An Immersive Quality

As an editor of Suitable Stories, a weekly magazine of short stories with a modest circulation in the southwest, I am sometimes more privy to the creative process than the average readers. For good or bad, some writers’ methods to creating a piece of fantasy for your reading pleasure tend to lean on the unconventional. However, it usually ends in a jumble of words that merely resemble a story. Every now and again these stories are readable and on even rarer occasions stories warrant a second reading. But this story is of James Holloway, a particular writer whose fiction continuously earned a publication week in and week out.

Normally, we at the magazine have template letters that we send out to writers notifying whether or not their submissions have been accepted or rejected for that respective week. The order is as follows: we read the story, decide whether to publish it or not, choose the appropriate notification letter, sign it, place a stamp on the envelope, and place it in outgoing mail. Every now and again we find a submission that is a decent attempt, but not good enough to make that week’s issue. Some of the submission readers, perhaps out of guilt, include a small postscript of encouragement on the rejection letter in the sincerest of hopes that that particular writer will send in another story.

Being the busy man I am in the position that I hold, I never have time to write a personalized note for writers that are published let alone those that just missed the cut. James Holloway is the exception to that rule. His stories would consistently hold my interest hostage and enthrall my senses. Even though it would probably be bad for business, I am not ashamed to call myself a fan of his work. The address to which we sent his notification letters was local and I implored him to come down so that I may be better acquainted to this talented wordsmith on a personal level. To my surprise, he called me at work and invited him for dinner one evening offering a glimpse into his creative process. What I experienced can only be described by jumping right to the meeting itself.

“You must be Mr. Gwinnett!” he greeted me at the front door. He was a tall man with broad shoulders and silver hair with the subtlest hint of wrinkles at the corners of his eyes and mouth. “Come in! Come in! Welcome to my humble abode.”

“Mr. Holloway! Thank you so much for having me over. I’m truly honored,” I extended my hand to shake his. It was a firm handshake, calloused from years of writing no doubt. “And please, call me Sid.”

“Very well, Sid. I’m Jim. I hope you don’t mind but there will be three of us dining this evening.”

“Why should I mind? The more the merrier, I say.”

“Great! My niece is staying with me for the evening.” Just then a beautiful young lady, no older than nine years of age, with blonde hair, fair skin and cobalt eyes quietly floated into the living room. “Charlotte, this is my good friend Mr. Gwinnett. He’s the one that I told you about earlier. Sid, this is my sister’s daughter, Charlotte.”

“Pleased to meet you,” she greeted in her soft sweet voice as she playfully curtsied.

“Likewise, young lady,” I tipped my head to the young girl and smiled. She smiled back and asked to be excused to her room to which her uncle obliged.

Dinner was of little consequence to the continuity of this story but I feel compelled to assure you that I, considering this to be somewhat of a business trip, abstained from wine or any other spirit during this particular meal. The only reason I have for telling you this is to not discredit the events that followed.

“All of us at the magazine really enjoyed your latest story, Jim,” I commented.

“That’s very kind of you.”

“Every time we think you’ve reached the peak of your career, you come up with something that even more fantastic. There’s just something, some unique quality that transports the reader to a new and wondrous place. It’s a wonder that you haven’t already written your first novel.”

“It’s funny you mention that, Sid. I was offered a book deal by one of your colleagues today. That’s why I was so eager to have you over for dinner this evening. I was hoping that you would be able to help me; perhaps by representing me?”

“I’d be honored to be your literary agent!”

Just then a subtle rumbling seemed to emerge from the crawlspace that separated the second floor from the ground floor. It seemed to be larger than a mouse, but whatever was the cause it sounded as if it were growing. My eyes darted to the ceiling in a failed attempt to discern what my ears could faintly detect. I looked back at Jim hoping that that sound was a regular occurrence not worthy of the attention I was giving it. He smiled warmly and chuckled as he waved his hand dismissively at the noise.

“Perhaps,” I inquired, “as your literary agent I could find out how you come up with all these incredible stories. I wonder what sort of muse you have locked away in this house.”

“Well actually,” he answered, “the trick is practice. I write and write and write until I feel the story I want to tell is told in the manner that I want it to be read.”

“But how do you know when it’s just right?”

“I’ve got no shame in admitting that I have help. I simply ask someone else to read it, and if they find themselves immersed in the world that I had created, my duty is done.”

“I hope you don’t think I’m being rude, but… That’s it? Hundreds of other writers get other people to proofread their work and so few are up to the caliber of your writing. How are you doing it any differently?” He smiled at me as if he knew that I was going to ask that exact question. I received no answer from him but a sardonic chuckle. There was no impression that it was aimed to mock my questions. Another rumble in the walls interrupted the conversation briefly. I hardly noticed it the second time around.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” I was as impatient as a young child on Christmas Eve, “what is your next story going to be about?”

“Ah,” he sighed with a whisper of flattery in his voice, “It’s funny you ask that question. My latest story is still in progress. I still haven’t found a proper ending, but I can tell you that it takes place in an exotic jungle.” The walls rumbled once more, only this time was a continuous shake. Dust flew into the air and plaster began to fall from the ceilings. I thought I saw a humongous vine wrapping itself down the banister leading to the second floor.

“Was that an earthquake?” I asked.

“Perhaps you should meet my studious and loyal proofreader.” Jim stood up and I followed him up the stairs and confirmed that a gigantic vine had strangled the banister. “It’s amazing how imaginative children can be, don’t you think? They are capable of things we as adults could only conceive as impossible.”

“I would say so,” I said distractedly. The air in the house grew moist and my shoulders shuddered at a cool breeze that seemed to come from somewhere on the upper floor. I could swear that as we approached the top step, we were actually outdoors. The hardwood grew soft and spongy, almost as if I were walking on moss. We were so deep in this mysterious jungle that it took the door to Charlotte’s bedroom to convince me we were still inside a house.

“Watch your step, and try to keep it down,” Jim instructed, “Charlotte’s still reading my story and from the look of this jungle here she’s nearly done.” There, amidst, the thick foliage, hanging vines, and eerily floating mist, was that fair haired little girl sitting quietly at her desk, reading through several leaves of paper on which Jim had typed up his latest creation.

“I don’t understand,” was my only response.

“As you can see, my niece has a very special ability, Mr. Gwinnett. If the story that I write has that one characteristic I’m looking for, that immersive quality, then innocent children such as Charlotte latch onto it, usually subconsciously. And in her case, she manifests the environment and story all around her.”

There was a rustling in the thicket surrounding us. At first, I dismissed it but after a few seconds there was a definite pair of eyes upon my back. As soon as I spun around I heard a rather large creature bolt to another side of the room.

“So this would explain the immersive quality in all your stories that I have grown to look forward to each week. So what exactly is happening at this point of the story,” I whispered trying not to break Charlotte’s concentration.

“Well I’d hate to give away the entire plot,” he said. There was a definite slow breathing coming from the tops of one of the gnarled trees. “But at this point the hunter has reached a clearing in the jungle, searching for his prey only to realize that the tables have turned. It’s all very exciting.”

“And what exactly is he hunting? Or I suppose in this case: what is hunting him?”

“A lion the size of a grizzly bear; an exaggeration of course but you wouldn’t blame me for embellishing on fact for the sake of the dramatic.”

“Of course,” I was trembling both wanting and not wanting to see the lion in the flesh. A cold chill shot done my spine as quick and frigid as the blue moonlight that shone through the trees. There was a loud rustle in the brambles behind me and before I could turn around the infamous lion had tackled me and pinned me to the ground. Its teeth were bare and glimmered yellow from Charlotte’s desk lamp. Saliva dripped from its razor pointed fangs onto my cheek, which would have otherwise been soaked in my tears. I was frozen with terror but Jim calmly walked behind the lion.

“Don’t worry, Sid, it won’t hurt you. It can’t, really. It’s just the figment of Charlotte’s very strong imagination. Besides, this is about where the story ends so far and as I mentioned earlier, I have yet to formulate a proper ending for our doomed hero who would find himself in your precarious position at this point in the plot.”

“At the risk of sounding a bit cliché,” my words trembled as I looked into the snarling mouth of the bear-lion, “but might I suggest that the hero miraculously make it out alive?”