“Have you ever been published? I asked Feliz. We were at a used book store on a side street near Market 24 in Cancun. Feliz was looking through the shelves for a book by Portuguese author Fernando Pessoa, “The Book of Disquiet.” It was on his list of top 100 books ever written. He had […]
“Have you ever been published? I asked Feliz.
We were at a used book store on a side street near Market 24 in Cancun. Feliz was looking through the shelves for a book by Portuguese author Fernando Pessoa, “The Book of Disquiet.” It was on his list of top 100 books ever written. He had read it before. He didn’t answer my question then.
“If there were such a thing as reincarnation, I am Fernando Pessoa,” Feliz said. ‘“He wrote “We have no life for Death to have to kill.”’
He stopped and looked at me.
“You still don’t have a pen name, do you? he said.
“No,” I said, hoping this was the time I gained an identity of some sort.
“I’m not going to give you one. I will consider giving you a literary heteronym.”
“A what?”
“But, at some other time, much later,” he said.
They did not have the book. We left the store and walked a block or so, turned right and sat at a restaurant at the entrance of Market 24.
“I have never been published, but I have had my writings reviewed by agents, authors and publishers,” he said.
“Really?” I said. I was impressed. “What did they say?”
“I will tell you the story,” he said, and began this way.
“Once upon a time—“
I interrupted.
“Once upon a time?” I said, laughing. “Is this a children’s fairy tale.”
“Have you ever read Chaucer?” he said.
“No,” I admitted, sheepishly.
He continued,
“Once upon a time—
A writer was called before the Committee of “HARRUMPH.” He was sure that was just an onomatopoeia, but he had to ask, as he sat down in the hard, straight backed chair, his manuscript clutched tightly in both hands.
They gave him a name tag with “writer” on it. The clerk explained to him he should feel privileged to wear that tag, especially since he wasn’t a “recognized” writer yet.
“When you are recognized by the Committee,” he said, “You get to wear a tag that says Writer, the W capitalized. For now, you get a little w , because you are not a writer yet.”
The Committee ceased their chatting and shuffling of important papers, and directed their attention to him. He didn’t wait for them to speak. He had a curious question.
“Is that an onomatopoeia?” He asked, “HARRUMPH?”
“Harrumph, Harrumph,” they said in unison, and to him it sounded like a “noisy clearing of throats,” but, apparently, they were just repeating what he said.
“No,” the man in the middle—The Head of the Committee—said. “I assure you, it stands for something. It is a very important acronym.
“What does it stand for?” he said.”
“You will never know if you continue to write the way you do.”
The woman, to The Head’s left, opened a copy of ‘writer’s’ manuscript and flipped to a page marked with a paper clip.
“Did you even look at your rubrics before your rewrite?” she said, shaking a red pencil at him, sharpened point up. She turned it over and stabbed the point repeatedly at something on the page.
“What do you mean by ‘dead dead’?” she said. “Dead is dead.” She looked up and down the row of the Committee. They nodded their affirmation.
“Dead is dead, and nothing else,” she said. “Why repeat the word?”
He knew she, and everyone else there, would not understand what he was about to say. He almost didn’t say it, but that was not him. He could not almost not say anything. If he thought it, he said it. It was a personal mandate. “Think it, speak it, that is true truth.” He laughed inside, as he thought what they would think about “true truth,” then he said what he was thinking at first, by first asking another question.
“You are alive?’ he asked.
They all laughed.
“of course, of course” they all said, nodding to each other.
One pinched another and he said “ouch.”
The ‘pincher’ said, “See? He is alive.” They all laughed again, except for the pinched man who was not happy he had been pinched. He rubbed his arm and frowned.
“You are not alive,” writer said. “You are dead, but not dead dead.” “Egads,” a man on the Committee said. “Are you insane or are you really that bad with words? You speak worse than you write.” “You just said ‘egads,”’ writer said, laughing. He was not laughing in derision, but because he thought it was really funny. “That is 17th century. I expect a ‘forsooth’ or two will be forthcoming?”
A chorus of “harrumphs,” but not one ‘forsooth,’ rose from the Committee.
He knew, now, it was no acronym, it was a mantra.
“What is your real name?” said The Head.
“Feliz Piez,” writer said.
“That is your pen name. We want to know your real name, who you really are.”
“Who I really am is dead, but not dead dead, and now I am Feliz Piez.”
The Committee broke out into a loud chorus of ‘harrumphs,’ a smattering of ‘forsooths,’ and a few ‘egads.’
The Head slammed his gavel down. The room fell silent.
“Enough!” he said. “We understand that you, as some throughout history, have chosen a nom de plume. In this case, I understand why. Your writing leaves much to be desired. However, in order to be recognized by this Committee, you must reveal who you really are, and we can see you are not dead. We are looking at you. We are not fools.”
There was applause from the Committee that faded quickly for fear of the gavel.
“Dig up my grave, examine my interred remains. You will discover I am nothing more or less than anyone else. I am the same as you. Look at yourself and see me.”
“I am not you. We are not you,” said The Head, with righteous indignation, as he tapped his large forefinger on his name tag. It read WRITER, all caps. “I have achieved all caps. I have many published books on Amazon and I am the “Master of all Rubrics.”
Feliz looked at the tags of each member of the Committee. Some had capital W, some had WRIT, but only two had “all caps,” The Head and the woman with the red pencil.
“If you want to be published, to be recognized, you must obey the rules.”
Feliz was quiet, his head down. He nodded. He agreed the rules were important. He raised his head.
“I don’t want to be published,” he said.
They could not help themselves, a loud chorus of every guttural sound anyone could make now emanated from the Committee; egads, harrumphs, forsooths, gasps, and even a belched, “Oh my God!”
“Ridiculous,” said The Head, “We all want to be published. Why did you submit? Why are you here before us today?”
The room fell silent.
“I want you all to die,” Feliz said, quietly.
The room broke out in mayhem. Someone screamed in terror, someone jumped up and started to leave.
All the way down, at the very end of the Committee, a tiny, demure woman, with only a W, stood. The room fell silent again and looked at her.
“I am dead,” she said.
There were gasps of disbelief, but not one egad, forsooth, or harrumph. The Head raised his gavel, the woman to his right put her hand on his arm and stopped him.
‘Let her speak,” she said, quietly.
“I am dead, and I am glad I died before I was dead dead, Who I was yesterday was not who I wanted to be. I was what someone else created. I lived for them, because that was all I knew. Then I died because of a written word and was resurrected on a new journey. Now, each word I write is a footstep on my journey. One word, one step, one more beautiful discovery, because I am not writing for you. I am writing to find forgiveness, truth, joy, purpose, for me.
If someone reads what I have written, I know in my heart they will see beyond a comma splice or a dangling participle and see me. Perhaps, then, they to will die, be resurrected by my words, and begin their own journey of self creation.”
She stepped around the table, stood behind Feliz, leaned over and whispered so no one could hear.
“Writer,” she said. “I died when I read your words, ‘I don’t have to live in your world anymore, I have created one of my own.”’
***
I sat quietly, watching Feliz as he finished his story.
“We often read books and then ask what was the universal significance of that book? he said, “What does it have to to with humanity? What does it mean to me? We are so self absorbed.”
He waved a waiter over and ordered two more drinks for us.
“When I read, I ask myself what was the writer going through? What was he or she thinking? What is the significance of their little story to them? Then, if I can touch just a hair of that, I can understand their story and hold a deeper appreciation of the meaning of the words they chose to share.”
‘
He wants to kill himself, write his book and get to Cuba. He is the central character and author of everything I write and my alter ego. We write literary fiction.
***
He was called before the Committee of “HARRUMPH.” He was sure that was just an onomatopoeia, but he had to ask, as he sat down in the hard, straight backed chair, his manuscript clutched in both hands.
They gave him a name tag with “writer” on it. The clerk explained to him he should feel privileged to wear that tag, especially since he wasn’t a “recognized” writer yet.
“When you are recognized by the Committee,” he said, “You get to wear a tag that says Writer, the W capitalized. For now, you get a little w , because you are not a writer yet.”
The Committee ceased their chatting and shuffling of important papers, and directed their attention to him. He didn’t wait for them to speak. He had a curious question.
“Is that an onomatopoeia?” He asked, “HARRUMPH?”
“Harrumph, Harrumph,” they said in unison, and to him it sounded like a “noisy clearing of throats,” but, apparently, they were just repeating what he said.
“No,” the man in the middle, The Head of the Committee, said. “I assure you, it stands for something. It is a very important acronym.
“What does it stand for?” He said.”
“You will never know if you continue to write the way you do.”
The woman, to The Head’s left, opened a copy of ‘writer’s’ manuscript and flipped to a page marked with a paper clip.
“Did you even look at your rubrics before your rewrite?” she said, shaking a red pencil at him, sharpened point up. She turned it over and stabbed the point repeatedly at something on the page.
“What do you mean by ‘dead dead’?” she said. “Dead is dead.” She looked up and down the row of the Committee. They nodded their affirmation.
“Dead is dead, and nothing else,” she said. “Why repeat the word?”
He knew she, and everyone else there, would not understand what he was about to say. He almost didn’t say it, but that was not him. He could not almost not say anything. If he thought it, he said it. It was a personal mandate. “Think it, speak it, that is true truth.” He laughed inside, as he thought what they would think about “true truth,” then he said what he was thinking at first, by first asking another question.
“You are alive?’ he asked.
They all laughed.
“of course, of course” they all said, nodding to each other.
One pinched another and he said “ouch.”
The ‘pincher’ said, “See? He is alive.” They all laughed again, except for the pinched man who was not happy he had been pinched. He rubbed his arm and frowned.
“You are not alive,” writer said. “You are dead, but not dead dead.” “Egads,” a man on the Committee said. “Are you insane or are you really that bad with words? You speak worse than you write.” “You just said ‘egads,”’ writer said, laughing. He was not laughing in derision, but because he thought it was really funny. “That is 17th century. I expect a ‘forsooth’ or two will be forthcoming?”
A chorus of “harrumphs,” but not one ‘forsooth,’ rose from the Committee.
He knew, now, it was no acronym, it was a mantra.
“What is your real name?” said The Head.
“Feliz Piez,” writer said.
“That is your pen name. We want to know your real name, who you really are.”
“Who I really am is dead, but not dead dead, and now I am Feliz Piez.”
The Committee broke out into a loud chorus of ‘harrumphs,’ a smattering of ‘forsooths,’ and a few ‘egads.’
The Head slammed his gavel down. The room fell silent.
“Enough!” he said. “We understand that you, as some throughout history, have chosen a nom de plume. In this case, I understand why. Your writing leaves much to be desired. However, in order to be recognized by this Committee, you must reveal who you really are, and we can see you are not dead. We are looking at you. We are not fools.”
There was applause from the Committee that faded quickly for fear of the gavel.
“Dig up my grave, examine my interred remains. You will discover I am nothing more or less than anyone else. I am the same as you. Look at yourself and see me.”
“I am not you. We are not you,” said The Head, with righteous indignation, as he tapped his large forefinger on his name tag. It read WRITER, all caps. “I have achieved all caps. I have many published books and I am the “Master of all Rubrics.”
Feliz looked at the tags of each member of the Committee. Some had capital W, some had WRIT, but only two had “all caps,” The Head and the woman with the red pencil.
“If you want to be published, to be recognized, you must obey the rules.”
Feliz was quiet, his head down. He nodded. He agreed the rules were important. He raised his head.
“I don’t want to be published,” he said.
They could not help themselves, a loud chorus of every guttural sound anyone could make now emanated from the Committee; egads, harrumphs, forsooths, gasps, and even a belched, “Oh my God!”
“Ridiculous,” said The Head, “We all want to be published. Why did you submit? Why are you here before us today?”
The room fell silent.
“I want you all to die,” Feliz said.
The room broke out in mayhem. Someone screamed in terror, someone jumped up and started to leave.
All the way down, at the very end of the Committee, a tiny, demure woman, with only a W, stood. The room fell silent again and looked at her.
“I am dead,” she said.
There were gasps of disbelief, but not one egad, forsooth, or harrumph. The Head raised his gavel, the woman to his right put her hand on his arm and stopped him.
‘Let her speak,” she said, quietly.
“I am dead, and I am glad I died before I was dead dead, Who I was yesterday was not who I wanted to be. I was what someone else created. I lived for them, because that was all I knew. Then I died because of a written word and was resurrected on a new journey. Now, each word I write is a footstep on my journey. One word, one step, one more beautiful discovery, because I am not writing for you. I am writing to find forgiveness, truth, joy, purpose, for me. If someone reads what I have written, I know in my heart they will see beyond a comma splice or a dangling participle and see me. Perhaps, then, they to will die, be resurrected by my words, and begin their own journey of self creation.”
She stepped around the table, stood behind Feliz, leaned over and whispered so no one could hear.
“Writer,” she said. “I died and was reborn on my own journey when I read the words you penned, ‘I don’t have to live in your world anymore, I have created one of my own.”’
