Richard Paik

 

MOST DIFFICULT

 

On the first Friday in December, Alan distributed the poetry unit handout to his Senior Honors English class.

 

Each student must select a poem. In making your selection, you need not limit yourself to the Norton Anthology, although that should provide sufficient material. Each student will read his or her poem to the class, present commentary, and lead a brief (approximately ten-minute) discussion. Along with presentations, students will submit written analyses (three to five pages). Written and oral presentations must address the following:

• Why did you choose this poem?
• What do you most like about it?
• What do you think the poet meant to convey?
• Please comment on structure and meaning, and how prosody—the meter and sound of the poem—contributes to the poem.

Mr. Hartschorn will give a “model” presentation (with student discussion) in class next Monday, December 8th. Starting on Wednesday, the 10th, two students will present their poems each day. The schedule of student presentations is as follows: . . .

 

He delivered a different model presentation every year. He liked to change it to make it fun or relevant; as it might relate to something that had arisen in class, or world events, or just his mood.

This year, it would be about a personal issue. He had recently experienced a great disappointment. Sharing it, he thought, might be an important step in putting it behind him. Not that teaching was about resolving his personal issues, but he thought it might be instructive, while helping himself find closure.

* * * *

 

For twenty-five years, he’d held fast to his lifelong dream: to be a writer.

Every day, he rose before dawn, scribbling and tapping away in the huddled glow of a desk lamp. After dinner, while Annette sat downstairs reading or watching TV, he was back at it, churning out notes that led to sentences and paragraphs, that might trickle and bump along and join forces and find their way to become sketches, that would one day blossom into stories and chapters and novels. He wrote and re-wrote; scrutinized and restructured; deleted and polished. He submitted. His short story submissions were met with stiff, polite rejections. His agent queries were messages in bottles, flung into grey seas, where they bobbed briefly before slipping under.

There had been occasional bursts of hope; promising puddles of light in the cloud cover. There had been times when he’d felt himself progressing: his voice growing in authority, his scenes coming to life. He’d willed away doubt. He’d renewed his determination with inspirational notes to himself: Never let anyone take away your dream. Never let anyone tell you you can’t. He’d staggered on, like a wounded soldier in an old war movie.

But now, finally: Enough. He felt his strength giving out. He felt the ground rising up to meet his fall. He was weary; he was so weary.

* * * *

 

On Monday morning, before first bell, Teresa Preklovitch came to his office. Alan had settled in with his first cup of coffee, reviewing notes for his freshman class. He was pleased to see Teresa in the doorway. She was one of the brightest students in his Senior Honors class. He’d had her in Freshman English, and then in her junior year she’d chosen his Shakespeare class for her elective. He’d allowed himself to think that he might be her favorite teacher.

She sat down in the chair at the side of his desk.

There was something wrong. The first words out of her mouth wobbled. She hesitated. She tried to compose herself and reset, but her chin quivered, her eyes reddened.

Her story came out, slowly at first, then in a dam-release surge. Teresa was a pianist. Over the weekend she’d played for the State Piano Teachers’ Awards Recital. It was a prestigious competition, for advanced students who could supplement their college application materials with performance scores and recordings. Teresa’s piece was a Debussy, an Arabesque. She had worked diligently in preparation. She could have played it in her sleep. She was a veteran of high-pressure performances, and she carried an astonishing poise and confidence.

Early in the piece, she’d had a memory glitch. She was ready, though; she knew what to do. She found her footing. And then, another glitch. This time—probably because she’d never had two glitches in one performance— she simply repeated the section. But she couldn’t play through the trouble spot. She repeated again, but could not grope her way back to the familiar path. She’d had to skip ahead, and landed awkwardly in the middle of a passage. After that, she said, her fingers went off the rails. They’d gone off in seizures, plunking on wrong notes with drunken disregard. She’d kept on, with tears streaming down her cheeks, lurching and sputtering toward a finish line.

The comments from the judges were not kind. Her family and two of her best friends had been in the audience.

Alan listened sympathetically. He extended a Kleenex as she buried her face in her hands. He knew better than to tell her it was all right. He understood that it might be a long time before she was ready to believe that.

“I’m such. A loser.”

The word came out swollen and wet. And even in the presence of her distress, it startled Alan. The Teresa he knew was relentlessly upbeat. Over the years he had marveled at, and then grown accustomed to the brightening skies of her fascinations, her summery splashes of laughter.

He wanted to hug her, but maintained his seated position, leaning forward, elbows on his knees. “Teresa,” he said. “You had a bad recital. That does not make you a loser. You are most certainly not a loser.”

He suspected that she had come to talk, more than she’d come to listen. It was not likely that she’d leave his office with spirits lifted. But it was possible, he thought, that she might be diverted. This, then, was his task: If her thoughts could be diverted, it might disrupt the cycle of self-loathing; of rewind-and-replay.

“We start the poetry unit today,” he said. “You might appreciate my sample presentation.” He’d found his poem. He would present it for discussion, and he would tell them about the passing of his writing dreams. By making it known, by speaking it out loud, the death would be confirmed. Then, he could leave it behind.

She sniffed, and then wiped her nose. “How come?”

He took a deep breath. “Because every person in the world knows failure, or will know failure.” He saw the bunched rows in her forehead, the puzzled tilt of her head. He smiled as he checked the clock. “You can tell me—maybe afterward, if you don’t want to share it with the class—if the poem speaks to you.”

As he walked to his Freshman English class, he was pleased: He’d shifted her thoughts, at least momentarily. In some small way, his failure might help Teresa.

* * * *

 

He had shared his dream only with the workshop instructors and the tiny and remote circle of aspiring writers that served as his writing community. To these people, he owed no explanations, no resignations, no goodbyes. From these groups, he could simply vanish. Which was fine. But it left his surrender feeling . . . unofficial.

He told his wife. “I’m done,” he said.

“Okay.” Annette was sorting through the mail. She looked up with a puzzled expression. “What are you done with?”

She had always humored him more than she’d supported him. When asked to read a piece he’d written, she’d tried her dutiful best to be constructive. She was a bit pedantic in her suggestions: show, don’t tell . . . as he sat jiggling his knee, resisting the urge to call attention to his nuanced references and deft descriptions. She had never ranted with him against the short-sightedness and poor judgment of editors and agents and judges. She had never believed in him. “You gave it your best,” she said. “There comes a time.”

His shoulders slumped. The stark words fell like a hard object on bare floorboards.

“Did you expect to become rich and famous?”

Alan had in fact entertained visions. Not “rich and famous” visions; he’d simply allowed himself to imagine that with some modest success might come some . . . boost to the way people thought of him. “I thought I had a chance to get published,” he said.

“Getting published,” she said. “Is that really what matters?”

He felt himself bristling. Even though it didn’t matter anymore.

“What, exactly, is it that you want—wanted? Was it all about writing? Or did you want to be a writer?”

This sounded like an accusation: as if wanting to be published made him a shallow person. Come on, he thought. Getting published mattered. Of course it did. It would mean validation. It would mean that he was not alone with his ideas and visions. It would mean that those ideas and visions were clearly spoken, in a voice worth hearing, and they might venture into the world and connect with others in shared endeavor. At the very least, it was proof; it was knowing. That you were good enough.

He’d read widely and diligently: literary journals, debut novels, story collections. He had never accepted that the pieces he read there were superior to his. But the reality could no longer be denied. He was a schoolteacher. Nothing wrong with that. But that’s what he was, and all he would ever be. He had to let it go. He wondered how long that would take.

* * * *

 

Alan watched his seniors file in. Teresa usually sat in the middle of the class, but today she took a seat in the front row. Alan understood: She wanted to keep her back to the class, just in case. Alan made eye contact; just a brief nod. Then, he rapped on his desk.

His selected poem, he announced, was “Tichborne’s Elegy.” He came around to the side of his desk and sat on the edge, one foot dangling, the other on the floor. He explained that the poem was written in the sixteenth century, in the Tower of London, by a man named Chidiock Tichborne, on the eve of his execution. It was a lament for life, laden with ache. He read in a careful, repetitive cadence, his voice rising and falling:

 

I saw the world, and yet I was not seen

My thread is cut, and yet it is not spun

And now I live, and now my life is done.

 

When he finished, he re-read brief passages, marveling at the imagery.

And then, he hesitated.

He’d always wanted his students to look up to him. He’d hoped to serve as an inspiration, possibly a role model. Had he held himself out too loftily? Too knowledgeably?

This was the part of the assignment where he explained his selection. He stood with his arms folded, frowning down at his elbows. Did he want his students to see him as a failure? Did he want them to regard their teacher as a wasted life, surrendering in futility? Why should he go into this? His anticipation of this moment was based on some theatrical, indulgent view of himself, as if anybody cared. Or maybe he thought somebody might feel sorry for him. He thought of Teresa. Just a few hours ago, he’d actually thought that this poem would be relevant to her; that it might somehow help her feel better. Which was absurd. It would make no difference to anybody, in all likelihood.

From the back row, Jackson spoke. “Thank you, Mr. Hartschorn. Very good job,” he said, mimicking Alan’s familiar commendation. The students exchanged grins: Jackson was the class clown. “Now, please continue,” Jackson said. “Please explain why you chose this poem.” The class laughed.

Alan had to smile. He pointed his finger at Jackson: Good one. Got me. He looked down at the printed words, and then met the class with his gaze. “I chose this,” he said, “because I . . . because a good friend of mine . . . has recently experienced a disappointment that feels devastating, that feels like failure. Thinking about that, made me think of this poem.”

A few hands fluttered. Alan called on Colette, who could be relied on for thoughtful insights.

“So. This guy.” Colette adjusted herself in her seat. “He wrote this . . . in a stone cell? I mean, did he even have a pen and paper?”

Alan put his hand up to scratch at the back of his head. He did not know the particulars of Tichborne’s writing setup. “Good question, though.”

“Brutal,” said Ryan. “What crime did he commit?”

Alan set his lips in a tight grimace. He had a vague memory that it was treason, but he could not remember what treasonous offense had been committed. Hands remained up. Questions were earnest. It pleased Alan that the students were interested, but the questions and comments were better suited for history class: Tichborne’s cause, the prison chamber, the English government, the method of execution. Along with: What kind of name is “Chidiock”?

He tried to steer the discussion back to the poem. He’d already commented on language and rhythm; he wanted to talk about emotions. Colette offered a question: Was Tichborne writing about the end of his life, or the failure of his cause?

“Okay,” Alan said. “What do you think? Anybody.”

Students fidgeted and looked at one another.

In the back row, to everyone’s relief, Jackson raised his hand.

Alan feigned weary skepticism. “Yes, Jackson.”

“So,” Jackson said. “This guy wrote this all alone. Probably while chowing on prison porridge or something. So then, what did he do, read it to the prison guards?”

The class laughed.

Alan explained that it was to be sent to Tichborne’s wife, along with a letter.

“So, an audience of one,” Jackson said.

They seemed more interested in the poet than the poem, but Alan decided to let it go. For, as much as he wanted them to learn how to use and understand sounds and verses and literature, he also wanted to convey life lessons. He strode back and forth in front of them. He could see his students grappling with the idea of dwindling hours, of one final night. “With no expectation of a reading audience,” he said, “Tichborne authored a poem.” There was a contemplative silence. “Little did he know that it would live on for centuries; that his poem about failure would turn about to be such a triumph. The triumph of a lifetime.“

“Yeah, well,” one of the boys said. “He didn’t exactly get any glory out of it.” “But just the act of writing itself,” Alan said. “You have to believe that Tichborne was pleased with his poem. Was it worthwhile?” He felt their eyes on him. He could mine this vein. “What would you do, in that situation?” He winged his arms out. “No chance for escape. You can’t even commit suicide; unless you can manage that with a quill pen.”

There were thoughtful expressions, angled poses. Someone coughed. “I guess there’s not much point to anything,” Ryan said. “I mean, maybe you just sit there and remember things, but there’s not much point to that, either.”

Alan nodded as he continued striding back and forth. “Any pursuit, any endeavor,” he told them—”academic, vocational, athletic, artistic—just about anything that requires you to apply yourself. Anything. Can be worthwhile, in and of itself.” He wiped at the air. “It doesn’t have to lead to anything.” He heard the words leave his mouth and enter the airspace of the classroom. He wondered if he was wandering too far from poetry discussion. But he wanted them to learn to conduct their lives in the moment, without regard for who was watching, who was judging.

Jackson raised his hand again. “Just curious. But did you say this stuff to your friend—your friend of the big failure? Because, well, what did he say?”

Yes, of course: He’d referred to a failure of a good friend of mine. Alan took care to not look at Teresa.

“Or—how bad—what was this failure? Can you tell us?” Jackson clasped his hands in mock supplication. “Promise we won’t tell.”

Out of the corner of his eye, Alan saw Teresa leaning forward, one hand shielding the side of her face. Hiding: She thinks I’m talking about her. A tremor of shame shot through him: He, too, was hiding.

“As a matter of fact,” he said. He stopped walking. He faced the class with his arms folded, one hand at his chin. “I lied.”

He had their attention.

Alan half-sat and half-leaned against the front of his desk. “The ‘friend’ of this recent failure,” he said, “is me.” He told them of the swagger of his youth; his certainty that he was going to be somebody. He told them how, for twenty-five years, he’d written story after story, and two novels, without getting a single thing published. How he’d willed himself on, struggled to believe in himself, but how after so many years it was time to concede the futility of it. How he was struggling now to come to grips with the painful fact that he would never be a writer.

“But I have produced a lot of work,” he said. “And you know what, I don’t care what these editors think.” Which was not quite true, but he continued. “I am proud of what I’ve written.” This was true. “And I believe that somehow, my efforts have not been a waste of time.” He spread his hands. “And if I’d written some formulaic piece of garbage that got published, would I feel better? If I’d gotten published because my grandfather was the chief editor at some publishing house? Would that feel good? I don’t think so.” He heard a throat being cleared; he heard someone moving a piece of paper. “I don’t think so.” He thrust his hands in his pockets. “I mean, it hurts. It hurts a lot. But I have to accept defeat here. Telling you this—hopefully—might help me get over it.” He looked up. “So, thank you. For listening.”

The class sat in frozen pause, looking up at him with dumbstruck eyes.

* * * *

 

A few days later, Teresa stopped in at his office. She seemed to be back to her normal self. She wanted to thank him for listening to her rant and cry. It helped, she said, to know that she could be open with somebody. She apologized. She hoped that she hadn’t been too hysterical.

Alan smiled. He was happy that she’d turned to him. He was here to help.

“And ‘Tichborne’s Elegy,'” she said. “That was amazing.”

Teresa was scheduled to present her poem on the following Monday. Alan was curious about her selection.

She’d narrowed her choices to two. She’d been interested in a third—by the local poet Marge Rudlinger—but her classmate Colette had chosen the exact same poem.

“I actually met Marge Rudlinger,” Alan said. It had been years ago, just after her first volume had been published. He remembered her saying something about persistence, how it didn’t always pay off. “But, anyway”— Alan motioned at Teresa to go on.

Teresa smiled. Her two finalists were “Life is Fine” by Langston Hughes, and “Augmented Chords” by Edward Talleson.

Alan tilted his head. Both great choices. But, Talleson? He was intrigued. Talleson was renowned but obscure; not many people read Talleson. In college, Alan said, he’d considered himself a bit of a Talleson scholar. He wondered how she’d come across him.

She’d never heard of him, she said, but she’d seen a biography about him among the new books at the library. She’d leafed through it, and it looked interesting, and when she saw that Talleson was known for poetry as well as prose, she’d looked up some of his poems and found one that she liked.

“Very interesting,” Alan said. “I look forward to your presentation.”

* * * *

 

At Barnes & Noble he found the Talleson biography prominently displayed. Edward Talleson, dead for more than a decade, had been an acclaimed but enigmatic figure, in his later years reclusive in the manner of J.D. Salinger. His small but devoted following regarded themselves as an esoteric community; they’d read the entirety of his limited but precious body of work, which consisted of two novels, two short story collections, a slim volume of poems, and several dozen essays.

Alan had discovered Talleson in his sophomore year: Modern American Lit. He remembered liking the course reading list, but disliking the professor. Professor Breckens used stoicism to intimidate. His written feedback carried a tone of snide disgust. In class, he felt no discomfort in heavy, ticking silences, all but yawning as the expectations of inadequacy gathered among students trying too hard for the perfect and original comment that might spark an animated response.

And yet, the students hoped to win Breckens’ approval. For Breckens seemed to be a man of literary stature. Still in his thirties, he carried an air of tweedy distinction, and maintained friendly relationships with celebrated writers like Dubus and Coover and Talleson.

One of his classmates was unabashed in her disdain: Breckens was a big wannabe, she said. She rolled her eyes. “He kisses up to literary stars at conferences. So he can feel like a big shot.”

But that was wrong. Robert Breckens, it turned out, went on to a literary career in his own right, enjoying reasonable commercial success, albeit to mixed reviews.

Alan never read any of Breckens’ work, or followed his career.

Despite his dislike for Breckens, Alan loved the class. He devoted exhaustive hours to his final paper, which presented a view of Talleson’s characters as proxies for American icons—Emerson, Turner, Whitman— flailing for relevance in the burgeoning suburban culture of post-war America. Alan grew so absorbed in his topic, that almost without effort, he dashed off a short short story, about three pages long, about a callow version of Talleson as a preppy and pretentious 1970s undergrad frequenting a disco. And, when he submitted his paper, he included the story. He hesitated, thinking hard about Breckens’ lack of humor and forbidding stares. But he included it. Screw it, he told himself. I wrote this. It felt good to be bold. He did include a brief note:

This is not part of the paper, but I was having fun and thought this might be good for a grin.

* * * *

 

On the day they were supposed to pick up their graded papers, his was not in the box outside Breckens’ office.

The office door stood open.

It coursed through his mind that Breckens had deemed his story inappropriate. He stood there paralyzed, wishing he could take back the story, trying to assure himself that it was a simple mistake: Somebody had taken the wrong paper.

Alan rechecked the stack of sealed packets, flicking noisily to signal his presence. Then he knocked, softly. And then again. He obeyed the gruff instruction to enter.

Breckens sat at his desk with his back to the door.

Alan waited several seconds.

“Yes.” Breckens swiveled abruptly. “How can I help you?”

“My paper,” Alan said.

Breckens motioned at the open doorway. “Right there.” He turned back to his desk. “In the box.”

“I—I just looked,” Alan said apologetically. “Mine’s missing.” Breckens swung back around to stare at Alan. “And you are?”

“Hartschorn. Alan. Alan Hartschorn.”

Breckens found a class list and scanned it with furrowed brow. “Oh,” he said. “Come back for it in a week or so.”

Okay. Possibilities—all bad—reeled through Alan’s mind. “Um. Was there something wrong?”

“Nothing wrong. But it’s not here. I sent it to Ed.”

“Ed?”

“Yes. Ed.”

Alan stood, dumbfounded.

“Ed Talleson?” Breckens leaned at him, cartooning sarcastically, with widened eyes and arched eyebrows. “I believe you wrote about him?”

“Yes.” Alan stood still. Waiting. Surely there was more. But when Breckens swiveled back to his desk, he understood that he had been dismissed.

* * * *

 

Alan loved the feel of the book in his hands. The texture of the pages, the crackly sound of the spine flexing, the rolled-oats feel to the walled stack of paper edges. He scanned the narrative on the inner flap. He opened to the table of contents. He fanned through the pages, smelling them. He was not quite finished with the book he’d been reading, but he was getting close. Next up, an early Christmas gift for himself: A Literary Life: Edward Talleson and American Prosperity.

* * * *

 

Annette had heard of Talleson, but had never read any of his work. Alan told her about the college class, and Breckens, and the paper and the short story. He showed her the book. Annette took it and leafed through. Her eyes darted about the liner flap, with its previews of Talleson’s troubled early years, youthful transgressions, his heroism as a navy pilot in Korea, his depression and despair and addictions, the attempted suicide, the publicized affairs.

On Monday morning, Alan found the book on the kitchen table. Annette had already left for work, but she’d placed the book there with a yellow post-it note protruding from the pages.

He turned to the page she’d flagged. It was in the latter third of the book, in the chapter about Talleson’s relationships with emerging literary figures. On the post-it note, Annette had drawn an arrow to a passage. And there on the printed page, set off in italics, was a letter from Edward Talleson to the emerging writer Robert Breckens:

Your student’s paper is very impressive. I am glad that you sent it to me; it was a pleasure to read. I think he might have articulated some of my own thoughts better than I might have. He is a very talented young man. Please give him my best regards.

And by the way, I loved your short story. It’s a hilarious riff, full of your trademark wit (you got in a few great jabs at me!). Plus, I find your characterizations insightful (even as I “shake it” under the disco ball). If you’d like, I think I can help you find a home for this. It could be the start of something for you.

Alan received an ‘A’ for the paper. There had been minimal commentary. Just a few criticisms about stylistic issues, a few check marks in the margins, apparently intended as commendations. There had been no mention of the story. Nothing relayed from Talleson. Alan had chosen not to seek out Breckens to ask about it.

He sat at the kitchen table, looking at the page. Emotions reeled past like cards being shuffled. Cards for anger; cards for despair; cards for vengeance. He might have heard a military jet flying low over the house. He wondered if the dishwasher was running, if it was malfunctioning in some destructive way. But there was only silence. In his head, there was an image of himself by a railroad, very close to the tracks, where the engine and the cars seemed to be hurtling past at frightening speeds. Each car painted in block-lettering: now what? . . . so long ago . . . you were good enough . . . still a failure . . . He wasn’t sure if it was ten minutes or forty-five. The train passed, leaving behind a brief disturbance of wind. It was time for work.

* * * *

 

It was Teresa’s turn to present her poem. “This is by William Butler Yeats,” she said. “To a Friend Whose Work Has Come to Nothing.“

Alan was not sure whether he was relieved or disappointed that she hadn’t chosen the Talleson poem. As she read, he focused on her phrasing. Clearly, she’d rehearsed. She kept an even cadence, trying for the just-right amount of emphasis on rhymes. Over the latter part of the poem, her voice took on a resolute tone, of heavy steps negotiating a path among boulders:

. . .

Bred to a harder thing

Than Triumph, turn away A

nd like a laughing string

Whereon mad fingers play

Amid a place of stone,

Be secret and exult.

Because of all things known

That is most difficult.

 

When she finished, Teresa brushed her hair from her face. “I really liked this poem,” she said. “I chose it because it’s about failure, and I had a really big one recently. I just—I fell apart—I mean I totally lost it, in an important piano recital. It was, like, complete and utter humiliation. I couldn’t face anybody.”

Alan jotted notes as she went along.

Teresa continued, commenting on the heavy tread of sounds like bred to a harder thing than Triumph; the visual imagery of mad fingers playing amid a place of stone. Alan nodded in approval.

After taking a few questions and comments, Teresa folded her paper, creasing it between finger and thumb. “And one last thing,” she said. “Another reason I chose this was that it made me think of Mr. Hartschorn’s story last week. Because I thought about what he said, and it definitely applied to this poem.” She turned away from the class and looked Alan square in the eye. “But I think this poem is more about bravery than it is about failure.” She paused, tossing her hair to one side. “And, um. That’s all.”

Alan stood up. “Thank you, Teresa,” he said. It came out unevenly. “Very good job.” He started to add something. Something. He felt the class watching him; rows and columns of dead-mackerel eyes. He gulped once, to stave it off, but he felt a bad moment coming. He was afraid that his next words might not make it out cleanly. So, he waited. The class waited. He found himself looking down at the scuff marks on the floor tiles. And then, two words croaked forth: “Class dismissed.”

From the classroom, his office was just two doors down. Alan entered the stream of traffic in the corridor. He knew that he didn’t look quite right; he could feel the heat in his face.

As he unlocked the door, he felt a nudge at his elbow. It was Teresa. He turned on the overhead light and set his briefcase on the floor.

Teresa hugged him. Just lightly. He allowed it. But then there was a moment of near-panic, as he realized that she was holding on to the hug, that she’d moved close against him, that the door was open, that he could smell her hair, that it almost felt like he was young . . . but it passed, a mere shimmer of a moment. Everything corrected itself. She stood back, smiling. “I haven’t read your writing,” she said. “I bet I’d like it. But no matter what, I’m proud of you. For everything.”

“Thank you,” he said.

She took her hands from his elbows and put them in her pockets. “Um.” She smiled. “I’d better get to calculus.”

He stood leaning against the doorframe, watching her make her way down the hall. In that moment, when she hugged him, there had been a momentary stir. It whooshed him back through the tunnel of years, back to his own days in these same classrooms and corridors. It filled him with an autumnal melancholy; both happy and sad.

Before this morning’s revelation, he’d been making progress. On acceptance. He’d assured himself that, if he had to be “just” a teacher, he was a pretty good teacher; a teacher who cared about his students.

Perhaps they cared about him. Nobody had ever envied him, but he had an okay life. And besides, he reminded himself, he could still write. He just needed to let go of the ambition, the be a writer part. But that was the hardest part: letting go of the dream; the dream of being somebody.

The ideas would still come. The visions and hanging “what-ifs” would continue their visits, flitting about like swallows and butterflies. There was no need to turn them away. He could write about these things. He could write about the strange, confused feeling that filled him right now. Perhaps he would write something that would make him laugh or cry. If it did, maybe he would have accomplished something. And if nobody else ever read it, that didn’t matter. It would be something just for himself. In all likelihood.

 

 

RICHARD PAIK lives in Marblehead MA. His debut novel A Thing or Two About the Game (Atmosphere Press) was released in 2022.