Between Writers

The prickling vine bush hangs down the peeling wallpaper, etching its impression down to the cracked linoleum floor. A soft whirring fan, covered in a myriad of dust, cascades a small dainty kitchen with one working burner and a sink full of dishes. A sink full of dishes that, most certainly, had not been touched in a few weeks. A sliding glass door opens out into an enclosed area with overgrown plants and stacks of books. All the books haphazardly stacked with no real organizational system. Chipped coffee mugs sit absentmindedly on a small circular table with a pot of coffee, that surprisingly is steaming into the air.

Upon arrival, Jessica Ann Strowman sits on a sagging green couch. It is patched with different fabrics and screams of twenty years past its prime but sits in this living room, nonetheless. She opens her faded blue notepad and flips to a blank page. An orange cat, named Joan Didion, appears from somewhere and sits next to Jessica. The cat eyes her with a slight sense of interest but after a few seconds, grows seemingly bored and jumps off the couch.

Sitting across from Jessica, is Tyla Johanson, known in literary circles as Kite. She is dressed in a blue Harvard sweatshirt and a pair of blue cargo jeans. Her short dark hair is cut symmetrically to her face and a pair of gold hoop earrings hang from her ears. People have described her as beautiful but beautiful is an understatement.

“Shall we begin?” Jessica shifts on the couch and Kite merely shakes her head. “Your first two books have received critical acclaim and almost a cult like following. Did you expect them to garner such a reaction?”

“Everyone loves a love story…with embattled characters or not.”

“Is any of the characters based off of your own life?” Kite lets out a slight laugh. “All women have met the torturer called heartbreak.” Jessica writes that in her notepad.

“Even with these widely acclaimed books, your fans still beckon for more. They would like to know more about the person behind these beautifully written stories.”

Kite nods her head but doesn’t speak. “Would you mind just talking about your childhood and what made you want to be an author?”

Jessica watches the cat trapeze his way around the kitchen and then sit on the counter, in the widest patch of sunlight. Kite does not speak for a few seconds longer but then begins.

“I grew up in a small town, an only child. My mother was a writer masquerading as a nanny in the daytime. My father worked as a mechanic and a custodian three nights out of the week. We lived in a small blue house with a small yard and a dog named Muppet. We lived a life of comfortability with a slight twinge of modesty. I never wanted for a meal, but I never got the newest sneakers either.” Kite shifts in her seat. “Normal.” Jessica sensed a hesitance in Kite’s words. “My first story was about my grandmother’s garden. Flowers sprouting into fairies. Fourth grade.” Moments passed and then Kite spoke again. “My high school English teacher told me being a writer was a fool’s dream. Maybe I should consider something else.” Kite shakes her head. “She wasn’t the nicest woman.”

“She probably regrets saying that now,” Jessica says. But Kite’s face shifts into a frown. “She wasn’t the only person to say that, and she won’t be the last.”

It has been written in several publications that Tyla Johanson is somewhat of an enigma. She lives in a small home, two miles from a small beach. She rarely does engagements or book signings. Her publicist normally fields all questions and handles all promotional gigs. She has never been married and has not been publicly linked to anyone. Even with the fame of her two books, she does not live a life full of luxury. The only real sign of her wealth is in a small room next to her kitchen. It is full of paintings and random artifacts from places that Tyla has traveled to. It is most likely the cleanest room in the house.

“People are heavily anticipating your third book. They were hoping for a next chapter in the story of Kendi and Monty but nevertheless, anticipate what you will offer next. Can you tell me what this next one is about?”

“It is a book of poetry.” Kite offers nothing more than that. “Does it talk about your life?” Silently, Jessica is hoping that she has just been given an inside trajectory to something that nobody else has.

“A dedication in some sense to my mother.”

Kite stood up from her chair. “Shall we go outside?” Jessica followed Kite through the back door. They stood outside in a quaint backyard. Cornfields surrounded the area for as far as eyes could see but a small scent of beach water could be sensed in the air. The sun shone off the area and the temperature were in the mild 70s. A slight breeze flowed through the air. “My mother and father are divorced. My father lives in New York with his new wife. My mother lives in a small town in California. Somewhere between nowhere and elsewhere. She never stays in one place for very long. My father congratulated me on the success of both books but rarely calls.” Kite stopped talking. Jessica didn’t even know what to say. As she began to formulate a sentence, Kite began speaking again. “My mother grappled with some mental instability. She wanted to write novels, but it never came to fruition because the darkness in her mind never allowed it. Kendi and Monty’s love story was loosely based off my parents. The only difference is my father stopped fighting for a love that only tortured him.” Kite looked at Jessica, a small twinge of sadness in her eyes. “Romance stories don’t compare to the real heartbreaks of life.”

“I don’t want to be an imposition but is there an excerpt I could use in my piece?” Kite laughed a small laugh. “My publicist said you may ask for that.” Kite pulled a piece of folded paper from her jeans pocket and handed it to Jessica. “I thought about being a lawyer for a while.” Kite turned around to gaze at the clear blue sky. “But that schedule requires extending deadlines…if I wanted that type of time…my sink wouldn’t be crammed with weeks old dishes.”

(An excerpt from “Kite Johanson isn’t Quite Done Writing Love Stories” by Jessica Ann Strowman)

Desire not my friend,

Desire not for hundred-dollar fabric or designer glasses,

Desire not for fancy dishes with unpronounceable names,

Desire not for shiny machines to drive,

Instead, you love a shirt until there are gaping holes,

Eat charbroiled burgers with dollar buns,

Ride a bike with peeling letters,

Love something so hard that it feels like sticky nectarines on a summer day,

Sweet and full of substances,

Why chase after things that have you randomly sitting on a sidewalk with a fork at the bottom of a tuna fish can,

Desire not my friend for anything but something real and that lasts forever.

By Martha Johanson, Kite’s mother