NOTE: If you haven’t been following this from the beginning, and if you want to know the full sequence of events, start with the introduction. Click on Archives on the right.
“Say there, I’ve been looking for you!”
“Oh? I’ve been around.”
“Haven’t seen a new post on your blog for over two months.”
“No my editor was away, and it’s time to reassess anyway.”
“Didn’t know you had an editor.”
“It is a friend who has taken an interest, and knows how to spell.”
“So what are you reassessing?”
“There are about sixty four characters in Fauxmont so far, including a cat, two dogs and three wombats.”
“I told you there were too many characters before, like weeds in my yard.”
“So you did. Also I need to catch up after spending last summer and fall lying around waiting for my back to heal.”
“You did that in 2009 according to the introduction.”
“Yes, too much strenuous gardening two springs in a row.”
“But you said that this whole thing came to you while you were recovering the first time.”
“This time I left Fauxmont completely.”
“Why?”
“It’s hard to say, distracted by the pain perhaps.”
“Where does that leave me?”
“You are where you are.”
“You mean the whole of Fauxmont comes to a grinding halt just because your back hurts?”
“No, what is going on keeps going on.”
“How can anything new happen if you don’t write it?”
“Fauxmont extends far beyond the blog posts.”
“Listen, I’m just so many pixels, computer bits, what ever, until a reader comes along, right?”
“The postings are just glimpses of something larger, infinitely larger!”
“Are you feeling better now?”
“Yes thanks.”
“‘Infinitely larger’? Who do you think you are? You don’t make sense. You sound feverish to me.”
Diddlie is carrying her groceries back from the nearby Safeway in a reusable shopping bag, with a thick bundle of golden rod spilling over the top. She starts looking for something in the bag. We are standing under the hickories opposite the Trips’ at the intersection of Wicket and Oval Streets. Ivy and Wisteria are climbing the trunks thicker than ever in the wet spring.
“Are you looking for some medicine for my fever?”
“I keep wondering why you write fiction anyway when so many of us are writing on line for real?”
“I am interested in telling this story.”
“Some people assume new identities on line. So could you. Wouldn’t that be more like it?”
“Like what?”
“I mean a new kind of on-line novel where there’s often no way to tell who’s writing it, or the difference between fake names and real names. Readers could write you their ideas. You could fool lot of people, and ….” Diddlie pauses and looks down at her bag again, switching hands. Holding it in her left hand she reaches in, trying to find something.
“I am not trying to fool anyone Diddlie. Fauxmont is categorized as fiction on the web.”
“Yeah right, so I am a fiction. Okay we’ve been here before.”
“No, no, think of this, Diddlie. On-line is instant publication not like old fashioned novels on paper where you have to wait for editors and printers and booksellers to get the book out there.”
“Look, writing fiction is fooling people into thinking stuff that isn’t real, isn’t it?
What is the difference?”
“No one is fooled by fiction, they just go along for the ride.”
Diddlie pulls a book out of her bag and gestures with it in her hand. “You think novels are outdated?”
“No, far from it. The net is a new medium. Movies are like novels in many ways, but don’t replace them.”
“Movies are more like plays. They have scripts and actors.”
“Novels have narrators. In movies, the pictures carry you along like a narrator’s voice.”
Diddlie has put the book back in her bag, and holding the bag in front of her with both hands she says, “Yeah! They do the imagining for you!”
“Well, you don’t have to visualize as you do when reading.”
”On the internet we can be our own narrator and actor, and even video maker, and producer.”
“So Diddlie, do you think movies are obsolete?”
“No, that will never happen. Why don’t you do videos too?”
“Not interested. Anyway, I don’t think the Internet has killed off novels any more than movies have.”
Diddlie steps forward to make her point in a confidential tone. “Who wants to read about some one else’s invented worlds, when we already live in our own internet world together with friends, or any one out there?”
“You do. You just bought a book.”
Diddlie steps back. “This is different.”
“I think you’re right. You might say we create a world writing on the internet.”
“You might. I wouldn’t say that. What do you mean?”
“I mean writing is turning thoughts into words. It is like inventing something.”
“Well, I still read novels at the beach.” Diddlie pulled out her book again. “See, I got a nice romance here.”
“Okay so that’s an escape, but a good novel can tell you something about the real world.”
“I know, this writer really takes you there.”
“How?”
“You get into the emotions of the characters. Then escape to a happier place.”
“What about the circumstances?”
“What about them? Sometimes it’s a real pain.”
“I mean a novel can tell you something interesting about experience as well as taking you into it. It isn’t just ‘escape reading’ though it is an imaginary encounter.”
“Well maybe, but who has time to read that old stuff?”
“You can find the time if you want to.”
”It’s more fun to watch a movie or TV! It’s like who writes letters any more now there’s email?”
“Okay, so old novels can be long and difficult, partly a narrator’s story but also like a play with the author’s cast acting in the reader’s imagination.”
“When I read, it’s like enjoying a movie in my mind.”
“Even if you are on the beach?”
“Sure, the beach is an escape too. Maybe you don’t get it. You are writing like an old fashioned novelist, and you need to get my character right. Like I keep telling you – younger!”
“Unlike traditional narratives, it is all in the present tense.”
“So what? How does that make me younger?”
“It doesn’t. It isn’t a story the narrator recalls. It’s more like a reporter’s work.”
“You aren’t a novelist. You’re a journalist. No, no, wait a minute, you are a voyeur imagining you’re a journalist.”
“I am not a voyeur. I am talking to you now. Fauxmont is happening to the reporter on line now.”
“You are so mixed up! We are talking about Fauxmont, your imaginary place. This is different from your imaginary place. This is me.”
“Okay, this is a separate story of Fauxmont in its own time.”
“Its own time? I know mine is running out!”
“Yes, when we talk about writing Fauxmont now, no one else is in it.”
”Now, what do you mean ‘now’ anyway? People don’t read your blog while things actually happen.”
“No I am talking about the reader’s now, not the writer’s now.”
“You mean it is ‘now’ even if I read it next year?”
“Yes.”
“You haven’t posted anything for nearly three months. Where’s the ‘now’ in that?”
“Right, it’s taking a long time to write new material. A lot of what I’ve posted was written a year ago or more.”
“So when are you going to post another report?”
“Soon, but it will only be once or twice a month, not every week. I need more time for work.”
A moving van approaches us slowly like a huge shoebox. The wide square top hits low hanging branches which catch for a moment against the front and then whip back as the truck moves forward. Squirrels chase each other across the street in the branches overhead. A leafy twig falls on Diddlie’s shoulder. “Yuk! I’ve got to get home.” She starts shaking her head and tries to brush something out with her fingers. “There’s something in my hair. Now it feels like it’s down my shirt.” She walks away. The truck doesn’t take long to pass but there’s no sign of Diddlie when I look up the hill for her.
