The writer and a cat meet a famous author in Literary Lane.

Fiction Craft: "A" Is for Angst

By

Robert Ferrier
(RobertLFerrier.aol.com)

Hemingway had warned me. "You may be seeing some of my friends."

He'd appeared in a dream. Those piercing eyes and the cigar couldn't have been real.

Could they?

What happened later, I'll blame on Bear.

The fat, gray tom had joined me for an afternoon stroll near the river. I zipped up my jacket as autumn leaves crackled around us. River smells blended with the scent of a Sonic to the north.

After walking a few minutes I noticed something new: a trail that veered left through a canopy of trees.

I paused.

Bear wanted to explore; he ambled down the lane. Then he turned and looked at me as if to say, "What?"

I followed him. The path curved near the river. After a few minutes, I thought about something that had kept me awake at night. I didn't have a subject for my next column. I stopped and looked ahead at Bear, whose gaze blended impudence and impatience. "Remember Syd Field's quote?" I asked. "The hardest thing about writing is knowing what to write."

Bear turned to watch a squirrel in a pecan tree.

We walked farther along the path.

Bear relieved himself against a post oak stump. Wrinkling my nose at the aroma of spray, I rounded a curve and stopped. A pretty, brown-haired woman stood smiling at me. She wore a jacket, turtleneck, jeans and walking shoes. A strand of gray weaved through a curl near her cheek. I'd seen her photo on the back cover of novels.

"I know you! You're--"

"No names here!" she said. "Welcome to Literary Lane."

I felt confused. "Literary Lane?"

"Uh huh." Her eyes widened, and she stepped back. "That rock moved!"

I looked down. "Don't stare at the cat. He's sensitive about his weight."

"Well, okay...but he's so huge."

Bear ambled over and weaved figure eights around her feet. She reached down and stroked him under the chin. "Nice kitty. Move so I don't bump into you." When she stood, her expression said, Let's Talk. "You'll meet writers here."

"Uh oh." Hemingway's visit still resonated. "Dead ones or live ones?"

"Both," she said. "This is a special place. Harry Potter uses platform nine and three-quarters. You'll use Literary Lane."

"To get to Hogwarts!"

"To get solutions."

I thought about that while we walked. "Okay. Why are you here?"

"You need an idea for the column."

"Yeah." A final serving of sunlight slipped through the clouds and painted the top of an oak. "Any suggestions?"

"'A' is for Angst."

"Huh?"

"Angst. Writers and their characters must live in angst."

As I thought about her response, I reached out and caught a falling leaf. It crumbled in my hands. "So you're saying, 'No dread, no story?'"

"And no check." She swerved as Bear tried to rub against her legs. "Build characters whose worst fears come true . Worry readers on the first line of the book. John D. MacDonald did that in Darker than Amber: 'We were about to give up and call it a night when somebody dropped the girl off the bridge.'"

"Hell of a lead."

"Sure. Remember what your writing instructor, Jack Bickham, said: 'When your story gets boring, drop a body through the ceiling.'"

I stared at her. "You know about Jack?"

"Writers here know everything."

We had turned north. I sensed time draining away. "You said writers need to live in angst?"

"How else to write about it?" She stopped and stared into my eyes. "I think I know your problem."

Bear and I waited.

"Dig deep and find your angst," she said. "We all dread something." She reached out and squeezed my hand. The gray curl looked silver against her cheek. "Everyone feels angst; not everyone uses it."

Her words had cut deep.

She released my hand and started walking ahead.

I didn't want her to leave. "Thanks for giving me the idea!"

She looked back. "I gave you 26 ideas."

Then she disappeared into the night.

Copyright 2002 Robert Ferrier