A Writer’s Ghosts
“So it seems like you’ve made up your mind that I’m going to die at this point, but since you’re a historian, can you at least make my death really cool?”
“I’m a writer, not a historian,” I interject, my fingers posed on the keyboard, “As for your death, it’s nothing personal. What would you like your last words to be?”
Cruz does not respond immediately and I image him in the same position as Auguste Rodin’s thinker statue, hunched over, with one arm resting, fully-extended on his knee, the other balanced precariously on his thigh with his chin atop of it. It does not seem like a comfortable position to be in and Cruz’s wiry body does not have the same visual effect as that of the statue.
“Sorry to interrupt, but I’m on a tight schedule here. You know I need to get the draft to my agent by Saturday. Have you come up with anything?”
“Well sorry for taking some time to contemplate my imminent death. Don’t want to let that get in the way of your deadline, do we?”
As much as I love Cruz, he can be difficult at times. But maybe he has a point, maybe I am being selfish. Death, even for a fictional character, is a serious matter. I need to be more considerate.
“Cruz, this won’t be goodbye, you will always be here,” I say, with a hand planted over my heart.
“How sentimental,” he replies scornfully, “But out in the world, I’ll be dead.” I want to reply with my own sarcastic zinger, but decide to humor Cruz. At the very least because I need his cooperation.
“You only die at the end, you are reborn every time a new reader immerses themselves in your world. It is a temporary death.”
“Only to die all over again, like a cursed phoenix.”
“Cruz, you are a genius,” I say, typing furiously on the keyboard. It’s merely a sentence but I keep editing, changing a single word only to revert it back to its original phrasing, only to change it once more. Cruz is blessingly quiet during this time, although visibly sullen.
“Okay Cruz, I need your opinion. So just before you die you tell Anita, ‘Await for me, my fair Juliet, for I will return to you postmortem like a phoenix rising from its ashes.’ How does that sound?” I, myself, am enamoured with that line but I need a second opinion and, in the grand scheme of things, Cruz is the most qualified to speak.
“You really think I would say that? You really think I would use the word postmortem unironically? Are you even sure it means what you think it means?”
My own smugness, flounders like a deflating balloon.
“Who is Juliet?” he adds, and my own breath hitches.
“You’ve never heard of Romeo and Juliet? You’ve never heard of William Shakespeare?”
“There is none of that in my world,” he replies, shrugging.
“But the reader will most likely know what I’m referring to,” I retort, feeling defensive of my words.
“If you can live with yourself given the inaccuracy of your ending, then go for it.”
I image myself booting the laptop across the room, Cruz flying along with it. The mental image is so ridiculous that I burst out laughing.
“What’s so funny?” Cruz asks, crossing his arms. And yet,he joins in a few seconds later, his own laughter more dignified than my honking. And for a moment, the briefest of moments, there is a period of uncomplicated peace between author and character.