“Where is this fucking world going?” He sat by his kitchen nook with his coffee, thinking. “I can’t even remember when it all began to go South. For fuck’s sake, what kind of life this is anyway?” Jack’s face was looking tired. It was tired of too many things. His sleep was poor, drinking too much, too often, writing at weird times and hours or not writing for too long, abandoned by his family, having no or very minimal human interaction, all those things. He’s been getting older by the minute, and he felt like it. It was that face in the mirror every fucking morning that he had to cringe at every time. His soul might have felt younger, but the face showed it all. There were too many messages written on it, too many scars. He could read them all too well. He did it to himself in a way. It was too late to judge now, and who was there to judge him anyway? We all make mistakes in life. For many, life was a mistake. For many, there was no life, just a miserable existence. For some, it was a fucking paradise with the sun shining all the time. He’s had it all and then some.
What does money mean now? What does fame mean now? What do these books on the shelves and beer in the fridge mean now anyhow? He looked around with a depressed look on his aging face. The grey was now showing more in his hair and three-month beard. His eyes were sat deep and looked small and tired. It was impossible to go back in time and fix things. Fuck, if only he could do that! Everything felt great at the time, and nothing was to be changed. Years later, more and more of these revisioning thoughts were coming to him, stressing his hangover brains. Maybe, it was his drinking. There was plenty of that. There is always plenty of drinking and hanging out when things are swell. Things were going well for a long time. He was basking in his fame, and his books were topping all the charts back in the day. He still had his fans, but he didn’t have his passionate soul and youth anymore. That’s life, he thought. That is my motherfucking life.
Sipping his coffee, he stood up and walked up to the window. The picture outside the window was pretty much reflected what he felt like on the inside. It was late January, and it was freezing cold. There was so much snow, and he never bothered to shovel it. His backyard looked like the place where nature goes to die. All these naked, empty, dark trees were standing there motionless. Everything was stripped from its green wealth and beauty. That fucking snow covered everything, hiding the fucked up ugly surface underneath. This was a rough winter. This was a rough life.
He drifted in his memories back to when his family was living there with him. What a cheerful great old days they were! Where did they all go? He saw his wife planting flowers and decorating the backyard. He saw his young son running around, playing with their dog. There were smiles on their faces. There was laughter and joy, and there was his family. There was a feeling of being alive. He was busy working on his next novel all the time, but once he stopped writing, and just like right now, he looked through the window, and he couldn’t take his eyes away. These were his favorite people in the world. They were the people he was supposed to keep around, support, and love till the bitter end. That was the best part of his life passing by him while he took everything for granted and got busy with everything else. Somehow you feel like other responsibilities need more attention, and you keep distancing yourself from the ones who truly love you and need close to you. There are usually more and more responsibilities and other shit that pile up over time, and eventually, you end up old and broken and alone. Sadness took over his mind and soul. The tears rolled up in his old eyes. He felt the heart trembling and the pain inside. Fuck, he said, what a fucking asshole am I? How could I miss out on them so much? Where are they now? I guess you can’t go back in time to change anything. I think this suffering is permanent.
Jack’s wife divorced him some five years ago. There were a lot of problems between the two. Jack’s writing career picked up. He was always in the center of everyone’s attention, and it took the best of him. He was never around, and he was always busy with meetings, writings, appearances, new book projects, movie projects, all that kind of shit. On the one hand, it was great to see him succeed; on the other, he appeared to be more and more away from his wife and family, and eventually, when he was around, he wasn’t sober. The constant glorifying of his works and celebrating his successes led him to drink his ass blind. That was never a plan. That was never supposed to happen.
Jack remembered meeting his wife when he was a young and starving writer. They went to the same school, they had known each other for a long time. It has been one of those moments when you realize, damn, how come I never saw this in you? You are so beautiful and caring, and I cannot stop thinking about you. He offered to marry her right there in the dorm room, and she said yes. Jack smiled again, and his stone face moved awkwardly. These were the good days of his life. These were the best days of his life. He was young and ambitious. He wanted to become a writer, and school was just a distraction. It was just another social norm to follow while establishing his writing career. The college was supposed to cover up for his writing time while working on his debut masterpiece. He finally got it. He wrote that first best-selling novel. Everything started to change around him right the next day after. He barely graduated as he became famous. It felt great. It felt rewarding. They were both happy about his success then. They’ve shared their joy and excitement. Around the same time, his wife got pregnant with their son, and there was another great reason to be happy. Jack was writing on the next book.
If I only knew what that early success would cost me. Jack was desperate. Now, on the edge of his life, he was lonely. He was going to be a successful writer and provide for his family. He’s lived his dream life. But now his family is gone, his success in the past and his writing stalled for an undefined period. Life is a bitch. Life always keeps fucking you over. You have to pick your fucking battles more carefully, pal, he said to himself. Who gives a fuck about you, old man, anymore? His coffee was now cold, but he still felt like drinking it to the end.
It was sunny outside, and it seemed like it was warm. The snow was still on the ground, which would tell you otherwise. These short and cold days were flying away from one after another like the wild birds in the sky. There was no way of stopping the time. There was no way to get back in time and fix past problems. All you have to do is to suffer well, old man. He would call somebody, but he had nobody to talk to. Nobody called him either. It’s been a while since that phone was ringing. This is life. This is a revanche. I am losing this fight, Jack thought. It was not supposed to be this way.
He strolled to the bar and picked a bottle of whiskey. He went up to his writing room. His laptop was sitting on the table next to a pile of papers and glasses scattered all over. He poured himself a drink in one of the glasses and drank it all. It felt calming. He opened his laptop and started to type:
“There he was, on the edge of life, lonely and broken with all those books dusting on the library shelves around the world. Life gave him too many chances. Most of them he wasted. It’s not over until it is over, he thought and drank another one. Living his dream cost him a lot. He paid his price in full. There was nothing left for him in his City of Brotherly Love, not love nor any future promises. Everything came and went, and not all of the memories remained in his hangover mind. Fighting the good fight and drinking the good whiskey was everything left for him to do in his empty house of broken dreams with windows shut dark from the outside world. The writing was a lonely game. Life was a lonely game too. It wasn’t too bad as long as the words kept coming and the lines were written. Not at all.”
Mark McGuire – the greatest living writer of the present day. What a talent, what a man, what a writer! The man who wrote so good that he humbled the entire literature world, and all the Philadelphia residents cherished him more than anything else. Some would say he was more popular around here than Rocky. That’s how vital Mark McGuire has been to his native Philadelphia, the City of Brotherly Love, the City that gave birth to this great man, this great writer, the genius of the written word, the writer with a capital “W.” This writer wrote better than anybody else in the entire world. Hundreds and thousands of tourists were coming to Philadelphia, first and foremost, to see the City where the great writer lives, to walk the streets where the great writer walks, to get a drink in the bars where the great writer drinks occasionally, and just breathe the air of the City infused with such a quality talent. A ton of inspiring writers would get inspired coming to Philly. Here it is, this is the place, the City that can encourage anybody. Philadelphia, the City that can make you a great somebody. Mark’s name has been part of the local news almost every day. There were reports on the late night’s news coverage covering the day in the life of the most famous writer in the United States of America and the most known and recognized writers and residents of Philadelphia, Mark McGuire. Even though it was hard to spot him wondering the City during the daylight, he was still here; he was around, he was home.
Mark was born in late August of 1973 to his emigrant parents, who came here from Eastern Europe in search of a better life. Mark grew up like a regular American kid in an immigrant family. He was a bright child growing up, a good-looking young man, and everything was alright with him. There was something about him that would make one stop and take a closer look and listen to what he has to say, or just to be around this great man. Mark graduated from a public high school and enrolled in one of the best business schools in Philadelphia City to pursue a degree in Economics. His parents were broke, and he didn’t have enough money to get himself better clothes, a better car, or a better anything. With his outstanding grades and some government help, he enrolled into Drexel, one of the top business schools in Philadelphia. He needed a great school and a great work experience to make sure he’ll get a good-paying job in the future and can help his parents to get old and retire in comfort. His study was tough on him in the beginning. The wealth of knowledge was overwhelming, the pace was too fast, and he often thought that getting into this school was a big mistake. He still had to make his parents proud and pushed himself harder. Eventually, he graduated after four years of torture and was happy to graduate finally.
He has learned some Economics and general business studies, but the most crucial class was English. He took the English class dedicated to the work and life of John Steinbeck. Mark was fascinated with John Steinbeck. While learning about Steinbeck’s life, it seemed to him that a writer’s life was always full of unpredictable, exciting, and exotic events and unusual people who eventually will help shape you as a writer and inspire you to write. Ultimately, life will inspire one to write. In his English class, Mark’s assigned reading was “The Log from the Sea of Cortez,” the novel about Steinbeck’s expedition to the Gulf of California in 1940 to collect and learn about various marine species while writing about his observations and experiences. Mark felt that this is something that he would like to do as well. The life of a writer, Steinbeck’s indeed, must’ve always involved some drama in personal life, drinking, smoking, travels, discoveries, struggles, misery, and desperate writing itself. All these things he will live through eventually. All these things will ultimately influence his writing and will make him as great as Steinbeck has been.
Mark read this book with excitement regardless of plenty of biological terminologies. Mark loved this expedition’s whole idea and thrill, especially Steinbeck’s remarks and thoughts he wrote about in that book. Mark reading “The log from the sea of Cortez,” thought about how fascinating it must’ve been to be John Steinbeck, the most significant American author of his time, living his life full of adventures and excitement while being almost broke financially and while his personal life was falling apart. Nonetheless, he was writing, and he was doing what he wanted to do, creating his art of a written word. He was John Steinbeck. Mark wanted to be like him. For the first time, the idea came to him to become a writer, and it was larger than life.
Mark McGuire has published three successful books and multiple short stories across various publications and journals. His first book, “Immigrant Song,” has put him right up there with all the promising writers. He met his agent around the same time and got a deal for his second book. The second book, “The Houses of the Holy,” has won the Pulitzer prize and put Mark McGuire on the national level. As the sales in the United States went through the roof, the book received international printing and has been translated into more than thirty languages earning him international success as well. “Gods and Monsters,” the third book by mister Mark McGuire received a Nobel prize in literature in 2014. Mark was a proud son of his parents, a happy family man, at that point, and the most respected resident of Philadelphia and the State of Pennsylvania, and the entire country and the entire world. Hollywood bought the rights to all of his books and produced three top-grossing movies. The White House at one time invited Mark to have dinner with a President and his family. Mark has befriended multiple celebrities around the globe who wanted to meet the most incredible author of the present day. His life couldn’t be more exciting and successful. He was the greatest living writer in the world!
Mark owned multiple properties in Pennsylvania, New York, Los Angeles, and the beach house in Jersey but spent most of his time in Philly. Philadelphia, his hometown, had everything his little heart desired. Mark loved the architecture of Philadelphia, the parks, busy during the day streets, and peaceful calming nights of the City of Brotherly Love. The City inspired him and made him want to be an artist and to create his craft. He loved to walk around the City a lot before he became famous, and it was still possible to walk outside and not be bothered by the people. He loved to take long walks down Broad street and onto the Spruce and down to Columbus Boulevard, then take Walnut back to the Market and his bellowed Old City. Mark’s favorite residence was right there in the heart of the Old City, 3rd and Market. He owned the top floor with a nice view of the City, which always inspired him and made him feel at home. This residence was his creative shelter. This place gave birth to his latest third book, five years ago, and since he hasn’t published or wrote anything new.
He was a writer that didn’t write. He had it all and at some point, but everything has left him alone, high and dry. His situation was dire. He thought a lot about his life and death and all the reasons and meaning of everything, but nothing helped. He still wasn’t writing anything new. He drank more too. Mark would wake up early in the morning and look through the window over the dark and still sleepy City. He found this view very comforting and inspiring in the way. Mark loved to get up early in the morning and watch the sun rising and observe how the color of the sky changed, often with a glass of whiskey in his hand. He had his typewriter ready to go, but still, nothing came to him. Mark would stare at the blank sheet of paper for a long time. His face would freeze in the sad and thoughtful grimace, thinking about what he should be writing next.
“I am Mark McGuire, the greatest writer in the world! Isn’t it? I used to write well. I used to write days and nights, tired and starved, with a shitty laptop and a word processor, and there were so many great stories and ideas to write about! Where are they now? Why did they all leave me here all alone and desperate? I need to get back to business; I need to write something. It’s been five damned years since my last book. I need to show people some new work, and it got to be good. It better be good! Not good, but great! Yes, it better be great, another great book by Philly’s famous one and only, Mark McGuire! And I feel like I also need some coffee.” He went to the kitchen to brew some fresh, strong black coffee. Pure black was his favorite. Sipping at his coffee from the large white ceramic mug, Mark was staring at another sunrise, looking into the infinite skies thinking. “Maybe I should go for a run while the City is waking up and there aren’t too many people outside? I think I need to get back in shape, both physically and in writing. I need to be strong and active.”
He dressed in his running clothes and running Nike sneakers and went outside. It was September out, and the air was still warm but somehow very clean and fresh this early morning. Mark stretched his legs and started jogging down the street. He ran for about 40 minutes one way and then returned home. Running in the morning in the City was great. As he ran, he listened to a classical station on his phone. The classical music in the morning did the trick. He felt so elevated and fulfilled while listening to it. The running seemed to come easy, and he felt like he could run even more than his usual distance. There were not too many people and cars out yet, and he found a bit of personal comfort and privacy in that. Mark loved his fame and his fans, but more than anything else, he loved his privacy. He could be the nicest guy out there socializing with other people; however, people tired him fast. He felt exhausted and frustrated and had to meditate to find his peace of mind and get back into a stable mental condition. After about an hour and a half of his morning jogging, Mark returned home. He returned yet again to an empty page.
“I need some breakfast,” he thought and went to the fridge for some eggs and veggies. That was his “breakfast of the champion” – two fried eggs and fresh vegetables with a cup of coffee. He ate and drank his coffee. He felt a little better. After Mark finished his breakfast, he looked at an abandoned typewriter and still felt nothing but sadness. It was time for his morning meditation. Mark loved to sit in his favorite rocking chair and drink or listen to music or meditate. Mark meditated for at least thirty minutes every day. Meditation was his remedy for going insane. Writing could’ve been the most liberating and fulfilling thing, or it could turn out to be the most depressing, uneventful, and devastating experience for a writer. Mark has had it all. He’s been around for long enough; he knew things, he knew what it meant to be a writer, especially a good writer.
“I need to write something now. I know I can. Maybe not today, maybe tomorrow? Who knows, I just hope it will come back to me. I wish this meditation helped more, or whiskey, or even running. Fuck, anything would be helpful to get me started at the typer. Once I am there, I am truly there. I can kill, I can destroy, I can write like no one around! Maybe, I just need to relax a little bit more and watch some TV or something?”
TV bored him fast; there was nothing on it that would fascinate him. “I’d rather read a book.” Mark grabbed “Ask the Dust” by John Fante and started reading. Oh, John Fante! The lost and long-forgotten one of the Great American writers! What a man! What a writer! Reading Fante was like breathing the fresh air. His writing always seemed so easy and smooth and funny and nicely composed. Mark admired John Fante a lot. He was another significant influence on Mark’s writing. Reading anything Fante did would make any idiot start writing himself. He read for about two hours and stopped, then went to his home bar and grabbed himself a glass of whiskey. Whiskey felt good. He sat back in his chair and read some more. After a while, he thought he could go back to his writing again. He was standing before his typewriter, looking at this machine with slight curiosity. “Ok, my dear friend. I want you back. I want to be friends with you again. Help me put a few pages, and I will never forget your generosity, and I shall always cherish our friendship.” He came closer and started to type:
“It has been a cold and dark morning, and the City was still asleep. John woke up after he heard the harsh noise which came from the street. He wondered what the hell that was. He woke up and took a shower. The shower felt sobering and refreshing, and John felt better and calm. Even yesterday’s hangover was gone within minutes. His wife called him a day before, and he refused to talk to her. They were divorced for the last two years but still had to talk to each other from time to time, especially to discuss the alimony payments and when the child can stay over. John had enough of that. He wanted to move on. He wanted to leave town, but he couldn’t. He missed his son and loved him dearly. Why was he ever involved with this woman in the first place? Why was he so stupid?”
Mark stopped for a moment, re-filled his whiskey, and tried to continue but didn’t know how to. He stared some more at the half-full page. He needed some more time to focus. He stepped back, turned to the window with the city view, and watched people move on the streets and cars drive back and forth. The City was alive and busy again. There is so much life in there. Mark felt nostalgic for a moment. He reminisced about the days when he was a poor student, with no car, no money, no books published. How simple was life back then? How great and terrifying it felt not to know what the next day will bring and not to be sure if the very few dollars in your pocket will last long enough. He was young and starved, and there was something about that state of mind. When your back is against the wall, and you have nowhere to run and nowhere to hide, you act fast, you think quickly, have no time to discuss anything, no time for bullshit, only actions, clear, precise, concrete steps. Those actions made him write in the first place. He wrote his first book in about three months. He remembered the feeling of finishing his last page and then just stare at the pile of paper. “This is my book! My very first book!” He said, smiling proudly. That moment was worth reliving a hundred times.
Moments like that usually don’t happen too often. Unfortunately, things were not so easy as they seemed. He was not starving; he wasn’t hungry; he wasn’t in the state of his back-against-the-wall. Once the most celebrated people in Philadelphia, he was wealthy, well-respected, and an established writer. He did not wish for anything anymore and for many-many more years to come. His wife divorced him two years ago, and now he had a lot more time to spend on his writing. And he did, but he didn’t write. It just didn’t come to him. Whatever came out of him went straight into a trash bin. The writing was never easy. The writing was never easy for anybody, not even for Fante. The phone rang.
“Hello, this is David Fitzwater, from The Philadelphia Inquirer. I would like to speak to Mark McGuire if possible?” “Mark McGuire’s listening.” “Hello, Mr. McGuire, I am the main editor of Philadelphia Inquirer, and we would like to do an interview with you and let our people, Philadelphia residents to know what you have been working on and how your life is going these days. Would you be willing to sit down with me for an interview?” “Um, sure, let’s do this.” “How about tomorrow, if possible? Afternoon works?” “Yeh, tomorrow afternoon works; around 1 pm is good for me.” “Sounds good, Mark. Thank you very much. I am looking forward to talking to you tomorrow. You have a great day yourself.” “Thank you, David, you as well. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”
He hung up. One more interview to talk about nothing. Because nothing mostly was happening in his life. People asked him to do an interview almost every day, either for journals, newspapers or TV shows. He had his “great life story” ready to go. However, not everything was so great and smooth in his life anymore. After the third book, when the big success hit him, everything changed. One might think that he had finally achieved what all writers in the world would like to achieve, the Nobel prize in literature, worldwide success, and endless fame, limitless possibilities, and opportunities in movies, books, and TV. Everything changed entirely for Mark to the worst.
Jack woke up early that morning. He couldn’t sleep. He wasn’t able to fall back to sleep for a while now, but he tried to stay in bed as long as possible. It seemed like the sleep was a long time gone, and all he did in the last two hours was just twisting and turning. He had a bad dream, something weird from the past was going through his mind and his dreams, and he couldn’t lose it. The minute he’d fall asleep, that same weird, strange dream came back to haunt him. It almost felt like watching the same annoying video on Youtube on repeat. At some point, he just gave up. Fuck that, he thought, I guess that is enough of the battle. It is time to wake the fuck up and smell the roses. It is another day, and it is a new day to start things fresh. Maybe it is time to start life fresh?
He went to the bathroom, took a piss, and turned the cold water on to wash his tired face. The cold water felt great. It felt refreshing, even though he still felt the same old tired. He watched his reflection in the mirror and noticed that he is not the same person he thought he was. He noticed that he’s changed. His face changed, his attitude changed, and there was some grey hair sticking out of his temples, letting him know that he’s no longer that young and careless lad, and reminding him that life went on taking its toll on him. Damn, I am getting old, thought Jack, with a bit of sadness.
Coffee was on his list next. Jack liked a good, freshly brewed black coffee, made in the Moka pot, the way Italians made coffee for decades. The good old coffee tradition that stock with people for years, even today, in these weird fucking days, people are still brewing the same coffee the same way. It felt more authentic to Jack and more pleasurable to brew his coffee himself. Hell, it was so much better then that drip filtered bullshit or anything you can get at those fucking gas stations. The classic music radio played on his smart speaker, and it just felt normal. The only normal thing about his life was coffee and classical music.
My current situation and some deep ‘philosophical’ thoughts
Sometimes you might find yourself thinking about something that you believe you are an expert of. Like myself, I am deep into my thoughts and they come to me one after another just like glasses of wine I am drinking, one after another, after another; and so into the night and so into my life. People are funny, thinking that they know everything. They like to share their bullshit with you, trying to convince you that whatever they say is the holy truth, the only right way. Usually, I just nod agreeably hoping to get the fuck out of there asap; to escape, avoid the entire situation, avoid everyone, abandon the human race. Sometimes you may feel like you just stuck there and you have to listen to their bullshit which is just simply driving you fucking insane. Why do I always have to be in those stupid situations, talking to the people I hate on topics I don’t give a shit about? Fuck all that, I think I don’t have to suffer anymore. Let somebody else waste their lives on that random bullshit. I am out. I don’t have a fucking minute to waste on any of your stupid problems. I just don’t care.
I am thinking a lot about my future. What is it out there for me? What the hell will I be doing a year from now, two years from now, five… Who knows? Nobody. But we all live and hope for ‘the Best’ and ‘the Best’ is always fucking busy somewhere else but just never by me. Sounds familiar? Ok, good. We are on the same page then. All my life I have been waiting for a miracle, like something unusual might happened to me because I am a special person, the selected one, the fucking best person in the world. But nothing extraordinary did ever happened. It’s been a rough ride for most of my life. Nothing was easy, nothing was free. There was no accidental lottery winning, no credible person solving all of my problems, no lucky charms, no good karma, and not even a bad one. Always with my back up against the wall, I often think, am I on the right path? Am I doing the right thing? Where in the hell will I be if I continue to go this way or that way or if I just remain standing here waiting? What is this all about? Am I somewhere near the place I wanted to be? I do believe though, that some of these questions will find their answers years from now, eventually. But now I will remain here in the dark, questioning and figuring shit out just like a real man should do.
