The Writer & the Snowman Part 1

Apparently I'm now live. We are? Okay. Hello. Thanks for joining today, coming along. I hope you all have an adult beverage to sit and enjoy. If not, why don't you go and get a glass of wine or a beverage of your choice? And today I'll be reading from a new short story, The Rider and the Snowman. And it is a book. The introduction says that it is a book of purpose, a dedication to those who have it, celebrate it. To those who've lost it, seek it. And to those who have yet to find it, pursue it. And the back matter for you, I just thought, you know what, all the kids online are getting their own like storytime. Maybe the adults should have a storytime. So As I said, this is my new book, The Rider and the Snowman. From the back matter: To lose it or lose sight of it is devastating. You feel adrift in a sea of endless, meaningless activity. You find yourself heading down the path laid out for you by society, friends, and family. For many, it is hard to define. For those that find it, it is something they guard, something they pursue, something they treasure. It is the thing that picks you up when you fall down. It is a thing that gives you strength to stay in the ring and fight. It is a thing that makes you unique and your contribution to the world of vital importance. It is the object of our adventure with a rider, a snowman, and a squirrel, and one econominous feline. It is purpose. So again, get a beverage, settle in, and we'll sit together and I'll read you the first half of The Rider and the Snowman. And tomorrow at the same time, we'll pick up and go again. The Rider and the Snowman, a story of purpose. So here's Mr. Joyce, our first picture, because I know kiddos, you all like our pictures. Mr. Joyce. As the sun peeked through the trees and over the recently cleared couch, Mr. Joyce stretched, yawned, and meticulously combed his whiskers. Slinking onto the floor, he meandered over to the curtains and reached as high as he could, rhythmically clawing them open, allowing the sun to splash on the old oak floorboards. It had been an interesting 8 days, he thought, as he circled himself onto his favourite spot in the middle of the doorway to the kitchen. Mr. Joyce reflected that once again, the publisher had made the right decision, sending his writers up to see him. Some had creative difficulties, some needed inspiration, but all could benefit from his wisdom and life lessons. Laying on the warm floor, watching his tail flick in and out in that disembodied cat sort of way, he thought long and hard about these different group of writers and concluded that the significant difference between them was their disposition towards naps. The therapeutic nature of a good nap is tragically overlooked, he thought to himself. Take, for example, this latest chap. The publisher had sent him out here to the cabin. This particular writer had in fact been one of his most challenging cases to date. He was a man who, when it all started, was obviously well-versed in cussing, stomping, drinking, and smoking cigars, but who knew absolutely nothing about napping. The man couldn't sit still for 10 minutes, let alone recline in repose for a brief intermission. At the mere thought of napping, Mr. Joyce stretched with delight and recalled that up until 2 days ago, he thought he would lose the writer, to the black pit of depression he seemed to have committed himself to. But then Bernard, faithful old somewhat misguided squirrel Bernard, had come up with a plan. This plan ended nudging the writer into a fresh start and a new direction. A jolly good show all round, he thought. His reverie was interrupted by the hostile appearance of dust mites stirred up by the writer as he walked around whistling to himself. While preparing breakfast for them both. As the writer seemed settled down at his desk and started to click-clack away, Mr. Joyce let himself out of the cabin and onto the deck. As he leapt up onto the deck railing, Bernard turned to him and said, Will you look at that, Mr. Joyce? A smile! Who would have imagined that Frosty would get himself a smile? Just goes to show you, you never know how it'll end. I may really have to rethink this whole 42 thing. Looking down at the smile on the face of the all-but-melted Frosty with great affection, Mr. Joyce added, See you next winter, old bean. Well played. The 2nd chapter, Frosty. Cheers. I hope you have your beverage. Frosty. Day 8. As Frosty laid there, he replayed it all, recalling and savoring the many moments, trying to hold on to it all through the slowly fading and dripping mind of his. He thought about the first round warm thing he'd ever seen. The first cat he met, which incidentally also involved the first conversation he'd ever had. The first time he started to wonder what it was all about. And the very first time he smiled. Day 4. Well, he didn't actually have a conversation because, well, he couldn't talk. No mouth, you see. And as far as hearing, he wasn't too sure how that happened either. Because he completely lacked ears. All he knew is that he watched Mr. Joyce and Bernard the squirrel sitting on the porch railing, and he just sort of knew what they were discussing. Bernard was going over the fact that he was absolutely, positively, without a doubt, and completely emphatically sure that 42 and everything was the ultimate answer to the question of life in the universe. That is what the it they all came looking for at the cabin. One night while he was watching through the window, very small people on a screen had said it was so, and small things are very clever, he told Mr. Joyce, so it must be so. On this particular morning, a most peculiar thing happened. It was one of those things that at the time was very small, but at the end of it all changed everything, like throwing a pebble in a pond. Frosty had just been standing where he had always stood, wondering what it would have been like to have legs and trying oh so very hard to not listen to Mr. Joyce and Bernard while at the same time wanting to hear everything that they were talking about. At just that moment, he stomped onto the desk and started kicking the post, yelling, I've lost it! I've lost it! Then he Made large circular motions with his arms. What is the meaning of all this? Then he kicked the post one more time before hopping up and down on one leg, screaming, fuck! That hurts! And heading back inside. Now, while all of this had been going on, Bernard had scurried up a tree while Mr. Joyce had sat flicking his tail, ignoring the ruckus. Hopping down onto Frosty's shoulders, Bernard said, Quite strange, don't you think? Been going on for a few days now. No! yelled Frosty. What's wrong? he asked. No! Frosty yelled again. That's what you said the first time. It's really not a polite answer, you know. Well, you scared me! Well, sorry about that. You can hear me? Of course I can. Where are you? I'm on your shoulder. My what? I can't see you. It would be best, if you wish to continue talking, if you'd go and sit where I can see you. From the railing, Mr Joyce called, I think he would prefer you back over here with me, dear fellow. Is that so? Bernard shouted. Yes, yes, I would actually, stammered the snowman in a very perplexed tone, insofar as snowmen can have a perplexed tone. As Bernard scampered back to the railing, Mr Joyce said in a cat knows best sort of way, I think that days like today yet again prove my point. How so? Surveilling the forest, Mr. Joyce replied, your theory, dear friend, the 42 theory. Something as beautiful and wondrous as all of this could not possibly be reduced to something as quantifiable as a number. And what about the poor chap inside? His angst, his search, his pain? Surely you would have to agree that he is searching for something more than simply the sum of the first 6 positive even numbers, isn't he? No, my friend. When people like that come here, they are trying to find their it. After about 3 minutes, Frosty couldn't contain himself anymore. What's an it? he blurted. Ah, my dear Frosty, how good of you to join in. That, my dear friend, is the question of the ages. It is a— it is different for everyone. It is a thing that adds the warmth to mornings and the soft glows to our evenings. It is the very thing we were created to do. It is the thing that gives all of this wilderness its majesty and this madness called life its meaning. It is the thing that most people spend their life trying to find instead of simply enjoying. As he turned towards the window, his voice softened to a pour of concern. It is what our dear friend the writer here has lost, and I am fearful that if he doesn't rediscover his it in the next few days, things could get rather tragic. Mr. Stuyvesant, I'm, I'm not sure I understand, said Frosty. Ah, well, you see, my dear fellow, that is the question that he and his lot are preoccupied with. Where to start? Hmm. You see, that fellow there is known as a writer. Now, now, writers are a peculiar bunch. They tend to be somewhat prickly and extremely self-absorbed, which always amuses me because they are also so terribly self-aware of the fact that they are extremely self-absorbed. You see, most of them end up chasing themselves around in circles endlessly. A little bit old, like old Hank next door chasing his tail around and around and around and never gets closest to it. Madness. Really madness. Most of the good ones are quite mad, if you come to think of it. What's a Hank? said Frosty. And as soon as Mr. Joyce took a breath— Ah, what a Hank? Oh, oh, that's Miss Gladys's dog, the lady next door. No, she's not a dog. You see, you don't see her chasing her tail, do you? Hank is the dog. He is that large, ugly, disrespectful, ungrateful, noisy, noisy, Bernard broke in, Mr. Joyce's ravening, saying, now, now, Mr. Joyce, don't get so worked up. We really must press on and discuss the plan with Frosty. Staring back in the window, tilting his head ever so slightly, Mr. Joyce continued, ah yes, writers. Well, there are many types of writers, but basically they all do the same 3 things. They are the recorders of legends, the tellers of stories, and the compass of truth. That sounds very impressive, Frosty responded. They seem to think so, Mr. Joyce said, watching intently. Distracted by movement inside the cabin, Bernard whispered, I do believe he's doing it again, Mr. Joyce. Sighing, Mr. Joyce said, I'm sorry to say I believe you're quite right, Bernard. We have so much to do and so little time. As Frosty looked past them, he noticed that the writer was sitting at his desk, staring intently at something. Something he would hold to his chest. Sometimes he would cry and yell at it, but most of the time he would just sit, look, and talk to it. What is that thing he's holding? Frosty asked. I know, I know, I know! Bernard said excitedly, as all squirrels can. I think that's his it! Yes, yes, yes, what I think is, it's his it! Turning from the window, Mr. Joyce looked kindly at his friend. Bernard, I'm sure he believes it was for a while. Frosty, that is what the writer calls a memory. Picture. It's illustrated. Grown-ups like drawings in their books too, you know. A memory! Frosty responded. A memory! echoed Bernard. Before you ask, I'll explain, stated Mr. Joyce. There are good memories, bad memories, happy memories, sad memories, old memories, new memories. Let me give you an example. Every morning the writer walks out that door and he is carrying a big old mug. And that big old mug is filled with— Ah, that's good! blurted Bernard. Yes, that's correct, Bernard. It's filled to the top with Ah, that's good. Or, or, or, oh, that tastes like crap! Bernard quipped. Yes, my dear friend. That is the other name for what goes in there. Now, Frosty, if someone walks out of the deck— on the deck with a cup of Ah, that's good, They sit there relaxed, smiling and talking to me and Bernard. If, however, it is filled with, oh, that tastes like crap, they generally screw up their faces and throw it at Bernard and scuffle back inside to try again. Well, they don't really mean to throw it at me, Bernard added. It's just that sometimes I'm in the bushes checking for nuts. Well said, Bernard. Very true. Mr. Joyce went on. Now imagine that we're all like those big old mugs. They carry around. And memories are what are inside those mugs. Good memories you want to sit outside and smile at the world about. Bad memories make you screw up your face and throw it at Bernard and stomp off. I'm not really following, Frosty responded, wishing he could crickle his forehead and rub his brow. Bernard responded, the problem we have here is that every morning the rider comes out Tastes what's in the mug and goes, oh, that tastes like crap, and never throws it away. He just sits there drinking it, looking miserable and sad and lonely. He only ever gets up to go in and get another cup of, oh, that tastes like crap, which he then also drinks. Well, well, that's sad. And to be honest, it sounds a bit silly. Why doesn't he just throw it at you? Some of them find that very hard to do. It's like they acquire a taste for it or don't know how to fill their mug with anything different. And here is where the ripple started. Thinking out loud, I said, then why don't we help him try and find something new? Maybe we could get some, ah, that's good, to share with him. Note from the editor. This is the point where Frosty— where if Frosty knew what a pebble in a pond were, he would look back and say, on this particular morning, a most peculiar thing happened, and it was one of those things that at the time was very small, but at the end of it, it all changed everything, like throwing a pebble on a pond. But he didn't. So he couldn't. But the bloody author insisted on leaving it in here. Meaningful metaphor and all that sort of writerly crap. Self-important twat. Editor, Nikki Cheeks Rosengard. Thank you for your input, Nikki. Beverage to recover. Smiling silently at the perplexed snowman, Mr. Joyce jumped down from the railing and padded towards the door, saying, that, my dear friend, is precisely why we need to talk you Oh! Frosty replied. While he reached up and grabbed a firm grip on the flywire door, he said, and Frosty? Yes? Those twinkly things, they are stars. And that big one is Mrs. Moon. You should try to listen to them sometimes. They've been wondering why you're not talking back to them. Before he could ask any more, Mr. Joyce started to claw at the screen and very firmly but politely, Meow, good fellow, would you please get off your duff and open the door for me? This was met with a loud noise from inside the cabin, lots of thumping, and finally a, Hurry up! Mr. Joyce, unflustered and unmoved, slowly ambled through the door and headed for his couch, leaving them both with a goodnight wink over his shoulder. Day 7. Cheers. Brief though it had been, he felt he lived his life fully. Complete was the word he thought best described his life. You see, by the very nature of their creation, his kind by and large were not given to existential contemplation. When your average lifespan was between 20 minutes and 2 weeks and entirely out of your control, you didn't waste a lot of time doing what Mr. Joyce said the writer did a lot of, which was apparently gazing at his navel. Now, once Mr. Joyce explained to him what a navel was, he found it quite strange that the writer hadn't given him a navel. And even if he had, he could hardly gaze at it, could he? Unless, of course, his head fell off, which was strangely what he found himself able to do right now. When he realised what a navel was, he was rather pleased. that he had not spent a minute of the previous 6 days wondering if he had one, or even wondering what it looked like or what it was. As for the g'aran, as Mr. Joyce liked to call it, apparently reminding him of his father— it's Irish for sun bear— started to disappear, the soft and quiet stillness slowly started to fall. Frosty love this time. So quiet yet loud with new and exciting sounds and creatures. Every day the stillness went from oranges and yellows to the softness of black, filled all the way up with stars and Mrs. Moon. On this night they looked so totally different. He wasn't straining to see them through the trees as he had before. He was lying there looking straight up at them, and they were wondering— wonderful. They seemed to be dancing and singing. Suddenly, in a very soft kind of way, Mr. Frosty started to hear what the stars were twinkling at him. Hi! Hi! We see you! Hello! Hello! I can see you! Hello there! Can you see me? We see you! Can you see us? We see you! Hi! How are you? No, no, look at me! Over here! Over here! Then all of a sudden, the wind stopped blowing. The trees stopped dancing. And the stars were all quiet, except for the largest one of all. She said in a silky warm tone, we love you. We love watching you. The Grand and I are so proud of you. You make us all so happy. And then suddenly the trees started dancing again, clapping their leaves, and the stars started singing. So happy, so happy, amazing, yes, thank you for you. We love you. You're wonderful. Thank you for being you. Something indescribable started to fill Frosty's round, remote chest. He would have muttered, oh, it's wonderful. Oh, it's wonderful, over and over again if he had a mouth. But he didn't. So instead, he thought it so hard that it actually started to make him feel warm inside. Oh, it's glorious. Oh, it's glorious, Frosty thought as loud as he could. I found it! I found it! Oh yes, oh yes, he thought over and over and over again till the birds started to join in as the Quran danced back across the sky, glowing bright with approval. It was so simple once he saw it. It was his it. It had been there all the time. It was his, and he could give it to everyone who wanted it. It was his. I made the writer laugh. I made the blackness smile. The stars are happy. The trees clap their hands. And Garan and Mrs. Moon, they love me, just me. And it all makes me warm inside. This is it. I found it. And as he lay there, something happened for the first time in his quiet, short, cold, and very uneventful life. He started to smile. The Rider. So there you are. That's the first half of The Rider and the Snowman. It's my latest short story book. It's been out for a couple of months. I, I just thought with everyone having COVID sitting at home and all these kids getting stories, the adults might as well get a story. I started writing this in Ireland about 18 months ago, and it's my first short story. So I hope you enjoy it. Thank you. And tomorrow at the same time, 4:00 PM Mountain Standard Time, we will, we will complete the story with the writer and the publisher. Cheerio. Have a good one. If you'd like a copy of the book, feel free to go to the website, drjohnaking.com, and we'll work it out or drop us an email or send us a message. We'd love to say hi and find out what you think of things so far. Cheerio. Tomorrow, 4:00 PM Mountain Standard Time. And you guys work out the rest, mate. I'm Australian. I'm flat out working out anything. Thank you, John. Cheerio.