The Dragon of Separation Returns with a Vengeance
“Hi,” said Amrozi’s head with a big smile.
I dropped my chin and closed my eyes.
“I bet you think you’re crazy, don’t you?”
I didn’t answer.
“Think of it this way, Bradley. Maybe you’re enduring a temporary psychosis, but you can at least do it with your eyes open, like a man.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” I asked. But I opened my eyes anyway.
“Better,” said the head. “Congratulations. I’d shake your hand, but, well, that’s not exactly possible right now. No, no, don’t close your eyes again. I know that this must be frightening and confusing, just stay awake and pay attention. We have to talk.”
“I’m not hearing this.”
“Right, that’s okay. What’s wrong with a little therapeutic delusion? Some of the great writers and poets and artists and scientists had some of their most powerful inspirations while delusional. Looking at Einstein’s hair-do, can you honestly tell me that he was a completely sane individual?”
I put the car into drive and began pulling out of the parking lot. The stoplight turned red at the intersection and I came to a stop.
“Look,” I said. “I can’t deal with this. I’m going to have to pull over and put you in the trunk.
“In the trunk?” said John Amrozi’s head. “I’ll suffocate in there.”
I pulled back in disbelief. “How in the world can you suffocate? You don’t,” I reminded the head, “have any lungs.”
“It’s dark in the box,” it protested. “I’m claustrophobic. You don’t know what it’s like having no arms, no hands, and no legs. I can’t fight my way out of a paper bag. And what if you have to stop quickly? I could tip over upside down. How would you like to be trapped upside down in a dark box in a trunk during a bumpy car ride?”
“This is ridiculous. I can’t just leave you on the front seat. What if someone sees you? What if I get pulled over by the police? How am I going to explain you?”
“I’ll close my eyes,” it said quickly, “and pretend that I’m asleep.”
“Are you crazy? How would that help me? What would I say? ‘I’m sorry, Officer. I was just taking my pet head out for a drive and it fell asleep?’ They’d have me locked up in a cell— an insane asylum cell.”
“Put a blanket over me,” he suggested.
“And what if they look under the blanket?”
“No wonder you’ve never gone anywhere I life, Richard. You’re afraid to take chances.”
I closed the lid.
excerpted from “Borgo Pass,” by Ferrel D. Moore
********
At that moment, the woman who dared question Economy as the great rule of writing is seized to be dragged to the Pit, I see the color of the sky itself painted with brushstrokes of angry orange. Off in the distance where the buzzards had circled over the carcass of the dead Dragon of Separation, I see dark clouds fomenting. The air around us cools, and I shiver in the face of this ominous portent. No one else seems to notice; all eyes are fixed on the fire-haired woman who is about to be dragged away and thrown into the Writer’s Pit. None move to defend her. Who are we to question Economy in writing? We have, after all, been told that it is the only way to enter the City of Writer’s Gold.
From your wooden throne next to Ferdinand, you are looking out into the assembly of writers, staring at the woman who has dared challenge Shrift, the master strategist of Ferdinand the dragonslayer. Your mouth is slightly agape, and there is a bewildered expression on your face.
At the edge of the assembled crowd, the woman is now being dragged away to be thrown into the Pit. Shrift has ordered that anyone who does not worship Economy in writing above else is not fit to enter the Writer’s City of Gold. There is an unspoken objection in your face, as though you want to shout that there are other considerations sometimes more important than Economy, but you have not the will to speak your mind. I wonder about this, too, but I am no more confident than you, and therefore say nothing. I do not wish to end up in the Pit.
The woman is struggling, her eyes wild with fear her long red hair flying about as she demands to stay, but the three writers who are taking her away simply grip her more tightly and shove harder. I turn my head from the sight. She cries out, but she has questioned Economy, so I pretend I do not hear her. When I look at you again, I see you are staring back at me; this time you look down, too. Whether you are ashamed of me or yourself or both, I cannot say. Shrift is oblivious to the woman’s plight, and continues his lecture.
The great Ferdinand, slayer of Dragons, does not intervene.
“The second secret of writing the Assembly Line Way I call the “Cookie Cutter” technique,” he says. “What is the Cookie Cutter technique? It is very simple and very efficient- we all agree that there are only certain types of characters, and we all agree to make use of them and them only. There is one saying that Andiron the Prophet heard a great man from the future proclaim in one of his visions, and it was this: ‘They can have any color they want, as long as it is black.’ That man, says Andiron, will someday be hailed by all of his time as a genius. Who better to learn the Assembly Line Way from than its founder? Do you all agree?”
I am still afraid to speak, as are the rest of the assembled writers. We are all surpised, including Shrift himsel, when you, seated behind him, ask in a resolute voice, “And was this man a writer?”
Shrift’s mouth opens in disbelief. A question from you? Why would you of all writers question him? You are, after all, the woman seated on a wooden throne next to the great Ferdinand, slayer of the the Third Dragon of Creative Writing, and the man thought by all to be destined someday to become the greatest writer in all the world.
As Shrift turns to gawk at you, you repeat your question: “Was he a writer?”
After recovering his composure at being asked such a question by you, Shrift answers, “No, M’lady, according to Andiron, he was not.”
“And what was his trade?” you ask. There is an edge to your voice that I have never heard before.
The great Ferdinand smiles broadly, displaying a mouth full of perfect teeth. “Tell her, Shrift,” he encourages the bald man. “It is an interesting question. What exactly was his trade?”
“Allow me, to answer, M’lord,” says Andiron the Prophet, who stands up straight and addresses the assembled crowd of writers with his answer. “The creator of the Assembly Line Way made complicated metal mechanisms that moved.”
“Mechanisms?” I ask without thinking. “What has that to do with Writing?”
I cringe when I see Shrift’s reaction. From beneath hairless eyebrows, his eyes bore down on me like a starving hawk on a plump field mouse. Perhaps if I further question the Assembly Line Way, I, too will be forcibly taken away by my fellow writers and dropped into the Pit along with the woman who had questions.
“It is the principle, young lad,” says Shrift. He speaks to me as though I am not old enough to ask experienced questions.
I bridle at his tone, but do not wish to jeoparize my chances to enter the Writer’s City of Gold, where all writers are richly rewarded.
“Listen carefully, all of you,” he continues. “The founder of the Assembly Line Way realized that for a person or an enterprise to be successful, parts- whether of complicated mechanical contraptions or stories- must beinterchangeable. Characters must be easy to understand and standardized so that one need only change their names and use them again in another story but with a different name. Plots, too, must be similar to each other so these characters can be dropped in and out of them with ease. We will all use these standardized characters and plots. Why waste our time creating uniquely different complex characters and plots when we can all standardize? Think of the time and thought we will save! Do you see the beauty of the assembly line way? Just a handful of cookie cutter characters and plots we can all use. And they will all fit together easily because we don’t put our hearts and souls and inspiration into them, so these stories will not be unique creations.”
As discreetly as I can, I cast quick glances to my left and right to gauge the reaction of my fellow writers. They are doing the same. None of us, it seemed, had any idea how to respond. The Cookie Cutter way was not the Way of the Sacred Dragons of Creative Writing. Writers were once sacred torchbearers who carried our creative flames into the darkness of human pain and suffering, showing the light of triumph to heroes and heroines who overcame towering obstacles. Under the Assembly Line Way, we would all use the same Cookie Cutters to punch out our characters from a recipe of ficitonal dough so that our combined cast of characters would be the same. We would then arrange them as we would, making sure to use plots punched out in the same manner.
“Aha,” I shout. “Then we will be assemblers of things that were standardized and predictable, and hence the name the Assembly Line Way. We no longer have to think, just assemble.”
On the platform, Shrift claps his hands in my honor. Overhead the sky purples with vitriol.
“Bravo, lad” he says. “Now you have grasped the essential beauty of the Cookie Cutter. We will make plot diagrams and character arcs, and we will all use the same thinking when writing. Why, we will mix these parts and assemble them to create stories that are as easy to make as a stick figure. Only a fool would choose the Dragon Way over the Assembly Line Way, as you can now plainly see. We will not create new realities, we will only assemble old ones. Creativity is painful, time consuming, and exhausting. Assembly of Cookie Cutter characters and plots is so much easier and faster; with all the energy left over from not creating, we can write many Cookie Cutter stories and will make much more money than writing only one or two or three stories over the course of a lifetime. More stories will mean more money and we will then be able to enter the City of Writer’s Gold.”
“Hurray,” several writers shout.
I begin to clap, but stop when I see that you, seated next to the great Ferdinand, seem distraught. I wonder at that moment if you are disappointed in me. Is that why you left me alone in the cave? Was it because I was too slow to learn the Lesson of the Second Dragon? Ferdinand is much more handsome than I. And he is famous. I see you look past me to the assembly of writers below you, and I notice how your face brightens.
In the course of my life, I will later tell our children, I have only three epiphanies, and four important realizations. At that moment, I have my first important realization. I see that you are not on stage next to Ferdinand because you love him or because you want to enter the City of Writer’s Gold. You are up there because, as the consort of the great Ferdinand, you are admired by all.
At that moment, I remember my mother telling me one afternoon seasons ago that a girl needs very much to be wanted more than loved. A woman needs to be loved more than wanted. Standing here in this strange village of writers and slain dragons, I understand the meaning of my mother’s words. I see that you are still young and need admiration. I am still young and I have never been attentive enough. You do not care about the City of Writer’s Gold as much as I; you care that you are admired. On stage, you are admired. Wealth and admiration must be powerful afflictions to poetic souls such as ours, I think. I wonder how a writer can write well when their mind is always thinking of wealth and fame. But I have no, answers, and return my thoughts to Shrift.
“Now, quickly,” he says, “I will tell you about ‘The Same, Differently- the third secret to the Assembly Line Way.”
Perhaps it is the change in temperature, or the gusts of wind that dry my eyes like demons sucking away breath, but my head begins to hurt as though a giant is squeezing it between his two great hands.
“You may be asking,” continues Shrift, “how it is that if we use Cookie Cutter characters, and simplistic plots, that our readers will not get bored. But worry not, fellow writers, because you do not need to be creative to be a successful writer and enter the Writer’s City of Gold. Creativity is the Dragon Way. We do not need it.”
“How is this possible?” I ask.
Shrift stares contemptuously down at me, and I feel nauseous. My heart pounds against my chest like a prisoner trying to escape and my own skin feels more like a costume. I am not well. Perhaps I have been too long traveling and am falling into delirium. My vision waivers like vapors in heat, and I see Shrift’s face transform into that of a leering, fanged pale-green goblin with highpointed ears. A viscous, milky fluid leaks from the corner of his mouth. In the distance, I hear the flapping of giant wings. Sweat breaks through my pores and my skin is soaked.
Then, the moment is gone and Shrift is only Shrift again. The nausea passes and I feel myself again. Shrift looks at me curiously, but then begins again.
“We replace creativity with simply putting all of the Cookie Cutter characters and plots we have agreed upon into a pot, stir them up and simply reach in and take out a plot, a few characters, and maybe a standard theme, and there will be our story. It will take very little work, and we can do it over and over again and our readers will be none the wiser. Simple random mix-ups will replace creativity. Don’t think, mix and match! Creativity is wasted on readers. Creativity takes time, effort and sustained commitment. These things prevent us from making many stories, and we must write many stories to make much wealth so that we can enter the City of Writer’s Gold. And then…”
A giant, roaring wind sweeps down from the sky and blasts away Shrift’s words. Trees bend down like supplicants before an altar, and our clothes fluff and flap as we stagger to keep upright. Shrift is forced three steps backwards, almost knocking you from your chair. A gust of leaves are ripped from their branches and thrown into his face like flowers on a grave. From somewhere up above it a bubbling cauldron sky, I heard a terrifying, bellowing cry that shakes the very bones of my body.
Ferdinand leaps to his feet and takes out his might sword of Commerce. He points it toward heaven and shouts something, but his oath is puny in the face of the tempest coming down at us. I look toward the sky, covering my eyes from the howling wind, and I see a magnificent dragon, blue orange in color with wings like a ships sail flapping. Hooked talons clasp and unclasp as it comes hurtling down at us. It’s eyes are pinpoints of angry fire, and from its wicked jaws and horned nostrils blows hot mist. In foreclaws at the end of arms long and sinewy and shiny bright with scales, it holds a mighty flaming sword.
People scream and scatter before the hot mist blasting the village as the dragon speeds down at us getting larger and larger with each second. Its great shadow overcasts us like a judgment, and I cower to the ground.
It screams its war cry like the dead crying for life, and I look up to see it roll back its sword, preparing for a might swing. It is flying directly at you. The great Ferdinand is screaming now, his mouth stretched and distorted. His sword of Commerce lays abandoned on the platform. I see him grab you suddenly and thrust you between him and the flaming eyes and hot mist of the dragon. With the realization that the dragon will cut through you to get to Ferdinand, I scramble to my feet and run to the platform.
But I am too late. The dragon’s terrible fiery sword arcs down toward you and you scream.
