“Was he your first?” Arden asked.
“Yeah, he was,” I said with some bitter sweetness. It wasn’t unrequited, just messy. The silence was too heavy, so I decided to weigh Arden’s suggestion. “It’s probably not a bad idea, though, to try journaling again. I have this hang-up about wasting words. Like, if I’m not working on a novel or essay or something I can sell, then I’m dipping into my creative well for no purpose.”
“Do you think your creativity is a finite supply?”
“I worry sometimes that it is.”
“But when you were writingCold Lake Chronicles, you probably felt the same way. Yet, you kept coming up with these really twisty and amazing plots.”
Twistyandamazing.
“I felt a similar way when I graduated college,” I told him. “I had a degree. I had a job waiting for me at my dad’s literary agency, and yet, I resisted. That was when the muse started speaking to me, almost as a matter of survival, to keep me from following down a path that might have been less rewarding.”
“Maybe this is your muse’s attempt to channel you again, and instead of resisting, you should just give in and go with it. Write whatever comes to mind, without worrying about whether it will turn into something you can sell. In every profession, there’s some amount of fucking off allowed.”
“I’m not much of a risk-taker,” I admitted. “I think that’s why I write fiction. To get my thrills in a safe and structured manner.”
Arden grinned, just a bit wicked. “We’re total opposites.”
“You’d probably be good for me, then. Get me out of my comfort zone.”
“Want to take some risks with me, Michael?” Arden said in a low, seductive voice.
I studied his flirtatious expression, as much as my driving would allow. “What kinds of risks?”
Arden shrugged and turned his gaze back to the road. “Beautiful country,” he remarked.
“I’d like to take some risks with you,” I said in case it wasn’t already obvious.
Arden hummed, which could mean anything. Or nothing.
We unpacked our groceries first.Then I gave Arden a tour of the place. There were two bedrooms, both with beds, a shared living area, kitchen, and small dinette. The back porch looked out onto Sacandaga Lake, and there were several trails within walking distance.
“We can go for a hike later this afternoon or tomorrow if you want,” I told him. “Whenever you’re ready for a break.”
Arden got comfortable on the couch, lounging like a cat with his bare legs tangled up in a blanket. I sat at the nearby dinette. I watched his studious expression as he scribbled on a legal pad. He glanced up and caught me staring.
“How does one begin a memoir?” he asked in all seriousness.
“You said it was about your father, so it might be your first memory of him, as it relates to the narrative arc of your story. Some memoirs are about understanding yourself better or forgiving yourself for some past mistake. If it’s centered around another family member, it might be about accepting them as they are or having the strength to remove yourself from their influence. If I were to write one about my father, it might start with a scene that illustrates how I’ve always felt like I was living in his shadow, then the memoir might take the form of me struggling to gain my independence until I’m able to show the reader I can stand on my own, apart from him. Or, it could end with me realizing that I am nothing without my father and seeking his shadow with full knowledge that I will never escape it.”
“Can you?” Arden asked. “Escape it?”
I smiled. “To be determined.”
Arden, now inspired, scribbled something on his notepad. “Are you close with your mother?” he asked.
My relationship with my mother was complicated. She was born into an affluent New York family and married my father at a young age. She’d enjoyed her life as a socialite and admitted to me more than once that she’d never really wanted children. She did enjoy mingling with authors and movie industry types, and like my father, had a keen business sense, especially for discovering and selling women’s fiction. (The naming of the genre unnerved me, but that was a rant for another time.)
I told Arden all of this, as well as her move to L.A. to open a West Coast division of the D’Agostino Literary Agency, which she managed to this day. They’d divorced a few years after her move and transitioned their romantic partnership into a business one. I’d visited my mother during summers for a while, but she remarried a man I didn’t much care for, which put a strain on our relationship. I also didn’t care for L.A. Too much sun and glamour. I much preferred New York, where people were rude to your face.
“She’s always been more like a friend than a mother,” I told Arden. “I know she loves me, but I can’t say she’s all that interested in me.”
“Sounds ripe for a memoir,” he said, and I laughed.
“What’s your motivation for writing this?” I asked. I didn’t think it was to make money. “You said it was something your therapist suggested?”
“I find myself circling back to my father a lot in our sessions—we were inseparable for most of my adolescent and teen years, and then later when I cared for him. She thought I might benefit from writing it all out, organizing my thoughts and emotions around him. He—” Arden broke off. “I was so angry at him in the end. It’s like we were both trapped in this burning house fire, and neither of us could leave. We could only smolder in our fury together.”
