There is a longing inside of me to write a novel. Not so much about the novel I care but about the book that will be printed. I long for a behemoth of a book. The one that demands respect and two hands when you hold it. The one that tells you that there is a heck of a story inside. A journey of thousand miles as they put it in the songs.
But here is the catch. It is no time to write a novel. Those times are gone. Times when people felt the very time itself deeply. It was personal for them. Spiritual and sensitive it was when spent alone with the book by the mantelpiece. Reading was a retreat and luxury for people of old era. Now books and authors are just the left-over products which come and go from the shelves. You notice how classics always stay with us. Even when we read them no more. They still are in these rooms of the world telling us about things that matter.
This huge book must be about something so absurd and disconnected when measured by today’s norms. I have couple of plots as my oldest friend Elnur would say. He used to come at me with the list of his plots and shoot them at me like in Russian roulette hoping that one bullet of a plot gets to my heart.
His story about ancient Palmyra was so dear to me. For a moment I wondered if he grabbed greatness by the neck. His plot was as ancient as the ruins of Palmyra. I loved listening to the details that he put into the description. He never wrote about it. I was left in these ruins with that magnificent lion in the sands.
Let me see about my possible stories for this giant book.
Story number one is about a valley of Ashire where people go to jump of the cliff when they are 33 of age. This is their cyclic end. This valley is their last place of existence. Young and juicy they are. Fresh and strong they jump into the waters of misty river where grand alligators wait for the flesh to appear in front of them. These 33-year-old people jump because it is a custom in their community to do so. 150-year-old custom which is deeply rooted into their community. One dynasty is ruling them and it is believed to be so. No one must be buried. No one should leave a trace of their existence in this valley. But here is the twist. One young man realizes there is one old lady leaving near the mountain of Ashire. Mariko is her name and she keeps a secret that belongs to her and the Dojo dynasty.
This young man finds out that there is a building-cemetery that preserves the flesh of the dynasty members. He turns 33 and he decides not to jump from the valley and expose the big family of their lie. But people of the valley are not ready to accept the truth and they are not conscious, courageous enough to go against the family. So, there stands our young man on the tip of the mountain before being forced to jumped by the guards of the Dojo dynasty to that merciless river of Ashire.
He looks at everyone who knows and does not know about the truth. He looks at the further horizon where the old lady resides. Wonders how she escaped the jump. But time has come and guards come closer to push him. He is not ready to die but he does not want to be pushed over either. He gives one final look at everyone before the jump and shouts “Truth” for one last time. Then we hear the splash of the waters and movement of the alligators.
His flesh is torn apart as he looks up there, the valley of Ashire. He looks at those who will be chewed by the mighty Alligators soon.
Story number two is about one man who wonders about one package he bought in the electronics store. This man is just like Cheeky who once decided to buy beer to his friends and neighbors who were fighting in Vietnam.
His idea was simple. He wanted to let them know that he cares. And just like him our hero wants to show appreciation to a person who packaged the device.
He thinks about the stranger all the time. This simple person who will never speak at Davos or hold an Oscar for his career. Yet, he will give more value to this world by his repetitive act which will soon be replaced by a robot.
He is 42 of an age and at this age you know how absurd is life and there is nothing strange in doing a strange thing. He decided to look for this package guy from China. His journey turns out to be very transformative. China is not only the Great Wall and Jackie Chan for him anymore. It is herbs and tea that he shares with the strangers.
Meanwhile, the second man already knows about life in China he has lived it for 42 years as well. With his wife who happens to work with him in the same factory where they pack things for 11 hours straight and do it for 6 days a week. And they get to have a vacation every 3 years. They spend 2 of the 5 days of this vacation on the road. 3 days are left to see their own children, parents, neighbors, relatives and everything that they once used to call home.
This couple is pre-AI intervention fantasy of any factory owner. They work for pennies and they give blood and sweat to pack for the entire world. Non-stop.
One day, these two 42-year-old men meet each other. One comes all the way from Baku. He looks at his co-gender who is busting himself in the factory.
The owner has invited him inside due to expectations. This stranger can mean big business opportunity. But this owner does not realize that it is not about money this time. It is about the most genuine human connection between two men who are old enough to understand the darkness of the world and despair that it gives to both of them. As they meet our story gets even better. They hug each other. One man realizes that his effort has been appreciated. He knows that world owes him a gratitude for thousands of packages he made for other people. They both know that their time is not their friend anymore. Maybe this very meeting is the only important event in their lives as they exist. Simple men, hard lives, hard choices, may not go unnoticed this time. Maybe this novel will give them a space to exist. Little people of the big world. As little as they are there still is a level of dedication to the cause, goal or family.
Devotion. I have a problem with this word.
It demands too high of a price and gives too little of a reward in return.
Devotion is what you give to this big book and hundreds of pages. As I gave you my two-story versions, I questioned the level of devotion necessary for the completion. Would it be worth it? If so, who in this world would read this monster?
Maybe, I do not want anyone to read it.
Just like in “Into the Wild” story, I find myself in the midst of Alaska inside the forgotten bus and a never-ending flow of thoughts. That young man wanted the world to leave him alone but soon realized that he refused to leave the world in the first place.
I see the watch on his wrist. His watch is not just a thing. It is his way of connecting to his past, his parents and his normality. This watch is his way of remaining sane. But he has made a mistake which is lethal. It is not the plant that kills him. It is this people that he discovers along the journey that kill him softly. He notices how deeply he enjoys connecting with his fellow strangers. They love him as well. But he has made his mind. Stubborn young man ends being a suffering young man.
He finds his revelation:
“Happiness is real when shared.”
So, this means that my book will be real only if shared with you. The people who may discover and read it partly. (Only few will complete such read.)
Maybe some of you will turn stubborn and go until the end. Who knows?
But so far, you know something about me already. It is this book and my longing to write it. Now, here is my issue. Before it used to be only me. Now, it is also some possible reader who will share the experience as well. I do not know about you but it is hard to write about delicate matters when room is shared with other pair of eyes.
But there is another longing that I hid from myself for a long time. I long to write about her. I am not sure if I am ready to give her name right now. I am not sure if she should be shared with you. Because if I do, she will be real. I will devote myself to finish this story and it may happen so that this story may finish me.
Because all stories do.
They finish their authors.
