The Writer and The Snowman Part 3

Afternoon, folks. How are you? Thank you for so many of us being in this little journey in our midst of our COVID, whatever the heck it is. Hey, just getting, getting to our last chapter on The Rider and the Snowman. Now, if you've been with me or you've had a chance to catch up, well done. We've done Mr. Joyce, the first chapter. Then we did the chapter on Frosty. I got a picture here for you, boys and girls. You always need to see the pictures. And then I've got a chapter on the writer, and then we are up to the publisher. Now, um, what's the— what's Ricardo's handle? Uh, Unoriginal Doodler. Unoriginal Doodler. Ricardo did the artwork for the book, and we couldn't have done the project without him. And @NikkiCheeks did the editing, and we're just so very grateful for everything they've done. And you can get a copy on the website, drjohnaking.com, and I hope you're finding it helpful. So, The Publisher. Have you got a beverage? Cheers. The publisher sat in the corner booth, gazing out the window, nursing a teeling whiskey over ice, looking around the pub. He wished it were the '90s so he could smoke. Land of the free. Home of the nanny state, he said to himself, patting the pocket where 2 of his finest hand-rolled organic cigars were wrestling to be free. If things go well with him, maybe later tonight at home. Janet would love that. The first winter sludge was playing havoc with the traffic, so he assumed he might have to wait a while. Time to gather his thoughts. This was good. Warm place. A natural choice for them to meet again, back where it all began 10 years ago. He fondly remembered their first accidental encounter while diving for lobsters in Florida. It had been a good season and the conversation had started around their shared passions for scuba diving. He'd invited the young man back to the bar and over the course of the evening, they had ended up swapping life stories and shared dreams with ease, the way men do with strangers. The usual Tang of the Reef cup turned bitter on his palate while he sat listening. The light of the young man's passion had caused the realisation of his cynicism to cast a shadow over his normally carefree spirit. He had given the last 30 years to helping folks turn their hobbies into art, only to watch them trade their gift and soul for the temporal baubles of fame and fortune, and he was burnt out from it. As he skewered the pineapple at the bottom of his glass, he wondered if This kid was any different. When he had started, he'd seen himself as a publishing pirate, skull and crossbones corporate logo and all. He didn't have the biggest publishing house in the world, yet on the street it was known as one of the most influential. His approach had been simple. No 5-year self-perpetuating, creatively castrating contract. Just a handshake, shared cost and shared rewards. If a writer didn't make it, the publisher gave the book back and said, good luck. The results of this approach after 20 years was that every writer in his stable was an international bestseller, making more money in a month than many others did in a year. That, however, was a few years ago. Success put him in the crosshairs of the disenfranchised wannabes the year he cut loose. Every false accusation under the sun, from racism to sexual harassment, Forced him to hire more lawyers than editors, put contracts in place, and hire so-called talent managers to distance himself from the very artists he desired and longed to help. But the kid, the kid had been different. As they sat at the bar, they shared plans for the upcoming year. The young man talked with passion about a book he was writing. It was more than a book. It was a mission, a one-man mission to inspire people towards greatness, to live beyond their past and grab hold of their future. As they sipped the hours away, the publisher found himself coming alive again, inside stirred not by the young man's talent or gift, as he hadn't seen any of his work yet, but by the raw passion emanating from his words. The thing that forced the publisher's hand was a casual comment the kid made. I want to help people find freedom. Kind of like Black Sam Bellamy, the pirate. Have you ever heard of him? I have, the publisher casually answered, looking at him with different eyes. I know the story well. You have? The young man exclaimed in disbelief. That's great! Hardly anyone has. I want to be like him. I hate the way society has robbed people of hope, and I want this story to— As the evening closed out, the publisher wrote his office number on a napkin and said, I might know someone who could help you. Call me if you're really interested in pursuing your dream. This is my direct line. A week later, while staring melancholily out his window, his secretary buzzed through a call. There's a very flustered young man who I can't understand on the phone. He's speaking very fast about lobster, Florida, pirates, napkins, and washing machines. Thanks, Janet. I wondered if I would hear from him again, he said, smiling to himself. That young man was probably in his early 30s, he thought. Picking up the call, he said, this is he. I'm sorry, I lost a napkin, but I remembered your name. I Googled you. I couldn't find it. You publish books. Well, actually, I didn't lose a napkin. I washed it and then it was all whited up. You're the pirate guy. I love what you stand for, and I'm sorry I would have called earlier, but, but, but I couldn't read the number so well. I washed a napkin. Have you ever done that? Leaning back in his chair, slowly smiling again to himself, the publisher thought, I might like this kid. If I can get him to slow down and shut up. So if I've got this correctly, you washed the napkin, but you're interested in meeting with me? Well, yes, that's what happened. And yes, please, that would be awesome. I can come by today. Well, not today because it's late and you're probably really busy, but I'm not. I'm just sitting here. Sitting where? At the hotel. I flew in this morning and I can come by whenever you like. I mean, I'm not like stalking you. I just thought if I were here and you have time, and if you did, well, I would already be here. You see? He thought about saying, I think that was some sort of record for speaking without breathing. But instead he asked, where are you staying? Some hotel they should rename the Cockroach Inn. It's out by the airport, but that doesn't matter. I can get a ride. Unable to contain himself any longer, the publisher laughed out loud and said, I like you, kid. Cockroach Inn, eh? Stayed in those plenty of times in my life. Why don't you pack up your stuff and meet me at Barney's? It's a little Irish pub on 7th in, say, 2 hours. We'll have a chat, and then you can come back to my place. We have a spare room, or I'll put you up in the Western for the evening. How does that sound? That'd be great. Thanks so much. I'm, I'm kind of glad now that my credit card bounced. That sounds way nicer than sleeping in the foyer, and hung up. The publisher was sitting there shaking his head and grinning when Janet walked towards him and said, I haven't heard you laugh like that in forever. You should do it more often. It suits you. Rising to greet her, he took her in his arms and said, can I move our movie and pizza date night to tomorrow night? I'm having drinks with that crazy kid at 7 o'clock. Putting her hands on her hips and using her best matriarchal tone, she said, as long as you promise me one thing. What's that? he asked quizzically. You've been a little distant since Florida. Unsettled. Restless. Normally I don't mind, but I've just scheduled the painters for next week, so any new life-upheaving adventures are going to have to wait. So you're not allowed to go all Jerry Maguire on me again. Agreed? Straightening to attention, he placed his hand on his heart and pledged not to go Jerry on her. Shooing him out the door with a smack on the bum, she said, and hug Hadley for me. The soft rolling accent of the waitress broke through his reverie. Another? Looking up, he asked, what other whiskies would you suggest? You didn't like the Teeling? Yes, I did. Thank you. Great suggestion. I was just wondering if you had anything else I might try. Hmm, she said, assessing him as if she were unraveling a great mystery. You don't strike me as a Jameson guy. Personally, I think it's overrated. Used to be good before they started buying up all the real distilleries. Don't get me started on that. It's all the rage and we have that, and people also seem to like Dead Rabbit or Templar Bar. Lots of choices. What's your favourite? Here's the thing. I believe that good whisky is like art. You like what you like and that's it. No point in pretending and going with the crowd. That's just what they did with all that oohing and aahing at the Jason Pollock or that shite by Barnett and Newman. Have you seen it? One meant 4. Total bollocks. I don't know what goes in some people's noodle. They should call it 2 Blair's Blue Squares and pay someone to hide the fecking thing. Now, as I was saying, just because someone told you that you should like it doesn't mean you have to. Now, for me, I'm from Kilkenny, God's own country, and it is— and as far as art goes, I like a bit of True Dool or Vilbryne. There, I've said it. That's it. Just the way it is. You can take it, like it, or lump it. I'm not bothered. Now, a good whiskey is the same. Me, you ask? Well, my favorite is Rider's Tears with 3 drops of ice. That's it. You Americans, you can throw a handful of ice in there and you ruin it. Ruin it completely with that carbonated rubbish. To me, that's like taking a Raphael painting and turning it into a join-the-dots coloring book. Unsure of what had just happened, he raised both his hands and said, What's your name, young lady? Why? I would just like to know to whom I'm conceding defeat. Emma. E-M-E-R. Emma. Well, Emma, I surrender. I'm waiting for a friend, so make it 2 writer's tears whiskies with water on the side, please. Good, was all she replied before striding victoriously towards the bar. The Meeting. Adult beverage. I hope you all brought yours. The Meeting. The one-eyed god of doom sat and gloom sat overlooking the crowded crowd running its commentaries of disaster and terrorism across the bottom of its screen at a mesmerizing pace. The press of bodies and cries of release filled the space. People turned and welcomed friends and strangers alike into the steamy sanctuary, collectively choosing to ignore what the talking heads were screaming at them. No longer was this place merely filled with soggy, seeking refugees with respite. They were now adventurers who had made it safely across the vast unknown of Seventh and into the sanctuary of Barney's Island. A stockbroker who from 9 to 5 sounded like an Oxford dictionary yelled, There's a good girl, Emma! Would you turn that crap off and give us the footy? We don't need to see any more of this shite from these bastards for the rest of the day! This was followed by a collective shout of agreement. Considering the crowd anew, the publisher silently grinned in amazement. People were always so ready to embrace and drown in stories of fear instead of hope, horror instead of happiness, giving greater commitment to worrying about tomorrow instead of loving and living today. But for a moment, this merry band of urban refugees seemed to have climbed to a higher plane than usual, and he loved it. This near undefinable attitude was the very thing that had struck him about the young man when they first met. The kid was different. Naive. No, that was unfair. Unjaded was more fitting. Or maybe Dreamily preoccupied was a better description. He was always trying to put words to things he saw that others didn't seem to value anymore, like hope, joy, new, present. Right at this table 10 years ago, the kid had walked in, and before they sat down, he had started talking about his novel, going over character development and twisting plot lines, a mop of hair bobbing excitedly over some 400 pages of single-spaced manuscript covered with first, second, and third edits written in a form of hieroglyphic scribble a philologist would struggle to decipher. As he sat, not so much listening but rather feeling what the young man was saying, a familiar touch broke the moment. Hi, Daddy. Mum called and said you were coming down with a new friend. This is the young man I mentioned. We met in Florida a couple of weeks ago. Hi, new friend. I'm Hadley, she said, smiling at the young man who was just staring at her with big eyes, cheeks slowly glowing, while he made bubbling throat-clearing sorts of sounds. Wow, this is only the second time I've seen him take a breath, said the publisher. Teasingly, she asked, can you talk? As if on cue, the young man jumped to his feet, Extended his hand saying, yes, I can, followed by, oh bother, as he noticed that he'd bumped the table and spilled water all over his notes. As he raced to stem the flood, she couldn't help but laugh ever so sweetly and commented, he sounds like an A.A. Milne character. I'll get a cloth. Don't worry, I've got it. Thank you, he said vigorously with a napkin. See, it's all cleaned up. Not to worry. Ah yes, I do speak. See, I can write also. I'm glad. So am I. You're beautiful. Oh, I just said that out loud, didn't I? To which father and daughter both laughed and said in unison, yes, you did, which was met with a third, oh bother, and a, I do that sometimes. Hadley kissed her father again and teasingly said, I'll get that cloth and come back with fresh water. Why don't you work out what Pooh Bear here wants for dinner? Through 2 bourbons and a BLT, he listened as the young writer talked over his plate of jalapeño poppers and onion rings, none of which were eaten but did in fact come in handy to illustrate a theme or a point or 2. 2 hours later, as he was trying to herd him towards the car, his phone dinged with a message. Hi, Gerry. I haven't heard from you, so I went ahead and made up the guest bedroom. Does this young man have a name, or am I supposed to just call him the kid? Please tell Hadley her döner is in the oven. And don't you make any plans tomorrow. I have some for us. And you better not come home with a fish in a plastic bag. The following morning over breakfast, the publisher realised that what he saw in this young writer wasn't just talent, but something else. Something simpler. He just loved to tell a story. Between simultaneous swallows of coffees and bagels, The writer randomly mused, I believe a good book, be it sci-fi or biography, must be written like a movie for the mind, yet instructional for my soul. I want it, I want it not only to take me somewhere, but to move me somewhere. The following month, he flew back in for what was supposed to be a weekend and ended up being a month of rewriting, re-editing, and reheated half cups of coffee for the umpteenth time, all set to the soundtrack of classic Chicago blues. The result was the final draft of what would become an instant bestseller. All of Tomorrows. Dropping the young man at the airport had been bittersweet. All the way home, he had stared unfocused out the window as she drove. He realised he hadn't felt this way in a long time, about a writer and a project, and wasn't quite sure what to do with this new-old emotion. Later that evening, he stoked the fire pit and settled into his favourite chair on the back deck. Janet sat quietly snuggled in beside him, watching the flames dance and the sky come alive, and waited for him to talk. Leaning forward and poking around the fire, he muttered more to himself than anyone. He has no idea what is coming. I hope we don't lose him. You mean you hope he doesn't lose himself? she responded. Well, you know what I mean. I do, she replied, stroking the back of his hand. You mean you hope it doesn't all go to his head like it did for Russell and Debbie? You mean you hope he doesn't get jaded and affected by corporate politics like you did? You mean you hope you can protect him and save him from himself? Well, you can't. What you can do is give that young man something no one else ever gave him. That is friendship without an agenda and honesty when he needs it and doesn't want to hear it and a place to belong because that is what he needs more than anything. He turned to her marveling at her intuition. Gratefully kissing her, he said, I don't know how to ever say thank you. Well, you can start with a glass of wine and a dance, followed by some crappy pizza from Angelo's and making out on the couch now that Hadley is out for the evening and we finally have the house to ourselves. How about we start with making out, then I make us a pizza while you drink wine and pick out a movie? Jumping up, she started walking quickly towards the house, yelling over her shoulder, First one naked wins! To which Hatterly exclaimed from the kitchen, I heard that! I hadn't left yet! Then you better leave soon, her mother called back. Things are about to get noisy. Mum! To Pirates. Anyone sitting here? said a familiar voice. Still looking at the table, he replied, I'm saving it for an old friend. He's running a bit late, weather and all. Lifting the glass to his nose, the new arrival asks, what's he drinking? Whatever the waitress tells him he is. A bit like that, is she? You have no idea. Good to see you, Dad. Good to be seen, son. As the waitress approached, he knocked back the whiskey, held out the glass, saying, can we have another round of these, please? These seem to be empty. Yes, you can, but that is not the way to drink a fine rissy. And whiskey and a mean, she said, turning back towards the bar, muttering something in Celtic they were certain was not flattering. If that were— I see what you mean, the writer said while removing his coat and settling in. It was indeed, the publisher replied. They sat quietly and comfortably as the cloak of familiarity settled in around them. Trying to keep his voice steady, the writer turned to the older man and said, Thank you. What for? For making me go. Quizzically, he responded, it was your TED Talk. I didn't do anything. Not that. The cabin. Oh, that. Well, that was a miracle. I thought I was going to have to hogtie you and drag your sorry ass up that mountain. Emma suddenly appeared, deposited the golden liquid, and gave a well-rehearsed recital on the correct way to appreciate Irish whiskey. It was delivered with such a tone and way that it elicited a yes, ma'am and a shared grin as she was absorbed back into the fray. Reflectively, the writer said, we should have done this earlier. That would have been nice. Yeah, well, I was being a dick. The publisher didn't say anything. He just nodded once in agreement, like only the closest of friends can. I deserved that. I didn't say anything. You didn't have to. Over the years, their business relationship turned into a friendship that few people ever experienced. What started as give and take had morphed into give and give as the young man's dedication and passion for his craft, combined with the publisher's skill and wisdom, skyrocketed them to heights that many dream of and few obtain. Along the way, the writer had fallen passionately in love with a girl that would keep him centered and focused through throughout the fame of that first novel. She stewarded the royalties and saved all she could, even taking the odd shift at Barney's when he was out of town. Many wondered why she didn't buy more stuff or do more things, but she'd been around the business and the people in it for so long that she knew success was seasonal. Hadley wanted them to learn from their parents' life, not mirror it. Sipping their drinks in unison, the writer said, She's right. It's better done this way. She's clever. Probably the most cultured waitress I've ever met in this place. Except for one, the publisher said. And there it was. The spectre. Looming. The thing to be talked about. The writer felt the cold fingers of loss start to crawl across his soul, dragging with it the sadness that always locked down his mind. Paralysing his emotions and words. He took out the old greeting card from his coat. It was battered and worn. The writer laid it on the table and traced with his fingers the daffodil that had faded in all but memory, like everything else about her. I miss her. We all do. How's Mum? She's really proud of you, kid, and she definitely wants you to come and stay with us tonight. Now, I was wondering, well, I was thinking that if you don't mind, and he didn't have plans that maybe I would, if it's not too much of a bother at all. Keeping his voice level while he started to get to his feet, he said, I'll call her and I'll let her know that we're coming. Putting his hand on his arm, he asked, Dad, can we wait a bit? Just sit a little longer, maybe talk some more. Sure we can, kid. Sure we can. Over coffee and a cheese plate, the publisher offhandedly said, we didn't think you'd make it. Neither did I. I was either coming back from the cabin with an outline or not at all, replied the writer. Mum worried about that. After the incident, I just couldn't take it anymore. The crowds, the book dealers, the TV appearances, the shallow concerns and comments from strangers Just angling for an autograph. And every time I went to write, I wanted to ask Hadley what she thought of my work, where she thought I should take it. But she wasn't there. I miss my wife, Dad. I miss my Hadley. Pulling his chair closer, he put his arm around his shoulder and said, we all do, son. That will never change. We are also very, very grateful that we still have you. It's not your fault that you lived. And it happened. Safe in her father's arm, the thawing of a frozen sadness around his heart broke like a dam, and the flood of despair and grief erupted and washed down his cheeks and over the card his wife had made for him for their anniversary all those years ago. And just for a moment, the faint outline of I love you, P.B. caught their eyes, and they sat there with wonder as their mourning turned to joy. Standing to his feet, the publisher said, it's time for our toast. We haven't said it since she died, but tonight is the night that we celebrate her together. At the top of his voice and to the surprise of the entire bar, the distinguished grey-haired gentleman roared, Quiet, everyone! Quiet, please! Tonight is a special day, a day that I've hoped for and prayed for and cried for for many years. A day of healing, a day of hope. Emma, I would like 4 bottles of Rider's Tears on the bar and shot glasses for everyone, please. After the initial excitement of the crowd settled down, they looked at the pair expectantly. Today my son came home, and I would like us all to toast his return. Now this is a special toast, a family toast, a toast written by my Hadley. That's right, Hadley, the girl whose picture sits on that wall. It's called the Pirate Toast. Standing and facing each other, the 2 men roared as one with all the grief and joy that was in them. May the storms of life be few. May your love be one and true. Like an anchor, hold you firm. And like a compass, lead you home. To pirates! In unison, the bar erupted with the cry of, to pirates! As bottles were passed and songs of love and longing filled the air with joy and memories as only Irish folk songs can. Hugging his neck and kissing his brow, the publisher said, she would be proud of you, son. I hope so, the writer responded. I know my baby girl. I know so. Well, I'm going to take a leak and call Janet and tell her we're coming home. Tell her not to make the bed up. I'll sleep on the couch. Bullshit! The older man yelled over his shoulder. She's had the guest room made up for 5 years now. You'll sleep where you're bloody well told! As they arrived at the car, his father-in-law asked, What happened at the cabin? That turned it all around for you? Stopping in his tracks, he said, I only figured that out today. So there I was in front of 2,000 people when I remembered something that happened while I was out there. I was having a particularly bad time of it when I first arrived, so I built a snowman. Then a couple of days later, that old mouse or a cat— you, you used to call him Mr. Joyce up there. Well, he and I believe a squirrel were involved in it all. And all of this— well, you see, what happened is I think, I think it smiled. Seriously, I think the snowman smiled at me. Unable to contain himself, the publicist roared with laughter, stared, waving his hands around, saying, stop, stop, stop. Finally, he stammered, stop right there, Buster. You need to save this till we get home. Janet will kill us both if she misses out on this. A cat, a squirrel, and a smiling snowman. We have got to hear this story. So there you go, folks. My latest short story, The Rider and the Snowman. I hope you enjoyed it over the last 3 or 4 nights. And if you're wanting to get a copy, go to drking.com, drjohnaking.com, and you can get a copy. And again, thanks to Nikki Cheeks and to Unoriginal Doodler, both of which can be found on Instagram, for their help in the book. And tomorrow night, I'd like to do something else. One more, one more episode with me. I'd like to have a chat with the author. So if you've ever thought about writing a book or wanted to know about the process of writing a book, I'll take 35 or 40 minutes and I'll just sit with you and we'll have a chat about it and see how I can help some of you and hopefully inspire some of you. And take the fear and the unknown out of it for you. And so come on tomorrow night and we'll have a chat with the author. Anyway, thank you very much for the last couple of nights, your support. It's been a blast and I hope it has for you. Cheerio.