The author set down his pen and sighed wistfully. He had done it. Everything he knew about writing, and about life told him he had to. The author had tried to avoid the situation. Though it pained him, he allowed the little one to be hurt, hoping that he would seek sanctuary and leave the rest of the tale to his betters. Instead, the willful creature found his courage and created a name for himself in the great city. The author would have loved nothing better than to allow him to rest on his laurels. But he knew that he could not.
His was a story about war; its glories and its horrors. He must tell the truth. And the truth, as he had learned through painful experience, was that war first and foremost ravages the young and innocent. So he'd conceived this bright character to drive home the point. The youngster would insinuate himself into the heart of the reader only to break it. The author rose. The deed was done and now it was time for bed.
The next morning the author woke from a troubled sleep filled with monsters and screams and the faces of boys he'd not seen in decades. He sat at his paper-strewn writing desk, but his story refused to show itself. So be it, he muttered. He was in no mood anyway.
He busied himself grading papers that were two weeks overdue to be returned to the students. They'd receive no more joy when they looked at their grades than he found in giving them. The lot of them were careless pupils who wouldn't know a grammatically correct sentence if it ran them over. Nevertheless, the author found himself fighting down a rising tide of amused affection as he perused their essays. He had always found that gruffness suited him best in his role as teacher. The stack of long-neglected papers took him two days to finish grading.
On the morning of the third day he merely glanced at his writing desk as he passed it on his way to the kitchen for breakfast. Still nothing. The author spent the day tinkering around his house.
That night the author awoke to a familiar feeling of urgency. He stumbled out of bed and fumbled with the light. He grabbed the first writing utensil he could find, an ancient, chewed-up pencil, and began a flurry of writing. He wrote and wrote in one long stream of words, not bothering with spelling or grammatical details. There would be time for that later. The story was whispering itself in his ear NOW and he must transfer it from ephemareal thought to solid paper while he could.
The author spent most of the morning cleaning up grammar and mending small inconsistencies. As the sun neared its zenith, he sat at the table with a sandwich in one hand and the manuscript in the other. He nearly choked when he saw the youngster speak. How was this possible? He didn't recall writing this! Setting his sandwich aside, he read carefully on. The scamp had survived! The author had extinguished his spark in a manner that brooked no doubt and yet he lived!
The author set the manuscript down and stared into space for a while, digesting this bit of news. Slowly, a chuckle worked its way up his throat and emerged as a hearty laugh. He hunched over the table, almost doubled over with laughter for some time. Finally, he wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes. "Very well, Peregrin. I give up. You shall live."
His was a story about war; its glories and its horrors. He must tell the truth. And the truth, as he had learned through painful experience, was that war first and foremost ravages the young and innocent. So he'd conceived this bright character to drive home the point. The youngster would insinuate himself into the heart of the reader only to break it. The author rose. The deed was done and now it was time for bed.
The next morning the author woke from a troubled sleep filled with monsters and screams and the faces of boys he'd not seen in decades. He sat at his paper-strewn writing desk, but his story refused to show itself. So be it, he muttered. He was in no mood anyway.
He busied himself grading papers that were two weeks overdue to be returned to the students. They'd receive no more joy when they looked at their grades than he found in giving them. The lot of them were careless pupils who wouldn't know a grammatically correct sentence if it ran them over. Nevertheless, the author found himself fighting down a rising tide of amused affection as he perused their essays. He had always found that gruffness suited him best in his role as teacher. The stack of long-neglected papers took him two days to finish grading.
On the morning of the third day he merely glanced at his writing desk as he passed it on his way to the kitchen for breakfast. Still nothing. The author spent the day tinkering around his house.
That night the author awoke to a familiar feeling of urgency. He stumbled out of bed and fumbled with the light. He grabbed the first writing utensil he could find, an ancient, chewed-up pencil, and began a flurry of writing. He wrote and wrote in one long stream of words, not bothering with spelling or grammatical details. There would be time for that later. The story was whispering itself in his ear NOW and he must transfer it from ephemareal thought to solid paper while he could.
The author spent most of the morning cleaning up grammar and mending small inconsistencies. As the sun neared its zenith, he sat at the table with a sandwich in one hand and the manuscript in the other. He nearly choked when he saw the youngster speak. How was this possible? He didn't recall writing this! Setting his sandwich aside, he read carefully on. The scamp had survived! The author had extinguished his spark in a manner that brooked no doubt and yet he lived!
The author set the manuscript down and stared into space for a while, digesting this bit of news. Slowly, a chuckle worked its way up his throat and emerged as a hearty laugh. He hunched over the table, almost doubled over with laughter for some time. Finally, he wiped the tears of mirth from his eyes. "Very well, Peregrin. I give up. You shall live."