Chapter One

A Chapter by Meera Nair

The first meeting between a book and it's owner

Please don't call me Ishmael... or Cathy Earnshaw, or even worse -Mr. Darcy!

I'm no carbon copy.

However, I'm a book, not a builder, and names like "Bob" or "Frank" or "Crystal" also wouldn't suit my cover - not bad for my edition don't you think?

I hear that "gorgeous" is pretty popular though...

No laughs...? Not even a forced "tee-hee"? I understand. Begin your conversation with a joke they say- that'll ease the tension of meeting someone new, they say. To be quite honest, you're the first person I've actually "met" for longer than a glance at my rear end (my blurb thank you very much!). However, I'm glad that you chose me for more than my good looks and attractive backside... like yourself, I've got unexplored depths that make me just as interesting as your Heathcliffs, your Hamlets and your Harper Lees.

Let me tell you a little bit about myself. I do not know anybody who can remember their moment of conception, but I can. The first feeling that I can ever recall - was anticipation. I was waiting for something, growing increasingly more and more impatient by the second - and then! A resounding calm. As every word was imprinted onto my skin, I felt as though my maker and I shared the same experience that one feels when having remembered something that you had forgotten a lifetime ago. Whilst my life may be "written out" for me, dictated for by some external force; like yourself I cannot 'flick ahead' to see what happens. If I'm honest, I'd rather not. I'd rather stay here, with you.

But where was I? Oh yes, I can also remember emerging from a brief period of darkness into a halogen light filled room from what I can only assume to be my mother or creator; a humongous grey and white contraption with brushes that covered a rectangular opening from which I had exited... I am aware that this is no way to talk about one's mother, I'm sure her shape was perfectly adequate for her purpose.

Moving swiftly along, I then remember being placed alongside my "siblings" (as we all shared a common creator) onto a smooth wooden bookshelf. Unlike human familial relationships, there was no time for cuddles and kisses. We had places to be, and glossy printed covers to advertise ourselves with. Besides, even if we had the time for maternal bonding, our creator-mother was rather occupied at that moment. Whilst the polished surface below my pages felt cool and comfortable, I could not help but feel that this was not the place for me, that this could not be a permanent residence for me. I imagine that many young people must feel this sense of restlessness, I think the French call it 'ennui'.

It would appear that I am approaching the end of my first chapter, the only part of my existence that I am able to remember. On a slightly overcast afternoon you wondered into my home. I remembered you in particular, because the only other customers included a mother trying to pacify her spawn as she perused "buy one get one half price" table, and an elderly gentlemen looking for a book on soap making. You stood out because you appeared completely open, not quite sure what you were looking for in the first place. I could see you walking towards me. I remember feeling extremely agitated and nervous, akin to what an acne riddled teenager must feel when he sees the beautiful blonde bombshell walking his way - only to have her walk straight past to the better looking alternative. That too was how I felt when you selected that piece of drivel two shelves behind me. I had just resigned myself to the mediocrity of my plain laminated wood shelf when I felt something that I had not felt since my birth. The feeling of being selected; the euphoria of being chosen over the best-sellers. I was chosen by you, and now I aim to impress.

So, where do we go from here? A plot with depth and twists that meander through your subconscious (keeping you on your toes)? Or perhaps a stream of consciousness with no punctuation whatsoever. Just mere thoughts... I'm not that lazy. Perhaps you would like a character to not only relate to, but to escape with as well...?

People often look to books for three things: advice on cookery, sex, or a good plot. Unfortunately, I'm not sure that I can help with any of those subjects. I wonder, do I have a plot? Am I a story? Does a book always have to inform, or describe, or argue? Can't we just talk? Can't I just ask you 'how was your day'? Can't we just see where this path takes us? No? Like I said before, I won't flick ahead in my own life story - I'm having way too much fun here.

Needless to say, I am literally an "open book"; all that I say and feel is out in the open, almost uninterrupted by vocal 'cut-ins' to conversation. I know that our communication cannot work in the conventional "two - way" system, but I feel that we still have an unspoken understanding between us. I can feel the grip and temperature of your hands change depending on whether you like or dislike something I say. I can feel your capillaries throb, or fall deadly silent with each sentence. I can see your expressions furrow and relax; smile or roll your eyes at me. So I'm not just talking to myself like an insane person; I'm not crazy for trying to communicate with you, and neither are you for reciprocating.

Back to the topic at hand; where do we go from here? Very well, I'll be just like Scheherazade, and you're the one that my life depends on. I'll try to entertain you with my unbounding wit and charisma so that hopefully I'll not find my way to the guillotine!

You're a very good listener, I think I'm going to enjoy spending time with you. Here I am going on and on about myself, I want to know all about you too. I'm not sure how this will happen, but I'm sure that we can make this work. I can already see many long hours of just talking with one another. Though I have noticed the way your finger just ran its way down my spine. Are you flirting with me?