and asked her to send in Samantha and Sean Acheson.
In his office, he sits in the executive chair behind the desk. It is
comfortable. He can almost believe he has sat in it before.
Nevertheless, he is nervous.
He switches on the computer. It is an IBM PC with substantial hard-disk
storage. A good machine. He can’t remember purchasing it.
After the system runs a data-management program, the oversize screen
presents him with a
“Main Selection Menu” that includes eight choices,
mostly word-processing software. He chooses WordPerfect 5.1, and it is
loaded.
He doesn’t recall being instructed in the operation of a computer or in
the use of WordPerfect. This training is cloaked in amnesiac mists, as
is his training in weaponry and his uncanny familiarity with the street
systems of various cities. Evidently, his superiors believed he would
need to understand basic computer operation and be familiar with certain
software programs in order to carry out his assignments.
The screen clears.
Ready.
In the lower right-hand corner of the blue screen, white letters and
numbers tell him that he is in document one, on page one, at line one,
in the tenth position.
Ready. He is ready to write a novel. His work.
He stares at the blank monitor, trying to start. Beginning is more
difficult than he had expected.
He has brought a bottle of Corona from the kitchen, suspecting he might
need to lubricate his thoughts. He takes a long swallow.
The beer is cold, refreshing, and he knows that it is just the thing to
get him going.
After finishing half the bottle, confidence renewed, he begins to type.
He bangs out two words, then stops, The man The man what?
He stares at the screen for a minute, then types “entered the room.”
But what room? In a house? An office building? What does the room
look like? Who else is in it? What is this man doing in this room, why
is he here? Does it have to be a room? Could he be entering a train, a
plane, a graveyard?
He deletes “entered the room” and replaces it with “was tall.”
So the man is tall. Does it matter that he is tall? Will tallness be
important to the story? How old is he? What color are his eyes, his
hair? Is he Caucasian, black, Asian? What is he wearing? As far as
that goes, does it have to be a man at all? Couldn’t it be a woman?
Or a child?
With these questions in mind, he clears the screen and starts the story
from the beginning, He stares at the screen. It is terrifyingly blank.
Infinitely blanker than it was before, not just three letters blanker
with the deletion of “man.”
The choices to follow that simple article, “the,” are limitless, which
makes the selection of the second word a great deal more daunting than
he would have supposed before he sat in the black leather chair and
switched on the machine.
He deletes
“The.”
The screen is clear.
Ready.
He finishes the bottle of Corona. It is cold and refreshing, but it
does not lubricate his thoughts.
He goes to the bookshelves and pulls off eight of the novels bearing his
name, Martin Stillwater. He carries them to the desk, and for a while
he sits and reads first pages, second pages, trying to kick-start his
brain.
His destiny is to be Martin Stillwater. That much is perfectly clear.
He will be a good father to Charlotte and Emily.
He will be a good husband and lover to the beautiful Paige.
And he will write novels. Mystery novels.
Evidently, he has written them before, at least a dozen, so he can write
them again. He simply has to re-acquire the feeling for how it is done,
relearn the habit.
The screen is blank.
He puts his fingers on the keys, ready to type.
The screen is so blank. Blank, blank, blank. Mocking him.
Suspecting that he is merely inhibited by the soft persistent hum of the
monitor fan and the demanding electronic-blue field of document one,
page one, he switches off the computer. The resultant silence is a
blessing, but the flat gray glass of the monitor is even more mocking