The Story of Richard B. Wright
Have you heard of Richard B. Wright? Not Richard Wright, of course, the
famous African American novelist and haikuist, but the man with a B. in
the middle?
Of course you haven't.
And neither did I, until I came across an uncorrected proof of his latest novel at a book sale for a quarter. Apparently he's a writer of some renowned, having won a few prodigious awards. Manuscripts are cool, but the thing that caught my eye was the author's blurb on the back: The man lives with his wife in St. Catharines, Ontario! I know a girl in St Catharines, Ontario! I myself would be in St. Catharines, Ontario in a few days or weeks or something!
So the manuscript is a present to the lady from St Catharines, Ontario (look! he lives where you do! Isn't that COOL?) and when I chug on into St. Catharines, Ontario, we go and look up Mr. Richard B. Wright. He's in the phonebook. All "I'm a semi-famous writer, and you can crank call me just like any other idiot!" We pile into the Geo, the lady, the manuscript, and I, any sort of clarity of action dimmed by our gross enthusiasm for getting there. He lives about a mile or two from Jill in a quaint little neighborhood. His house is brown. He left his garage door open.
So there we were, idling in the middle of the street, trying to suck as much from the experience as we could before the taxicab behind us got too close. But there are limits, a clearly defined ceiling to how cool this little adventure could be. "He writes stuff in there," we thought to ourselves, at a bit of a lost for what to do about next. It had occurred to me we could knock on his door and chat a little, perhaps ask him to sign our copy of his work. What if he was cranky? Do we really want to be that intrusive? He's the one who so gallantly put his name in the phone book for any idiot to gawk at! But there we were, neither of us fans of his work, nor had we even read his work, nor had we even bought an official copy that he or his publishing company had received any money from. But dammit, here was celebrity in proximity, even a weird sort of celebrity we had crafted in our own heads, and that was supposed to mean something! But WHAT?
In the end, when the taxicab got right up behind us, we drove on.
Of course you haven't.
And neither did I, until I came across an uncorrected proof of his latest novel at a book sale for a quarter. Apparently he's a writer of some renowned, having won a few prodigious awards. Manuscripts are cool, but the thing that caught my eye was the author's blurb on the back: The man lives with his wife in St. Catharines, Ontario! I know a girl in St Catharines, Ontario! I myself would be in St. Catharines, Ontario in a few days or weeks or something!
So the manuscript is a present to the lady from St Catharines, Ontario (look! he lives where you do! Isn't that COOL?) and when I chug on into St. Catharines, Ontario, we go and look up Mr. Richard B. Wright. He's in the phonebook. All "I'm a semi-famous writer, and you can crank call me just like any other idiot!" We pile into the Geo, the lady, the manuscript, and I, any sort of clarity of action dimmed by our gross enthusiasm for getting there. He lives about a mile or two from Jill in a quaint little neighborhood. His house is brown. He left his garage door open.
So there we were, idling in the middle of the street, trying to suck as much from the experience as we could before the taxicab behind us got too close. But there are limits, a clearly defined ceiling to how cool this little adventure could be. "He writes stuff in there," we thought to ourselves, at a bit of a lost for what to do about next. It had occurred to me we could knock on his door and chat a little, perhaps ask him to sign our copy of his work. What if he was cranky? Do we really want to be that intrusive? He's the one who so gallantly put his name in the phone book for any idiot to gawk at! But there we were, neither of us fans of his work, nor had we even read his work, nor had we even bought an official copy that he or his publishing company had received any money from. But dammit, here was celebrity in proximity, even a weird sort of celebrity we had crafted in our own heads, and that was supposed to mean something! But WHAT?
In the end, when the taxicab got right up behind us, we drove on.