As the sun began its final dip down past the horizon, I sat back from my computer screen. Shifting my glasses to see from a further distance, I glanced over at the document. Five hundred pages, not bad; while it wasn’t the longest book I’ve ever written, I knew that this autobiography was most likely the last complete book I’d ever write.
Looking around my study, I was swarmed by a flood of memories. My bookshelf stood right next to my messy old desk, proudly displaying my life’s work. Novel after Novel all written by the man William Fall, Science Fiction, Fantasy, Children’s stories, murder mysteries, plays, movies, comics, and more. Each one holds a chapter of my life. I was proud of every one of them, the worlds I built, and the people I’d taken on adventure after adventure. Guardians and Robot League, the stories that set me off on this grand adventure, sat in the center of the shelf, their sequels, and prequels below them. Next to my books hung a picture of my greater pride and joy, my smiling family, wife, children, and grandchildren. All together, all around me.
Next to the photo of my family sat a medal and a picture of me at age 40. My first significant award as an author. I remember the day I got it. I was nervous when my name was called; I just about melted right there on the stage. The award has collected dust over the years, a byproduct of my eternal laziness. However, the brilliant colors that had greeted me in the man’s hand still showed through. Was it the most exciting day of my life? Absolutely not, not even by a long shot, but it was a good day that will live in my memory and autobiography forever. I smiled as my eyes ran across the back wall of my office, picture after picture and little trinket after little trinket, every one a precious memento of a part of my long, long life.
Near the end of the wall sat one of my most recent mementos, a small picture book, written and illustrated by my grandchild. It sat in a special place. The sweet kid had refused to let me put it on the shelf with my books, saying, “the shelf is for Grandpa’s books, not mine.” so the book gets the top shelf of a nearly empty bookshelf, a set of blank spaces next to it, waiting to be filled with new memories. I picked this little book up and flipped through it; they were a talented little kid. I knew that eventually, they wouldn’t want me to keep it. It was like that with my old stories. Ultimately the work’s faults overshadow the achievements, and our contentment with the finished product goes down. Perhaps even now, four years after they wrote it for me, they’re planning on asking me to put it somewhere else.
A thought struck me, and I pushed myself to my feet, gripping the dark wooden cane in my wrinkled old hand. Taking an unsteady step, I quickly find my balance and walk out of my office. Through the small house I lived in for so long. I sit in my elevator and ride it down to my basement. Finding what I was looking for, I reached up and grabbed an old cardboard box, and pulled it down onto a table. Opening it, I dig through the box of papers and notebooks with one hand until I find what I’m looking for.
Freeze Boy, the cover greeted me like an old friend. I put it under my arm and took it back to the elevator with me. My first story, the one my little third-grade mind believed would bring me the billions of dollars that I never ended up getting, the little superhero who took up so much of my child mind for so long. I took the beat-up old notebook with its faded drawings and scribbled words back to my office and gently laid it down next to my grandchild’s story. I sat back in my chair and picked up a pen and paper when my phone rang.
My college friends were planning a meeting soon, and the call was an invitation to come a little early to have dinner and a chat. Of course, I would never turn down a get-together with some of the most incredible people I know.
As it so often did, my mind wandered back to my college years. The trip to London, the four years at that wonderful school that taught me what I wanted to do with my life. It was because of those years that I decided to become a writer. Those years introduced me to my significant other and forged the greatest connections I’ve had in my entire life. I take a minute to chuckle at the absurdity of it all. Who would have thought that we would all have ended up here? The awkward giant who stumbled into one of the best periods of his life, now sitting in his office, a lifetime of achievements behind him and his family’s bright future ahead of him.
Who would have thought? Not me, that’s for sure.
I sent my response, unaware that the answer would turn out to be no matter what I said. Sitting back in my seat, I turn my attention to the paper. Starting to do what I’ve been doing for the past eighty years. I try to coax words to do my bidding, putting them into sentences and paragraphs, trying to reflect what I feel in my soul on this inanimate object.
After it’s finished, I stand again, making my way to bed. Leaving the note on top of the old story from my past.
‘Hey, kid,
I was thinking of you today, I know you’re probably not proud of the story you wrote for me anymore, and I just wanted to offer you a word of encouragement. You won’t always be proud of the work you do. In fact, if you’re like me at all, you’ll very rarely be entirely satisfied with the outcome of your story. You’ll always have the little voice in your head saying, ‘you can get better.’ I just want to let you know that voice shouldn’t let you think less of what you do. Underneath this note is the very first story that I remember writing. When you read it, you’ll see that there is always room for improvement. However, that’s life, it may sound like I’m doing a lousy job encouraging you, but it’s true. There will always be room for improvement, but the beautiful thing is that you will always grow to match these improvements, and you’ll be able to look back at what you’ve done and see how far you have come. That’s why I kept old Freeze Boy around because I’m proud of how far I’ve come since then. It’s your story, your writing. Never be afraid to look back at where you came from. I won’t stop you if you want to throw out the book you gave me. I just encourage you to think long and hard about it because when it’s your name on those best-selling lists instead of mine, I think you’ll appreciate this little story the way I appreciate mine.
I love ya, kid,
Grandpa Fall’
I lay back in my bed and turn around to face the wall. Leaning the cane next to my nightstand, I let my eyes drift close and fall asleep, unaware that this was the last time I’ll have them open in this world.
My shrill alarm wakes me quickly. I look at the clock with blurred vision, nearly regretting the late night I spent with friends the day before. Nearly, but not quite. I shake my head and swing my legs down from my raised bed to the carpeted ground below. Quickly getting dressed and making my bed, I stop at my desk to grab my Student ID, glasses and watch. My eyes fell on the paper I had left on the desk the night before. Ideas for Robot League’s story beats. I look at it, check my watch, and quickly put it away.
My dreams will have to hold on for a bit.
I’m going to be late for class.
Will Fall Writings 