A/N: Wrote this immediately after Why a Song, which I thought was pretty cool. I'm a roll today! It's pretty sappy, but I like how it turned out: )Read and review and I'll love you forever!
Disclaimer: I no own-y, you no sue-y
"I'm thinking of writing a book."
Mark's head snapped up to look at the musician. "Roger, you're kidding, right?"
Roger cocked his head to the side and looked at his roommate. "Why would I be kidding?"
"Roger, the only thing you've ever written was a page long song. And it wasn't even very good to tell you the truth."
Roger looked away. He put his acoustic guitar down on the ground gently and gazed out the window, hurt.
Mark, used to Roger's drama queen notions, sighed and gave in. "What would it be about?"
"About us. Life in New York. About having practically nothing yet never really complaining about it."
"Rog, you complain all the time about what we don't have."
"I complain about food, yes, but do I ever complain about not having a TV? A stereo? A car? A girlfriend, for that matter?" With that, Roger turned to look at the filmmaker, certain he'd proved his point.
And it was true. Mark didn't have a comeback.
"Anyway, I think I'm a pretty damn good writer. English was the only thing I could ever get above a C in high school. That woman, Ms...Hofferman or whatever, was constantly saying how I should be a journalist, poet, novelist, whatever. I never listened, because you know...music was all I ever wanted to do. Now I'm kind of thinking of expanding my horizons, you know?"
"Yeah..." Mark tried to hide the fact that he had no faith in his friend, but it was hard. Besides song writing, Roger had never shown any interest in writing whatsoever. Even writing down a shopping list was tedious for him.
And despite his attempts, Roger picked up on his tone. "You know what, Mark, if you don't think I can do this, then just come out and say it. I don't want your false support, okay? Go on, say it. Roger Davis can't write a book."
Mark looked at him hard and regretted even answering him before. Roger's green eyes were glaring at him and he knew he had to respond somehow, but he wasn't sure how.
"Roger, I never said you couldn't-"
"Well, it was implied. Ever since I mentioned it, which took a lot of guts by the way, you've given me this negative attitude. Whatever, I'm going to my room." Roger leaned down and grabbed his guitar by the fret board, leaving the room fast.
---
Mark woke up the next morning early and waited hours for his roommate to emerge from his own room. But nothing. He didn't even hear the other man, only a pencil scratching away at some spare paper that he was certain Roger had to look hard for to find.
At 3 PM, Mark grew worried. What would make a person stay confined in their room for so long?
At 4 PM, the filmmaker couldn't take it anymore and entered his roommate's room. But upon entering the room, he saw something slightly...unexpected.
Roger was hunched over a notepad, erasing furiously, eyes red and puffy.
"Rog...what are you doing?"
Roger's head shot up. His eyes were bloodshot from lack of sleep and his hand was shaking from writing all night. But as tired as he was, he still had the strength to glare at his roommate and (what Mark was sure of right now) best friend.
"Are you happy? Hmm? You proved me wrong. I can't right a fucking book!" He threw his notepad across the room, nearly hitting a lamp. "I wrote one page and didn't know where the fuck to go with it. So there! You win, Mark!" He rubbed his eyes, hands soon wet from tears.
"Roger...why'd you want to write a book in the first place?"
Roger laughed. "Like you care..." But looking up at Mark, he saw the concerned look on his face that he'd grown accustomed to. "Because the other day, when you were out, I saw an ad in the newspaper for a book signing. I'd never heard of the book or of the author or anything, but I felt compelled to go. And all these people showed up. Just to meet this one person.
"At the end, someone raised their hand and asked if they wanted to write a book, where was the best place to get started. And she answered, 'Start with what you know. Write about what you're used to. Lose yourself in your characters.'
"So I assumed anyone could write a book that way. And that maybe if I did, maybe all those people would love me too. I'd have my glory, just like I wanted, just in a different form.
"But I couldn't do it, Mark. I didn't know my characters at all. I didn't know what they'd say, how they'd act. I didn't even know what they looked like. I couldn't think of anything to put down on that page, not one thing."
He wiped his eyes with the backside of his hand again. "I just wanted something for people to remember me by once I'm gone. That author said that anyone could write a book. Anyone. Why am I so different? What makes me such a failure?"
Mark walked over, astounded. "Roger...once you're gone, I'll always remember you. Collins will remember you. Maureen. And though you're pissed at him right now, Benny will too. Your family as well. Everyone who knew and loved you will always remember you, until they too pass away."
Roger nodded. "Sometimes I wonder if that's good enough for me. God, I'm so selfish..."
"You just want affection. Attention. Glory. It's human nature, Roger, it's nothing to be ashamed of."
"I guess so...Mark, will you help me write a book?"
Mark smiled. "Sure. Yeah, I'll help."
---
Mark and Roger never finished writing the book. They often fought over what their characters would do next or what they would say. And eventually, Roger got too sick to pick up a pencil anymore.
And then, Roger went, his dreams going unfulfilled. Yet Roger never seemed to mind too much because he knew what Mark said was true. No one who knew the man would ever forgot who he was, even if he never wrote his one song glory or published his one book glory.
And Mark will always have the rough draft to remember.