Tutor

“Write what you know.”1

The time-dulled wooden blades of the ceiling fans turned silently above Kingly as he tried to concentrate on the words he was typing. 2

“And what exactly is that?” 3

He spoke to the old man whose dry white head hovered over his shoulder like a horrid moon. 4

“You’re seventeen years old, Kingly, you know everything.” 5

The man laughed. It sounded like a bagpipe filed with sawdust, thought Kingly. Smelled like one, too. The man’s breath was musty and damp, though not nearly as distracting as the man’s mere presence: always perched just out of his field of vision, picking apart every word Kingly typed. Well I wanted a tutor, didn’t I? This is exactly what I asked for. Kingly directed his attention back to the glowing screen.6

This nagging old man had been present in Kingly’s life for some time now. Not in the same way he was now, pressuring him to hone his self-proclaimed skill at writing, but he had always been there. When Kingly had been young, long before he had decided upon or even considered a career in writing, he had seen this man around the neighborhood. Not seen, really, but heard. 7

“You’re going to hurt yourself doing that.” 8

“If you don’t stand up for yourself, they’re just going to keep bugging you.” 9

Phrases such as these drifted up from behind him all through his youth, whenever he went out wandering. Every time he would turn around to find the sound’s origin and all he would see was that old man, going about his business. Indeed, it took Kingly quite a while to realize that the man had been the source of this mysterious advice. He was simply so unobtrusive, so nearly unnoticeable when Kingly saw him, that Kingly had trouble believing that the man even spoke. If only I had known. Kingly chuckled inwardly.10

“Stop, Stop!” The man’s outburst surprised Kingly; he had nearly forgotten that the man was there. “Kingly, this is garbage, get rid of it.” He pointed at a line on the screen, something about “humble minds and humble hands.” 11

“I’m rather proud of that sentence, actually.” 12

“The sentence is fine, beautiful even, but that’s not the problem. The whole damn things screwed up.” Faster than kingly could stop him, the man pushed Kingly’s hands aside and deleted an entire page of his work. Kingly was livid. 13

“What in the hell did you do that for!?”14

“Just shut up and listen.” The man silenced him with a wild hand gesture. “I’ve told you this a thousand times before, Kingly, you’ve got to stop trying so hard. That whole section was, in fact, crap. It sounded good, yes, but it was so pedantic and needlessly convoluted that I doubt even you would understand it.” The thoughts that had been raging in Kingly’s head quieted themselves. The old man was right, it had seemed forced.15

“Don’t get me wrong, Kingly, you’re a helluva writer, you just try far too hard. You seem to have this idea that to be an author you must write in Shakespearian English, that you have to be some sort of magician with words, and you don’t.” Kingly did not know how to react to this. What was this man telling him, that he had to write like every other seventeen-year-old in the country? “ 'The book I read for my English assignment was Wuthering Heights and I didn’t like it ‘cause it was weird and I couldn’t understand the butler.' ” That would go over wonderfully with his audience. Like he even had an audience.16

“No one ever got good, got themselves noticed by writing like everybody else,” he said to the old man “Just look at Dickens or Hardy or Bronte”17

“Those three wrote in the eighteen-hundreds, Kingly, you can’t compare yourself to them. All I’m asking of you is to be honest in your writing. Don’t try to write like an author, try to write like Kingly Jones.18

Kingly could not argue with that one, no matter how much he wanted to. Maybe it’s time to stop trying to prove the geezer wrong and start listening to him. Kingly sat for a moment, just breathing. He found it surprisingly hard to give into to this man, despite the knowledge that doing so would unquestionably improve his writing. Kingly’s writing, his concepts and drives, where sacred to him. He was as protective of his material as any other boy his age would be over a cute blond, and if someone threatened his style, he became equally hostile. He’s the only way. I’m simply not good enough to make a living like this, not even close. The only way to get better is to take his criticism and keep writing. The only way to shut him up is to keep writing.19

Kingly turned back to his keyboard, noting the satisfied smirk on the old man’s face. He paused, though, before he typed a stroke, fingers floating just over the keys.20

“What is it now?” said the man, surprisingly un-annoyed.21

“It’s nothing.” Kingly retuned the smirk he had just been given. “I just couldn’t decide if you’d rather be called Mr. Rackham or Colonel Korn.”22

To Kingly’s surprise, his tutor’s hard face slowly softened into an honest-to-god smile.23

“Actually I prefer Tiresias, as I see the truth.”24

“You’re not blind.”25

“Shows how much you know.”26

With that, Kingly went back to his work At first, he attempted to take into account all that his tutor had said, but that only produced the same forced, pedantic drivel that had, unbeknownst to Kingly, plagued him for years. In a second effort, he tried to ignore what he had just been taught, to ignore everything he had been taught. He attempted not to attempt anything, but the outcome was an even worse form of bland word-paste. Kingly was beginning to get frustrated.27

His tutor, meanwhile, was pacing the length of Kingy’s undersized room, apparently content to let Kingly stumble through his own creative fumblings. And why doesn’t he help now? When I approve of my work, he destroys it, yet he does nothing when I have no idea how to continue. An unseen hound began barking a wheezy, rhythmic cough. No matter. I am perfectly capable of doing this on my own. That man is simply a tool. For all his confidence, Kingly was still stuck.28

Just write like Kingly Jones. But who the hell am I? A thought echoed in his mind. “Write what you know.” …Who I am… 29

In that slow, bright moment he found his inspiration, and off he went. He would tell them, his readers, who he was. No, not tell, show. He would show them all he cared about, all he believed in. He was a prophet, a revolutionary. Well, maybe not yet, but the potential’s there. Outside, snow began to fall. Great airy flakes of the stuff drifted down from the gray sky slowly blanketing the dull ground. Layer upon layer settled on the neighborhood, the house, the windowsill over which Kingly watched the petals fall as he typed. Each layer smoothed the landscape. Each flake dedicated itself to a grand mission. Kingly’s fingers barely touched the keys. He had never been formally taught how to type, but that did not hinder him. What do words per minute matter if those words say nothing? Kingly could hardly feel the passage of time now, the tak tak tak of the wall clock slowly blurring into a single tone as Kingly dove further and further into his work. Behind him, Kingly’s tutor held his breath in silent respect for an artist at work. 30

The dog wasn’t barking anymore. Perhaps the cold had finally driven him silent, or perhaps the snow had buried him. Now the whole of the world was covered by a unifying, purifying blanket of white. Footsteps, and the sound of a garage door closing. Kingly hardly noticed, then:31

Lights. Rude and bright, the lights nearly blinded Kingly. The old man paid no heed.32

“Have you been in here all day?” Kingly’s mother stood in the doorway, her hand still on the light switch. When did she get home? 33

Kingly blinked. “I guess I have.”34

“Hunn, It’s your spring break, shouldn’t you be out havin’ fun?” The old man stared at Kingly’s mother, confused.35

“Who in the hell is this?” he said. His mother seemed not to notice.36

“- I mean it’s wonderful that I don’t have to worry about you goin’ out and gettin’ drunk, and it’s wonderful that you’re so dedicated to your career, but it doesn’t seem healthy for you to sit in a dark room all day typing. You need to get this monkey off your back.”37

“Um…” Kingly was tired. Maybe his mother had a point “Don’t worry mom, I’ve got plans with some people tomorrow. I just wanted to make some progress, that’s all.”38

“Alright.” His mother said dismissively “Dinner’s at six.” She walked away.39

“Besides,” Kingly mumbled to himself “It’s really more of an old man on my back anyway.” Deep inside Kingly’s mind, someone chuckled, airy and dry.