(For a newer draft of this story within the completed story, click here.)
"Why do writers so often talk about the darker side of life? Have you ever noticed that?"
Melissa lowered her book and looked past Sam. He could tell she was forming a response. "The writers I read don’t do as much of that. Your writers, though, probably do because they are lonely. Writing and reading are solitary. Being alone long enough will make anyone sad and... prone to make sad observations."
No."I'm not sure that's why. In writing and reading, there's always the author and the audience. Either side you're on, there's someone else so you aren’t alone. I don’t think doing either makes you lonely. And why don’t your authors do as much of that?"
Eh. "It's a different sort of company. Not as lively. It’s a poor substitute. And my authors don’t because it’s not the sort of thing their readers want to think about." She decided not to pursue the point and, instead, let him work through his concerns. "So, why do writers talk about depressing topics so much?"
Sam clicked the back of his fingernails against the warm ceramic cup and took a sip. He waded through his mood. Don’t want to read about darkness. Too much of it already. Can’t get away from it. Why? See it everywhere. "People are more attuned to negative facts. They're more obvious to us. We’re hurt by them, so we respond like vulnerable animals do: either moan or growl. That’s justice right?—a taste of your own medicine—to throw something back at what bothers us. It's easier to be critical than… non-critical. Supportive. It gets me down though, because it's usually right. Or true. The critiques, I mean. There's more than enough wrong with them—people generally—or the world or even us—our sort of people—to talk about and write stories or novels about."
"I can see that."But there's more to it. Melissa took her first sip of latte and flushed with heat. It was creamier than she expected and clung to the back of her throat. "I still think loneliness probably has something to do with it. Reading and writing are fine and well, but conversations are better. It's better company... more intimate and responsive. Or can be. If you are writing to stave off loneliness, you’re going to fail." She fidgeted.
Sam stuck a napkin in his book to mark his place. "Being lonely makes you write about darker topics?… Well, maybe for someone who isn't used to writing. Journals are often sad, but those are private. To want to make something for others to see, be driven to publish something, to put it out there for everyone else to interact with, that has a very different motivation... I don’t think it comes from a place of sadness. Maybe it does, but that’s beside the point. Or beside my point. But I’m not making myself clear. Let me try again.” Sam slid his index and middle fingers into the handle of his mug and took another drink. The hot taste of bitterness returned and was followed by one reminiscent of tobacco. “What bothers me is that it just seems like most of the works we consider good literature are depressing... And I love the stuff most of the time. I’m right there with the authors. If ignorance is bliss, then knowledge is grief. To some extent, at least. Certainly not all knowledge grieves us. Anyway, bliss comes off naïve... childish. Happiness is so done and trite. I recognize that. Most of the people who pay attention to what’s going on, who think about the implications of what we see or how we treat each other or step back a bit from the experience of entertainment, don’t like it. I know it's why I can't stomach watching half—more than half—of the movies or TV that are around. It's just not true. It's wish fulfillment dressed up in... I don't know... glitter and Botox. We criticize happy endings. But still, we’re really pushing some very corrosive tendencies onto people with what we write. ‘We’ being the literary types… the gate keepers of the cannon and its students."
"I suppose that depends upon your definition of literature, which depends upon what you think about a lot of other topics." Melissa took another sip. The remnants were syrupy sweet and thicker than the earlier samples. "I don’t consider myself literary like you, so, it’s not my battle.” I can’t end it there. “But go on."
Definitions! “Literature is supposed to give you something—an image or story—to think about and something to feel simultaneously. Right? It’s heightened life. Rarified. It cuts out the inessential parts and concentrates on what’s important, whatever that may be. I think people need more than mushy, worn-out plots. Those aren’t going to push anyone onward. Those aren’t going to help anybody. It’s just indulgence—everywhere indulgence. We have to fight this pernicious, abundant—overwhelming, really—invitation to self-gratification everywhere I totally agree. But at the same time, though, I can’t stand all of the griping that goes on in literature. These authors think they’re so clever for seeing through media, or what’s popular, the stuff that “the people” enjoy. They wind up being so dark and depressing I don’t want anything to do with them. Usually they do, I mean, wind up being dark. Not all the time. But, it’s like… it’s like no one can be honest.” Sam downed what was left of his tepid coffee. He grimaced. He felt the grit of grounds on his tongue and swallowed again. “That’s probably the hardest thing to be. Honest. Honesty involves a sober assessment, ya know? Here’s what’s bad. Here’s what’s good. Here’s how a person should struggle with the one and spread the other. Authors are right for poking holes and ripping down and wallowing a bit in the mess of it all, but that’s an easy target. The upshot of all of it is they erect their own literary, high-minded, sort of worn-out plots, only they are depressing and therefore… insightful.”
You’re all twisted up. “Insightful. Ironic, since we can’t see in the dark.” Melissa tried to court Sam’s gaze, but he looked to be staring into his empty cup. “Anyway, those authors are called insightful by pessimists and cynics. That’s true. But, that’s what I was getting at when I was talking about what you think about other topics. From what I can make of it, literature is a special sort of fiction that certain people get together and set apart from all of the bookcases full of humdrum, claptrap, lowbrow fiction. It gets set apart because it contains the sort of truths those people can agree on. You want to read the truth you already suspected—if not knew—and you think the author’s got it right. A lot of academic types, people who fancy themselves intellectual, are a little morose from all of that spirit-breaking they had to do studying and expending hours upon hours learning about people or events they didn’t like, or were jealous of, or whatever. No offense, but it leaves a mark on you. So, when you sit down and read someone who says what you wanted to say about how awful life is, how dreadful it is to be average—which is below average to them, really—then you think it’s insightful. Or they. I don’t know where you stand. You’re torn between a couple of camps, I guess. So, I’m with you on honesty and striking a balance between fluff and uh… lead, but that’s hard to do.” She rubbed the side of her face and exhaled loudly.
“Hm.” Sam’s head vibrated with additional input. Where do I stand? What can I do? What’s an author to do? Can’t give them what they want. Can’t get them to read what they don’t want. The abrasive sound of milk being steamed derailed his thought process. Sam turned towards the squeal and saw the woman lackadaisically frothing.
As soon as relative peace returned, Melissa advised, “If you don’t like it and you don’t think it’s good for you, just put it down.” She pointed to the book which Sam was thoughtlessly spinning on the table. “Put it back on the shelf. It’s okay to give up sometimes. You could start and finish something else, something you enjoy and think is honest before you’d even finish that up.”
She waited awhile in silence and then announced, "I’ll be right back." She slid out of the booth and squeezed Sam’s shoulder as she passed him. He put his hand up to greet hers and was surprised by the curtain of brunette hair entering his field of vision. She kissed him firmly on the lips and he pushed back with a kiss of his own. Sam smelled Melissa’s latte on her upper lip. She smiled and her head lingered near his while her body leaned away as if drug by inertia. She strode past vacant tables. She spied crumpled napkins and a torn packet of sugar discarded on one of them. Her boots made a dull thumping rhythm on the worn wooden floor.
She entered the restroom and locked the door behind her. Brr. They could use a heater in here. The cobalt blue tile covering the walls embellished the chill in the air. As she emptied her bladder, she stared forward. Melissa traced the residue of yesterday's cleaning on the glossy ceramic squares. Side to side. She recalled the need to perform her own chores as she stood up. She thought of Sam. She wondered what she would say next.
The volume of the jet-like flush frightened her. Melissa recoiled from the sound. Once it abated, she regained her focus and washed her hands. She gripped the doorknob with the paper towel she had used to dry her hands. She clopped back to their table.
There you are. Seeing Sam staring off into the corner made Melissa happy to have someone to return to. “So, you were saying..."
Sam stated the observation he had carefully crafted in Melissa's absence. "People are comfortable taking critical positions because there's less risk involved than the alternative. Being positive is risky business. You could end up looking gullible or foolish. Being negative lets you say something intelligent and insinuates you know what would be better without articulating—let along living—what exactly that is." Well put.
Melissa replied, without the confrontational emphasis of eye contact, "I can see your point, but it's paradoxical."
"How so?"
"Your observation about the negativity of writers and their preference—if not preoccupation—with criticism is itself critical. That makes you belong to the same group you're frustrated with. It’s probably why you’re as bothered as you are. You are a part of what you don’t like."
Cornered. "I never said I was frustrated.” Sam tipped his cup back to ensure it was empty. A horseshoe of black dust and brown film lined the bottom. “I'm curious and trying to understand. But, yes. I have a critical slant, too—critiquing the critics and the criticized.”
“Well, it’s a fine position to have. Still, you and I both know you aren’t going to stop reading. Maybe someday you’ll make you own contribution that avoids those mistakes. Maybe you can try your hand at something better.” What am I saying? This didn’t call for advice. “Our lives aren’t as bad as those characters. I’m glad you aren’t unreflective about what you’re reading. You’re getting something out of it. But it’s fine to be frustrated and I’m sorry if I suggested otherwise.”
“That’s okay. I was pouring it on a bit heavy. I didn’t mean to interrupt. You can go ahead finish up the chapter or whatever.”
“Want to go make some lunch?” Melissa wondered.
“Yeah, I’m a little hungry. I think we have some tomato sauce left from the other day.”
“Ooo. And a jar of artichokes. I’m almost finished. Just another…” She pulled back the pages of her book. “threeish pages.”
“Okay.”
Melissa craned her neck and kept her head in a tilted position for an awkwardly long time to entice the last viscous ounce of latte to leave the mug. She returned her mug to its place and returned to reading.
The classic remained unopened. Sam had no immediate interest in it. He shifted his weight, looked out the front window. It was always therapeutic to rearrange the various, confusing, half-formed thought-feeling hybrids he had lately accumulated. He floated through various amorous musings. He felt free to say whatever was coursing through his consciousness around Melissa. He could gripe about trivial matters or inquire about lofty questions. Their dialogues fulfilled for him a latent desire to be known. By putting his thoughts into words, he felt more solid. He often dreamed of a transcript, a thick pile of papers kept in God's mind, of everything he had spoken to Melissa. He pictured an angelic stenographer in the corner, discretely and diligently typing up everything he uttered and adding it to the stack. When he thought of the transcript, all of its adorations, propositions, and lamentations, he was comforted. He knew the totality of who he was could be distilled from that volume. Anxiety did not afflict him to the degree that it had before meeting her. He felt better.
Melissa ran her tongue underneath her lip from one canine to the other. Her teeth began to form the textured film which accompanied drinking sugary substances. A disagreeable tangy taste welled in her mouth, like over-chewed bubble gum. “Let’s go.”
The little bell clanged against the glass of the door. Melissa instinctually raised her shoulders against the air. She riffled for her keys. Sam ducked beneath the branches of the maple tree. A branch scratched at his scalp. He awkwardly ducked into the car. It rocked with Melissa’s presence. The two shut their doors simultaneously.
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