, of course. Excuse me. I’m Barney Defanfaler. I started a writing course and am drafting my first short story.”

Charles Dickens jumped in, “Hear ye, hear ye, you rascals. I lay claim to this gentleman's name, for it possesses an intriguing character in itself. It surpasses my Barnaby Rudge. That is, if you permit me, kind sir.”

Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, “I say, Dickens. Ole chap, you will have to get a legal claim. It is quite singular. I may bloody well use it myself.”

I had their attention all right, for the room broke out in laughter.

“As you’re all diseased, I need not be concerned. I have an anthology planned, “The Adventures of Barney Defanfaler.”

Mr. London, “I wrote about what I experienced, for how could one do better than pen one's truths? My style was raw truth and philosophical.”

Charles Dickens chimed in, “Many of us took up the quill in the devotion to our cause, to light a candle in the hearts of readers. I felt a solemn duty to give voice to the voiceless, the children of the street and youngins laboring in the inhumane factories.”

Jack reflected in his raw philosophical style, “Both man and nature's wilderness can be merciless. I strove to portray how even a wild beast yearned for kindness.”

I agreed, “We have many social justice issues in today's society.”

Sir Arthur patted the chair next to him, “Sit, old chap. Please join our discussion. Enlighten us on today’s social issues. Jack, here is a socialist at heart.”

The following day, after a long night and less than a minute to spare, I slid into my chair for Miss Pelly’s lecture on ‘Sensory details and immersive world building.’ I was impressed with her literature examples. I left promptly and reserved any discussions on the topic for my newfound elderly friends. I needed a nap to prepare myself for another long night of camaraderie, debate, and discussions, although I will refrain from keeping up with Mr. London's shots of brandy. I reviewed my draft thus far and worked on incorporating the five senses as adjectives to embellish the nouns.

After my kitchen duties, I served Jenner Inn’s guests and dropped into an empty chair next to Robert Lewis Stevenson.

“Mr. Stevenson, I’m working on an anthology of my adventures. Who better than to discuss tomorrow's topic of morality, character arcs, and relationships?”

Mr. Stevenson weaved his philosophy with adventure, “Sapiens have duality in their nature. I believe it is our essence, our nature, to struggle with virtue and vice. Thus, a protagonist's character arc may evolve throughout their adventure from initially selfish motives. Midway through the arc, they may, through self-reflection and experience, question these motives. In the end, they find solace in completing their goal with altruistic deeds.”

Sir Arthur raises his glass of Sherry, “Bravo, Robert. Well put, my good chap.”

Joseph Campbell joined in, “Let us add a relationship. Here’s to the hero's quest in finding their better half, within and without.”

Mary Shelly speaks out in melancholic depth, “Emily, we're talking love here, and like heaven, love binds souls, and like individuals, is bright and brutal. I believe a poem is fitting.”

Emily Dickinson, shy and intimated, blushes, “You put me on the spot, Mary.”

Mary’s feminist nature speaks out, “We women surely deserve a word among the forces of men. We cannot allow their domination.”

Emily nods and closes her eyes, “A moment, please.” She raises her teacup. “May the hero's love light shine, upon a sweetheart so divine, to bind their hearts, for a new start.”

The room breaks out in cheers, “Emily, Emily, Emily.”

I spent the remainder of the evening with Mary Shelly discussing Frankenstein and plot arc structure, balancing beginning, middle, and end with the infamous lady of mystery, Agatha Christie.

The week flew by. My mind and body were exhausted, and this was my last evening with them. The friends I became close to and learned so much from were leaving the next morning.

“We discussed dialogue today, and I have a radical idea I want to run by you all.”

Mr. London, “I’m a Bohemian, so I love radical. Shoot.”

I brought out my draft and read through the dialogue.

Agatha spoke first, “So what is your concern, Barney?”

“I’m sure you've noticed that my dialogue doesn’t contain 'he said, she said' tags after the spoken words. I place the speaker's name before the dialogue, and at times, a bit of action. I do this so the reader gets a picture of who is speaking before they speak. What do you think?”

Jack, “When you read, I followed along without any confusion.”

Mr. Dickens, “I followed along as well.”

Sir Arthur, “There are no rules in writing, chap, as long as the story flows and makes sense.”

Jack, “Many of us broke the mold, and for some got us noticed.”

Mr. Stevenson, “Go with it. It may be your calling card. You may start a style.”

“I thank you all sincerely. I thoroughly enjoyed our discussions. Is there anything I can do or get you before I hit the sack?”

Miss Shelly smiled, “I believe we’re good, sir. Rest well.”

As I exited the room, William Faulkner stopped me. “Whatever you write, end with a surprise paragraph or a line. The shorter, the better. Come up with something they never saw coming. That’s what they will remember.”

“Thank you, sir. I loved your surprise, mind-blowing endings, like ‘Of Mice and Men,’ which was my first of yours and led me to read the rest. I do have a surprise, fun ending.”

We shook hands, and I wandered back to the front desk chair and fell into a deep sleep.

In the early morning, I awoke to the group gathered in the front entrance hall.

Agatha spoke for the group, “Farewell, Mr. Defanfaler, until we meet again.”

“But you don’t have to check out until eleven.”

Agatha, “No, we just prefer to leave before sunrise.”

Knowing none of them had cars, I was curious, “Oh, then you must have a bus to catch?”

Agatha, “No, we like to take a stroll down the beach on our way out.”

“Aha, that solves the mystery. Well, I would enjoy a stroll but have to man the desk until my replacement arrives.”

Agatha laughed and turned to rejoin her friends.

I watched them as they exited Jenner by the Sea Resort’s front door. As I sat reminiscing about the lessons I had learned and readied my laptop to review the final self-editing process, I noticed a notebook on the table. I picked it up and read:

If found, please return to;

Jack London, Wolf House, Glen Ellen, California

I snatched it up and ran outside. On the porch stood a man looking out to the ocean.

“Excuse me, sir. I have a notebook to return to one of the guests. I will return shortly.”

The man turned to face me. Surprised, I tripped and nearly fell, “That’s just fine, sir. I was just leaving myself. I always attend these conferences.”

“Oh, please wait. I will be right back. Oh. How I would be honored to chat with you over breakfast, Mr. King. My treat.”

He smiled, “Perhaps,” then looked back out to the ocean.

I looked back towards the ocean, and there, not a hundred meters off, the colorful group was walking down the beach through the dense morning fog, their garments wafting in the brisk sea breeze. I ran through the marsh’s side trails beside the Russian River, then came out on the sandy beach passing my tent. I yelled, but they must not have heard me for the crashing surf and thick fog. I ran towards them. I kept running, but like in a frustrating dream, I couldn't gain any ground on them. Exhausted, I stopped and held the notebook up. They all turned, smiled, and waved. Then, as they had come to me the first night, we met, they faded away until all that was left on the lonely beach was the sound of their voices, chatting and laughing, which slowly faded to blend into the roar of the crashing waves and the squawking of the seagulls.

Barney Defanfaler