“Tales from the sea,” I mused.
“It was the only thing that interested him. So, tell me, Michael, what does it mean to you?”
“It seems like a necessary winnowing of priorities as one ages. Everything else falls away—desires, ambitions, conquests. It would seem that Santiago’s big adventures are behind him, and he’s content to bask in the twilight of his life, and yet, I know he means to go after a very big fish, thus seeking adventure again.”
“Or adventure finds him, and he must rise to the occasion,” Arden said.
“I’m jealous of Santiago and his simplicity. No bullshit, no posturing. Just him and his boat and the great fish. Was your father that way too?”
“At sea, he was a very simple man. It centered him and gave him purpose. On land, though, he sometimes lost his mind.”
“Was he an alcoholic?” I asked.
“Yes. We’re a lot alike. Big on avoidance, short on communication.”
I waited to see if Arden might elaborate, but he didn’t, so I continued, “I read somewhere that Hemmingway was working through his own insecurities as a novelist when he wroteThe Old Man and the Sea, that he hadn't published a successful novel in over a decade, and he worried that people considered him washed up.”
“I hope this isn’t eroding your confidence.”
I chuckled. “I’m not there yet.”
Almost, but not quite.
“You’ll be fine, Michael. Your best work is still ahead of you. Everyone needs to take time to sharpen the saw.”
“Thanks, Arden. I appreciate it. The book too.”
We firmed up our plans for next week, and then I left him to read more about Santiago’s struggles with aging and infirmity, trying not to read too much into it.
We lefton a Monday and headed for the Adirondacks. Arden said he’d need to be back by Thursday evening. I didn’t ask why. On our four-hour drive to the mountains, Arden probed me a little more on my writer’s block, and I confessed to how paralyzed I felt whenever I sat down to compose.
“Would it help if you switched up your process?” Arden asked. “Use a pen and paper instead of a laptop. Or, instead of outlining, what if you just free-wrote? Or journaled.”
“I haven’t kept a diary since I was a teenager.”
“Why not?”
“My boyfriend at the time found something I’d written. It hurt his feelings, and I felt really bad about it.”
“He shouldn’t have been snooping. What did it say?”
“It was a pro-con list for breaking up with him then or waiting until summer.”
“Ouch.”
“Yeah, not my proudest moment.”
“So, then what? You just stopped journaling?”
“Pretty much. I didn’t want to risk it again. And the boyfriend… well, he was also my roommate, and it’s impossible to hide anything from him.”
“Do I know him?” Arden asked.
“Franco. And, as a side note, it didn’t last until summer. He broke up with me.” That time, at least.
“I did pick up on a vibe between you. On his end, at least.”
“It’s been over for a long time. We had good chemistry, but he wasn’t very trustworthy.”
