“How did you know?” You turn your teaspoon upside down and set its lip to the saucer.
“Know what?” I say.
“That it was supposed to be a book?”
“What book?”
You smile softly. “The book you are not writing. A Book of Beginnings.”
“Oh, now you are on my side?” I poke you gently and laugh. “It was too big for one walk.”
“Say more?”
“I crossed over Clinton Avenue. The river was to my right—down, down the hills, and blocked by too many houses. The phrase popped into my head: ‘A Book of Beginnings.’ I’ll tell you about that phrase sometime. But not right now.”
“Why not right now?”
“Because I am going to tell you how I knew it was supposed to be a book. Not all stories need to be told at once. Some are better for saving. The phrase. I’m saving it.”
“You are so stubborn.”
“Good writers are like that. I claim the necessary stubbornness of the good writer.”
“A little full of yourself, too.” You wink.
“Good writers are like that. Too. They get to the place where they know things. I know I need to save the phrase. So stop giving me those moony eyes. Because I am simply going to answer the question at hand.”
You lean back in your chair, fold your arms lightly.
“I told you I’m too tired to write a book. But it’s springtime, and the irises are poking up and the crocuses just finished their purple striped blooms. And now I am not full of myself so much as full of ideas. It happens every spring. Well, since 2007 it has. Like someone opened a door that was shut for too long. And now every spring the things behind that door come tumbling out.”
“You are a door?”
“Maybe I’m you. I’m standing outside the door, waiting to catch what comes tumbling.”
“How do you know I’m waiting for anything?”
“Because you should have taken your teacup to the kitchen already, but instead you are sitting here still talking to me.”
“Okay, I’m waiting. Are you stalling? Because so far I’ve heard about the river and the crocuses and my lack of domestic urgency, but you haven’t said so much about how you knew this was a book.”
“I crossed Clinton Avenue. I walked up Belleview. I turned left. I don’t know the name of that street. But it’s the one with the big stone mansion with the standing-bear statues out front. I’ve sometimes dreamed of living there, but the taxes are too high and there’s no proper driveway. I walked up Prospect and on to the road of the Tudors. Big ones. Not like the tiny Tudor we’re sitting in now. I walked all that way and then turned around and walked all that way back. And the whole time I kept getting new ideas for A Book of Beginnings. That’s how I knew.”
“That’s it? You could tell by the length of your walk?”
“That’s it. And the title. All my books start with a title I can’t forget. My first book, by the way? Somebody changed the title. That was a bad move, in my opinion. I’m sorry to say it, but it’s true. Nobody is changing this one.”
“I thought you weren’t writing a book. And you’re already defending the title?”
“I’m defending the title. I don’t usually recommend this for a writer, but I’m doing it.”
You fiddle with the teaspoon and the morning light bends.
I watch you flip the spoon onto its silver back. “I know you like it, ” I say. “You’re still here.”
Photo by Sharon Mollerus. Creative Commons, via Flickr. Story by L.L. Barkat, author of Rumors of Water: Thoughts on Creativity & Writing.
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Maureen Doallas says
And let’s not forget your collection of love poetry and a book of translations (any language).
—————-
But Not Right Now
I am going to answer
upside down the question
in those moony eyes.
But not right now.
All good writers get a little
crossed, sometimes.
A walk here and back
to the big kitchen
in the mansion. . . maybe
I’d recommend it
but not right now.
My lack of urgency
to tell you stories, to say
more? I’m too stubborn
to stop and fold softly
into a laugh.
A Book of Beginnings
too big in my head
is better for saving.
It’s a start in my head.
Like a wink at you
in a spring river, like
a door purple-striped
and opened to ideas
you are waiting
to catch gently. Too
many blocked things
tumbling down,
down the hills
haven’t been dreamed
or heard. There’s no
big stone waiting to be
turned. I don’t know how
bad sitting out taxes is,
how standing-bear statues
front for me on the street.
I don’t know right now.
I fiddle too
long with my books, watch
morning, all that way
I walked, getting new
there, like I knew there
was light
in a silver spoon
I forget to set down
right now.
L. L. Barkat says
oh, this very much makes me smile 🙂
Love this part especially…
“I don’t know how
bad sitting out taxes is,
how standing-bear statues
front for me on the street.
I don’t know right now.”
About those other books you’re looking for… I don’t know about those either 😉
Marcy Terwilliger says
Like, how do you know? Enjoyed your exchange because I’ve been thinking about writing a book all day. Thoughts of so many subjects to say and where to begin and what not to say. Life, mine would make a good read especially if you like laughing how a fool’s life can be. Wisdom comes with a price and I’ve really earned mine in so many ways. Abuse, cruel people, learning to survive, there is much other’s could gain to see how I flew by. Disease that takes the body but not the mind, how to wear a smile when you really want to cry. Being a stinking good actress someone should have hired me long ago. Making people laugh would give me higher scores. A life of war’s, one right after another, each one bringing home a scar but none looking like the other. Yes, I need to write a book but honesty is all stuffed up in me and I’m not sure they can take it. Many would wiggle in their chair, some would throw the book in the air. In order to get this job done write ten pages a day and do not stray from the work that lays before you. So we’ll just have to see if there is a book in me and what name I’ll put it under. When I do I’ll contact you because I read everything you write. Is it just a dream or is it real, one would have to know since I’m having a problem letting this go?
L. L. Barkat says
I think you could just begin writing. And who knows where it will go.
But nothing becomes more than a dream if we just keep thinking about it and never start.
(there’s a chapter coming up you might feel I wrote just for you, but trust me in saying it is already on the list and you don’t need to fear that i’m speaking about you; gosh, we writers have so many similar questions and hesitancies 🙂 )
Ann Kroeker says
The only thing about beginnings is that they are naturally followed by endings. But then those endings sometimes are followed by new beginnings.
Beginnings and endings are on my mind right now, as I watch my daughter put together a display board with photos from childhood for her high school graduation events.
I’m staring at beginnings, and reflecting on the end of her life at home, her K-12 years…thinking about her beginnings as a college student and young adult making a life on her own.
Sigh.
L. L. Barkat says
Seasons. Circles. Yes.
Oh, I hear you on the daughter beginning. I spent a whole book (Rumors) just *starting* to deal with my girls’ transition to adulthood. Made myself cry more that once with that one 😉
You are so good with helping people with their beginnings, Ann. Lucky daughter she is, even as you are keeping your own sadnesses, like little stones you can return to in a box she might not know you own.
Megan Willome says
“I claim the necessary stubbornness of the good writer.”–Yes!
L. L. Barkat says
It was fun to write that, because I also know that a writer must be flexible and open to ideas.
Knowing when to be which is a good trick 😉
Jody Lee Collins says
Well, I’m intrigued. Beginning to be intrigued. Everything you write is worth waiting for, Laura.
L. L. Barkat says
Ah, that is a fine compliment, Jody. I think I shall keep you out of my scribbly notebook 😉