FOURTEEN

I once asked John, who had tried his hand at both, with mixed results, what the difference was between writing comedy and tragedy. He replied that with the former you must find a way to ensure your intended audience will laugh; while with the latter, you desperately pray they do not.

So many words John had spoken to me concerning the writing life, as he saw it, came back to me now.

I sat at the escritoire in my bedroom, my desk arranged so I could peek out the mistily curtained French doors of the ground-floor room, the doors opening from the back of the house, the view taking in the borders of stocks and mignonette beyond.

As I tried to find the right note to strike in my response to Chance Wood’s last letter, particularly loud in my mind’s ear were John’s words concerning how writing enabled one to live lives, for one reason or another, one could not otherwise indulge.

I pressed pen to lip, thinking.

I was aware of a disposition in myself to feel I knew Chance Wood far better than the sum of our correspondence would indicate, but it was impossible not to build up stories in my mind around what I knew and what he wrote. At times, I would think I could almost perceive extra unwritten words on the pages that simply were not there, as if there were a story surrounding the apparent story. I had a sense of Chance Wood doing the same thing: building more in his mind about what was between us than the mere words on paper. This was hardly surprising; he lived in a prison where there was little stimulation, and it was easy to understand how someone, in such a circumstance, might allow imagination to create an even more exciting correspondence than had thus transpired, sometimes jumping ahead in terms of emotion expressed because what went on in the mind was so real it felt it must surely have transpired in reality as well. Then I would remember John’s words when he would say, of novels, that in the best ones you always had the sense there was more on the page than what your empirical senses told you. And Chance Wood was being more open now. He was writing letters that were more than just a single line or two. And yet I somehow sensed that, despite the new openness as evidenced in his last communication, should I place a foot wrong, he might bolt from me again.

Of course, the rational part of my mind wondered: Would that be such a bad thing? Did I really want to continue an association, to come closer to one who had the obvious power to unsettle me so?

But then, it was as though a sheer lightness, a silent laughing breeze blew through me. He was locked up in there, and I was free out here; what possible threat could he conceivably pose to me? Might it not be interesting to let him in just enough, just to see what new avenues of thought he might perchance lead me down?

Feeling surer of my actions than I had in days, I set pen to paper:

                  

Dear Mr. Wood,

How wonderful it was, at long last, to receive a communication from your hand that exceeded two clipped lines! And yes, I do agree with your most recent suggestion: It would be nice to engage in an exchange of thoughts.

Odd, though, now we have reached this point of agreement, I am not certain where we should start. Perhaps you have some more specific idea? If so, I should be very happy to learn of it. Do you like politics? I am told that, for a woman, I have an unusual grasp. History? Literature? I have a smattering of both. Though I must confess my interests in music are mostly confined to knowing what I like, I can at least try to explain those likings coherently when called upon to do so, even if it is not in any sophisticated manner. We could even discuss games; I have been known to win at chess if I have sufficient reason to be certain my opponent should not mind so terribly much losing to me.

In any event, let me know which topics suit you. I can see where regularly utilizing this form of communication with a single correspondent naturally lends itself to a certain amount of chattering. Further, now I can fully appreciate how one can fall into trouble by creating a string of “I’s”!

Sorry to end on such a seemingly silly note, but some days are more naturally given to silly notes than others.

As always, looking forward to hearing from you,

Mrs. John Smith

                  

With a hand that was barely even shaking at all this time, I sealed the letter up and left it for Timmins to post.