Alaska and the other in Longyearbyen on Spitzbergen. Satellite
pictures show that some of the world's cities have burnt down, but
that most stand as they did thirty years ago. Farm animals have
largely, but not entirely, died out. In addition, the environment on
earth is improving rapidly. The ozone layer is almost completely
repaired, and the weather on the planet is more stable than it has
been for many decades.
It is on to this stage that you make your entrance as an author. How
does man's second colonisation of the planet turn out? What
happens during the first wave of settlement? What challenges does
the individual face? In short: what is it like to belong to the little
human race? Is it liberating in any way?
You must choose which episodes you want to depict. The possi-
bilities are endless; the only limits are set by your own imagination.
It might be wise to give names to, and describe more closely, all 339
survivors, even if you don't manage to include every one in your
story. It is these 339 human destinies that comprise your material.
What was the experience, on an individual level, of the epidemic
that wiped out almost all the people on earth? Which of their nearest
and dearest has this or that character lost, and how did it happen?
Don't forget to describe the most dramatic and gripping moments.
Bear in mind too, that all the survivors have faced the fact that they
would in all likelihood fall victim to the disease.
How does the individual manage now? Which siblings have
found it necessary to procreate together to prevent the race dying out?
What is it like for a father to make his daughter pregnant? What's
it like for the daughter?
One significant challenge will be to explain how people keep in
contact across the continents. Dwell on the first contact, the break-
through itself - for example, between the people in Alaska and those
in Tibet. What sort of equipment are they using? What are the
energy resources in the respective colonies? If possible, check this with
engineers and computer experts.
Will you opt for a small number of central characters around
which to spin your novel? Or will you develop it episodically with a
bigger cast? Bringing all 339 characters into the novel's plot needn't
make it tedious provided they are clearly and sharply drawn. It may
even help to give the narrative a monumental feel.
The questions are legion, and the answers are up to you as author
and God. Tell all the stories, but don't lose sight of the overarching
dramatic idea, the very direction and motor of this epic tale. When
finished, the readers should be sitting with tears in their eyes because
they must let go of all the characters they've lived with for weeks or
months and with whom they now feel a strong bond.
Perhaps the material will force you to write several volumes. No
matter what, don't fall for the temptation of writing too little. You
and only you hold the key to the second great chapter in the history
of mankind.
Don't lose sight of the almost indescribable joy that now accom-
panies every new child that's born. When you finish your story,
several generations will doubtless have come and gone, and perhaps
the world's population has increased manyfold.
Or you might choose to let the human race die out. That is your
prerogative. What goes through the mind of the very last person on
earth? He or she is now quite alone in the cosmos ...
Finally, a piece of advice: don't write a word before you've read
the Icelandic Sagas. And a saying: You'll forge your own path as
you tread it.
Good luck!
I would rapidly form an idea of what the individual wanted
? I mean what they were willing to pay for ? but I also had
to evaluate carefully which notes this or that person was
capable of working on. Above all I had to ensure that I
didn't cast pearls before swine. If a bad writer was let loose
on a Rolls Royce of a synopsis, it would be like throwing it
in the dustbin. People would quickly smell a rat, too. I'd
learnt this way back when I was building up Homework
Help; I couldn't give a B-A answer to a typical D pupil. So
it wasn't simply a question of how much money a customer
had to spend. Rather, I had to weigh up the quality of the
material for sale against the quality of the writer I sold it to.
Writers' Aid was a differentiated institution.
In certain circumstances I might even part with valuable
notes for rewards other than money. If I was fond of a
female writer, she might get something to write about in
return for nothing more than a good time. I considered that
generous, as the woman was spared the feeling that she'd
had to buy something from me for money. 'You can take
this idea,' I might say, just take it away with you, but in that
case you'll stay an hour longer?'
Women are much better at exchanging gifts and services
than they are at doing business. They often turn very
affectionate after receiving a good, ready-to-go outline for
a play or a novel. It doesn't matter if they're married or
otherwise attached ? prospects of power and fame have
always made women randy and ready for love.
Even in cases like these, the authors could most certainly
be counted on to be discreet. Women have an impressive
ability to conceal the fact that they use sex as a bartering tool.
It wasn't just I who sold something to the women, it was
every bit as much the reverse ? it was they who sold
themselves to me.
I'd ceased picking up girls on the street. I thought I'd
outgrown that. But it was great to have recourse to an
amorous interlude without having to mix it up with all sorts
of sentimentality. A little love was nothing to get worked up
about.
*
An important segment of the market was authors who'd
published a novel or a collection of short stories six or eight
years before, but had produced nothing since. They were
the frustrated. They often continued to move in literary
circles. Some had assumed a dejected mien, but as soon as
they had access to a thoroughly worked-up novel synopsis,
they soon brightened up and were generally willing to pay
handsomely. In the worst cases, I would often include a
ready-written draft of the first four or five pages just to get
them going and on the right tracks.
Another group was authors who wrote well, who had a
finely honed style, but who were still frustrated because they
had nothing to write about. This was the group I liked
working with best. They required so little ? and I couldn't
allow myself to go too far anyway. I couldn't just hand out a
sheaf of notes that was positively bursting with narrative
imagination or bubbling with perceptive insight to someone
who was known for his solid character depictions, and leave
it at that. But something to narrate ? a story, an intrigue ?
could help this kind of author scale new hei
ghts. Some of
them were said to have had 'a breakthrough' in their
authorship. I like the word. There is something wonderfully
liberating about things beginning to happen, something
exploding and suddenly breaking through. Often all that's
required is a pinch of dry gunpowder.
One particular reason I liked the people in this group was
that they usually took good care of what I entrusted to them.
They didn't hurry or waste what they'd been given to
manage. Maybe they weren't exactly great writers, but they
were good craftsmen, they were wordsmiths. Writers' Aid
went hand in glove with this group. Here one could really
talk about a genuine symbiosis. It's undeniable that my
authors had an ability that had missed me out completely:
they had the serenity of mind to sit down and work on a
single novel for two, three or even four years, and they did
so with the greatest pleasure, not to mention enjoyment.
They were frequently aesthetes to their fingertips. They
loved embroidering with language, doing intimate character
descriptions and dwelling on all their characters' sensual
perceptions. As far as I was concerned a lot of this exquisite
literary inlay seemed rather artificial and fussy, if not down-
right feigned and false. In contrast to such pretentious
sensualism, I for my part found it hard enough to concen-
trate on the plots, and they weren't something I'd
constructed or invented, but were more like a flock of
birds I simply opened my arms to and embraced with great
enthusiasm.
It was here, in the tension between the spontaneous and
the elaborate, that the real symbiosis between authors and
Writers' Aid lay. I gave birth to the plots in my imagination
in a totally natural way, when I was out walking for instance,
and then the literary artists could painstakingly colour them
in. They were far better at it than me anyway.
Although what each one could achieve was limited, there
were lots of them, many working at once, and all for me. I
liked the thought that perhaps there wouldn't be any stories
left to tell after my mortal span had ended. I would have
used up all the fireworks, I would have set them off all at
once. After me, silence would reign. There would be no
more to think about, there would be nothing left to ponder.
I was at the controls of a mighty machine, I was arranging
the greatest literary festival of all time, and I was doing it in
total secrecy.
A third group of customers comprised those who hadn't
published anything at all, but who were convinced they
were destined to be authors all the same. This was initially
the single largest group, and its members weren't frustrated.
They had fame in their sights and were giddy with expect-
ation. They were potential literary debutants. They only
became frustrated when they realised that they'd paid
through the nose for a substantial synopsis they could never
make anything of. And so my invisible hand helped to
uncover many a self-delusion. I thought this a valuable
service as well. Revealing people's flights from reality can be
a good deed. Writers' Aid acted to a large extent as a catalyst
for self-perception. I had to wipe away many a tear. I found
good use for my psychological talents.
I've always considered myself a tolerable psychologist. A
knowledge of people is obviously the most important thing
for a psychologist, and I felt I'd had a lot of experience,
especially after visiting all those theatres and cinemas at an
early age. In addition, I'd learnt a lot when I'd flown over
the city and peered in through the windows at domestic life.
I'd looked in on my fellow countrymen, and not everyone
can boast of that.
A psychologist must also be able to comfort, and this was
something I mastered with time. To comfort is not to be
stuck for words, and in a way that's close to giving free rein
to one's imagination. When Calvero comforts Terry at the
beginning of Limelight, he uses his own wealth of attitudes
and outlooks. Calvero is a drunkard and a failed clown, an
excellent combination in this context. As a rule it's easier to
comfort another human being if you've been through the
deepest despair yourself.
Terry is lying on Calvero's bed with her long, dark hair
spread out over the white bedclothes. The doctor has gone,
and now she comes round after her attempted suicide.
Calvero turns towards her and says: Headache?
Terry: Where am I?
Calvero: You are in my room. I live two floors above you.
Terry: What happened?
Calvero: Well, I came home this evening and smelled gas
coming from your room. So I broke in the door, called a doctor and
together we brought you up here.
Terry: Why didn't you let me die?
Calvero: What's your hurry? Are you in pain? (Terry shakes
her head.) That's all that matters. The rest is fantasy. Billions of
years it's taken to evolve human consciousness, and you want to
wipe it out? What about the miracle of all existence? More im-
portant than anything in the whole universe. What can the stars do?
Nothing, but sit on their axes. And the sun ? shooting flames two
hundred mega thousand miles high ? so what? Wasting all its
natural resources. Can the sun think? Is it conscious? No, but you
are. (Terry has fallen asleep once more and is snoring
loudly.) Pardon me, my mistake!
Several times, later in the film, Calvero has to struggle to
ignite the flame of life in the unhappy ballerina who is still
in bed with paralysed legs, and on one occasion he says:
Listen! As a child I used to complain to my father about not
having toys. And he would say: (Calvero points at his own
head) This is the greatest toy ever created. Here lies the secret of all
happiness!
These potential debutants often harboured unrealistic
expectations of what Writers' Aid could do for their
prospective literary careers. Once they got hold of a fine
novel outline, they imagined that the rest would be a piece
of cake. It's nothing of the sort, of course. Having a good
idea isn't enough, not even a detailed and well-constructed
synopsis. Perhaps the synopsis shouldn't be too detailed,
shouldn't be too tightly worked. You also need the ability
to tell the story right through, to establish a plausible nar-
rative voice and to master a few elementary stylistic tricks.
Even so, it isn't here that the problems usually lie. If one
hasn't learnt to write after twelve years' schooling, it's
never too late to go on a writing course. There are many
writing courses, there's plenty of demand for them. The
shortage is in having something to write about, and that
can't be taught in schools. There is no course in finding
something to write about. But I was there, and this want
became my niche.
Many beginners lacked something as fundamental as
&n
bsp; experience of life. It's a post-modern misconception that
you can write first and live later. But many young people
want to become writers mainly because they want to live
like writers. This is putting the cart before the horse. You
must live first, and then decide if you have something to say
afterwards. Life itself is the determining factor. Writing is
the fruit of life. Life isn't the fruit of writing.
In order to run Writers' Aid as efficiently as possible, I
once put together some instructions which I called 'Ten tips
for the aspiring author'. I wasn't some common-or-garden
schoolteacher. I considered it beneath my dignity to keep on
repeating myself. So it was better to stick some standard
letter into the hands of any of my clients who clearly stood
in need of it. This was also done in full confidence. I
specified that the ten tips had been written for the recipient
personally and that, naturally, they weren't to start flashing a
private letter about at the university or in town. The letter's
heading wasn't 'Ten tips for the aspiring author', but 'Dear
Anders' or 'Dear Anne Lise'.
Gradually, as I also assumed a certain pastoral responsi-
bility for those who had no future as authors, I had to give
some thought to that too. Lots of young people had to be
debriefed. This was why I wrote 'Ten tips for those who
have chosen not to become authors'. That, too, was a choice
worthy of respect. I'd faced it myself. The first paragraph
began: It is possible to have a completely fulfilled life on a planet in
this universe without being a writer. You aren't the first who has
had to look about for other work.
I never tried to ingratiate myself with great writers. When a
great writer has nothing to say, he does something else, like
chopping firewood. A great writer doesn't try to find
something to write about, he only writes when he has to.
I was no great writer. I've always had the need to unload
my thoughts, and so have had to live with a kind of mental
incontinence, but I've never felt forced to write a novel.
Nor, for that matter, have I ever chopped firewood.
Whenever I was recruiting a new client, I always
proceeded with the greatest circumspection. I had to avoid
reaching the stage of revealing that my object was to sell the
author a literary idea, before he or she had a chance to
retreat. I had to be able to withdraw my wares before it
became apparent to the person opposite that we were
talking about buying and selling. Like a cat, I could whip
round in a fraction of a second and say that I'd only meant to
ask the author for his opinion of something I was writing on
my own account. True, I had said 'Would you buy it?', but
I'd only meant to ask if he'd liked what I'd let him read. And
so sometimes the whole thing would end up being turned
on its head. All at once I'd be the one who had to sit and
listen to an experienced author's comments. It was humili-
ating.
I was good at beating about the bush. It was something I'd
perfected in the days when I tried to pick up unknown girls
and get them to come out to the theatre or cinema. Beating
about the bush is a type of improvised theatre, or a balancing
act without a safety net. You can fall a long way, but it's an
excellent method of honing creativity.
Nevertheless, sometimes my services were turned down
after they'd been fully revealed. A few raised their eyebrows,
a few shook their heads, and others protested loudly. It
wasn't because they didn't like what I had to offer - quite
the opposite, I think they liked it a good deal. They realised
the value of what they might easily make their own. I could
see temptation tearing away at them, even if only for an
instant or two, and such moments were a delight. But in the
long term such incorruptibles posed a considerable security
risk to Writers' Aid.
The incorruptibles were unsullied. They had nothing to
lose in mentioning my offers to other authors. Some of them
needed special attention for a long time afterwards, and I