The Ringmaster's Daughter

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