The days of silent genius

Chapter 1

The Days of Silent Genius .

27th November, 1999

"Colours seemed brighter that morning. The sky was bluer, the tiny blades of grass donned an immaculate shade of green and the white gown that clung loosely to my shoulders seemed to be woven entirely of early winter snow. The whole world seemed a painting done by an artist with a penchant for colourful exaggeration. I sat there in the middle of it, trying my best to fit in to the magical space enveloping me--"

I stopped the paragraph mid-sentence, crumpled the paper on which I had been writing, then tossed it aside into the rubbish pile. I discarded it for the same reason I had discarded the other twenty or so; I had no real ideas of what to write about. I had the words, I could paint the pretty scenes; but the story, which was most important, eluded me. My father, a writer by profession, had this seemingly profound saying: "You don't find inspiration, inspiration finds you. Your job as an artist is to put yourself in places where inspiration frequents." It was rubbish of course. Needless to say, he went unpublished till the day of his death. I was determined not to end up like him.

It was autumn, my favourite season, so I went out to my backyard and sat in the shade of our huge maple tree, determined to leave when, and only when I had found some inspiration. So far all I had seen was a pair of squirrels engaged in passionate intercourse get bombarded from above by droppings from an unapologetic bluebird. It made me somewhat glad knowing I wasn't the only one not having the best day. I tried puzzling out some profound inspirational insights from that scene.

How about I write a story about two lovers.. who .. go through a lot of shit? Maybe with a female protagonist? I could work with that.

My pen began to dance.

"It was raining on the night when I first met..."

I paused thinking of a suitable name for the love interest.

It has to be a strong and passionate name. Maybe Virgil? No, too civilian. How about Esteban? Yes, Esteban sounds like the perfect name for a man one could be willing to go through shit with.

"It was raining on the night when I first met Esteban. We met at his charity's fundraiser in June and instantly, the connection was there. It wasn't a romantic one, not at first, but it evolved as connections have been known to do. Pablo Esteban was a case study on gentlemanliness. Not just in the obvious ways , like holding doors open for people or smiling at waiters, but in the little things as well. He knew to hold his drinks in his left hand not his night so his touch wasn't icy cold. He knew to stick to simple compliments and avoid coarse flattery. He also listened far more than he spoke, so by the evening's end, he kn--"

Pablo Esteban? What am I thinking?

The number of crumpled sheets in my rubbish pile increased by one. I took in a deep breath and then released it. I wasn't exactly sure how many hours had passed since I sat below this God-forsaken tree, but my patience was running thin. The sky had begun showing signs of impending rain. Dark clouds were rolling in and the growling of my stomach made for suitable thunder. I was hungry. I was desperate. I had strength enough for one last attempt. An idea came to me then. Not an idea for a story, but an idea of how to get one. I picked up my notepad and my pen and began writing random words. My plan was to write fifteen such words, then select three and piece them together to get my million dollar idea. I scribbled any word I could think of : oats, maple, bluebird, autumn, queen, beef, pencil, hunger, war, wizard, eagle, snow, sky, magic and meadow. Now that I had my fifteen words, I cut each word out and rolled them up into little balls before putting them in a plastic cup that was most definitely designed for nobler purposes. I gave the cup a good shake before selecting four from the bunch. A silent prayer escaped my lips as I unfurled the papers revealing my selections: Queen, war, sky and oats.

What in God's name can I do with oats? Maybe A queen fights another nation for the right to sell oats? No, too ridiculous, nobody loves oats that much. How about I change the oats to oaths? Then maybe I could write a story about a war fought over oaths beneath a crimson sky? That might just work.

For the third time that afternoon, my pen began its dance.

"The sky blazed a deep crimson. Sounds of manic laughter and fearful screams tore through the air as the two bands of.."

I need an interesting name for the men who shall swear the oath to their queen. Oathtakers? No, too many syllables. Oathsworn? That has a nice ring to it.

I started anew, "The sky blazed a deep crimson. Sounds of manic laughter and fearful screams tore through the air as the two bands of oathsworn clashed with each other. What started with a hundred men on each side was now down to a mere twenty three on the entire battle field. It was impossible to tell the two bands apart as each man left standing was painted completely red with the blood of slain foes, but that was all the better. After all only one man would be making it out of here alive to give his oath to his queen."

Good so far. Now what is this oath and why are they giving it?

The number of crumpled sheets in my rubbish pile increased by one. I sighed heavily. Maybe today just wasn't my day. A light rain had begun falling and a few drops evaded the leaves of my shade to hit me square across my forehead. It was time to go. I would try again tomorrow.

Contrary to all expectations, I felt no sadness or disappointment , only a joy at the prospect of getting to write again the next day. In that moment I realized that the thing I loved the most about writing, was writing. I simply enjoyed the art of it. I would write on days when my mind was barren and on days when I was drunk on great ideas, if such days ever came. I believe a good story is only worth the telling if you enjoy the writing of it. I was contented with the days work, or the lack thereof. I just wanted to tell my wife how my day went over a hot meal. She won't believe the story of the bluebird and the squirrels; or the fact that they inspired the beginnings of a love story between a woman and a man closely named after a famous drug dealer.

A thought struck me then. I knew exactly what to write about.

Since I was suffering from an abundance of horrid ideas, why not go ahead and write about the lot of them and how they came about?

That story, is what you see written in these pages. I learnt an important lesson today, a lesson that birthed a quote worthy of Dickens or Hemingway. It goes as follows:

"Most days, genius is hard to miss; it screams to alert you of its presence. On others, it stays deadly quiet, waiting for you to find it or simply realize it's there. These are the days of silent genius. "

My wife is currently pregnant with a son. When he is born I plan to teach him this very quote'. A good quote in my fair estimation; a good quote with some actual meaning, unlike that feeble excuse for wisdom my own father had spewed every day till his last. I could already picture him, bearing a subtle resemblance to me, but with his mother's honey coloured eyes and a uniqueness to his features that was all his own. I could see him sitting on the armchair in front of the fireplace of the big living room I would get once the cheques from publishers started rolling in. I could see him reading one of my books and pondering the meaning of 'the days of silent genius'.

I stood up and headed indoors, lighting a cigarette and taking two huge puffs before putting it out and walking in. The way I was feeling, it was hard not to be excited for the future.

What a ride it's going to be.

16th December 2021

It's been 20 years now, since I wrote 'The days of silent genius.' What a crazy ride it's been. I lost my wife to a man named, to the amusement of God, Esteban. My son, the one I was so very proud of before he was even born, is now ashamed to call me father. I really can't blame him. My old man had never amounted to anything and I too was ashamed to call him father. I lost it all. The only things I have left are stage four lung cancer and at most one pain-filled month to live.

From this brief summary, you might infer that none of my books were ever published, and you would be absolutely correct. The publishers always said,"We're sorry Mr. Winter, the audience for your books simply doesn't exist."

I laughed out loud realizing I would die just like my old man; penniless and unpublished, but in possession of one hell of a quote.