In 1936, about a year after my wife died, I enjoyed a brief liaison with a lady novelist. Now, when I use that old-fashioned term, ‘lady novelist,’ I am in no way intending it in the pejoratively paternalistic sense in which was sometimes employed in the past, referring with disdain to bored women who churned out sentimental ‘domestic’ stories for other bored women. No, Olivia (not her actual name) is a real novelist and a real lady.

The romantic part of our relationship did not endure very long at all; the friendship has persisted, however, although since she returned to her home country years ago, it has been modified in nature to just a fairly regular exchange of correspondence.

Well, a nosy parker here on Uncanny Island—another friend she left behind—blabbed to Olivia something of me and my recent incapacitation due to a severely broken leg. She also repeated the (actually false) rumour that, in order to occupy myself during my convalescence, I had been collecting stories about the unusual occurrences here. I knew this because my lady novelist posted a letter to me in response which contained an uncanny but supposedly true story of her own.

I’ll reproduce it below, including a couple of explanatory notes in brackets. For privacy reasons, I’ll have to redact some identifying details, though in the spirt of completeness I have left intact a few rather embarrassing personal remarks my sometimes-immodest correspondent felt the need to include—Olivia has always seen me as repressed and stoical, so she relishes and revels in her ability to fluster and discomfit me. Also, keep in mind that whilst her novels are literary and lovely and written in pure, clean prose, in her personal correspondence Olivia (valiantly attempting to be informal and chummy) sometimes resorts to the overuse of slangy expressions, which I’m not certain she always employs properly.

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Dearest [redacted],

Steady, the Buffs! Stiffen the Prussian Guard! You naughty, naughty man!

[redacted] wrote me from The Peninsula [an isolated enclave on Uncanny Island, where the well-to-do huddle] that you’ve gone and gotten yourself into some sort of mysterious pickle and ended up marooned in bed for months with a snapped getaway stick. She was a mite foggy on the details, but then she’s foggy about most things, is she not?

Please tell me you’re taking care of your health, and that the sole treatment you’re administering for your injury is not endless lashings of whisky.

The older—that is, the wiser and more mature—I become, the more frequently I enjoy natation in seas of wistful reminiscence, including foolishly fond consideration of our brief sojourn together, [redacted]. Do you recall that ignominious occasion when we were three sheets to the wind, stole into Nilsson’s greenhouse in the wee hours, and were nearly nabbed by the old scrote whilst we were [redacted]? I still have [redacted] marks on my [redacted]!

Work on my latest book, another novel, is proceeding in the normal manner. That is, every morning I rise with the sun and seriously consider topping myself—overdosing on pills, or striding one-way into the sea—rather than having to face the bloody manuscript anew. So yes, no worries—everything is as usual here.

Word has come back to me that you’ve been collecting stories about the unordinary sorts of events which tend to occur with regularity on your precious, well-named, Uncanny Island, most of them seemingly gathered from the clamjamphrie of dunderheaded oiks you tend to associate with.  [Olivia and I have a habit of exchanging modest insults—I always imply that she is irretrievably both hoity and toity, and she insinuates that I keep company with a yucky plebeian mob and am addicted to whisky. The teasing is decidedly affectionate in nature, I assure you.] One can only imagine what sort of horrifying low-rent apologues your mudsill mates have been spinning whilst you were addle-pated with morphine or whatever. Knowing that crowd, it’s all rat-faced orgies of devil-worship, and eat-the-rich fantasies, I’ll wager. Well, I have what I believe is a somewhat more refined story to share (one I never related to you), which I fancy might elevate the tone somewhat—a modest tale about the magic of creation.

*

First of all, that is not the capital ‘C’ sort of Creation, referring to mysterious, epistemological claptrap. Notice that I refer instead to the small ‘c’ sort of creation—the imaginative process for contriving and crafting works of literary art undertaken by foolhardy, masochistic souls such as myself—though come to think of it, My Darling, I must admit that certain aspects of the small ‘c’ process are ofttimes boundlessly mystifying as well.

As you know, I’d never heard of Uncanny Island before I booked passage there, soon after garnering advice from all and sundry who might conceivably have suggestions about a remote, uninteresting place where I could rusticate and retreat from the wider world, desperate as I was then to make progress on the manuscript for what eventually became my first novel, [redacted].

At the remote edge of The Peninsula, I found and leased a modest cottage. [This would have been a rich person’s idea of a ‘cottage,’ no doubt—anywhere else on the island such a structure would house three families.] Unpacking, I realised this was the first occasion I would be truly on my own for an extended period. No family, no servants, no lovers, and no friends nearby to drop in at all hours. It was thrilling but a somewhat daunting circumstance, truth be told.

The cottage featured a cheery sunporch, separated from the rest of the house by a wide set of French doors, with panels of clear glass on either side. A rose-coloured settee in the sunlit far corner of the porch soon became a favourite spot for me to perch, manuscript on my lap, scribbling away (well, staring into space, really, hoping—praying—that useful ideas might present themselves).

[redacted], I know you are a rootless, retired parvenu shopkeeper and not a fellow artiste, so let’s agree that almost all fiction can be simply described in the following manner: a character wants something and endeavours to get it, but complications ensue. Eventually, they arrive at either a win, loss, or draw in their quest. In my manuscript, I was rather immodestly happy with my introduction and the description I’d written of the main character, Monsieur [redacted], but the challenge came when attempting to imagine interesting complications of the plot which might logically arise. Writers refer to this point of the work-in-progress as ‘the rising action’ or ‘the escalation.’ But I couldn’t rise; I couldn’t escalate. (Would it be naughty for me to digress here for a half a mo and say that was certainly never your problem? Oh, don’t do a music hall spit-take with your precious whisky, Darling—this is strictly entre nous.)

I was afflicted with this cursed, infuriating writer’s block for days, perhaps even weeks; I ceased keeping close track of time, if you must know. At one point, I even attempted your beloved panacea, your cure-all for every sort of malady—throwing endless tumblers of the demon rum down my neck. No dice. Eventually, a night came when I tearfully considered throwing in the sponge entirely, surrendering my long-held ambition of becoming a writer. Poppa had always suggested that most great novelists hailed from the working classes. ‘They’re strivers, world-shakers,’ he said. ‘People like us don’t need to write novels.’

Perhaps it was just a stubborn resolution to prove Poppa in the wrong that inspired me to locate myself on the settee once again in the morning with the manuscript splayed across my thighs, determined to give novel-writing one more attempt. For whatever reason, I lifted my gaze from the recalcitrant script on the page for a moment and it landed on the colourful village scene reflected in the glass of the right-hand window pane adjoining the French doors. Perhaps the reflection had always been there; I don’t know, but I can say I never paid it any notice previously. What I realised now was that the image in the pane did not actually make sense—it could not be reflecting a view of a village street when the cottage was surrounded only by an empty, sloping green lawn.

Puzzled, I stood and approached the glass. It was showing a quite detailed representation of a sunny cobblestoned street—featuring a row of narrow adjoined houses in brightly pigmented shades. My first thought was that the glass was somehow reflecting a painting or colourised photograph hanging elsewhere on the porch, but there simply wasn’t one such as that to be found. Reaching to touch the surface of the glass (to see if the portrait of the village had somehow been drawn or painted on), I found it to be perfectly smooth—besides, the image had the definite quality of a ghostly reflection. After a moment, I entered the sitting room through the French doors and examined the pane from the reverse side. No image was visible to me then; the glass seemed perfectly clear.

I returned to the sunporch and set about my usual pacing and brainstorming until another notion struck—I would stand with my body very close to the glass, blocking the image by planting myself between the pane and the unknown source of reflection. Yet again, however, I was stymied—the image continued to appear, unshadowed and undisturbed, even when I obscured all possible sources of light in their entirety.

There was a chaise nearby on the porch and I dragged it over so I might sit directly before the reflected image. There seemed something quite familiar about it. The rural village was known to me, I thought, perhaps someplace I’d visited—was it one of those charming little towns tucked in the verdant hills of the Périgord?

Well, something extraordinary happened then, My Darling. A large man in old-fashioned dress appeared in the image, happily ambling along the street of the village, and I was truly surprised, but not so surprised that I failed to recognise him. It was Monsieur [redacted], the main character of my novel, who a moment previous existed only in blotchy scribbles on paper.

And of course, I was then able to identify the village as the entirely invented setting for my novel, which I’d described in great detail on page one.

The only explanation for all this was that the image on the glass originated from my mind, that it was a kind of cinematic transference—reflection—that arose directly out of the wellspring of my imagination. Was that prospect frightening, in an oh-dear-I’m-actually-going-doolally sort of way? Yes, very much so—initially. But the overall effect was in fact heartening: considering my struggle with writing the story to that point, it was lovely to witness absolute proof I was possessed of an imagination at all.

But what exactly was Monsieur [redacted] up to? Where was he going? He suddenly looked furtive.

A surprise—delving into one of the pockets of his waistcoat, he hastily produced a key, then used it to stealthily unlock the door of one of the modest houses along the street and disappear inside. Wait! Was he having an affair? An affair with Madame [redacted], the mysterious, seductive wife of his business rival? That would explain everything!

I practically sprinted back to my manuscript. All the disjointed parts of the story fell rather smoothly into place after that—the words poured out. Of course, I got stuck here and there, lost in a maze of grammar, or realizing a plot point was illogical, or that I’d presented an event out of its proper order, that sort of thing. Writing a novel is a tremendous, nearly-impossible undertaking—I don’t want to leave you with the impression that it was ever for a moment easy. But the story was now moving—charging—forward, like a living thing uncaged. If I required a bit of inspiration, I would sit myself in the chaise and meditate before the reflection of the village—sooner or later I’d be kittled by some engaging idea. Then I’d quickly foot it back to my manuscript to put words on paper. Months elapsed in this manner.

Finally, then—at last!—I arrived at the story’s climax, the dramatic juncture of the plot in which it reaches its logical and emotional apex, when a main character’s destiny is fulfilled and a reader’s yearning for resolution is to be satisfied. This was the crucial moment, the make-or-break moment, which would determine whether my novel would be an artistic success.

Well, I lost my nerve, [redacted]; I couldn’t think what to do. Just as earlier in the process I felt I couldn’t determine the ‘rising’ or ‘escalating’ aspect of my tale, now I felt I couldn’t twig what the novel’s climax might possibly be, how the story should, or even could, resolve itself. I endured the same rigmarole, the same psychic self-flagellation, as I had previously—pacing for hours, drinking nearly as much as you do, sleeping too long some days and too little on others. I wasted a succession of weeks in a state of near-constant agitation.

The only strategy I could envision to buck myself up was to abide before the glass as I’d done previously, and wait dutifully for further inspiration. The village street in the reflection appeared unpeopled during this time, however, calm and quiet. It took several long days of waiting and watching for me to finally witness Monsieur [redacted] peeping his head out of one of the windows.

He made an odd, impatient gesture to me, like he was hitting or smashing something. I did not cotton on to what he meant—at first. Then I nodded to acknowledge him, to say I understood. After taking a deep, calming breath, I rose and went to the other corner of the sunporch, where a potted aspidistra was basking in the sun. Lifting the pot—which was heavier than it looked—I toted it back to where I’d been sitting. I hesitated then, aware there could be no retreat, but the pot grew heavy in my hands and after swinging it around a few times to build momentum, I employed all my strength to chuck it directly at the reflecting window.

Well, I got my climactic moment! The glass shattered with a deeply satisfying explosive sound, and a half-second later I got a shiver-inducing follow-up thrill when the pot I’d impelled through the window fragmentised with a resounding boom on the sitting room floor. Whew!

When the adrenaline began to ebb a bit and I stood contemplating the mess I’d made, my first thought was: I’ve done it; I’ve destroyed my artistic crutch. I am now on my own.

My second thought was: No, it was only ever me. I have always been on my own, and I always will be on my own. Writers are born a degree apart.

It was much later that evening, endeavouring in vain to get some much-needed kip, that the plot point that would represent the climactic moment of my novel occurred to me at last. Readers have called it a ‘satisfying twist,’ and I have to admit that the rather bold idea surprised even me when it presented itself, bubbling up without warning from the depths of my subconscious. But in retrospect, the climax I conjured was not only a completely logical outcome, it was, I think—given all the complications of the novel—an absolutely inevitable one.

Alright, My Darling—story told. Yes, there’s what’s called the dénouement—the conclusion, a spelled-out recitation of the results of the plot, which in this case you already know. [redacted] was published and went on to garner a few encouraging reviews and win a nice award. More importantly, my publisher offered me a three-book contract, which secured my future and infuriated Poppa no end.

I apologise for never telling you any of this. We shared some intimate moments, and I do believe you are the sort of person who could maintain a confidence if asked. But somehow—at the time—it seemed necessary to keep the reflecting glass as my secret. Now, as the years tick by, secrets such as these no longer seem worthy of the effort of their keeping.

Write to me. Write to me truthfully about the state of your health. Write to me soon or I’ll take the next boat over to your goddam island and break your other leg.

Love always, [redacted] 

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James W. Morris is a graduate of LaSalle University in Philadelphia, where he was awarded a scholarship for creative writing. He is the author of dozens of short stories, humor pieces, essays, and poems which have appeared in various literary journals. More info at www.jameswmorris.com.