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Why Do You Write, Father?
'Why do you write, Father?', Eve asks her father, wonder gleaming in stars from her glasses' reflection of her father's desk lamp.
'Where has this come from, Darling? I didn't think you liked books.' Mark responds, taken aback by his daughter's sudden intrigue.
'I don't, Father, but I wondered why you do.' She calmly replies, arms closed behind her, leaning closer to her father's penciled paper - tarnished with swarms of dashes. 'You don't look happy when you write, Father.' She continues, her voice now mellow with concern.
Mark adjusts his seat to speak with his daughter eye to eye, attempting to shrink himself to something less harsh than a man scratching a needle tipped with ink across a dead tree. He closes his eyes, searching within his aged mind for a satisfying answer for one desiring for words that decide her beliefs are facts. Exhaling doubt of his answer's effectiveness, Mark opens his eyes and begins to give Eve the answer she asked for.
'Eve...' Mark starts, his hand resting on Eve's tulip dressed shoulder.
'Yes, Father.' Her flowery voice assures her father of his holding of her attention.
'Imagine a world,' her father continues with a voice as smooth as a painter's stroke, 'where Mother can stay at home with us, enjoying our smiles at dinner and have a taste of that cake you baked; the one with the cream and strawberry jam in the middle, sandwiched inbetween the baked cake mix that you spent the past month saving up for, as well as the strawberries and white icing that you topped the cake with, the one with that sweetness and lemon tint that turned our faces skew.'
Eve let out a chuckle at the memory, vividly remembering the squished facial expression of her father after tasting the icing from the bowl with his finger.
Mark restarts with a broadening smile - his daughter's robin laugh causing a bush to comfort his heart.
'Yes, that was funny; I'm sure Mother would have laughed then too, even if she was the serious type. And the day we spent at the beach,' (because Mark couldn't afford to take Eve to the themepark she wished to see when they watched the shooting star pass out of the living room window) 'do you remember the hermit crabs scuttling across the sand as the sea waved from a distance?'
'Of course, Father.' Eve answered, grinning at the recalling of their scuttling.
'And do you remember what you asked me for after?'
'Yes, Father. I asked you if we could keep them.' Her voice quietened as she understood what was to be said next.
'You did, but when we came back with a bucket from the store, they had been taken by a pack of seagulls. After that, you told me you wanted to go back home, and that you hated the beach, so I never took you back again... But it wasn't long after that we got Buster. He was so energetic, his tail would wag like a propeller and no dog could drink a bowl as quickly as he. Despite only having three legs, he loved to run; he ran till the end. When I couldn't, he was your bodyguard, and that was how he died. Do you remember that day? Father had to stay at home to finish some paperwork, so I sent you to the shops with Buster. If I knew that something like that would happen, I would rather have gotten fired.
'Now imagine a world where Buster was still here and that man didn't come to you with a twisted mind, but to help you get the food from the shop and gave Buster a treat.' (instead of a knife) 'How great would that be? Buster here, Mother here, Father doesn't work as long and you can go to the store whenever you want.' He ends with a taste of triumph.
'That would be perfect, Father. But what does all that have to do with writing. I'm confused. No matter how much you write, Buster will never come back and neither will Mother.' Her petal lips curl with annoyance for her Father's want to dig up painful thoughts.
'No, you are right, they won't; but, Darling, in our next lives they will. We, as we are, won't, but that is because no one has changed it. My writing can change that.'
Eve tilts her head, as Buster once did, and narrowed her eyebrows, as Mother once did, still unsure of her Father's message.
'Why then, Father,' Eve starts, in an interrogating manner. 'why do all your books end so sadly? I cannot agree to the characters you create. Their lives make me cry as if they were Buster.'
'That is the point. The world should be able to cry, if it isn't heartless, and learn from its mistakes.'
'But why don't you show them the world you want, the one with Buster and Mother?' Eve begs, a tear falling like a sakura petal.
'Because no one will read anything without conflict. I'm sorry, Darling. But the world may not be heartless, but it is cruel.'
'But if you could write this world, Father?'
'Yes, Eve?' Her father replies, curious about her request.
'Would I be there?'
'No, Darling. I won't allow you to be in any of my books.'
'Why Father?'
'Because, Eve... I would then have to admit that you are now only a fiction clinging onto my imagination.'
© James L. Bates
'Where has this come from, Darling? I didn't think you liked books.' Mark responds, taken aback by his daughter's sudden intrigue.
'I don't, Father, but I wondered why you do.' She calmly replies, arms closed behind her, leaning closer to her father's penciled paper - tarnished with swarms of dashes. 'You don't look happy when you write, Father.' She continues, her voice now mellow with concern.
Mark adjusts his seat to speak with his daughter eye to eye, attempting to shrink himself to something less harsh than a man scratching a needle tipped with ink across a dead tree. He closes his eyes, searching within his aged mind for a satisfying answer for one desiring for words that decide her beliefs are facts. Exhaling doubt of his answer's effectiveness, Mark opens his eyes and begins to give Eve the answer she asked for.
'Eve...' Mark starts, his hand resting on Eve's tulip dressed shoulder.
'Yes, Father.' Her flowery voice assures her father of his holding of her attention.
'Imagine a world,' her father continues with a voice as smooth as a painter's stroke, 'where Mother can stay at home with us, enjoying our smiles at dinner and have a taste of that cake you baked; the one with the cream and strawberry jam in the middle, sandwiched inbetween the baked cake mix that you spent the past month saving up for, as well as the strawberries and white icing that you topped the cake with, the one with that sweetness and lemon tint that turned our faces skew.'
Eve let out a chuckle at the memory, vividly remembering the squished facial expression of her father after tasting the icing from the bowl with his finger.
Mark restarts with a broadening smile - his daughter's robin laugh causing a bush to comfort his heart.
'Yes, that was funny; I'm sure Mother would have laughed then too, even if she was the serious type. And the day we spent at the beach,' (because Mark couldn't afford to take Eve to the themepark she wished to see when they watched the shooting star pass out of the living room window) 'do you remember the hermit crabs scuttling across the sand as the sea waved from a distance?'
'Of course, Father.' Eve answered, grinning at the recalling of their scuttling.
'And do you remember what you asked me for after?'
'Yes, Father. I asked you if we could keep them.' Her voice quietened as she understood what was to be said next.
'You did, but when we came back with a bucket from the store, they had been taken by a pack of seagulls. After that, you told me you wanted to go back home, and that you hated the beach, so I never took you back again... But it wasn't long after that we got Buster. He was so energetic, his tail would wag like a propeller and no dog could drink a bowl as quickly as he. Despite only having three legs, he loved to run; he ran till the end. When I couldn't, he was your bodyguard, and that was how he died. Do you remember that day? Father had to stay at home to finish some paperwork, so I sent you to the shops with Buster. If I knew that something like that would happen, I would rather have gotten fired.
'Now imagine a world where Buster was still here and that man didn't come to you with a twisted mind, but to help you get the food from the shop and gave Buster a treat.' (instead of a knife) 'How great would that be? Buster here, Mother here, Father doesn't work as long and you can go to the store whenever you want.' He ends with a taste of triumph.
'That would be perfect, Father. But what does all that have to do with writing. I'm confused. No matter how much you write, Buster will never come back and neither will Mother.' Her petal lips curl with annoyance for her Father's want to dig up painful thoughts.
'No, you are right, they won't; but, Darling, in our next lives they will. We, as we are, won't, but that is because no one has changed it. My writing can change that.'
Eve tilts her head, as Buster once did, and narrowed her eyebrows, as Mother once did, still unsure of her Father's message.
'Why then, Father,' Eve starts, in an interrogating manner. 'why do all your books end so sadly? I cannot agree to the characters you create. Their lives make me cry as if they were Buster.'
'That is the point. The world should be able to cry, if it isn't heartless, and learn from its mistakes.'
'But why don't you show them the world you want, the one with Buster and Mother?' Eve begs, a tear falling like a sakura petal.
'Because no one will read anything without conflict. I'm sorry, Darling. But the world may not be heartless, but it is cruel.'
'But if you could write this world, Father?'
'Yes, Eve?' Her father replies, curious about her request.
'Would I be there?'
'No, Darling. I won't allow you to be in any of my books.'
'Why Father?'
'Because, Eve... I would then have to admit that you are now only a fiction clinging onto my imagination.'
© James L. Bates
