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“I have lots of fans—certainly not as many as I used to—but some. Surprisingly, none of them have ever repainted my home or fixed up my lawn. They never made people purchase my work in order to get into a party. At least not that I’m aware of, anyway.”
“No?” He cocks his head. “That’s terrible.”
“You see, Liam—” I turn in my chair so that my shoulders are square with his. “I’m too old and too jaded to believe you’re doing all of this out of the goodness of your heart. So, I’d really like to understand the catch—because there’s always a catch. And I’d like to hear it from you.”
“Straight from the horse’s mouth, eh?”
“Precisely.”
He pushes away from the counter and shuffles toward the kitchen sink, where he flips on the faucet. I watch as he dispenses soap into his palm and ruthlessly scrubs at his hands. “My family has money. Loads of it—too much for their own good, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t know what you mean.”
“But you can pretend?”
“Right.”
“So, if I can help out a friend, I figure, why not?”
“We aren’t friends.”
He reaches for a dish towel and then turns and glances back over his shoulder. “Ouch.”
It was once said to me that any book that talks about writing is actually a book about life. It’s an insult, quite frankly—to assume that one can be a great writer by applying certain principles. Truth is, it takes an immense amount of hard work over time to tell a great story.
Nonetheless, after tea, before we head back upstairs for another work session, I show Liam the library where I keep my resources on writing, countless books on craft that line the walls.
I can’t recall the last time I have been inclined to pick one up. This morning, however, I was asked, last-minute, to speak at a local high school for career day, and to improve my image or whatever, my publisher said yes. I was not actually consulted, which is probably for the best, seeing that I’ve never been one for public appearances. But with one book on the charts and a new one coming out, my agent has assured me there’s never been as good a time as now.
The talk would be unfathomable and completely off the table had they not asked Liam to stand in for me when I declined. Obviously, I couldn’t let that happen, and so here we are, in the library, me looking for something to say about writing that hasn’t already been said.
“If you’re scared,” he says, pulling a book from my shelf, “then it might be something interesting to do.”
“I’m not scared. I just hate people.”
“You can’t hate people. Your career depends on them.”
I flip through a worn book, one I haven’t touched in ages, a book that Eve gave to me shortly after we were married. “I don’t know so much about that.”
“Writing is an act of hope, George.” He glances at the book in my hand. “It assumes a future and a future reader. You know how many aspiring authors would kill to be in your position? Many of whom have the chops.” He shakes his head in disgust. “Believe me, it’s a lot.”
“Yeah, well, anyone can cook a good dinner once.”
Pressing his lips together, he starts to say something, only to seem to think better of it. Finally, he sighs wistfully. “You know the thing I love most about this job?”
I don’t, but I have a feeling he is going to tell me.
“It has allowed me to understand the complexity of men. You see what’s going on beneath the surface. All the things they don’t say or don’t talk about, those things come out when they feel they are in an environment that is safe.”
“Life doesn’t reward men for their vulnerability.”
“Maybe not. But there’s nothing so interesting as the truth.”
He hands me his suggested talking points for the school. With just a quick skim, I can see that they’re good. Good enough that it irritates me. “Thanks.”
He reaches for the book in my hand and takes it. “I have a feeling that you and I are going to be friends, George Dawson. No matter how you try to fight it, I think you’ll come to find that things just work out better with me around.”
“We’ll see.” I snatch the book back.
