GHOSTWRITER

GHOSTWRITER

Jack Webber was a creator, or at least he liked to think he was. He dabbled in painting, woodworking, and sculpting. To date, he had sold nothing. Zip. Zilch. Nada. This fact deterred him not in the least. He had inherited a small cabin on the lake from his grandparents as well as a modest income. His needs were few, just canvases, paint, and supplies. He had a set of old carving tools thanks to his grandfather, who had tried to teach him this craft when he was a young boy. The forest outside supplied him with wood, not only to carve but also to heat the fireplace in the cool months.

The lake supplied him with fish to eat and sport to while away the daylight hours. A trip to town every few weeks took care of his other needs and supplies. He spent much of his day sitting on a Muskoka chair on the dock overlooking the lake. A fishing rod dangled negligently from his hand, the line was often unbaited. Frequently, a sketch book lay on the wide arm of the bright turquoise chair, and his shirt pocket was filled with coloured pencils or pastels.

To say that Jack lacked motivation was an understatement of gigantic proportions. He was completely content with his life, though, or would be if it wasn’t for the bi-annual visit of his esteemed parents. His Father was a real estate agent, with a record of being the top seller for the past five years running. Mother was his assistant, and the two made a dynamic duo in the real estate world.

They had spent the weekend with Jack and had regaled him with stories of his older sister, the international corporate lawyer who would soon be made partner in her law firm. Then there was Brian, his ‘baby brother,’ as they called him, who had just recently passed the bar.

They asked him about his prospects. And what he had been doing since Christmas. He told them about the summer art show where he planned to show his work. When Father asked to see his work, he sighed with resignation and pulled out a few careless sketches and a bunch of unfinished paintings. When asked to see his wood carvings, Jack pointed to the corner where a few gnarled and gouged pieces of wood were piled in the corner.

As expected, the result was a long lecture from his father about his lack of motivation, and as per usual, the words sloth and procrastination were bandied about with sharp-tongued precision. His father always could slice through his life and leave him raw and bleeding, figuratively speaking, at least.

After the lecture, his father, Jack Senior, abruptly left the cabin with the slam of the door and said he was going for a walk. His mother got up from her chair and went to stand beside Jack. Putting her hand on his shoulder, she spoke to him soothingly.

“Jack dear,” she started, then paused. “I know how much creativity you have inside you. Your father is just a little frustrated that he can’t see the results of your labour.”

“A little frustrated?” said Jack, running his hands through his hair. “He picked up one of my carvings and threw it on the fire. He said it looked like just another piece of kindling.”

“I’m sorry, dear,” she said, sitting down beside him on the couch. “How do you feel about your art?”

“I don’t know. In my brain, I have some fabulous ideas, but somehow they don’t translate to the canvas or the piece of wood.”

“Have you ever thought that maybe painting or carving isn’t your niche, just not your forte? Have you tried another medium or perhaps some other type of creative outlet? Like maybe… creative writing? I remember[ when you were in high school, you always got A’s in writing. Maybe you could try that.”

She stared out the window at the panoramic view for a moment before she continued.

“Just because Grandpa was great at wood carvings doesn’t mean you have to follow in his footsteps. I know how close you were to him, but you need to follow your own path. Not someone else’s.” She patted his shoulder, “Just give it a little thought, ok?”

“Dad wants me to be just like Natalie and Brian, to be a lawyer or to take over the real estate business someday. I don't want to be a lawyer, or a doctor, or an engineer, or take over your real estate empire.”

“Well, I wouldn’t exactly call it an empire, but I get that you are your own unique person, with your own dreams.”

“Yeah, well, Dad never figured that out.”Jack humphed.

“You know what you should try,” said Mona.

“What?” said Jack, with little enthusiasm.

“Writing! Creative writing. Just like Gran used to do. She was a very good writer, too.”

“ I never knew that Gran was a writer. How could I not know that? Where are all her books? I read almost all the books in here, and there were none with her name on them.”

“ That’s because she was a ghost writer.”

“A what?”

“ A ghost writer. Yes, she wrote stories for other people. It wasn’t an ideal situation; she did all the hard work, and they got all the credit, and she got paid a pittance for it. But Gran didn’t seem to mind. It was her creative outlet.”

“What did she write about, and where are all her books?” Jack asked eagerly.

“ There here, in this cabin.”

“I’ve never seen them.”

Mona walked over to a bookcase by the fireplace. “Here they are.” She picked out two. “There are a whole bunch of them here. She was mainly a ghostwriter for celebrities who wanted to write their own stories, you know, their biographies… for posterity. But some had a great deal of talent on stage or the screen, but had no real talent for writing, so they hired a ghostwriter.” She picked up a few more of the books and brought them over to Jack.

He looked at the books that she held in her hand. “These are major Hollywood stars, and look here, this guy I won … I don’t know how many Grammy Awards back in the day.”

“She just enjoyed writing. I think she would have liked it if you tried your hand at writing. You were always so close to your Grandparents. Yes, I think you should try writing.” She patted his hand again and stood up.

“I’m going to find your father now and see if I can calm him down a little.”

“More like talk him down off the ledge. He is seriously pissed.”

“He wants you to do well in life. Be a success. He just wants the best for you. I know he doesn’t really ‘get you’ as you put it, but he loves you a lot, you know?”

“You can’t prove it by me,” stated Jack, shaking his head sadly. “I’ve always been an ‘oddball' as far as Dad is concerned. I never wanted to ‘make it’ in life.” Jack waved his little rabbit fingers in the air for his air quotes.

Mona gave him a quick hug and a sad smile and left the cabin.

The loons on the lake gave their distinct call. It sounded like they were laughing at the world. While his parents listened to the loons and enjoyed their getaway from busy city life. Jack picked up one of the books that his mother had passed to him and started reading.

After his parents left the next day, Jack spent the evening reading his Gran's books. He liked her style, her flow, and the sense of rhythm of the chapters. He thumbed through several books, and although they were the lives of some of Hollywood's most famous celebrities from days gone by, he recognized Gran’s sense of humour, her puns, and easy way with words.

He finally fell asleep well after midnight, leaving his reading light on and a book resting on his chest.

It was midday when he finally awoke. After a quick trip to forage in the fridge, he sat down at the kitchen table with his laptop. After staring at the blank screen for forty-five minutes, he typed his first sentence. Fifteen minutes later, he deleted it and typed another. Two hours later, he had two paragraphs written and then took a long lunch break.

Walking down by the lake, he sat on one of the Muskoka chairs. He picked up the old fishing rod that he kept on the dock. Several hours later, he had no fish and no clue as to the direction his creative writing would take. When the rain started, he finally meandered back to the cabin and sat down in front of his laptop again. He picked up another one of Gran's books, then did a Google search to find out exactly what a ghost writer did.

Obviously, writing an autobiographical book on a famous person required a lot of collaboration with the supposed author of the book. It just didn’t seem fair to Jack that Gran’s work had been credited to someone else and her name had not been publicly associated with her work. One thing for sure: he wasn’t interested in not receiving any credit for a book that he had poured blood, sweat, and tears into.

It was late that night when he got a glimmer of light. The proverbial lightbulb didn’t exactly light up over his head like some cartoon character, but at least he had an inkling of what he wanted to write about.

The next few days were filled with either pounding away on his keyboard or sitting on the dock with an old three-ring notebook on the wide arm of the chair, chewing on a pen. He was knee deep into his first draft when the nightmare that every writer faces sometime in their lifetime, hit him like a ton of bricks.. Writer’s block. He didn’t know where the story was going, he didn’t know how to solve the hero’s problems. He pounded his fists on the kitchen table, sending his laptop spinning. At last, he gave in to exhaustion and headed off to bed. In desperation, he ran his hands over the books his Gran had written as a ghostwriter. “Gran,” he said aloud, “I really need help with this.”

In the morning, he sat down in front of the laptop and opened his work to his final chapter. He started to re-read his work and was dreading coming to where he had abruptly ended the night before. Sleep hadn’t seemed to help with the writer’s block, no convenient dreams had come to him to help with his predicament.

As he read, he suddenly realized that his book was longer than he had left it. He read on. The protagonist’s problems were solved, the denouement was there, all the strands of the plot were solved brilliantly, and everything had reached a reasonable resolution.

This is genius, he thought, but how, how, had the ending been added to his laptop? Had he been inspired in the middle of the night and sleepwalked to his laptop. He stared at the pile of Gran's books on the kitchen table, the books that he had left there for inspiration. Then he remembered his desperate plea as he packed it in for the night, “Gran, I really need your help with this.”

In her own special way, she had heard him, and just as she always had, she was there to help him when he needed her. Somehow, she had transcended time and space and the grave. She really was a ghost writer.