MARCH 2009

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And
By Eric Bennett, Jan 10, 2009

I want to write a story. And my story will be about a quirky guy with a litany of eccentric habits that endear him to the reader—to you. And the plot will fold itself into something unexpected, curious, origami-like. And you will finish the story with watery eyes and a deep sigh, like after a wedding, like after good sex, like after watching a baby being born. And you will decide to look for my other stories the next time you’re online so you can have that same feeling again. And you’ll have to wait for a long time, but finally I will publish another story and you will read my new story like you drink your chocolate milk, one big gulp. And I will become your most favorite author even though I wasn’t famous in the Hollywood sense of the word. And I will be your secret discovery that you share with your best friends, saying something like, “you have to read this” or “this is the best story I’ve ever read.” And they’ll wait a year or so to read my story because your friends aren’t trendy, but they will eventually read it after you forgot you ever recommended it to them. And one day, while you’re eating a tuna fish sandwich and a sour pickle in the break room, they’ll come up to you and say “I loved that story you recommended a year ago. I wish I had read it sooner.” And then you’ll tell them how to find my other stories so they can become fans of my writing as well. And then one day, while I’m signing books in an offbeat bookstore in SoHo, you will meet me and tell me how my stories changed your life, how the characters are becoming important to you, like friends, like food, like money. And then we’ll go out for coffee at a strange café that we would never invite our parents to because they wouldn’t get it, but we’ll order drinks with odd sounding names like we’ve been ordering them all our lives. And then we’ll talk about my stories but it will bleed into other topics. And then we’ll run out of words, but our eyes will keep speaking in nuances and complexities that sound better than the words we’ve been using all afternoon, better than the drinks we’re drinking, and better than the stories we’re talking about. And it will become dusk and we’ll pay for our drinks and walk down some cobbled road knowing our time has to end but not wanting it to. And then we’ll part with sadness. And it will feel much like the angst in French films, at least the good ones. And then I’ll walk home remembering why it is I love a good story. And then, I’ll write another.