THE BLANK MAN

For all of the eighteen years that I have been writing, not once have I been plagued by an author’s deepest and most terrible fear. That of the blank page.

I know how excessive such a statement might sound to other people’s ears – especially if they are writers themselves – but I assure you that there is not an ounce of falseness to it. Trust me, I am not trying to be controversial, neither is this an arrogant attempt at presenting myself in a most favourable light. I do have many faults, but that is surely not one of them.

You could say that I have been blessed with a prolificness that I did not deserve. I have not worked for it, it simply happened. It was there at my disposal and my only virtue was to take dully advantage of it. More than that, I built a whole career out of it. I have consistently produced a novel and a collection of short stories each year, not even having to face the harsh discipline of sitting down to write every day from such hour to whatever time a writer is supposed to stop working. Instead, I merely do it when it feels right, not worrying about a schedule. It might be early in the morning or very late in the evening. Hell, it can be right in the middle of the night, a nagging idea disrupting my sleep and forcing me to get up and put it down on paper. I might also go for days without the need to do it and, then, sit down for eight to ten hours straight. Needless to say that, on those specific occasions more than on any others, most of what I happen to turn out is pure garbage. I have no qualms about that. In fact, it does seem about right. Quite fair, if you take into account that my usual pace is equivalent to fifteen-hundred words an hour, give or take a word. You cannot expect that every little sentence you spit out will be emboldened with the sheer brilliancy of genius. It simply does not work like that and whoever tells you otherwise most surely has his or hers pants on fire.

In the interstices of all that, I still have time to write a fair amount of articles and literary reviews for a couple of newspapers and speciality magazines. And, of course, once a week, I have my creative writing course at the university, where I try to teach a bouquet of talentless youths the elusive recipe for turning out the perfect bestseller and thus become the next Nicholas Sparks or Danielle Steel. So, that is always fun.

What matters, though, is that all through it, and over the wide span of these eighteen years, I have never been a prey to the lack of words or ideas. Whenever I needed it – and even when I did not – I managed to consistently fill all the blank pages that crossed my way, blissfully decorating them with hundreds, thousands, millions of words.

I wonder if that was why. A way of the universe balancing out the odds. All that I know is that it started a few days ago (five, to be precise) and has turned my world upside down ever since. I have sat down to write this, knowing perfectly well the utter uselessness of it. I must do it anyway; it is what I have done all my life and, therefore, I have no other choice but to abide. The power of the Muses compels you, or some other version of it, I guess.

I had been working on a new novel for close to seven months. It promised to be a mammoth one, already six-hundred-fifty pages in and no way near the end as far as I could tell. I had suddenly realized, halfway through page six-hundred-fifty-one, that my main character had too many similarities with another character from a previous novel. One of my first works, as it happens. There, he played but a minor role, more of a stock character than anything else. The one that I was working on was obviously much more complex and free from the inevitable conditionings of social stereotype. Be that as it may, the contact points between the two were too noticeable to ignore and I began wondering what I should do about it.

I had done it before on a couple of occasions. Purposefully work in a character already used in some other novel or short. It gave both critics and readers a feeling that there was an intentional net of references and interconnections throughout my work, which made it more appealing. They were but little tricks that suddenly made my production slightly more valued and I was not one to deny them such silly pleasures.

From a practical point of view, it implied that I had to go back and rearrange the material so that even the smallest detail, bio-wise and otherwise, would match with what had already been established about the character on that previous novel.

I have learned not to trust memory whenever my own work is concerned. Every time that I try to recollect the particulars of what I have written, chances are that I am going to trap myself in a mesh of what I intended to write, what I actually wrote and what I would later feel that I should have written instead. What this means is that I will probably be quite certain of some passage which I forsake in the meantime and never made it into the finished book… or, also as likely, some notion that harrowed me, subsequent to its release, some minor adjustment that I promised myself to make if ever I decided to review and rewrite the damned thing.

So, trusting my own memory in such a case – with an almost twenty-year interval – was pointless. I had to read the actual published material and build from there. I got up from my desk, calmly directed my steps to the kitchen, where I poured another fill of black coffee into the mug that little Dana had offered me last Christmas, and then hurried back to the den. The shelf where I kept my novels was on the farthest and less illuminated corner, a purposeful choice given the rare necessity I had of revisiting my own work.

I admit that I had a soft spot for “The Wrangling Clown”. Not only because it had been one of my first novels, but also the one that had put me on the map, sort of speak. Every author has one just like that. The work about which critics say things like “a new refreshing voice” or “a mesmerizing tour de force, worthy of being shortlisted for all the major literary accolades” (that was actually a true one, even if an obvious victim of misguided beguilement) and whose readers catapult it to the bestseller list for months on end. For me, it had been “The Wrangling Clown”. It was understandably full of autobiographical details and private references, as is common in most writers’ first attempts. Too many, in fact, even if not so easily perceived by an outsider and unknowing reader. That was probably the main reason why I would never fall into the temptation of writing my own biography. It would reveal too easily how much I had been basically writing about my own life in my early work. I prefer people to keep thinking that it was all original, a pure fruit of the imagination, the author’s well of creativity in its youthful full force. An autobiography would merely ruin the myth. So, no. I never thought that I would fall prey to such a trap.

Well, except for this, even if it is not so much an autobiography as it is a will of sorts. My last testament. Not that it matters anymore, considering what happened over the course of these last days.

The story of “The Wrangling Clown”, the plot itself, was fairly simple. Almost childlike, one might say. However, since it was intended as a parable, its simplicity served the purpose fitly. An aging con-artist, known amongst his peers as The Clown, finds out that his granddaughter has leukaemia and desperately tries to get one last big con before retiring with enough money for the poor child’s treatments. The initial narrative, however, is constructed from the point of view of the con-artist’s victims. The novel presented itself as a patchwork, a gallery of archetypical figures and moeurs, and it was only very near the end that The Clown’s own voice came to life, forcing us to re-equate everything and making us realize that the whole narrative had been about him all along.

I reached for the thin volume of “The Wrangling Clown” and took it with me back to the desk. I knew that Johnny or Jack was one of The Clown’s first victims, an unassuming civil clerk who, having won the national lottery, gets swindled of all his money before he can spend a cent. All because he could not resist the lure of possessing his own private Italian villa, vineyard included, and a collection of Maserati in the garage. The biggest irony, of course, was that The Clown himself would get swindled as well and end up with nothing. A recurring event which applied to all his attempted cons throughout the book and that kept leaving him penniless. When he finally manages to pull the so much ambitioned big coup, by the end of the book, his granddaughter has already died, leaving the embittered old man wondering what to do with his newly-achieved wealth.

I also had this particularly solid image in my head. That, after The Clown made his coup, he walked away from the poor civil clerk sarcastically humming “Hit the Road, Jack”, a song that I found myself referencing several times in the novel that I was writing. As a matter of fact, the Percy Mayfield’s song had started to play a very important role in the themes and theses of the narrative - another coincidence which had drawn me to the idea of making the tie-in with “The Wrangling Clown” and that particular character.

I was pretty sure that he appeared very early on and therefore started skimming through the first pages until his name jumped at me near the end of page seventeen. He was described as a thin almost harrowed thirty-something on a collision course with destiny. Well, I had described him thus. As it happens, whenever it pertains to my own work, I always have the feeling that it has been the product of someone else’s ingenuity and if I chance to revisit it – as it was the case at the moment – I am haunted by the weird feeling that I was not the one writing those precise words. I believe that it is truer the older the work is, as if the distance in time makes for a much more painful realization that I have grown old and quite different from the person I was back then. I tried to ignore the uncomfortable twitching it left behind my eyes and delved into the paragraph which had caught my attention.

Johnny, who was sometimes called Jack, was a thin almost harrowed thirty-something on a collision course with destiny. He did not know it at the time when he met Lourdes, blissfully ignorant of his own future path, as it should be with any other fellow human being. However, things had been set in motion when he arrived at the little backwards village to which he had run in seek of refuge. From what he was running is not a secret, it had made all major news throughout the country and turned him into both a household name and face.

I turned the page to continue reading and was faced with the most absolute blank. There was nothing written on the page. I did not think too much about it, at first. A simple printer’s mistake, undoubtedly. It had been known to happen before. I could not quite remember if I had revisited those pages since the book had come out. Surely not, I thought. Otherwise, I would have noticed that blank page.

I reached for the phone. I was certain that Angela had a copy of it at the office, as she had of every author she represented.

“Hey, Angela… this is going to seem silly, but you have a copy of “The Wrangling Clown” at hand, right?” I could not quite understand why, but I suddenly felt weirdly apologetic.

“What happened to yours? Decided to finally have one of those tantrums in which the anguished and pampered writer destroys his life’s work?”

It was definitely a joke, since the image was the farthest away possible from my usual tame nature. I explained what had happened and waited for her to get her copy.

“Okay, I got it. You want me to send it to you? Or I can simply ask the publisher to send you a new copy…”

“There’s no need for that. I just have to read a couple of paragraphs. Are you very busy? Would it be too much of an imposition to ask you to read them to me?”

“Honey, is there anything you ask that I will not do with a smile? You know you are my favourite client.”

“Aw, I bet you say that to all the bestselling authors you represent. Oh, wait… I am the only one, right?”

That kind of repartee had become sort of a routine between us. I loved her dearly, we had grown to be true friends over the years and she had even asked me to be her daughter’s godfather, encumbrance that I had gladly accepted and never regretted: little Dana was a bright bliss in my otherwise uneventful life.

“Just tell me the page, will ya?”

“Eighteen.”

“Let me see… Okay, here it… hum…”

There was a silence on the other side.

“Are you still there or did you fall asleep? My books aren’t that boring, you know?”

“It’s probably from the same batch. After all, we both got them at the same time.”

“What do you mean?”

“There’s nothing printed on page eighteen of my copy, either. Don’t worry, I’ll call the publisher right away and ask him to send us both new copies.”

“Forget it. I really need it now. I’ll just go out and buy it at a bookstore.”

“Okay. By the way, we’re still settled for September, right?”

“Uh… well, it might take a bit longer than that, after all.”

“What’s with you and deadlines? Honey, we want that book out before the Christmas craze, otherwise we’ll lose a bundle.”

“You’ll lose a bundle, you mean.”

“Philippe…”

“Okay, okay… I’ll try.”

I hung up before she could say another word. The fact was that I knew perfectly well that I would not have the novel ready by December, let alone September. Not with all the adjustments that I had to make so as to accommodate for the necessary tie-in with “The Wrangling Clown”. Not to mention the three- to four-hundred pages that I still had left until I could consider the book finished. And I was not even considering the time needed to go over the whole thing one last time (I always seem to be making last-minute corrections until the very end) before handing the manuscript over to Angela. No, December was not even a close call. Best of chances, I would have everything ready by February. She obviously did not need to know that right then. No use giving her a heart attack before time.

I looked over at the stack of printed pages on the desk. All six-hundred-fifty pages of it. It was a very old tradition. A reminiscence from the days when I did not yet have a computer and had to use my father’s old typewriter instead. Even after surrendering to technology (which I did comparatively late), I had preserved my old habits. I would order a print as soon as I got to the end of a page, even if it was midsentence: a physical proof of what I had just written, the same way it would happen had I been doing it on a typewriter. I would stack it neatly on top of the pile that consistently rested on the desk, next to the keyboard. It allowed for a very concrete reminder of what I had produced so far, a sapling steadily growing day by day. It also prevented that I might lose my work in case of some technical problem with the computer file. I had heard of such things, although I had been lucky enough thus far and nothing of the sorts had ever happened to me.

I still kept the old typewriter, nonetheless, cosily tucked on top of one of the bookcases. I looked at it with nostalgia, but also a strange sense of longing. As if it was calling out to me, like one of Odysseus’ sirens. Come here, renowned Philippe, honour to thy name, and listen to my voice.

I shied such thoughts away, got ready as quickly as I could and drove into the nearest town. It was a forty-five minute drive at the very least, but I really needed the damned book in order to go on. I guess that was one of the downsides to playing the secluded writer.

I had found the house some three years before and had immediately fallen in love with it. I was looking for the perfect hideout and that was exactly what I found. The truth was that, in time, I had grown weary of the constant public exposure (as it happens, the dazzling novelty of it rubs off pretty swiftly) and was pining away for some place where I could just get away from it all, with no interruptions, outside disturbances or unduly distractions of any kind. It was right in the middle of the woods and, yet, it had every comfort possible. It was also pornographically expensive. But, hey, what is the use of being a bestselling author if one cannot indulge in such little luxuries from time to time? Besides, it was for a good cause. I had come to suspect that my truly important work was still ahead of me and wanted to make sure that I had the perfect environment for it. Of course, once a week I still had to drive out to the university for my creative writing course, but I was seriously considering giving up on that too. Angela was sometimes worried that I might be getting too isolated out here. The house, however, had cable and a reasonably good internet connection (secluded, though not necessarily primitive) and that was enough to keep me in touch with the rest of the world. When push came to shove, that was basically all that I needed to keep me happy and dutifully productive. I still remembered the times when I had to go out and buy a book or make a run for the library whenever I was deep in research mode for one of my writing projects. These days, all that I had to do was go online and surf away. Even if it was for something as menial as checking the spelling, meaning or synonyms of a particular word (I have learned to distrust computer’s auto-correct options and orthographic checks). From time to time, and just for fun, I would still turn to the bookshelf for some specific book or dictionary. There is a special charm to it that no computer screen can provide.

I arrived in town earlier than I had expected and immediately headed for the nearest bookstore. Fortunately, the fiction section was richly stacked with several examples of my work and I soon found a copy of “The Wrangling Clown”, even if a bit dog-eared. Well, the book was an oldie, a true vintage article, so that was okay. That was the moment – the exact moment – when everything got dark. That was the proverbial turning point. The one that made me realize that something very wrong was going on. Something unexplainable.

There was nothing printed on page eighteen of that copy either. I wavered with the open book between my hands, not knowing what to make of it. As it is customary with me in such situations, I shoved the incident away. I am not going to acknowledge that, I thought. I merely put the book back on the shelf and went out in search of another bookstore.

It was only by the fourth bookstore that I started wondering if I might not be dreaming the whole thing. I was tempted to ask one of the clerks if anyone had ever complained about that unprinted page eighteen. I did not. I was perfectly aware of how crazy it would sound. I mean, the book had been around for over fifteen years. If there had been a printing problem with it in such a wide scale, it would have surely warranted attention a long time ago. No, it made no sense.

I ran to the car – I do not know why, but I literally ran – and locked myself inside, breathing heavily, very dizzy and sweaty all of a sudden. I could not understand if it was just a panic attack or something more serious. A coronary, perhaps. I tried to get a hold of myself. Snap out of it, I repeated over and over again and started chuckling when I realized that my voice had begun sounding oddly like Cher’s in “Moonstruck”.

Upon getting home, I found myself standing in the hallway. Just… standing there. I do not know for how long. It appeared as if I had gotten home, closed the front door on my back and, then, just stood there waiting for I do not know what. I had expected that returning to my cherished cocoon, as I had grown accustomed to dub it, would appease me and somehow make everything right. At the very least, that it would provide the inner calm which would allow for a must needed insight on the whole matter. Instead, I had apparently disconnected and just stood there in the hallway, for an indeterminate amount of time, waiting for the sky to fall on my head.

Not really knowing what I was doing at first, I slowly walked towards the den. I saw the copy of “The Wrangling Clown” resting near the pile of printed pages. It was as if it was grinning sarcastically at me. I could almost hear its taunting whisper: “I could have saved you the trip. All you had to do was ask me”.

I drew nearer to the desk and picked it up. The thought crept in without warning. I had not checked all the pages. Was it possible that there were more unprinted ones, further ahead in the book? I should have thought of that before, but the idea had not even crossed my mind. I held the book firmly by its spine in one hand, while using the thumb of the other to quickly flip the pages, from back to cover, half-expecting it to reveal the animated drawings of one of those flip books of my childhood (maybe a devilish face hidden in the characters that would disclose at last the secret meaning of it all). Instead, I was faced with an endless wave of blinding white, one blank page after another, after another, after another…

Whatever had happened to page eighteen had somehow contaminated all the others and I was sure I would find that the very same had happened to the other copies, had I decided to call Angela or make a second run to the bookstores. No matter how incomprehensible it seemed, I was sure of it. The floor under my feet turned strangely watery and I felt my body waver as it slid to the floor, against the supportive embrace of the desk. I sat there, a child handling a toy that does not work anymore and still refusing to let go of it. I had not realized it yet, but I had begun crying in the meantime and was surprised when I noticed that my cheeks felt so moist.

A nagging glimmer sparkled in the deepest part of my apathy, making me jump at once and run to the bookcase. Without a moment’s thought, I took out another of my novels from the shelf, at hazard, and opened it with an anxious flutter stabbing away at my temple. Everything was as it should, every word in its right place, no printing faults whatsoever. Not yet fully reassured, I put it back and took out another one, this time not at random but very purposefully. My first published book. Not a novel, as it happens, but a collection of short stories, most of them more elaborated versions of my teen years’ attempts at writing. Trying to attribute logic to chaos, I was wondering if whatever had happened to “The Wrangling Clown” was not something that was happening to all my books… perhaps in chronological order?

Nothing was wrong with the collection of short stories either, though. I drew in a deep sigh. How silly to feel reassured by such a nonsensical appeasement, as if finding comfort in the notion that all was right with the rest of my books could atone for the fact that “The Wrangling Clown” had, for all intents and purposes, disappeared from the face of the earth. The thought made my eyes turn to the copy that I had left on the floor, near the desk. On the cover, facing up, there was the title in bold silver letters, my name right beneath it, and the drawing of the novel’s leading character, facing away from us, his arm behind his back hiding the crossed fingers of his right hand: the iconic image that had become familiar to so many readers over the years. The only thing was that, underneath that cover, inside it, there was now nothing but emptiness. Blank, crystal-bright, white emptiness.

I tried to establish a coherent path of thought or will that might make me react in some way but gave up at last. I went into the bedroom, took three valiums and surrendered to the forced sleep.

Whether it was the chemical influence of the pills or pure denial, I drifted back from that deep slumber with no recollection of the previous day’s events. Perhaps I was unconsciously tricking myself into thinking that it had been but a fleeting nightmare. Whatever the case, I allowed for the clear brightness of the day seeping in through the bedroom window to warm my half-numb body. I stretched in bed like a child greeting another playful morning and realized how hungry I was. I had a sudden crave for a mug of dark coffee and felt my mouth water when I pictured the butter melting over the brownish toast. I was preparing to put the idea into practice when a string of words started aligning in my head to form a sentence, then two, and then a third one.

It happened very often. Ideas, sometimes whole passages, sprouting into mind at the most uncommon moments and driving me to the chair where I would spend a couple of hours writing. That was when the thought of John/Jack emerged as well and, with it, the notion that I could no longer go back to “The Wrangling Clown” for clues and guidance. At once, I was flooded with the gloomy realization of it all and my heart sank, first, and went into a frenzy of anxiety, right afterwards. The brightness of the sunny day turned stale and the morning lost its charm, tainted now with ominous overtones. As it turned out, I was not able to get out of bed for another two hours, stubbornly refusing to deal with the unexplainable martyrdom that had fallen upon my shoulders.

Hunger eventually got the better of me and I ambled to the kitchen, reluctantly. A few minutes later, I was standing at the den’s threshold, the half-drank mug of coffee in my hand. I looked inside as if at an alien landscape. “The Wrangling Clown” copy was still where I had abandoned it the day before, right in the middle of the floor. I set the mug on the desk and picked the book up. With my every move seeming like an automated version of my old self, I approached the bookcase in the dark corner. When I tried to put the book back in its rightful place, amongst the crammed row of volumes, I involuntarily made two of the others drop to the floor. One of them had fallen on its spine, forcing the pages to fan open. I first caught it in the corner of my eye, but still refused to acknowledge it. I merely stood there, looking ahead, interiorly ordering my eyes not to lower. I already knew what was expecting me down below.

One by one, I eventually tore the books out of the bookcase, quickly skimming through the pages before letting them fall to the ground, lifeless and silent. When I was finished, there was only a film of dust at the back of the shelf and the floor was littered with thousands of blank pages, an irrevocable cemetery of books.

This cannot be happening, I thought over and over again. This is not real.

It was but a half-hearted attempt at common sense, though. By now, I knew that no amount of rationality could give meaning to what was happening. I had yielded to the surreal, even if I had not yet fully realized it. My life had revealed to be the love child of both Dali and Kafka (Burroughs, my mind corrected in a whisper).

A desperate afterthought made me reach for one of the other shelves, where I kept the body of my personal library. Nothing was wrong with those. Whatever virus – I had unconsciously started to think of it as a virus, a book virus – was at play here, had only affected my own writing. Other authors’ remained intact. Safeguarded against the blinding white, apparently. No inexorable blank for them. For me alone.

My writing…

That was it, was it not? It had been my work specifically which had been targeted, purposefully or not. A deep panic took hold of me as I ran to the desk, mumbling: No, no, no, no…

I stood before the pile of printed pages – the steadily growing sapling – afraid to check it. The pages were facing down as usual. All that I had to do was turn the first one (the last that I had written) and see if the printed characters were still there. After having my life’s work irremediably erased, finding out that I had lost those seven months of hard labour as well was not something that I was prepared to deal with. Especially when it was not even near complete. Just tentatively halfway there.

With an uncontrollable tremor, I watched my hand pick up the page on top of the pile, fluttering nervously as I turned it, the sound gnawing at my unsteady brain.

No, he did not believe in god... but he kept hoping that karma actually existed.

He weighed the feel of the keys in his hand. It still felt weird, and he suspected that it would be so for a long time. The apartment was his. Really his. After all that he had gone through, all the skirmishes, all the obstacles that Lady Fortune had set upon his path, he finally had a place that he could call his own. Not bad, taking into account where he had come from. Not good enough, considering that he was now almost forty.

“Better late than never”, he heard his father’s voice echoing in the deepest recesses of his mind.

He suddenly wished that she was there by his side, so that she could share in the moment. It was an inadequate wish, he knew full well. She was but an acquaintance and there was no amount of wishful-thinking that would change that. So far, she had been conveniently aloof and he had merely managed to send little pieces of wood to try and turn those shy embers into a full-grown blaze.

He was perfectly conscious that the world was ridden with signs. All required interpretation, even when they were unreadable. Some said come hither, others merely advised you to stay away. Others, still, were perfect mixed signals. The best that anyone could do was to take it with the necessary grain of salt and keep to their path. There was no true wisdom in trying to read signs that do not want to be read.

Besides, he had worked too hard at covering his tracks, at making a clean break with his past, and was not sure if he was ready to face the inevitable decision of what to tell her. How much of the truth should he impart on her, if it ever came to that? He was doubtful of how much she would be able to understand and did

It stopped there. I remembered writing the continuation of that last sentence. As a matter of fact, I remembered writing some three or four paragraphs more. However, I had stopped in the meantime and, as it was tradition, would only print that following page when I got to the end of it. Page six-hundred-fifty-one.

I checked the subsequent page, and another after that and a few more and, then, lifted the whole pile to see if the first pages were still there too. Everything, every single word was there. As it should. I sat down with a heavy sigh. I felt like turning my mind off, notwithstanding the temporary relief (even then, I knew that it was temporary). That was when the phone rang, tearing me away from my daydreaming obsessions.

“Are you watching this”, Angela asked as soon as I picked up, with no introduction whatsoever. When I did not answer, she merely added: “The morning news, Philippe”.

I obediently turned on the TV set and started searching for the right channel. It did not take long, since a similar news piece was apparently being broadcasted in a variety of channels already.

…all of the bestselling author’s books have been unexplainably showing up blank. Many believe it to be a publicity stunt orchestrated by the publishers in anticipation of the upcoming and long-awaited novel, due before the end of the year. However, no official statement has been released so far and even the author’s agent, Angela Wynter, has refused answering any of our questions. Distributors and bookstores’ owners are consistently denying any involvement, going as far as to claim that they have no idea, and I quote, “of how such a scam was pulled”. It all started this morning, when bookstores all over the country started getting complaints from buyers attempting to purchase many of the author’s books and consequently finding out that they had nothing printed inside. On further investigation, they reached the conclusion that all the copies available in their stores were suffering from the same…

“Philippe…”, Angela called on the other side. “Do you know anything about this? What the hell is going on?”

I did not know what to say.

“Is there anything you want me to tell them?”, she insisted.

This time, I did not wait. I hung up, disconnected the cord from the wall and, when my cell phone started vibrating right afterwards, turned off that too. I allowed my eyes to drift towards the framed photo sitting on the desk. Dana – little Dana – was striking a Lady Gaga pose, while Angela and I stood enraptured in the background. I could not remember precisely who had taken that photo, since I had the distinct feeling that it had been just the three of us in the park that day. Probably some passer-by. Whatever the case, it had earned a special place in my desk and had never left it since. I looked to it for comfort whenever I felt a bit more lonely or sad. It always worked, too. I was not sure that it was producing the desired effect at that precise moment. Even so, I allowed my eyes to get lost in Dana’s mischievous smile.

My attention diverted once more to the stack of paper on my left. I found myself wondering… It was all that was left. Now that everything else had turned blank, those pages - those six-hundred-fifty pages – were the only remainder of my hard labours, the sole physical proof that I was actually a writer. Was that why this had happened? Had everything else been erased so that I could start over with this novel? Was this my chance to rewrite myself and my life’s work along with it?

Desperation can lead a man to strange places. I felt myself reaching for a lifeline, no matter what it was. It is only human, I guess. We try to find meaning where there is none, we strive to build hope when everything is bleak. Is not that the whole purpose of god?

Whatever the case, the mere thought instilled in me a will that I did not think I possessed anymore. Some strange resolve took me by storm. Now that I did not have “The Wrangling Clown” to limit me, I could write whatever I wanted as far as John/Jack was concerned. I no longer had to respect what had been established by the earlier novel, for the simple reason that it did not exist anymore. In fact, I could rewrite the whole of “The Wrangling Clown” into the present novel, which I was more and more tempted by the hour to call “The Growing Sapling” (it somehow seemed appropriate).

More than that, I had begun convincing myself that it was my mission to rewrite every book I had ever written into “The Growing Sapling”. It would turn it from the mammoth that it already promised to be into a truly gargantuan piece. An endless epic. My own À la recherche du temps perdu.

It would mean working from memory, of course, since none of the books existed any longer. But was not that what writing truly was? An exercise in memory? In the preservation of memory? Perhaps the fact that I could not check the originals for guidance whenever my memory failed me might create some obstacles. The upside was that no one else could either. Nobody could tell me that I was being incoherent with what I had previously written. They would have no way of pointing out the specific passage that attested to their claim and would have to admit that it was a basic question of “my memory against yours”. Was not this the secret ambition of any writer worthy of its name? To forsake every early try and trial in favour of one true opus magnum? One last work that would make right all the wrongs and hesitations of the previous attempts. Given the chance, I was sure that any other author would welcome such an opportunity.

I remembered reading once that all authors basically keep writing the same book over and over again. Every painter, composer or filmmaker, for that matter. They are always making a slightly different version of the same thing. Variations on a theme. Well, this would be my own personal rendition of it. Or so I led myself to believe.

I turned on the computer, opened the file, changed its name from “Novel22” to “The Growing Sapling (an exercise in memory)” and worked for the next ten hours straight. When I could no longer keep my eyes open and there were already thirty more pages on top of the pile, I crawled to the bedroom and do not even remember falling asleep.

For the next three days, I worked almost nonstop, adding close to a hundred-and-fifty new pages, the most I had ever managed to put out in such a limited amount of time. I was feverishly interweaving the original plot of “The Growing Sapling” with characters and situations from all my previous novels, both moving ahead and going back to intersperse specific additions, corrections and all out total rewrites in the already written material. It was a schizophrenic patchwork, I am quite aware, and it only got worse when I realized that I was even writing in characters from books that I could have never written, property of authors who I was shamelessly plagiarizing. I registered it at last when the name Jean Valjean started to pop-up a bit too frequently than would be advisable.

On the third day, however, I stopped. Feeling utterly drained, I wondered if it had been but a freakish spring of creativity which had died out as suddenly as it had come to life. I tried not to rationalize it too much and assured myself that it was a normal occurrence after such a long spell. At that particular moment, I was gladly accepting every bit of normality (or appearance of it) that I could get my hands on. I thought about turning on the TV for some well-deserved leisure time, but decided against it once I realized what would certainly await me in the news. Reading a book might prove to be a bit more relaxing.

I went to the row of bookcases. On the ground, there it was still: the cemetery of books. I had never gotten around to picking them up, allowing them to just lay there littering the floor. I noticed almost casually that the covers – which had thus far preserved their integrity (excessively descriptive encasings to such a wide emptiness) – were now blank as well. So, there was really nothing left. At all.

I chose to ignore it and went on with the search for a book to read, mentally checking off anything that might relate ever so slightly to my present situation. However, once I came across a vintage edition of “Through the Looking-Glass”, I could not resist it. I took it out, strolled contently to the couch and sat down, anticipating a few hours of pleasurable reading with the sun warmly hitting my back. I sat there looking at the cover for a long time, enjoying the reproduction of one of John Tenniel’s illustrations for the first edition. It was the one where Alice is coming through the looking-glass over the mantel, suspiciously eyeing the domed clock at her feet. Yet, the pleasurable feeling gradually faded, giving way to an ominous twitch, and when I finally opened the volume to the first page, I already had the uncanny feeling of what I would find.

I spent the next two hours going over every book that I possessed. Each and every one of them was now blank too (soon the covers would likewise follow, I was sure). And not only books, but even a few magazines and old newspapers that I had scattered over the house. In search of some kind of validation, I turned on the TV once again. There was no mention of a contagion to other authors and books. Nevertheless, there were still some minor news pieces about the mystery pertaining to my own books. Apparently, readers all over the country had been reporting cases of finding long ago purchased copies (and which they were sure to have already read two or three times, in some cases) now being completely blank. The publicity stunt theory seemed less and less likely, as the scale and scope of it grew wider and wider, but there was still no alternative explanation being put forward by the usual opinion makers. For all intents and purposes, nobody could present a clear, rational and unquestionable account of what was happening.

Whatever it was, though, I was now sure that it targeted me alone. The reason for it? I could not fathom it, no matter how hard I tried.

This time around, not only did I turn off the TV set, put I pulled the power cable from the socket. I even took out the internet cable from the computer. As useless as the procedure might seem, it gave me a momentary sense of tranquillity.

I found myself roaming the house with no apparent destiny or purpose, sometimes tiptoeing around the hundreds of books that were strewn all over the floor, others just carelessly kicking them out of the way in order to move ahead. I did it mechanically, no particular thought or worry in my mind. As if my body needed the movement, a natural kinetic reaction akin to breathing. You forget that you are doing it, you just do it. It is your body’s memory at work. As simple as that. I do not know for how long I did it. A very long time, I would assume. Not that I remember much of it. Not clearly, at least.

When I came back to my senses, it was already dark again. I suddenly felt very tired. I moved with difficulty to the desk and sat down, turning on the balanced-arm lamp that I had bought at an antique fair a few years before (the man had assured me that it was a true article from the ninety-thirties). It casted a yellowish circle over the varnished wooden surface. I guess that was why I did not registered it right away, because it was yellowish instead of the blinding white that I had grown accustomed to recognize as a death certificate of sorts. It was only when my eyes darted purposefully to it, in search of the customary comfort, that I took it in at last. The wooden frame was still there. Inside, however, right behind the clear glass, there was merely a glossy white rectangle. No Lady Gaga pose, no mischievous smile, no entranced glares in the background. Just the yellowish white emptiness. Once more.

Everything is going away, I thought. Everything I wrote, I did, everything I possess. All turning blank.

As if to validate my newly-found inferences, I looked around, perusing the den for other proofs of the persistent effacement. And there they were. The landscape painting that I had inherited from my parents - not that valuable in itself, but an heirloom if ever there was one (it had been in the family for close to ninety years) – was now a mere landscape of emptiness. So was the silk screen printing that Angela had given me for my birthday. I mentally counted all the paintings and pictures that I had all over the house and knew at once, not even bothering to get up in order to check it, that they would all be equally blank. Would the house itself, all its walls and furniture, silently and gradually become blank as well, contaminated by the blinding white that had fallen upon everything else in my life?

I scurried such thoughts away and turned to the computer. I would just keep writing. That was all that was left and, in consequence, all that I could do.

Apparently, I had forgotten to turn off the computer when I had last worked on it and the file was still open, right where I had left it (by now, it summed up to the quaint number of eight-hundred-twenty-eight pages). I started scrolling up looking for the last paragraph that I had written. When I realized it, I had scrolled up to the top of the document. All eight-hundred-twenty-eight pages of it. Nothing. Not a single character. Not even a forgotten comma. So, it had finally caught up with “The Growing Sapling” too. I needed not look for printed proof in the pile of pages but I did it anyway. The last three days of hard work had been consequently of no use.

If someone had observed me during the next half-hour, they might think that I was having a hysterical outburst. I assure you nonetheless that I had never felt as calm. I quietly got up, held the computer high in the air and then allowed it to smash against the floor. Right afterwards, I collected a few of the books lying on the floor and took them to the fireplace. They would make for good fuel, now that they were not useful for anything else. I lit the hearth and fed it with a couple of volumes to keep the flames going. A reddish glow flooded the den. I went in search of the electric main switch and turned it off, not really knowing why I was doing it. Perhaps I wanted to be sure that, since I had been deprived of every tangible proof of my permanence in this world, I had some say in what material comforts I would be allowed from then on. No more books, no more TV or computer, no more electric light or heat, nothing. I would go back to the primitive state of the man in the cave – not platonically watching the shadows on the wall but, instead, sketching on it the primeval drawings that had begun it all oh so many eons ago.

I quickly regretted having cut off the house’s power, though, since I started feeling a deep crave for Bach’s Brandenburg Concerto No. 2 in F major. I hummed it in my mind – a poor substitute for the real thing – while I watched the flames choreographing a tortuous whirl, tightly wrapped in my heavy blanket. Just like a kid waiting for Christmas (will Santa get burnt when he tries to come down the chimney?).

A few hours ago I noticed that my feet were starting to turn paper-white. That was when I began writing this. I took down the old typewriter from the top of the shelf, dusting it off as ably as I could, and reached for the remainder of the once printed pages that I had not yet fed to ever hungry mouth of the fireplace. I put one of them in, getting ready to execute a last palimpsest and, hoping against hope, started typing. As it turned out, the already faded black ribbon was still able to imprint on the page the characters that I stroke on the noisy keyboard.

It is now very late in the night and I have just counted seventeen typed pages, resting silently on the rug by my side. I feel very tired and my eyes hurt from the strain imposed by the fireplace’s diminishing light. I think I will try to sleep for a while.

…

When I went to the toilet today, I noticed that there was a translucent film covering my pupils, as if I had been a sudden victim of cataracts.

…

I keep hearing Bach’s Concerto in my head, even if sometimes the words that echo inside it are from Mozart’s Requiem.

Rex tremendae majestatis,

qui salvandos savas gratis,

salve me, fons pietatis.

Oh King of tremendous majesty, who freely saves those worthy ones, save me, source of mercy.

I do not think he hears me, though.

…

It has been a week since I have taken a shower. I have neither the energy nor the will to do it. It seems pointless somehow. The raunchy smell that now permeates every inch of the den makes it hard to breathe… so I try to do it the least possible.

When I went to pee yesterday, my usually clear pink cock was soot-dark and there was a rich collection of reddish fungus around the glans. It does not really hurt. It just itches a bit and the smell is disgusting. I allowed for the hard stream of piss to hit the bowl’s ceramic and then hurried back under the blanket by the fireplace.

…

These ripples of writing seem to attest to the steady and inexorable demise of my body.

I have less and less strength on my hands to allow for the necessary strokes that imprint these characters on the page (my fingertips have begun turning whitish, as well).

…

I just came back from the toilet, a hard travel that took every ounce of the energy I have left. My legs feel paper-thin, adequately matching the white look that they now unmistakably hold. Even my cock, lately dark and smelly, is also bright white.

…

I keep hearing Bach’s Concerto in my head, even if sometimes the words that echo inside it are from Mozart’s Requiem.

Rex tremendae majestatis,

qui salvandos savas gratis,

salve me, fons pietatis.

Oh King of tremendous majesty, who freely saves those worthy ones, save me, source of mercy.

I do not think he hears me, though.

I have the strange feeling that I have written this before somewhere else.

…

I cannot recall when was the last time that I have eaten. My stomach growls constantly but I am too tired to get up and go to the kitchen. Besides, I do not think there is any food left. The bottle of water I keep by my side is almost empty too.

How long have I been under the blanket?

Not really important, since the impregnated smell of piss and shit does not bother me anymore.

…

I have the weird feeling that someone was screaming my name and knocking on the door last night. However, I was too sleepy and drained to register it fully. Perhaps it was Angela. I prefer to think that it was one more of the thousand hallucinatory dreams that have been plaguing me since this whole business started. My own private Lysergic acid diethylamide.

…

I have not many more blank pages left. Maybe two or three. All the rest, as all the books, have been consumed by the fire that provides me heat around the clock.

It is a good thing that I decided to type on both sides of each page, even if it made for a harder read, the dark and smudged characters seeping in through the other side of the thin paper. Otherwise, I would have run out of decent writing surfaces a long time ago.

…

I think god visited me very early this morning. I think he said it should not take long now. He looked oddly like Alec Baldwin. Odder still, he was dressed like Alice’s rabbit and held a watch attached to his waist-pocket by a very long and heavy iron cord, similar to the anchor-chain in a transatlantic.

…

…

…

The epitaph on my tombstone should read: “404 - page not found”. 

…