Before he died my friend and I talked about writing.
To be exact, he told me he was dying and then he told me he had about a year if he was lucky and then we talked about writing.
As a writer and in his conversations he didn’t toss off clever phrases and he didn’t put little spins on the language. He didn’t play with the language to impress.
What had was the gift ot undertand people. He understood how we were connected together through our experiences and friendships. He could map them and tell stories about them.
He could have been another F Scott Fitzgerald I think.
I was not in a position at the time to do much writing. But what I was still able to do was face death. I hate death and I won’t let it chase me away from being near the ones I love who I am soon to lose or have lost. So sure, I can talk about the future with a dying man.
So like I said we were talking about writing.
He wanted to write the next great American Novel and I said I was writing a story about Werewolves because I wasn’t brave enough to write about Racism. I told him I didn’t think it would fly because every time I brought it up I heard the same thing. ” I’m not racist. I hate everybody. Racism doesn’t exist anymore.”
” You know who says that? ” I asked my friend.
My friend, who was a big burly Scotsman who could tell one hell of a good story said. ” Sure. Racists. The ones with their heads up their…”
” Yeah well. I’ve already been tracked by Homeland Security and harassed by White Supremacists . It’s not fun. I’d like to avoid it in the future. So. I’m going Rod Serling and I’m going to write about Werewolves instead.”
” So what’s the problem? You tell a good story about monsters.”
” I think my problem is it should be about racists. Human ones. And the story isn’ t going to let me make it into something else. So I set it aside.”
” Don’t. Write it Anita. Whatever it takes. Just write it.”
My friend died a few months later.
I am still trying to finish that story.
Because I can.
And I won’t stop until I stop.
amm
Irregular Bones 