In the midst of a February blizzard lied a small cottage. Two men sat in the drawing room; a middle-aged man and a younger chap. They were sharing a cup of tea by the fire, musing over whatever topics came to mind. Left of the fire was a man in his late-thirties, with dark, but graying hair; thin; clean-shaven; large spectacles; casually dressed. He was leaned back into the sofa chair; legs crossed, eyes twinkling as he stared into the hearth. Across from him, at the right side of the fire, was a younger chap, in his twenties, with brown, frazzled haired; lean; round-eyed; the beginnings of a mustache; well dressed. This younger man sat upright, taking a sip of his tea.
They were both novelists; the older man having written a two titles with critical acclaim, while the younger one eager to begin his own career. In the time they spent together, the two acquaintances often spent their evenings by the fire, as the bitter cold of winter often kept them snowed in. Most of the time, it was the younger man who began their conversations. He had made this man his mentor, despite their similar age, and asked about his experiences as a writer as well as the thoughts he had as he was writing some of his well-known titles. The practised novelist gladly obliged, though he often times turn the discussion away from his works and beyond writing, into psychology, philosophy, and history. The chap did not mind, as he absorbed everything with care.
“Why Christopher, I am curious,” the young man began one evening. “I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure yet to ask you about your early career.”
Chris nodded, turning away from the fire. “Yes, I wondered how long it would take before you asked.” Smiling, he sat up and pulled closer his tea from the coffee table next to him. “The early stories are perhaps the most interesting part of any writer’s life.”
“I must confess I was too caught up in the moment with your company to have the thought to ask.”
“Never forget your beginnings, Lewis,” the senior man said after a sip. “It is your source of creative spirit, and what makes your writing uniquely yours.”
It was Lewis who nodded this time. He stood up and brought his cup to the foyer table where the tea sat. “Do continue.”
“Well, let’s see,” Christopher leaned back once more. “I was a terrible writer, to start. Not only in prose, but basic grammar and reading comprehension as well. Little did I think I would become a novelist.”
“Is that so? I find that hard to imagine.” The chap returned to the fireside. “What changed the course towards what you are now?”
“Hmm.” He considered for a moment; leaning towards the fire, one elbow on the arm rest, eyebrows burrowed, his mouth buried by his hand, with his thumbnail against his teeth. “It’s hard to find one singular event I could point at and say, ‘this is where I turned.’ Perhaps, if anything, it’s because I started collecting and documenting my experiences on paper.”
“Mm, I could see that,” said Lewis. “Your writing focuses a lot of the human experience and the stories of your individual characters.”
“Nuanced experiences,” his companion added. “I find those to be the most interesting.”
“Certainly,” Lewis rejoined. “That’s why I believe your writing was well-received amongst contemporary writers. No longer are the great-man stories so novel or exciting.”
“You think so?” The mentor played with the hair behind his ear. “To be honest, I don’t analyze my writing as deeply as the critics do. It’s all gut feeling as to whether or not I think it is passable enough to get my ideas across.”
“You’re a natural,” beamed Lewis.
“I wouldn’t say that either,” Chris interjected. “It’s all practice and routine.”
“Well yes, of course there’s that as well.” He then noticed the man was swiveling his tea cup. “Would you like me to pour you some more tea?”
“Yes, thank you.” Chris handed his cup over to Lewis, and he gladly obliged. The young chap returned to the foyer table to find that the tea had diluted. He prepared another bag and let his companion know it will take but a moment before it would be ready. Chris simply watched the fireplace in silence, deep in thought. After some time, once the chap returned to his seat, he spoke again, carefully pacing his words. “Try not to romanticise my writing too much. I still believe I am a terrible writer.”
“What? Why do you think so?”
“Well, let me further clarify that statement. To not sound too pompous.” Christopher sat up. “Though, no matter how I put it, it will sound pompous anyway, coming from me.”
“Do not worry about such particulars,” assured the young writer. “You have my attention.”
“To put it simply,” began the mentor. “If I compare myself to the general population, my English is great. But compared to the masters, I would say my English is terrible. I’m not sure if you’re aware of this, but English is not my first language, even if it’s my best. My writing is not incredibly intrinsic, and my vocabulary limited. Often times I need to look up spellings in the dictionary. There are still remnants of my old bad grammar habits in my writing. Many—albeit minute—details, which altogether put my writing below that of the masters.”
“That’s not a fair comparison though,” said Lewis. “They have time on their side.”
“Yes, I agree it is not a fair comparison, especially since I’ve still got a long career ahead of me. Even still, I find that comparing myself to the best is a great way to push forward. There are, of course, downsides. You lose your peace of mind when you constantly think you’re terrible. But I believe those who can endure it come out the better.”
“I would say it’s a style of writing you possess,” Lewis chimed. “Not necessarily how good or bad your writing is. There’s plenty of examples of old masters criticizing contemporary, only to see their work influence the next generations of writers and beyond.”
The two sat silently for a moment, relishing their beverage and soaking in the hearth’s warmth. Christopher stared endlessly at the flames. “Even though I say my writing is terrible, that’s not to discredit my stories. I believe my ideas to be the shining point of my works, not the writing itself that carries those ideas.”
Lewis continued to nod, lost in thought. “Fair. Fair enough. I still do enjoy your writing style, however terrible you may think it is.”
The mentor turned back to his guest. “I suppose, to wrap up this thought, my point is, my advice to you is to follow your own way. It would not serve your work justice to write in another man’s shadow.”