Release

            The author did not focus on the lights.  All the world would be watching and if the eyes of one of America’s greatest recluses had the appearance of being blinded, if the eyelids lowered a fraction, if the wrinkles which had gradually nestled around these graying eyes flashed their ankle at these undiscerning cameras, then the writer’s personality would be falsely represented and image would shatter.  During these early days of publicity, and certainly in this case of eagerly-anticipated exposition, both reputation and ego were as frail as aged parchment.  At a time like this, when a large audience would be eager to judge, appearance was everything.

            A grand room was made small by the amount of people packaged within it.  Crowding the floor were reporters, camera operators, sound technicians, media wranglers, electricians, editors, publishers, agents, celebrities, friends, family members, and one intrigued hotel manager who had found his way in without being noticed.  Each of them had broken a sweat due to the heat of the lights, the amount of bodies around them, and the thrill of anticipation.  A powerfully-sensitive microphone would have been able to record the quick and heavy heartbeats pounding about the room.

            It was now, in the first moments of the press conference, that the writer remembered the public relations man who had suggested the belt of ice packs which lay strapped around the fat of an aged belly.  It was damned uncomfortable and had been the subject of much contention between the PR agents and the author’s cranky side, but now a mental note was recorded to nobly thank the gentleman who had first made the suggestion.  It was, after all, responsible for it’s wearer to be the only one in the room who didn’t glisten in the sharp light. 

            Arthur was seated close by.  He checked his watch and, with a nod to his friend and client, rose and stood confidently behind the podium.  With a polite cough, he announced his presence. 

            “Thank you all for being here today for what is bound to be an historic occasion.  As we’re all anxious to receive our guest, I will make my introduction brief.”  Arthur paused now to glance at and give a playful wink to his subject.  “Fifty years ago on this date, a novel was released which changed people’s lives.  Blues In A Minor is a book rarely witnessed, one of astounding intellect and enormous expertise, and it was received accordingly, quickly securing its place in the history of literature.  It was the work of an unparalleled wordsmith, and it is my very great pleasure to introduce to you the creator of that work, my client of fifty-one years and friend of fifty-three, S.D. Winters.”

            Polite applause from the audience and a warm handshake from Arthur welcomed the author to the podium.  As this was a voice which had not been heard in over forty-five years, the room quickly settled back into bewitchment.  Even the hotel manager suppressed his dire need to cough. 

            A brief beat of contemplation preceded the words of the literate mind, during which a flood of thoughts and contradictions fought a seething battle until plans and logic were abandoned for emotion and truth.  “My fellow writers and reporters of human circumstance, I am here to announce the publication of my second novel,” the writer announced.  “It is titled Half Eleven and concerns a young man who accepts adulthood with much travail.  It is about social attitudes and moral duty.  It will be made available to booksellers at midnight tonight and Farrar, Straus, and Giroux’s initial run will be one million, two hundred thousand copies.  I would like to personally thank every representative of FSG who has had exposure to not only the book itself but to even the rumor of this book for keeping the secret safe.  The fact that no one outside of my friends and colleagues has heard even a whisper of this novel’s existence is perfect illustration of the honesty and integrity which FSG has practiced since their birth six decades ago.

            “Although this will be my second published novel, it is not the second novel I have written.  On the contrary, it was, I believe, my eighth.  As some speculation has already supposed, I never stopped writing.  I write every day, as a writer must.  Since the release of my last work in Nineteen Fifty-Six, I have continued to follow my passion, creating characters and stories while further exploring human behavior, paradoxes of the mind, and the English language.  The choice to not share my work with the rest of the world was mine.”           

            Here a moment was taken to relieve a rough throat with a swallow of water, after which the author continued, “I do not trust the modern reader.  Over the years I have watched as popular fiction became stripped of its might.  I have been made to witness the suffering of my fellow writers to eventual lack of inspiration, laziness, mediocrity, or death, and I have chosen not to continually profit by a profession which has assassinated all of its kings.  The likes of Hemingway, Steinbeck, Wolfe, Warren and Fitzgerald have been replaced with names too unimportant to list, but whom have purged the literary market with soap operas and dreck which serves not to stimulate or provoke, but to merely entertain.  I have read many novels over the past fifty years, and I feel I have scorched my tongue with soup not fit for eating.

            “As you wonder why I have chosen to release this novel, Half Eleven, into an environment of trivial pursuits, let me say that I don’t know if it’s good or not.  I do know, however, that it was written with much thought and intense vigor, and I wrote it as well as I possibly could.  And I want to offer it to the public with my regards.  I sincerely hope that readers will be able to contemplate and enjoy it to a high degree. Unfortunately, I am pessimistic about its ultimate ability.

            “Whereas I was excited and proud to release my first work, I find that today I am uncertain.  The notion of having Half Eleven, or, for that matter, any of my novels, received by senses numbed by obtuse culture and short attention spans makes me fear for its intent.  I find that I am unwilling to share the rest of my work if it will ultimately fall on minds which simply don’t care.”

            At this point the writer retrieved a shipping box from beside the podium and brought from it many stacks of large, worn writing pads.  Each page of each sheaf was crowded with tiny handwriting.  “I have brought with me today every one of my completed novels.”

            The weight of the statement combined with the sight of the aged manuscripts made itself apparent like a dust storm descending upon a quiet town.  Chairs gradually began to squeak as bodies sat upright and interest piqued even more.  The author was disappointed to see the inherent reaction.  “I can see the lust in your eyes, but is it due to the need of your intellect to be stimulated or simply by the wicked combination of your curiosity and my celebrity?  Do you genuinely want to read or are you merely the child standing outside the gates of the great toy factory?  I cannot, I will not…”

            The words abruptly halted their journey from mind to mouth.  The expert of language who stood before an audience rapt found that in this moment, actions rather than words would communicate with appropriate ferocity.  Stream of consciousness dictated that the event must now take place, for good or ill.

            Under the author’s seat at the front table lay a large pail of metal.  This can was retrieved and placed on the table next to roughly twelve thousand pages of hand-scrawled manuscript.  In went the pages, along with the heartfelt comedy and drama and love and angst and fear and friendship and hatred and experience contained within.  They were greeted at the base of the can by two hundred and forty-nine matchsticks which had been poured in prior to the press conference in preparation, yet without expectation, of the impending event.

            Addressing every ear, the creator announced, “This is my work.  These are my children.  You will neither exploit them nor subject them to your lies and moral depravity.”  The final, missing matchstick was drawn from its place of hiding and, with a quick scrape against the unfinished bottom edge of the podium, screamed to life and was dropped into the pail, where it joined its brethren in an explosive display of light and life.  Within moments every page was aflame. 

            The author of high regard looked out at the crowd of people and cameras, then walked off stage, leaving a chilling silence throughout the room save the gentle crackling of the blaze.  No one bothered to shout a question, just as no one bothered to doubt the importance of what they had just been privy to.  Sweat rolled from every brow as all eyes watched the author part a break in the curtains covering the back wall to reveal a door.  Before the curtain had a moment to fall back into rest, the writer was through the door, and with a thunder of weighted wood on metal jamb, she was gone.