Design of the narrative

This might give you a sense of how layered and complex the new narrative will be ...

Preface

Thanks for meeting with me, says the Author.

What’s up?, asks the Reader.

You wanted to know about my next novel. There may not be one -- but if there is, it will be written under unusual circumstances. I do have one in mind and very much want to write it but I don’t have the time to do it the way I usually work. But I’ve come up with an alternative methodology that should get down its essence.

What’s the problem? Are you ill?

I don’t want to get into it. Suffice it to say, there are both physical and mental conditions that make it impossible for me to develop a new book in my usual way.

But you have an idea for a new novel?

Yes. The concept is very clear to me. I’ll write the novel on the fly, so to speak. I’m giving you the opportunity, as a loyal fan of my work, to come with me on the journey of its creation.

I’m not sure I understand.

I’ll let you read pages as they develop. I’ll even answer your questions along the way.

You mean, I’ll read a draft?

Yes and no. The pages will be reworked but not as rigorously as in the past.

If you’re asking if I want to read new work by you, of course I do.

Good. One more thing: this will be a very layered, very different kind of book in terms of its structure. You may get lost along the way at first. But since you’re a fan, I was hoping you could hang in there, especially early on, and give me the benefit of the doubt. I expect it to be worth your effort.

Of course I can. When do we begin?

We already have.

Part One:

“Once upon a time …”

Athens, Greece

399 B.C.

I recognize him immediately: short but not as stocky as I was led to believe from history books; slumped forward toward the gathering of youth around him; gesturing as he talks or, perhaps more accurately, engages them in his famous dialectic. The boys range in age from preteen to teen, younger than I expected. Not what I would call a college student among them. But maybe this is not his typical audience. I am here for the first time.

I approach and stand behind the small crowd, wondering how to get his attention. Then a soldier makes it easy for me, running forward as if just discovering the gathering, waving his sword, yelling at the boys (in Greek, of course), who immediately scatter, leaving Socrates and I alone. The soldier wags a finger at Socrates, then gives me a puzzling look before moving away. Older than the philosopher, I may be just another street nuisance.

I step forward.

“Socrates,” I begin.

His puzzlement matches the soldier’s.

“Have we met?”

“Not really. I mean, only in books. I’m not really, well …”

How do I explain who I am and how I got here?

Socrates says, “I thought he was going to arrest me again.”

“Can we talk?”

“Of course. I will talk to anyone. What do you want to talk about?”

I glance around, feeling ill at ease. Around us, the Athens street is busy with peddlers and pedestrians, all watched carefully by scattered soldiers.

Socrates says, “You said you wanted to talk.”

“I do. I’m very familiar with your work.”

“Really? I don’t recall seeing you before.”

“In books, I mean.”

“You mentioned that. What are books?”

“This is very complicated,” I begin. I realize that I’m speaking in Greek. I don’t know Greek. But there you are. I continue:

“I’ve always cherished your ideas. Especially the one about the unexamined life is not worth living. But as I’ve grown older, after many, many years of examining my own life, it occurred to me that you never actually said that the examined life, in contrast, actually is worth living. Lately I’ve been asking myself if my entire existence has been something of a sham. As a writer, you see, I’ve spent considerable time examining my own experience, looking for meaning in what happens to me and what happens to others. I’ve examined my life obsessively, believe me! But for what? To what end? I certainly haven’t found happiness from so much soul searching. I’ve only had a modicum of success as a writer. I do have a very large literary archive. But what good is it? I’ve been writing seriously for over half a century. Sometimes it feels like a waste of time. You might say I’ve lost the faith that what I do matters. I had it when I was younger. But no more.”

I’m sweating. I feel as if I might faint.

Socrates looks upset.

He says simply, “Come with me.”

He starts away. I follow him.

Portland, Oregon

July 14, 2015

Protagonist

After the funeral, before meeting the others at Lucky’s Bar for what would become an improvised wake, CJ ducked away to call the apartment manager. Having decided to remain in Portland, at least for the time being, he needed a place to stay and that morning had looked at a studio between the gentrified borders of the Northwest and Pearl districts, a small, ignored neighborhood north of Glisan St. suggesting the old bohemian Portland CJ recalled so fondly. The price was right and CJ wanted it badly. In his two years absence, prices had skyrocketed and soon Portland would be beyond his fixed income.

I’m stopping a moment to make a small change.

Do I wait here?

Please. I won’t be long.

You said I was allowed to ask questions?

Of course.

Let me make sure I have the back story right. CJ has been on the road since leaving Portland a few years ago. Living in his van. Traveling all over the country.

Right. That’s all set up in my earlier novel, Sodom, Gomorrah & Jones.

Got it. So he’s been on the road but comes back to Portland for a funeral.

Kayla’s funeral.

Oh no! I liked her. You had to kill her?

I didn’t kill her. She killed herself. I’m ready to continue now.

“I got the studio,” CJ told Molly as he sat down. At Lucky’s the others had pushed several tables together, and Molly had saved him a seat next to her.