ANGEL

ANGEL

            Every spring carries with it an aura of promise.  The newness can be seen in the tree blossoms, the crocuses lifting their heads above the ground to breathe new air, and the melodic chirping of birds whose song had been stifled by the cold winter.  None of this is new, but rather a renaissance of what had occurred many times before.

            I looked forward to springtime.   This one felt different and I was approaching it with hope.  Writing has always been my passion and over the last two years, it fell back into my life like an old friend that had been gone too long.  The reason was simple.  I had discretionary time now and I wanted to take full advantage of it.  From my days living in Paris, when my appetite for writing was nurtured, until now, life intervened.  Yes, that wonderful companion had provided much to occupy my time over the forty-one years since I penned much of what was now part of my archives.   Dusting off old manuscripts, or at least the beginnings of many, along with re-reading stories and poems I had written, was invigorating and spurred me to delve into my passion once again. My most cherished of past written words was my journal. My parents had given me a notebook one Christmas and encouraged me to write down what I experienced. Little did they know how it would progress.

            After retiring, I started a novel with an idea, then an outline.  One page followed another.  I don’t remember lapsing into writer’s block.  The words flowed freely as the story evolved.  It was a concept that lay dormant for many years and sprang to life with newfound vigor.  Although it took over a year to complete and edit, and edit again, the novel was complete and it was time to test the literary waters with all the undercurrents lurking in the depths of publication.  In general, I was a patient person, perhaps to a fault. The more I submitted my novel, the thicker my skin became.  Rejection letters, even the kind ones, were still a voice that said my work was sub-standard, at least to those places where I sent the query letter or manuscript.  From what I had heard and read, I knew it would be this way.  I thought I was prepared for it.  Yet it’s never easy to have someone tell you that you aren’t good enough, and definitely not for a person like me who was used to winning.

            Things came easy to me ever since I was a young boy.  My talents in sports and in school outshone those of others and it seemed that I didn’t have to struggle to achieve what I wanted.  Not to say that I didn’t put a lot of effort into whatever I did, but it just never weighed me down or stressed me out.  I was class president, I played football and baseball, and even had a role in our school’s presentation of West Side Story, mostly because the director thought I looked like George Charkiris who played Bernardo, sideburns, olive -skinned, and all.

The same charm followed me over the span of my lifetime…until now.  This was different.  Although I had taken courses on writing and studied other authors, I still had not been published.  After my first novel, while it was surfing the publication seas, I wrote another one and a parody along with a collection of short stories.  Still, I waited for the breakthrough.

            Waiting is such a wanting whim that tempts us with its charms, expecting results with utmost hope until disappointment fills our arms. This has become a mantra familiar to me.   Each failed attempt held promise until the rejection letter arrived, yet, I became more resolute and it didn’t keep me from trying again.  Fruitful turned to futile. How the perspective changed came from an unexpected source.

            As I mentioned, retirement was the source of my discretionary time.  I had worked in long-term care and often read patients’ histories as part of their care charts, This was fodder for writing projects. When I wasn’t writing, I spent time observing, cultivating new projects, and getting in touch with the world around me.  One day, as I sat in a sidewalk cafe, reminiscent of my days in Paris, a stranger at a nearby table noticed me writing in a notebook.  I refer to her as my angel. “Are you a writer?” she asked.

            I smiled.  “Well, yes, I suppose I am, but I have not been published.”

            She smiled in return.  “Does that bother you?” she asked. “You seemed troubled by it.”

            “In a way, yes, because I sense no validation for what I’m saying or thinking,” I reasoned.  She had a cherubic face and almost an elfin stature since her feet didn’t touch the ground as she sat in the café chair, a bright blue scarf draped around her neck.  Her smile was engaging and there was a serenity about her that accentuated her presence.  As she continued, I found myself yearning for a response.

            “Validation of self comes from within, and for a writer, it’s the ability to express thoughts, ideas, tell an interesting story, and share them with others.  That’s why we write,” she concluded.

            “Are you a writer, too?” I asked.

            “Yes, for many years I have read the works of others and tried to craft my own voice within the realm of literature, to no avail.  But I continue on because each time I look around at people, travel to new places, and entertain blossoming thoughts, I need to express them.  Writing was the best way I knew how.  Though I too am not published, I can go back and read about my life in my writings, remember times that were both happy and sad, somewhat of a chronicle of my existence.  For me, that is a genuine sense of self even though I could not penetrate the world of publishing,” she mused, a faraway look in her eyes.  “Take today, for example.  I met you, shared a conversation, and can take from that everything from a warm interaction to the seeds of a story.  Where it leads is inconsequential.  It’s the experience, and then preserving it, that matters.  

            I smiled again from my own introspection.  “Thank you.  Would you like to join me?” 

            “I already have,” she laughed, “but I have to be going.  Thank you for sharing your day with me.”   She got up and walked away.  

            I blurted out “But I never got your name!”

            “That’s because I never gave it,” she replied.  “Just call me whatever you will as you write about the experience. I’m sure you’ll come up with a good name,” she grinned as she waved goodbye.

            I returned many times to the café after that day, hoping to see the lady again, but she never appeared.  I even asked people at the café about her and no one knew who I was talking about.  “Perhaps she’s an illusion,” one of my friends would say as I told the story.  “A figment of your imagination.  You do write, and you have an expansive imagination for such a scrawny type, so dreaming up people wouldn’t be beyond you.  And I’ve always thought that any friends you could have would be imaginary!”

            “Sir,” a voice broke into my reverie.  “The editor will see you now.”

            I mumbled a thank you, gathered up my material, and followed the person into an office where a man scanning papers sat behind a large desk filled with a pile of manuscripts.  

            “Hello, my name is John Anderson.  Please call me John,” he said as he extended his hand above the pile.

            “Nice to meet you, John.  I’m Alexander Dumont. My friends call me Alex.”  I hoped he didn’t sense the nervousness in my voice.

            “Please sit down, Alex.  I see you’ve had the privilege of working with the elderly How did that affect you?”

            I hesitated to gather my thoughts. “I loved the rich histories of our residents and it gave me cause to write about it. I made close acquaintances and enjoyed their presence.” I paused again. “The hard part was having these friends pass away, leaving a void that I ultimately was able to come to grips with, being thankful for the experience. I ended up writing a story about it called Living with Dying which was somewhat of a catharsis for me.”

“Interesting viewpoint, Alex” he replied. “So, what have you got for me here?  I read your query and it interested me,” he offered.

            “Well, here are the first chapters of a novel I have written,” I stated. 

            He took the papers from me.  “What’s the title of the novel and do you believe it’s interesting enough for us to consider?”  he asked as he peered over his glasses, perched precariously at the end of his nose.

            “It’s called Angel and I believe that, as you read these chapters, you’ll see why it fits with your style,” I said confidently.

            As he perused the pages, he smiled as he read, stifled a laugh at times, and nodded in approval, I sensed that my work had touched another as it had touched me. 

            What else can a writer ask for?