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The Resurrection of Death City

A Novel Not Written

By Martha MathisPublished 3 years ago 5 min read
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White noise. The loudest part of silence. Somewhere off in the distant corners of quiet, the static emptiness transforms into noise. The sound of nothingness becomes something that can barely be heard. A faint echo dances through the ear canals, morphing into whatever the mind is inclined to shape. Clattering, clamoring, chatter. Incoherent noise. Overlapping ideas break the shore-front of my mind like waves, rousing consciousness from the depths of sleep. Invisible forces nudge my body left, then right. Muscles begin to twitch on an otherwise motionless face. The brow furrows. I can feel the urge to stretch. My head turns, lids lift and eyes roll forward to focus. It is still dark. Giving into the stretch with a sigh, I angle my neck until the clock comes into view. It's three o'clock in the morning. Wide awake at 3 AM. I wonder what all that noise was about. Closing my eyes and reaching for the nearest thought, it is evident that only one remains, I have not written anything in a long time.

Disturbed by the waves of silence and evicted from my slumber, I find myself positioned on front of the familiar glow of my computer screen with eager hands, but hesitant fingertips. Years have passed since my last book was completed, decades since the first, and yet none of them compared to the one they never published. Delta Publishing Company had been my literary agency from the beginning of my writing career. They published every book I submitted, save for one, claiming it to be too long for the modern-day reader. Several years ago, in an effort to survive a failing economy, Delta expanded their publishing company to include screenwriting and I wrote a synopsis based on the novel. After hearing no response, I abandoned the project. Pushing away from the computer desk, I slowly rise from my chair as I scan the bookshelf. Third row from the top, in the left hand corner between a well-read copy of 'Seth Speaks' by Jane Roberts and 'The Art of Happiness' by The Dalai Lama, the wordless black binding of an old notebook rests right where I left it. I slide the little black book out and turn it over in my hands. Pulling the tired elastic band to the side, the cover falls open and memories of another life burst out.

Scrawled in pencil across the top of the first page, 'The Golden Age of Death City.' A title that grabs your attention with something shiny, then intrigues your curiosity with the mystery of what is unknown. This little book contains all that remains of the novel. Rough outlines and first drafts of chapters, complete backstories of supporting characters, drawings of futuristic buildings and sketches of fictitious technologies. They are all here, the bones of Death City. Buried within the egg-shell colored pages, held together with black elastic, waiting for some type of resurrection. Everything that ever needed to be said, every problem that demanded resolution and every whim that desired satisfaction, had been achieved in its creation. A fictional literary endeavor, based in reality yet warped by the imagination. The final draft of the novel had only existed in digital form, so that when it vanished with a crashed hard drive, it was lost forever.

This book now holds all that is left of Death City, yet still represents so much more. It traveled the world in these hands, collecting data and preserving cultural influences. Being a manageable size, it was always readily available to capture ideas before they were forgotten. Freely allowing vigorous expression, without the hinderance of spiral wire binding found in most common notebooks, that pains the left handed artist. Aiding the transcription of inspiration in a more tangible way than any digital file ever could. Rejuvenated with enthusiasm, I return to my seated position in front of the computer. Setting the little black book beside the keyboard, I peck out the first line. 'The Novel Not Written (a writer writes a story about authoring a book that never gets published)'

Typing feverishly since the first outburst of keystrokes, hours pass by me without notice. A writers journey, to successfully encode a piece of your soul between the lines, is a meditation of sorts. An attempt to encompass the joys and sorrows of life and death in a language with words that always seems just shy of true comprehension. This story is the story of Death City and every 'successful' literary creation. Written for the sake of writing. Created for the joy of creating. Accepting the possibility that it may never be seen by another human being, yet is still an integral part of all that is. A satisfying feeling of being a conduit for something larger than myself overwhelms me. I stare at the blinking cursor at the bottom of the screen, it is complete.

With a few quick clicks the printer starts etching out a physical copy. I save and duplicate the file, being sure to make use of my external hard drive, then decide to send Delta Publishing a copy via email. As I retrieve the freshly printed pages and staple them together, a bell chime emits from the computer. It is the tone of an email notification. Delta has already replied. I assume it is an automated response, since no one could have read that entire file that quickly, and click it open. Informally written and appearing to have been sent from a smart phone, a hastily typed reply glares back at me. 'Re:Novel-Not-Written; Please contact Delta home office ASAP' The number has never changed, I easily locate it in my contacts. After acknowledging receipt of the most recent file sent and promising to look it over another time, the subject changes. In a world obsessed with binge-worthy television, the demand for original and unique story lines is at a record high. Delta Publishing Company wants to pick up 'The Golden Age of Death City' for a multi-season series and is offering a $20,000 sign-on bonus to begin writing. Disbelief, anxiety and joy wash over me as I process the information. Butterflies take flight in my stomach and a lump swells in my throat. Somehow I always knew Death City demanded life.

literature
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