Today I wanted to share a sample story from my new book, Walking With the Muse and a bit of backstory about it. During my decades of writing the spaces I’ve had to create have sometimes been less than ideal.
Throughout the years I’ve written in attics, on planes, walk-in closets, Airbnbs, on my phone during a short lunch break, on folding chairs, and at dining room tables with the television blaring. I look back at some of those years and I’m amazed that I was able to produce anything at all. When the Muse came to visit I guess I just made due as best I could.
This story, originally entitled Indentured Solitude, was born from this idea. I first got the idea to write this piece when we moved into a tiny apartment after selling our first house in 2015. We had a small storage unit in the basement with a single light bulb that hung from the ceiling and I seriously contemplated closing the door and writing down there on a folding chair. You will never realize how grateful I am now to have not only a writing desk but an entire office that I can close the door of, it’s a game-changer to say the least.
I hope you enjoy this story…
Fitzgerald’s Ghost
It was four thirty in the morning and Ernest stared blankly through the fog that clung to the window of the black cab. He found himself lost in the lights of London shimmering on the Thames. He realized how close he was to getting the one thing he most desired.
“How far away are we?” Ernest asked the cabbie.
The driver glanced up and their eyes met briefly in the rearview mirror.
“Six more blocks, Sir, roughly,” answered in a strong Hindi accent.
Ernie reached into the inside pocket of his wool pea coat for a wad of Pound notes and started thumbing through them.
“You can drop me off right here.”
The driver pulled to the curb, draping his thin arm across the back of the passenger seat,
“That’ll be an even fifty-five quid, please.”
“Keep the change,” Ernest nodded as he slipped two carefully folded fifty-pound notes in the driver’s ashen palm.
The driver quickly jerked his hand away.
“Ouch! Nothing starts off a shift like a paper cut! Paper cuts are like annoying little barking Chihuahuas only you can hear,” the cabbie said.
Ernie laughed to himself and immediately repeated the line under his breath so he wouldn’t forget it. Life sometimes handed you these glorious lines, words that deserve to live forever in fiction and this was just such a gem.
“Thanks, mate. Enjoy your stay.”
One more act of kindness can never hurt my chances, he thought, closing the cab door and watching the taillights of the taxi as they disappeared into the darkness.
Despite how unfair the world seemed Ernie still believed in karma. Besides, money would be of no use to him where he was going now. Taking in a few deep breaths of the cool, fresh air he almost forgot for a moment why he was here.
Ernie had been extremely shy as a child and life was easier when he lived it inside his head. He spent most of his childhood within the confines of his own imagination. Solitude was Ernest’s cocoon, the shield that protected him from the world’s harshness, and over time solitude grew to be his best friend. Back then, if he wasn’t scribbling in his bedroom you could find him lying on the shag carpeting in front of his parents’ console television, engrossed in some British sitcom on PBS.
Ernie had always felt an unexplainable familiarity with British culture. He loved their dry wit and even the gloomy weather. It didn’t surprise him when he discovered later in life that his ancestors had immigrated to America from Warwickshire in the late 1600’s. He’d always suspected he’d lived a past life as a Brit but after learning of his ancestry his theory leaned more towards genetic memory.
He sighed heavily and made his way up the lane against the biting November wind. He tried to focus on the rhythm of his footsteps instead of his fears but he was failing miserably at it. It didn’t help that his brain still buzzed from too many cups of coffee during the flight. He could never sleep on planes so any trip over four hours was pure torture.
As he turned the corner he realized that this would be the last block he would walk as a free man. As charming as this neighborhood was, each step brought with it a greater feeling of dread.
This is my own green mile, he thought.
He wasn’t literally losing his life but it felt like it.
Ernie’s eyes scanned the addresses of the Victorian row houses as he walked. When he spotted 1356 Tenley Place the gray canvas duffle bag he was holding slid from his fingers and fell to the sidewalk with a dull thud. He felt a sharp stab of pain in the pit of his stomach followed by the urge to retch up the remains of the disgusting breakfast sandwich he devoured on the plane.
“Just what in the bloody ‘ell ‘ave you done now, mate?” he whispered in the best Cockney accent he could muster.
Thank God I still have my sense of humor, he chuckled nervously to himself.
A few months after he received the advance for his first novel, Ernest bought a condo in the very building F. Scott Fitzgerald was born. He thought the place would be inspirational, and it was for a while. In the quiet hours, just before dawn, there was a perfect stillness and it was as though he could hear Fitzgerald’s ghost whispering words and ideas into his ear. For almost three months last winter he rarely left the condo and wrote the best fiction of his life. This gave him such confidence that he felt his second novel could be every bit as good as The Great Gatsby. One morning, about halfway through the first draft of his second novel, the ghost stopped showing up and the whispers ceased.
Ernest didn’t overlook the irony in the fact that his literary agent chose London for this scheme. The city now considered so civilized was built on a foundation of suffering and barbarism. Ernest realized that nearly everything of any value was born of suffering, if he didn’t he would never have agreed to this plan.
He remembered so vividly the afternoon this insane idea was born. He was alone, cooking dinner in his condo, streaming Tito Puente a little too loudly from his phone. He was already two glasses into a bottle of nice cabernet and feeling the comfort of its cozy warmth. A cool breeze blew in from the open window and the scent of pepper beef stir-fry filled the air when the music stopped and his phone began to ring. He almost didn’t answer the call when he saw it was Harold, his literary agent. He knew what he was calling about but decided he had avoided the conversation too long already.
"How's my favorite author?" Harold said.
Ernie rolled his eyes.
"I'm doing okay, Harry," Ernie said, flat.
"You don't sound okay, Bud. We're six months from the publisher's deadline. How's it coming?"
Ernest didn’t want to admit that he hadn’t written a word of substance in months and was beginning to fear his first novel was just a freak thing he’d never be able to repeat. Every time he sat down to write his mind went blank. He was desperate to get his mojo back.
“Honestly, Harry, I’m scared. I have the worst goddamned writer’s block of my whole life. These past few months have been a roller coaster. Between the book tour and the media interviews, I feel like time is rushing by too fast. Everybody wants a piece of me. All I need is solitude, some time away—from everything.”
During the flight’s excruciating hours he had questioned no less than fifty times if he would’ve agreed to this Harry’s scheme if it hadn’t been two glasses deep into that bottle. He always came up with the same answer; no. The wine was the dangerously rickety bridge that had temporarily joined his world with Harry’s.
The line went quiet for a moment. “Gosh, Ernie. You know if you don’t give them something Doubleday can terminate your contract and we have to pay back most of the advance. Do you have that kind of money?”
Harold Cincotti thrived in the alternate universe that was Manhattan. A person who didn't know his backstory would never guess he fought his way up from poverty in the streets of the Bronx. Ernest didn't see the ugly side of Harry until the final days of the contract negotiations with Doubleday when Harry’s demeanor went from polished executive to a vicious Soprano’s cast member in under three seconds. Witnessing that kind of explosive fury scared the hell out of Ernie. However blunt they were, Harry’s negotiation skills secured a record-breaking three book deal from one of New York’s most respected publishers and made Ernie a very wealthy man.
“Okay, I have an idea. I know this guy who owes me a favor in London…” This was the exact point where Ernie couldn’t bear to replay any more of the conversation in his head, it made him feel too foolish.
So, instead of taking in the sights of Britain here he stood before the heavy wooden double doors of a fancy Victorian row house filled with regret. This is the first moment it all felt real. This place would be his prison and the length of the sentence would be totally up to him.
You are a desperate and a very stupid man Ernie Solomon, he mumbled to himself.
The creaking brass hinges of the heavy wooden double doors broke Ernest from his self-loathing.
“Please come in, Mr. Solomon. Mr. Jacobs has been expecting you,” the butler said with emptiness in his eyes. He looked more like a linebacker than a butler; this man weighed three hundred pounds if he weighed an ounce.
As hard as he tried, Ernest could conjure no words. His head was spinning and the salt crunched under his feet as he climbed the stairs to the front door. By the third step he realized he left his bag on the sidewalk behind him but he knew if he turned back the urge would be too strong to try to make a break for it.
As he crossed the threshold, the air inside held a different kind of gravity, it was heavier somehow. He knew he was entering a world in which he didn’t belong. The scent of the place was just as he expected a proper English house to smell, the subtle fragrance of fine leather, expensive candles, and the quiet confidence of generational wealth.
“This way, Sir,” the butler said as Ernie followed him towards the back of the house. Ernie felt the man’s heat signature as he walked three feet behind him.
Ernest’s breath quickened. Beads of cool sweat began to form on his forehead as they approached another doorway leading to a flight of stairs down to the basement. The old wooden stairs groaned, protesting each of the butler’s footsteps as they descended.
“Watch your ‘ead, please. I believe you’ll need it,” the butler whispered, smirking over his shoulder.
The bottom of the staircase opened to the limestone walls of the damp, windowless cellar. Two red velvet wingback chairs were facing one another on a faded red Oriental rug. In one of the chairs sat a dapper man with a perfectly round bald head. His legs were crossed at the knee and he wore an impeccably tailored gray suit with brown saddle leather boots polished to a mirror shine.
As the man stood to shake Ernie’s hand he noticed a deep and jagged scar that ran from just above his ear to his chin.
“Welcome to London, Mr. Solomon, I’m Peter Jacobs. Before we begin I must tell you how much I admire your work. I can tell from your writing that you're an honorable man. I told Mr. Cincotti that after I read your book I saw the world in a completely different way. Do you know how rare that is for someone like me? When Harry told me of your troubles I couldn't bear it because I recognized such an immense greatness in you.”
Mr. Jacobs stood so close that Ernie could feel his warm breath on his face. Ernie’s body tensed as Mr. Jacobs rested both hands heavily on Ernie’s shoulders and gave them a firm squeeze, staring him straight in the eyes.
“I’ve developed a great instinct for people. It’s a talent that has served me well in my business. We’re rooting for you.”
As he smiled slightly, the light caught the flash of a gold-capped tooth as he turned on his heel and began to pace back and forth in front of Ernie.
“Anyway, I digress. I’ll be administering the process here today,” he said.
“Let’s run through the terms of our agreement, shall we Mr. Solomon?”
“Well, umm, Mr. Jacobs you see—I think I’ve changed my mind,” Ernie pleaded as his eyes dropped to the floor.
“Come now, Mr. Solomon, take a beat and relax. Shall I remind you that I made our friend Mr. Cincotti a promise? In our world our word is all we have and we live and die by it,” he said, staring at Ernest intensely with his piercing blue eyes.
“First, we ask that you turn in your mobile phone and empty your pockets of all personal belongings and place them into this plastic tub.”
Ernie tried to find comfort in Harry’s words as they kept echoing through his head, Let me tell you two things I’ve learned, Number One, in this world the hero and villain can possess the same kind of greatness, and Number Two, everything in this life, good or bad, comes with a price.
He didn’t have the life experience it took to understand what Harry meant until this very moment.
Back in Manhattan Harry was probably already two whiskeys into the night, getting his ego stroked by an attractive waitress in some swanky Manhattan restaurant. This plan was easy for Harry because he wasn't the one standing in this dank basement, alone with a powerful British crime boss who happened to be Ernest’s biggest fan.
Ernie tried his best to swallow but his throat was far too parched and his heart was racing too fast. He began to accept his fate as he started to empty the contents of his pockets into the clear plastic tub.
“The terms of our agreement are as follows,” Mr. Jacobs said as he walked a few feet towards a gray steel door, wrapping it two times with his knuckles as it rang like a bell.
“This is your new home. You will be housed in this secured room, exactly four by 5 meters in diameter including one writer’s desk with a chair, a bed, we’ve even installed a lavatory, and a shower. You will reside here in this space until such a time as a draft of your new novel, deemed worthy of publication by Mr. Cincotti, is produced.”
Mr. Jacobs’ face took on a more serious expression and he started pacing back and forth again as he continued, “You will be issued a laptop computer and access to reading material of your choosing. A chef will be at your disposal from 6am to 9pm to prepare anything you desire. There will be no internet access, radio, or television to distract you. There is an intercom system in the chamber to communicate to my staff but you shall have absolutely no contact with the outside world save for one call per week to a single party of your choosing. These calls will be monitored closely and I promise you that there will be a severe penalty if there is an attempt to breach any of these terms. A press release has been prepared by our staff informing the public that you are taking a hiatus from public life for an undetermined amount of time until your task is complete.”
Smith gave the wheel on the massive steel vault door a few violent spins. Ernie twitched as the lock made a noise like a gunshot as it disengaged. Mr. Jacobs swung open the thick door to reveal what Ernie feared, it was indeed the inside of an old vault. At one time the vault probably held a Victorian family’s precious silver or art collection but now it would only hold within its walls what was left of his hope.
“Smith, show Mr. Solomon into the chamber, please.”
“Of course, it will be my pleasure Sir,” Smith quickly complied, he rested his enormous hand in the middle of Ernie’s back and thrusted him six feet into the middle of the room.
“Hey!” Ernie screamed as rocketed forward and spun around just in time to see the steel door slam shut behind him and the deafening CLUNK of the lock engaging.
This last outburst felt like the final whimper of a baby before surrendering to sleep. After a few seconds Ernie’s tightly clenched jaw relaxed and his shoulders slumped forward. Everything was instantly quiet and still, as if he was in a vacuum. Instead of feeling confined by the tight space he felt his imagination opening up, this gave him a tiny bit of hope.
In a moment of desperation Ernest had agreed to pay a price far greater than money for what he desired. He had willingly agreed to pay with his freedom and his time but now that he understood his predicament with a clearer head, he realized it was possible that he might even pay with what was left of his life.
Ernest slid the simple wooden chair away from the desk and sat down. As he opened the laptop and rested his hands lightly on its keys he felt a cold shiver run down his spine. Ernie realized that for all of Harry’s wisdom there was one thing a person like him could never begin to understand, that was how complex a thing an author’s creativity could be.
Only the creative can fully grasp this. Muse is magic, like a beautiful monarch butterfly that decides to land on you when you’re standing all alone in a garden, perfectly still. Muse could never be forced or even willed.
Ernie closed his eyes tightly, placed his hands together tightly at his chest, and prayed. He prayed that this locked vault, in the basement of this Victorian row house in London might possess the kind of perfect stillness that would welcome into his imagination the fickle whispers of Fitzgerald's ghost.
All for now. Make this a wonderful day.