The Plot, Jean Korelitz [read e books online free txt] 📗

some point at which he was permitted to type the words “The End.” It had been the end, all right, to his period of “promise” as “a young writer to watch,” and it might have been wiser not to publish it at all, but Jake had been terrified to lose the validation of The Invention of Wonder. After each and every one of the legacy publishers, and then an entire tranche of the university presses, had rejected the manuscript, the importance of publishing his second book had swelled until his entire being seemed to be on the line. If he could only get this one out of his way, he’d told himself at the time, maybe the next idea, the next spark, would come.

Only it hadn’t. And while he’d continued to have the occasional crusty and serviceable idea in the years since—boy grows up in family obsessed with dog breeding, man discovers older sibling has been institutionalized since birth—there’d been nothing tap, tapping away at him, compelling him to write. The work he’d done since then, on these and a couple of even worse ideas, had petered, excruciatingly, out.

Until, if he was being completely honest with himself, and just now he was being completely honest with himself, he’d stopped even trying. It had been more than two years since he had written a word of fiction.

Once, long ago, Jake had done his best to honor what he’d been given. He had recognized his spark and done right by it, never shirking the hard thinking and the careful writing, pushing himself to do well and then to do better. He had taken no short cuts and evaded no effort. He had taken his chance against the world, submitting himself to the opinions of publishers, reviewers and ordinary readers … but favor had passed over him and moved on to others, What was he to do, who was he to be, if no other spark ever came to him again?

It was unbearable to contemplate.

Good writers borrow, great writers steal, Jake was thinking. That ubiquitous phrase was attributed to T. S. Eliot (which didn’t mean Eliot hadn’t, himself, stolen it!), but Eliot had been talking, perhaps less than seriously, about the theft of actual language—phrases and sentences and paragraphs—not of a story, itself. Besides, Jake knew, as Eliot had known, as all artists ought to know, that every story, like single work of art—from the cave paintings to whatever was playing at the Park Theater in Cobleskill to his own puny books—was in conversation with every other work of art: bouncing against its predecessors, drawing from its contemporaries, harmonizing with the patterns. All of it, paintings and choreography and poetry and photography and performance art and the ever-fluctuating novel, was whirling away in an unstoppable spin art machine of its own. And that was a beautiful, thrilling thing.

He would hardly be the first to take some tale from a play or a book—in this case, a book that had never been written!—and create something entirely new from it. Miss Saigon from Madam Butterfly. The Hours from Mrs. Dalloway. The Lion King from Hamlet, for goodness’ sake! It wasn’t even taboo, and obviously it wasn’t theft; even if Parker’s manuscript actually existed at the time of his death, Jake had never seen more than a couple of pages of the thing, and he remembered little of what he had seen: the mother on the psychic hotline, the daughter writing about carpetbaggers, the ring of pineapples around the door of the old house. Surely what he, himself, might make from so little would belong to him and only to him.

These, then, were the circumstances in which Jake found himself that January evening at his computer in his cruddy Cobleskill apartment in the Leatherstocking Region of upstate New York, out of pride, hope, time and—he could finally admit—ideas of his own.

He hadn’t gone looking for this. He had upheld the honor of writers who listened to the ideas of other writers and then turned responsibly back to their own. He had absolutely not invited the brilliant spark his student had abandoned (okay, involuntarily abandoned) to come to him, but come it had and here it was: this urgent, shimmering thing, already tap, tapping in his head, already hounding him: the idea, the characters, the problem.

So what was Jake going to do about that?

A rhetorical question, obviously. He knew exactly what he was going to do about that.

PART THREE

CHAPTER EIGHTCrib Syndrome

Three years later, Jacob Finch Bonner, author of The Invention of Wonder and of the decidedly less obscure novel Crib (over two million copies in print and the current occupant of the number two spot on the New York Times hardcover list—after a solid nine months at number one), found himself on the stage of the S. Mark Taper Foundation Auditorium of the Seattle Symphony. The woman seated opposite him was a type he’d come to know well during his interminable book tour: a breathless, hand-flapping enthusiast who might never have read a novel before, she was so enraptured at encountering this particular one. She made Jake’s own job easier by virtue of the fact that she gushed incessantly and seldom formed a cogent question. Mainly all he was called upon to do was nod, thank her, and look out over the audience with a grateful, self-effacing smile.

This wasn’t his first trip to Seattle to promote the book, but the earlier visit had taken place during the first weeks of the tour as the country was just becoming aware of Crib, and the venues had been the usual ones for a not-yet-famous author: The Elliot Bay Book Company, a Barnes & Noble branch in Bellevue. To Jake, those were exciting enough. (There had been no book tour at all for The Invention of Wonder, and the personal request he’d made to read at the Barnes & Noble near his hometown on Long Island had yielded an audience of six, including his parents, his