The Writer and The Artist: The Writer

Chapter 9: The Writer

 

THE WRITER

 

1

 

John used to write.

            Many years before he met Laura he was a struggling bundle of creativity. He loved to write. He loved to tell a story or two. The odd fantasy here, the occasional short-story romance there. It was his life. No matter what genre he picked, month after month, it was his dream to see it through to the end.

            Published.

            But rejection letter after rejection letter taught him a lesson about life. He took a new career path, learning the ways of the publishing industry and embellishing it into his life and his writing. In essence, he wanted to understand the publishing industry so the publishing industry would understand his writing.

            But as the years progressed, priorities changed. A new job became a new start. After studying at home to become a proof-reader, John received a certificate of competence for his efforts and used it to gain an editorial assistant job at the young age of 22. Writing went on a slight backburner.

            But luckily for him, months into his new job, he stopped in a cafeteria.

 

2

 

John and Laura first met at on London’s Oxford Street in a busy café. People were sat at every available table, reading or chatting away to partners or friends who were either with them or at the other end of a mobile phone. Except Laura, who sat alone in the far corner of the café around the side of the till counter, staring at a Mocha and a shortbread biscuit she had ordered nearly twenty minutes ago. She was gazing out the window to her right, which looked across the busy London road on a hot Saturday afternoon. London had been crammed so full of people that day, just like with any other day of the week. So many people, zigzagging, coming and going, each face as meaningless as the last.

            Bees buzzing in a honeycombed hive.

            Her friend, Melissa, was nowhere to be seen. They had arranged to meet for coffee at half past two. Laura checked her watch; it read 14:48. Melissa had not called, not even to cancel. At the time Laura felt completely frustrated, with her first deadline looming for her new job as an illustrator at a firm on the outskirts of western London. She had just been another member of the hive, trying to earn a respectable living.

            But looking back now, she couldn’t think of a happier moment of her life, for that was when John stepped into the café.

            Laura pictured him perfectly: the brown overcoat; the neatly ironed stripy white shirt underneath; the smooth black tie reaching his waist; the dark sunglasses we wore over his eyes; the brown leather briefcase he held casually under his right arm...she could have gone on about it all day. It was truly a day to remember.

            Their eyes first locked when Laura happened to glance towards the café door as he entered, hoping to see a flustered, apologetic Melissa standing in his place. But instead, this handsome young man would do nicely. Laura had not realised he had been looking back at her, as he did not take off his sunglasses until he reached the counter.

            He did smile the second time their eyes met, as he just finished ordering a Latte and a blueberry muffin. Laura could not help but keep flicking her attention towards him, managing an embarrassed smirk. Anything was better than watching the buzz of life fester outside.

            But there was something more than that about him. He was completely gorgeous.

            And he was looking back at her. Now he was leaning on the counter, looking directly at her without even flinching. This man sure has confidence, she thought, taking a sip of her Mocha to avoid seeming over-interested.

            She eyed him up and down: I bet that’s not all he’s got.

            Laura tried to hold back the bashful laughter through her coffee, but the thought had been so sudden. She blew the froth of her Mocha over the side of her cup and onto the table.

            She gave a quick glance at the man, who now revealed his teeth with a beautiful smile. She blushed crimson at the sight of him. Couples and friends on nearby tables turned and looked over at her, but she did not notice. Or care.

            She started developing butterflies in her stomach as the man took his order and started walking over towards her.

 

3

 

She panicked: her heart went up a beat and she could feel her palms beginning to sweat. This is insane, she thought. He might just want to help me clean up.

            She shook her head. You’re such a terrible liar, Laura Perry.

            At first she avoided his gaze when he came and stood beside her table. Attempting to hide her face behind her coffee cup, she watched from the corner of her eye as he took the napkin he received with his coffee and wiped the spilt froth from the table. He then asked boldly, ‘Excuse me, do you mind if I sit here?’

            No ‘miss’, no ‘lady’, no ‘doll-face’, just upfront honesty. I love him already! she thought, unable to hide her content. The man took her smile to be a yes and slowly sat himself down in the opposite chair.

            Be brave! she thought, as she began to lower her coffee cup onto her saucer. But she was now looking down at the table, growing rapidly bashful. Look up, she told herself, but it was no good. Her hand quivered as she scratched the side of her head.

            Seeing how uneasy she was, the man said, ‘I didn’t mean to disturb you, I can go if…’

            Those words were like a magic spell. ‘No, don’t,’ she said, suddenly raising her head and absentmindedly reaching out a hand. ‘I’m sorry, I’m just never good at meeting new people.’

            The man looked around him and then at her again. ‘So you come here just to sit by yourself?’

            She laughed a little. ‘No, I’m supposed to be meeting someone – a friend. But she’s turned out to be late.’

            ‘Oh dear,’ he said, ‘that doesn’t happen to you often does it?’

            She looked at him and then their eyes stuck. She was in heaven. He gave that wonderful smile again. Oh how she blushed again at the sheer childish innocence she felt.

            ‘Does it?’

            She was completely mesmerised in his handsomeness. ‘What’s that?’ she said, as her internal thinking began to shut down.

            ‘Does it happen often to you?’ the man repeated, now leaning in closer.

            Intrigued.

            Laura could not even remember what the question had referred to. ‘No, no it doesn’t.’

            For a moment the air was still between them, as each sipped at their own coffee and stared blissfully at the other.

            ‘What is your name?’ the man asked after a while.

            ‘Laura,’ she said, ‘Laura Perry. And yours?’

            ‘John. John Henderson.’

            It was a moment that started a whole lifetime.

 

4

 

They talked for minute upon minute.

            They spoke in turn, as the other listened with awe. They talked of what they were doing in London: Laura at first repeated herself that she was meant to be meeting a friend but then she realised John meant more long-term. So she told him of how she is an illustrator and had just received her first major job after studying illustration at a local college. John said he found this interesting, because he is a creative one himself, for that was when he first told Laura that he dabbed in and out of writing – he said he could not stop the occasional (and only occasional) lonely night in, typing away at his laptop into the late hours of the night.

How things can change.

He then remembered to tell Laura of his profession as an editorial assistant for the last two years and was hoping to receive a promotion to editor some time soon (which he did receive over the next year).

            After Laura eventually received a text from Melissa, who apologised for being unable to meet (which involved the combined excuse of a crap signal on the trains and being called urgently to work), they both decided to stick around and continue talking. Secretly, they were glad Melissa had never showed.

            Just the two of them.

They then talked for hours about their likes and dislikes: their combined love for films; chocolate; gatherings over parties; reading; getting the bus rather than the train, and their hatred for pop music; street talk; marmite; loud alarm clocks. Anything that could be spoken about was indeed discussed.

            It was there that true love blossomed.

 

5

 

‘He did used to write,’ Laura explained to John of Isolation, as they stood in front of one another, inexplicably within the body of the tower.

            ‘Laura,’ John of Isolation said, ‘when this painting was made, you and your husband shared the gift completely, you painted his images and he wrote about what you saw.

            ‘But something thwarted your gift. You chose to forget.’

            ‘Why?’

            ‘John stopped writing completely after your images ended. Since then he has been decaying. Only now, within the confines of coma, does he realise this. Without writing, the gift he has becomes useless.’ He swallowed. ‘John becomes useless.’

‘So because you have forgotten your visualisations,’ he continued, ‘John has forgotten who he is.’

‘A writer?’

He nodded. ‘He is the writer. You are the artist. Without your gifts, without each other, you become nothing.’

Laura bit her lip. ‘This is why he is in a coma, isn’t it?’

John of Isolation gave a sinking nod.

 

6

 

‘Although not all is lost; John is leaving you clues to help bring him back. Such clues include those items you have found in the paintings so far. after this painting, which must include the items you have found in the paintings so far. All you need to do is consider each clues, starting with the clue in here.’

            ‘And what is it I seek here?’ Laura asked. ‘Exactly what clue am I to be looking for?’

            John of Isolation smiled. ‘Look towards you feet, Laura.’

            She did as she was told, at first seeing only the rays of colour that glistened over her from the windows and off the body of John.

            But after a moment, she did see something, something contrasting against the magnificent bright colours.

            Smudges of darkness.

            Laura snapped her head back to face the glass dome.

            ‘The crystal,’ she said out loud.

 

7

 

What was it this place meant? When you painted this room, John of Isolation had said, it reminded you of the choice you made of your colours.

How you chose light over dark.

Laura looked towards her feet again and tried to concentrate on the swarms of dark colour that were somewhere in the crystal. She had seen them before!

She could see what the light in this room was doing: all the bright colours put together allow a direct contrast between the colours she despised. It was these colours that she was here for.

They were the clue.

‘I have used these colours before?’ Laura had asked.

‘Of course,’ John of Isolation replied. ‘He then pointed towards a window to his right. ‘Look towards the glass, with colours so pure.’ He winked.

A clue.

She looked towards the windows, enclosing her within the chamber.

She suddenly remembered.

They have a meaning, she thought. The light from the windows represent my thoughts and emotions that are being placed onto John. All the thoughts and emotions I have are placed into my brushstrokes when I paint. This light represents the knowledge of my past.

I had chosen light over dark.

The light is what I remember

‘The darkness is what I have forgotten.’

‘All those times,’ she thought, ‘when I used dark acrylics and they seemed so out of place, so horrid and in the end I hardly used them.’

To her surprise, John of Isolation laughed, causing Laura to stutter a scream and stumble backwards. ‘This is exactly what he thought you would say!’ he said, now embracing the light once more. ‘Don’t you see? You can turn this around! Because you have used so many bright colours and have used the darkness so few, it will not be difficult to find the next painting you are after!’

‘What painting?’ Laura shrieked, suddenly feeling bitter with confusion. ‘What on earth are you talking about?’

John lowered his hands and his expression turned sombre. ‘The painting you started and never finished,’ he said. ‘The Cottage; your last image.’