Derek and Annika: An Evolving Story

"Either this wallpaper goes or I do."

Oscar Wilde's final review

“To Derek, Annika’s heart was like a dark abyss, a Stygian labyrinth, one might say a caliginous landscape…”

“One might…”

Hannah Morstan-Doyle waved Jana off, this time a bit more impatiently. “Let’s keep this constructive, all right? This is supposed to be a safe space.”

Jana Frechette had paid her $250 like everyone else in the Critique’s Circle, or as Eric might have put it, the Creative Coterie of Castigation.

“Well, c’mon,” Jana moaned. “Obviously, this shit is AI. Look at him – you think he came up with caliginous?”

Eric glanced about the panel, tacitly pleading not to be looked upon, or at, or whatever non-preposition he was expected to end the thought with. With whichever. While consensus on Eric’s literary potential had merely crystalized, the circle’s initial irritation at the late arrival had pivoted toward an unspoken, nearly undetectable antipathy toward his assailant. Eric, too, had paid his $250 fee, but from the stiff new Wally World khakis and factory-creased Target polo, it was clear the compounded investment was for him a leap. Even if into a tenebrous chasm.

“Eric,” Hannah began, summoning the agility that had propelled Lies Big and Small, Eight Flawless Characters, and Ebony Hibiscus to the top of the lists and Nicole Kidman’s Wiki-ography. “Maybe what Jana means to say is that sometimes less is more.” Jana snorted. “Look, what is an abyss?”

“Like a big hole, a big black hole?” the fetal author struggled.

“Yeah,” Hannah nodded. “Sooo, Eric, is there a need here to specify a dark abyss? And be honest, when did you learn what ‘caliginous’ meant?”

“I, ah, Googled…”

“Okay, okay. But do you think the reader wants to have to start Googling terms the first sentence in? I like ‘Stygian’ better, but consider today’s busy reader…” Hannah flinched slightly, both at euphemizing the devolving popular market and urging the newbies to trench, not wade, into the shallows.

“Let’s go back, Eric. This Annika? She a mysterious woman, a woman with hidden secrets. Maybe yearning to emerge from the darkness?”

“I guess it’s more like there’s just nothing there, just darkness.”

She wondered if Eric might be able to draw, maybe mischievous raccoons or forlorn capybaras or little lost boys who ultimately find that one, special thing that was inside all along. Except it wasn’t writing. Maybe HVAC.

“Remember how you defined ‘abyss’? A black hole. A black hole in an airless space, consuming all that drifts near. Does that come close to describing how Derek sees Annika, how Annika affects Derek?”

Eric studied the Millington University Radisson carpet. “Yeah, yeah,” he nodded. “I like that. ‘Annika’s heart was like a black hole’?”

“Remember what I told Eileen about metaphors and similes? To Derek, Annika’s heart is a black hole.”

“’Annika’s heart was a black hole in an airless, oxygen-free space, consuming’—”

“Less is more, Eric?”

Eric’s head bobbled adamantly. “Oh, yeah. Sorry. Black hole.”

**

“Annika’s heart was a black hole from which there was no escape. At the intersection, Derek could go right and head home — but turning left would take him—”

“I’m going to stop you there, Derek,” Keegan Keoghan drawled. It was only the opening paragraph, but Derek had begun in drone gear, and Keegan suspected the unfortunate yokel had long ago stripped his transmission. He knew methamphetamines were the rage here in God’s Forgotten Country...

“Eric,” Derek muttered, and Keegan remembered Derek was the protagonist trapped in the lad’s dark, abysmal narrative. “Sir?”

“This Derek and Anna.” Eric opened, then closed his mouth. “They live hereabouts?”

Eric looked about for illumination. “Excuse me?”

“Your opus is set in California’s San Fernando Valley, correct?” Keegan leafed through his own copy of the review manuscript. “San Fernando is two words, incidentally. Do you happen to hail from the Los Angeles area?”

“Colfax,” Eric murmured. “Right around here…”

“And you own an art gallery?”

“No, I actually, I’m a, uh, I install internet.”

“Do you see where I’m going with this, Eric?”

“Yeah, I think I do…” Eric heard a snicker behind his right shoulder.

“But do you?” Clancy and Ludlum might have been the Dublin author’s literary mentors, but Simon Cowell and Gordon Ramsay informed his critical technique. Like tucking into a tasty dish of Hack Tartare.

“Write about what you know,” the young man sighed, miserably.

Keegan Keoghan spread his palms in triumph. “And there we are. What do you actually know of your own characters? Of the time and place and tone of their lives? Beyond wiring the 10 percent for secured porn and online retail?

“Listen, my friend. You want to write the next great American novel, shake up the world, redefine modern letters? Have at it. But if you start from ignorance, you’ll be spinning glossy nonsense without an iota of credibility or connection. Write what you know, friend, or in the alternative, I understand Millington has a marvelous community college where you might find your true destiny. Get real, Derek, though that prospect doesn’t fill me with great hope, either…”

“Kazuo Ishiguro said, ‘Write about what you know is the most stupid thing I've heard. It encourages people to write a dull autobiography.’” Keegan’s head snapped up. Eric tried to turn, earning a cervical charley horse and a sweeping peek at Jana’s sour, contemptuous side-eye. The lanky, large-framed man, who indeed might have been Keoghan’s knight-for-hire Zach Pritchard save the Warby Parker specs, smiled brilliantly back at her, and then at Keoghan.

“Nathan Englander argued authentic writing required emotional truth rather than literal experience,” the buff young man continued. “I mean, your Zach Pritchard is a six-foot-nine former ex-CIA operative/Navy seal who knows five languages, is a master French and Thai chef, and hikes from small town to small town. Where, mind you, there’s usually a cell of white supremacist terrorists, crypto counterfeiters, or deactivated Soviet moles who sell hammers and rocket launchers on Main Street. I mean, you were, what, a headmaster at a private school? Was it one of those militia combat boarding schools I’ve read so much about? C’mon, Dude.”

Keegan straightened on his stool, issuing a creak of stressed eco-chummy bamboo, and adjusted his glasses. He cast about for security, but an emergent writers workshop hadn’t seemed to merit Threat Level 1 or even 5 status. “It’s, ah, it’s Derek’s time, I believe. Which you’ve now brought to an end.”

“Um, Eric.” Eric reiterated.

“Eric,” the lanky dude grinned.

“All right then,” Keoghan breathed a bit too heartily. “Speaking of glossy nonsense, I believe we’ve come to Janice. Jenna…?”

**

“Half of it’s just being at the right place at the right time,” Ryan said, grabbing a bottle of Dasani and an oatmeal cookie the size of a Bosnian landmine from the long table outside A-3. “You ever read how Keoghan there got his start? Daddy of one of the young lads Headmaster Keegan scarred for life knew a guy who knew a guy at Paradigm House. Sony needed a new action franchise after Morbius tanked, and after they discovered DiCaprio was a fan of the Pritchard books, Keoghan hit the mother lode. Even if L’il Leo did look a little silly taking on a cartel of opiod-dealing neo-Nazi cattlemen.”

Eric finally selected a white chocolate macadamia and pulled a sweaty Mr. Pibb from the tub next door. “The sequel was a little better, I thought.”

“Yeah, they hired Christopher Walz to play the fried chicken magnate/hitman, and I think that helped scale DiCaprio up a little. Look, don’t give any of these dickweeds space in your head. Her, either.” He nodded toward Jana at the other end of the table, meekly drowning her own sorrows with a Coke Zero. “I caught her little Bridgerton meets Gossip Girl reading in the morning breakout. She’s a trend-chaser, which means she’ll probably get her own deal at Sony or Netflix and we’ll be a step closer to locust plagues and lakes of fire.”

Eric ventured a smile. “It seems like you don’t care much for this whole thing.”

“Well, I mean, it’s a ‘retreat’ in a podunk hotel conference center. Kinda surprised they got Keegan and that Morstan-Doyle woman to even come to the jewel of Central Illinois. Now, there’s another example. You think Hannah and her suburban soccer mom BFFs actually conspired to murder the town cheater or that she knows any mystical Bulgarian life coaches or that any overpriced cesspool of kinky sex and bloodletting like that Hibiscus Hotel of hers would survive Yelp?

Ryan shrugged. “Point is, and I know it’s a cliché, if what Hannah writes she writes from the heart, it doesn’t matter if she’s kinda out there. You think Zack Pritchard is Keegan Keoghan’s spirit animal, that every time Zack snaps another redneck spine, Keegan mists up maybe just a little? Look, what is it that touches you?”

Eric sighed. “Well, it used to be Monica – that’s my wife. When we first met, she was real, I dunno, encouraging. She said to follow my dreams, no matter what anybody else thought. When I quit football and track to focus on my writing, Dad said it was kinda ‘faggoty.’ Um, sorry?” Ryan grinned and waved it off. “He always hated Monica, Dad, that is. Said she was a slut, probably ‘cause she voted Biden.”

“So Monica suggest you come to the retreat?”

“Yeaahh, no. Got a DUI couple years ago and lost my job with Millington Parks and Rec, which doesn’t sound like that much, but I had health and all, you know? She got all moody and pissed and started going out with her friends all the time, and told me I needed to stop pretending I was ever gonna be a writer and focus on getting my shit back together. I mean, Infinitex doesn’t pay bad, and we get free Showtime. But it’s not the prestige of working for the city.”

“Mm. So’d she give you shit about coming here today?”

“Oh, she lost her shit when I told her I was taking personal time for, you know, for this. But she said all right, if it would get it out of my system. I think she figured what would happen was, well, kinda what happened here. Guess she mighta been right…”

“No,” Ryan stated loudly. “Fuck that. You got some shade from a collection of hacks and an insecure overcompensating little troll who gets off tearing folks down. What you need is some confidence, in yourself, in your abilities.”

“And how am I gonna do that? Now?”

“I’ll tell you, Eric. You need support, expert support. A writing coach. Somebody who’ll edit your novel and design a cover that grabs the reader and makes contacts with publishers and bookstores.”

Eric stopped mid-bite to ask the first question of the day he already knew the answer to. To which he knew the answer. “And who would that be?”

And for the first time that day, maybe in two years, Eric kinda nailed it.

**

“Hey.”

In defiance of Newton’s Law, a half-cookie still hung from Eric’s limp fingers 17 minutes later, as the final breakout was convening. Jana slumped onto the bench outside A-5 and glanced dully at the easel five feet away – Speed Writing: A Date With Discovery? “Sooo, you going in or what?”

Eric regarded her warily. “Are you?”

The young woman smirked. “Shit, guess I had that coming.”

“I didn’t mean it that way. You were just being honest. You don’t grow a thick skin, all you’ll wind up is a meaty bag of bruises.”

“Who said that?”

Eric frowned. “Keegan Keoghan, I think. ‘Bout an hour ago. To me, matter of fact.” He snorted, and the pair’s laughter chased the last few stragglers into the musical chairs beatdown waiting to happen.

“No,” Jana finally said. “I was a fucking bitch. I took it out on you, and that sucks. You didn’t have it coming. You waltzed in late just as I was wrapping up my reading, and it threw me. Plus my fucking boyfriend was mad because I woke us up early so I could make the opening speech. Corey thought I was gonna make a bunch of money, make us a bunch of money, when I quit cosmetology to write full-time. I’ve got five books on Amazon, and I’ve sold like 15 copies..”

“I get it,” her fellow writer commiserated. “I lied to my wife about coming here today – said I was making calls ‘til 8 or 9 to get some overtime. Then she finds I still got the flyer in my uniform pocket – and, oh, yeah, that I’d forgot to put on my uniform this morning. I was excited, you know? So she shows up just as I’m about to get registered and says if I’m not working I need to come home and fix the water heater. Shit, we got a guy coming out Friday, and she knew it. So we kind of had it out.”

Jana leaned in. “Full disclosure. I know my shit sucks, but there’s a lot worse folks out there that get big five-star reviews and wind up with Hallmark movies or at Barnes and Noble. Thing is, I think I had some great ideas, but everybody in the Facebook groups told me I should write what people want and get over myself and my ‘literary drivel’ and write for the ‘feels.’ You wanna know why I accused you of using AI? Cause that’s just what I did. And you know what? It was better. Like tons better. That’s why I didn’t publish it. Until about three weeks later. I mean, fuck Corey, right?”

“You know,” Eric ventured, cautiously. “I bet you’ve got some great stories in you.”

“Oh, no,” Jana piped cheerfully. “I really don’t. And I know you didn’t AI your story, that it came, um, you know, from the heart.”

“And because it sucked too much to come from a super-intelligent robot.”

Jana smiled. “Later, Dude. Good luck!”

Eric finished his cookie and pulled his tablet from the woefully understocked Critique’s Circle swag bag…

**

Eric slung his swag bag into the passenger seat, then double-checked to ensure the Silverado’s bed cover was secured. He’d gotten so immersed he’d forgot the complementary apps buffet that might have helped recoup at least a fraction of his $250. After emailing the new file, he dropped down to the lobby bar for a $16 cheeseburger and Pepsi (the blower didn’t come off the pickup for another six months) and trudged to the nearly deserted but garishly floodlit parking deck.

Behind him, the Level 3 door creaked open, and a second later, she emerged into the spotlight.

“Mr. Collinson.” Hanna Morstan-Doyle’s voice reverberated through the concrete and steel.

Eric unconsciously placed a palm on the composite cover. “Hey. You heading out, too?”

The author stopped two spaces back, hand in her purse. “I’m doing the breakfast panel tomorrow. I just happened to see you in the lobby, and I wanted to ask you just how you got my email address.”

Eric frowned, glancing at the purse. “I, uh, it was in the folder thingie, the program. Like a list of everybody here today. There were phone numbers and emails and everything.”

Morstan-Doyle looked over the truck bed for a silent moment, then pulled her hand from the fancy red purse, Eric assumed to his relief. “The idiots must have thought the registration list was supposed to be with the conference materials. Now I probably have to change everything. Eric, you know why I can’t just read every manuscript sent to me, especially when it doesn’t come through my agency?”

Eric began to sputter contritely, and she closed the distance. “That said, I wound up waiting at dinner for the conference organizer and Mr. Keoghan – who, it turns out, were both getting an inebriated Mr. Keoghan to his room – and I thought what the fuck and decided to glance over your revisions. You really do love driving a metaphor home, don’t you? No matter, that’s something you can fix, among just a hell of a lot of other things. You rewrote this in, what, two hours, between the breakouts and the reception?”

“Well, I skipped the last session.”

Morstan-Doyle nodded. “They’d probably have had to send you home in a body bag. Suffice it to say, it was a vast improvement, far more potent and, man, dark and visceral. Reminded me a little of Gillian Flynn, but with a distinctly male, blue-collar voice.” Her green eyes flitted over the sealed truck bed. “You must have found your muse. Two hours, huh? Sure it wasn’t AI? Relax, Eric; I’m fucking with you. You clearly wrote from the heart, or at least from, ah, within, and if you do the work, I think you conceivably have a future in the industry.”

The woman’s hand again plunged into the purse, and Eric froze. He’d never gotten a FOID card, mainly because the idea of a gun anywhere near chilled him. So had Hannah’s expression as she’d glanced at the bed cover. Should have had Derek give Annika the heave-ho into a deep well, if they even had wells in the Sanfernando Valley.

Hannah’s hand emerged with a card. “When you work out the kinks, do your research, question all your suppositions, and do right by your characters and story, call them and ask for Tristan. And drive safely. I mean that.”

Morstan-Doyle gave the bed cover a farewell clap, startling a few drops out of her semi-prodigy, and clicked away offstage.

Eric mustered a smile as he reached the corner of University Boulevard and Poplar and turned right toward the house and the creek beyond it. He set the cruise and prayed against a blowout. He couldn’t imagine changing a tire himself ever again…