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The Winner Stands Alone

Book Review, , , , , , , ,

FOLLOW MY DREAM — BUT WHICH ONE?

One of the recurrent themes of my books is the importance of paying the price of your dreams. But to what extent can our dreams be manipulated? For the past decades, we lived in a culture that privileged fame, money, power — and most of the people were led to believe that these were the real values that we should pursue.
We all should be a “winner”. Not in the sense of someone who finally wins what is important to his/her life. Not in the sense that happiness is the most valuable gift on Earth — and it can be attained here and now, when your work fulfills your heart. We should be a winner in the sense that the system portraits a successful person: celebrity, influence, photos in glossy magazines, behaving like the masters of the universe.
Yes, you may reach the goal society has fed you — but will you be satisfied? Will you be whole? Will you be in peace? This cycle of possession never ends — because the moment that you think that you have reached your goal another desire creeps in. And how can you find rest when it is the hunt that moves you?
While people are connected — omniscient thanks to their mobile phones and GPS — they all speak the same words, fight for the same goals, and crave the same things. How could it be otherwise? If fashion exists it is precisely because you can mold the desire of the masses — or how else could a bag, a dress impose itself as necessary?
In a world of invisible yet unsurpassable “diktats”, where a few puppeteers pull the strings of the many, instill in other people’s dreams the pursue of superficial things, there seems to be a rising feeling, a silent despair that creeps in.
Greed to have, greed to be seen, greed to prevail, even greed to kill, if you think it is for a good cause — like love, for example.
What we don’t know is that, behind the scenes, the real manipulators remain anonymous. They understand that the most effective power is the one that nobody can notice — until it is too late, and you a trapped. This book is about this trap.
Soon after I finished writing “The winner stands alone”,  the financial market collapsed. Will this lead us again to the real values? I really don’t know. What I do know is that we cannot continue to allow our dreams to be manipulated like they are as for three of the four main characters in the book:
Igor, a Russian millionaire, who believes that you can kill if you have a good reason for that — like avoiding human suffering, or bringing back the attention the woman he loves.
Hamid, a fashion magnate, who started with good intentions, till he got caught by the very system he was trying to use.
Gabriela, who — like most of the people today — is convinced that fame is an end by itself, the supreme reward in a world that praises ccelebrity as the supreme achievement in life.

As I finish writing these pages, there are currently several dictators in power. One country in the Middle East has been invaded by the world’s only superpower. Support for terrorist groups is growing. Fundamentalist Christians have the ability to elect presidents. The spiritual search is manipulated by various sects each claiming to possess ‘absolute knowledge’. Whole cities are wiped from the map by Nature’s fury. According to research carried out by a reputable American intellectual, all the world’s power rests in the hands of six thousand people.
There are thousands of prisoners of conscience on every continent. Torture is once again deemed acceptable as an interrogation method. The wealthier nations are closing their borders. The poorer nations are witnessing an unprecedented exodus as their inhabitants leave in search of El Dorado. Genocide continues to be committed in at least two African countries. The economic system is showing signs of break-down, and great fortunes are beginning to collapse. Child slavery has become a constant. Hundreds of millions of people live below the poverty line. Nuclear proliferation is accepted as irreversible. New diseases emerge. The old diseases have not yet been brought under control.
But is this a portrait of the world I live in?
Of course not. When I decided to take a snapshot of my own times, I wrote this book.
So please join me in this journey into a world that is coming to an end. You will see glittery, glamour, and blood — but don’t see this book as a thriller: it is a crude portrait of where we are now. We are part of the solution, if we go back to the real values of life, being “follow your dream” the most important of all. Not the dreams of the Superclass. Not the dreams of our parents, or our partners. We should be what we always wanted to be.

The 1st Chapter will be posted on Tuesday 27th of January on Paulo’s blog

Release dates: March 19: UK   /   April: France, Greece, Holland, Russia, USA  /   May: Australia, Iran

The Winner Stands Alone : Chapter II by Paulo Coelho

Free Writing, , , , , , , , , , , , , , ,

However, everyone knows that the bar in the Hotel Martinez is where the powerful people hang out, which means there’s always a chance of meeting them.

It doesn’t even occur to the hopefuls that the Powerful only talk to the Powerful, that they need to get together now and then for lunches and suppers, to lend allure to the big festivals, to feed the fantasy that the world of luxury and glamour is accessible to all those with the courage to pursue an idea, to avoid any non-lucrative wars and to promote aggression between countries or companies where they feel this might bring them more power and more money, to pretend that they’re happy, even though they’re now hostage to their own success, to continue struggling to increase their wealth and influence, even when both those things are already vast, because the vanity of the Superclass consists in competing with itself to see who is the top of the tops.

In an ideal world, the Powerful would talk to the actors, directors, designers and writers who are now bleary-eyed with tiredness and thinking about going back to their rented rooms in distant towns, so that tomorrow they can begin again the marathon of making requests, fixing possible meetings, and being endlessly ready and available.

In the real world, the Powerful are, at this moment, locked in their rooms, checking their e-mails, complaining that these Festival parties are always the same, that their friend was wearing a bigger jewel than they were, and asking how come the yacht a competitor has just bought has a totally unique décor?

Igor has no one to talk to, nor does he want to talk. The winner stands alone.

Igor is the successful owner and president of a telephone company in Russia. A year ago, he reserved the best suite in the Martinez (which makes everyone pay up-front for at least twelve nights, regardless of how long they’ll be staying); he arrived this afternoon in his private jet, was driven to the hotel, where he took a bath and then went downstairs in the hope of witnessing one particular scene.

At first, he was pestered by actresses, actors and directors, until he came up with the perfect response for them all:

‘Don’t speak English, sorry. Polish.’

Or:

‘Don’t speak French, sorry. Mexican.’

When someone ventured a few words in Spanish, Igor tried another ploy. He started writing down numbers in a notebook so as to look neither like a journalist (because everyone wants to meet journalists) nor a movie mogul. Beside him lay a Russian economics magazine (most people can’t tell Russian from Polish or Spanish) with the photo of some boring executive on the cover.

The denizens of the bar, who pride themselves on their keen understanding of the human race, leave Igor in peace, thinking that he must be one of those millionaires who comes to Cannes in search of a new girlfriend. That, at least, is the rumour doing the rounds by the time the fifth person has sat down at his table and ordered a mineral water, alleging that there are no other free seats. Igor is duly relegated to the category of ‘perfume’.

‘Perfume’ is the slang term used by actresses (or ‘starlets’ as they’re called at the Festival) because, as with perfumes, it’s easy enough to change brands, but one of them might just turn out to be a real find. ‘Perfumes’ are sought out during the last two days of the Festival, if the actresses in question haven’t managed to pick up anything or anyone of interest in the movie industry. For the moment, then, this strange, apparently wealthy man can wait. Actresses know that it’s always best to leave the Festival with a new boyfriend (whom they might, later on, be able to transform into a film producer) than to move on to the next event and go through the same old ritual — drinking, smiling (must keep smiling), and pretending that you’re not looking at anyone, while your heart beats furiously, time ticks rapidly on, and there are still gala nights to which you haven’t yet been invited, but to which the ‘perfumes’ have.

They know what the ‘perfumes’ are going to say because they always say the same thing, but they pretend to believe them anyway.

(a) ‘I could change your life.’

(b) ‘A lot of women would like to be in your shoes.’

(c) ‘You’re young now, but what will become of you in a few years’ time. You need to think about making a longer-term investment.’

(d) ‘I’m married, but my wife…’ (this opening line can have various endings: ‘…is ill’, ‘…has threatened to commit suicide if I leave her’, etc.)

(e) ‘You’re a princess and deserve to be treated like one. I didn’t know it until now, but I’ve been waiting for you. I don’t believe in coincidences and I really think we ought to give this relationship a chance.’

It’s always the same old spiel. The only variable is how many presents you get (preferably jewellery, which can be sold), how many invites to yacht parties, how many visiting cards you collect, how many times you have to listen to the same chat-up lines, and whether you can wangle a ticket to the Formula 1 races where you’ll get to mingle with the same class of people and where your ‘big chance’ might be there waiting for you.

‘Perfume’ is also the word used by young actors to refer to elderly millionairesses, all plastic and botox, but who are, at least, more intelligent than their male counterparts. They never waste any time: they, too, arrive in the final days of the Festival, knowing that money provides their only pulling power.

The male ‘perfumes’ deceive themselves: they think that the long legs and youthful faces have genuinely fallen for them and can now be manipulated at will. The female ‘perfumes’ put all their trust in the power of their diamonds.

Igor knows nothing of all this. This is his first time at the Festival. And he has just realised that, much to his surprise, no one here seems very interested in films, except the people in that bar. He has leafed through a few magazines, opened the envelope in which his company has placed the invitations to the most prestigious parties, but not one of them is for a film première. Before travelling to France, he tried to find out which films were in the running, but had great difficulty in obtaining this information. Then a friend said:

‘Forget about films. Cannes is just a fashion show.’

The third chapter will be posted on Tuesday 3rd of February

http://paulocoelhoblog.com/the-winner-stands-alone

The Winner Stands Alone – 1st Chapter

Free Writing, , , , , , , ,

3.17 a.m.

The Beretta Px4 compact pistol is slightly larger than a mobile phone, weighs around 700 grams and can fire ten shots. Small, light, invisible when carried in a pocket, its small calibre has one enormous advantage: instead of passing through the victim’s body, the bullet hits bones and smashes everything in its path.

Obviously the chances of surviving a shot of that calibre are fairly high; there are thousands of cases in which no vital artery was severed and the victim had time to react and disarm his attacker. However, if the person firing the pistol is experienced enough, he can opt either for a quick death — by aiming at the point between the eyes or at the heart — or a slower one – by placing the barrel at a certain angle close to the ribs and squeezing the trigger. The person shot takes a while to realise that he has been mortally wounded and tries to fight back, run away or call for help. The great advantage of this is that the victim has time to see his killer’s face, while his strength ebbs slowly away and he falls to the ground, with little external loss of blood, still not fully understanding why this is happening to him.

It is far from being the ideal weapon for experts. ‘Nice and light — in a lady’s handbag. No stopping power though,’ someone in the British Secret Service tells James Bond in the first film in the series, meanwhile confiscating Bond’s old pistol and handing him a new model. However, that advice applied only to professionals, and for what he now had in mind it was perfect.

He had bought the Beretta on the black market so that it would be impossible to trace. There are five bullets in the magazine, although he intends to use only one, the tip of which he has marked with an ‘X’, using a nail file. That way, when it’s fired and hits something solid, it will break into four pieces.

He will only use the Beretta as a last resort. There are other ways of extinguishing a world, of destroying a universe, and she will probably understand the message as soon as the first victim is found. She will know that he did it in the name of love, and that he feels no resentment, but will take her back and ask no questions about her life during these past two years.

He hopes that six months of careful planning will produce results, but he will only know for sure tomorrow morning. His plan is to allow the Furies, those ancient figures from Greek mythology, to descend on their black wings to that blue-and-white landscape full of diamonds, botox and high-speed cars of no use to anyone because they carry only two passengers. With the little artifacts he has brought with him, all those dreams of power, success, fame and money could be punctured in an instant.

He could have gone up to his room because the scene he had been waiting to witness occurred at 11.11 p.m., although he would have been prepared to wait for even longer. The man and his beautiful companion arrived – both of them in full evening dress – for yet another of those gala events that take place each night after every important supper, and which attracted more people than any film première at the Festival.

Igor ignored the woman. He shielded his face behind a French newspaper (a Russian newspaper would have aroused suspicions) so that she wouldn’t see him. An unnecessary precaution: like all women who feel themselves to be queen of the world, she never looked at anyone else. Such women are there in order to shine and always avoid looking at what other people are wearing because, even if their own clothes and accessories have cost them a fortune, the number of diamonds or a particularly exclusive outfit worn by someone else might make them feel depressed or bad-tempered or inferior.

Her elegant, silver-haired companion went over to the bar and ordered champagne, a necessary aperitif for a night that promised new contacts, good music and a fine view of the beach and the yachts moored in the harbour.

He noticed how extremely polite the man was, thanking the waitress when she brought their drinks and giving her a large tip.

The three of them knew each other. Igor felt a great wave of happiness as the adrenaline began to mingle with his blood. The following day he would make her fully aware of his presence there and, at some point, they would meet.

God alone knew what would come of that meeting. Igor, an orthodox Catholic, had made a promise and sworn an oath in a church in Moscow before the relics of St Mary Magdalene (which were in the Russian capital for a week, so that the faithful could worship them). He had queued for nearly five hours and, when he finally saw them, had felt sure that the whole thing was something dreamed up by the priests. He did not, however, want to run the risk of breaking his word, and so he had asked for her protection and help in achieving his goal without too much sacrifice. And he had promised, too, that when it was all over and he could at last return to his native land, he would commission a golden icon from a well-known artist who lived in a monastery in Novosibirsk.

At three in the morning, the bar of the Hotel Martinez smells of cigarettes and sweat. By then, Jimmy (who always wears different coloured shoes) has stopped playing the piano, and the waitress is exhausted, but the people who are still there refuse to leave. They want to stay in that lobby for at least another hour or even all night until something happens!

They’re already four days into the Cannes Film Festival and still nothing has happened. Every guest at every table is interested in but one thing: meeting the people with Power. Pretty women are waiting for a producer to fall in love with them and give them a major role in their next movie. A few actors are talking amongst themselves, laughing and pretending that the whole business is a matter of complete indifference to them – but they always keep one eye on the door.

Someone is about to arrive. Someone must arrive. Young directors, full of ideas and with CVs listing the videos they made at university, and who have read everything ever written about photography and scriptwriting, are hoping for a stroke of luck; perhaps meeting someone just back from a party who is looking for an empty table where he’ll order a coffee and light a cigarette, someone who’s tired of going to the same old places all the time and feels ready for a new adventure.

How naïve!

If that did happen, the last thing such a person would want to hear about is some ‘really fresh angle’ on a hackneyed subject; but despair can deceive the desperate. The people with power who do occasionally enter merely glance around, then go up to their rooms. They’re not worried. They have nothing to fear. The Superclass does not forgive betrayals and they know their limitations — whatever the legend may say, they didn’t get where they are by trampling on others. On the other hand, if there is some important new discovery to be made — be it in the world of cinema, music or fashion — it will emerge only after much research and not in some hotel bar.

The Superclass are now making love to the girl who managed to gatecrash the party and who is game for anything. They’re taking off their make-up, studying the lines on their faces and thinking that it’s time for more plastic surgery. They’re looking at the on-line news to see if the announcement they made earlier that day has been picked up by the media. They’re taking the inevitable sleeping pill and drinking the tea that promises easy weight-loss. They’re ticking the boxes on the menu for their room service breakfast and hanging it on the door handle along with the sign saying ‘Do not disturb’. The Superclass are closing their eyes and thinking: ‘I hope I get to sleep quickly. I’ve got a meeting tomorrow at ten.’

Next Second Chapter will be posted on Friday 30th of January

http://paulocoelhoblog.com/the-winner-stands-alone

Less Than White

Free Writing, ,

Soft and sweet. A foot the size of my hand making an impression of itself on my lap. A red impression. Smile. A smile upon the child’s face, not that I could tell. Sticky fingers across my eyes, so I shut them and smile back.

Wake up.

‘Wake up.’

‘Yes I know.’ I say.

One room centred towards a balcony. Dry more than clean. The balcony unreachable, for now. The whole room coated in the smell of hot cotton. I look at my hands and they’re fine. Not a sign of chaffing nor a laceration to speak of.

‘Yes, but who are you speaking to?’ I said

‘Me.’ I answered with a smile.

No more smiling. It’s morning.

From the hallway comes the sound of steps. Trembling in apologetically is the outline of the child I’d seen many a time prior. The dark scares it but the sight of my smile encourages it to stand still and place its head into its hands. If I was going to smother it now would be my chance. I reach for my pillow but the child sits on it. Strange.

‘Weren’t you just in front of me?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’ replies the child, now gazing in interest to his right side, legs crossed upon the pillow.

‘Well it’s just that, just now, just this instance, you were more like two yards in front of me.’

‘I couldn’t see myself getting smothered.’

‘In fact, child, you wouldn’t have seen it. I suppose I should apologise for my manners though.’

The child lets his head drop to one side and catches it with his hand. Another smile. Not the same I’d been wearing some minutes before. Before I could figure it out the child makes its way to the balcony before pausing against the solitary glass window.

‘Again, I am sorry. I am a Sod in the morning.’ I chuckle.

I assume the child isn’t listening as he stares across the room from the window, almost hiding from something inevitable. However, it replies ‘Oh come now, you’re being silly. One apology is quite enough. Besides, it’s a touch redundant apologising for something you’d do again given the chance. I wouldn’t apologise for something I intend to carry on with. That said, I can’t account for myself regarding what’s been and what is to be. You can weigh your past up against your future and seek a victor. But I’ve found mine both triumphant. I couldn’t honestly tell which I prefer. Hold on.’ The child retires from his gaze and employs a whole new expression. His eyes close gently for the first time since my own met his.

‘I didn’t mean to startle you with my abruptness, but I think I’ve found something.’

‘Don’t be so absurd.’ I start. ‘There’s nothing in here to find.’

‘I’ve found a vibration against this window. Are we moving?’

Annoyed. This child is boring me. Perhaps I should smother it now and be done with it.

‘I said, are we moving?’

‘No! Alright. No. I’ve told you more than a few times now that we’re not moving.’

‘You’re lying on two counts.’

‘Lying?’ I spit.

‘You haven’t mentioned that before and more importantly, we are moving. Shame on you.’

‘Shame on you, more like! Despicable child. I ought to smother you.’

‘You ought not to. It’s not a nice affair that. You’d probably regret it. And when we think about it, in this moving room with evasive balcony, if I were to be smothered I couldn’t tell you what I’ve found.’

‘You’ve already told me.’ I reply victoriously.

‘Ah. But I haven’t told you which vibration I found. Come here.’

I haven’t ever been close to the balcony. It’s so white out there, beyond it. Not to say that it’s not white in the room, but there’s a veneer about it that remains inviting, welcoming. A glance at the balcony is enough to tell me that I must find some excuse. I can’t make it to the balcony, not now, not after all I’ve said. What with this smothering business. Who needs a vibration anyway? After all, it’s morning and the balcony is no place for a half-naked man of my age.

‘I’m sorry, it would be inappropriate to come anywhere near you. You might be a girl. It’s already unreasonable of you to come in here, to a mans bedroom, where he sleeps, when you may well be a girl.’

‘I see your reasoning. But I’m not a girl.’

‘You don’t sound like a boy.’

‘Neither do you.’

‘Because I’m a man.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Oh stop playing games with me. You’ll have me scratching my face off.’

‘Who gives a Fuck?’

Insolent little child. I run over and crash my pillow into its face which doesn’t make a sound in itself, but sends the back of his skull crushing into the window which makes quite the deafening racket. I push the pillow – fists gripped tight – hard and around its little head. The child doesn’t kick at all. I feel the sweat dripping on my head, tickling me, but I smell the child’s pain and think nothing of the discomfort the sweat brings me, even though I long for the dryness my room once brought me. Suddenly a voice from the other side of the pillow.

‘My legs aren’t kicking a bit. I always assumed they’d kick.’

I pull the pillow away in horror. To my delight the child is motionless. Last words. It was a boys voice that time, I’m sure of it. No need to worry about what others may have heard transpire then. I couldn’t do with him next-door and her two-doors-down informing others, my family, my students, that a strange girl was in my room with me.

Of course, the room was moving, but I couldn’t exactly admit that, not then. It was none of the child’s business. What a smart young chap he was though. I pull him onto my lap. I laugh at some of the things he said as I look at the smile upon his face. No time for that now. High time I inspected this ‘vibration’ business.

—

Instantly the left side of my temple tickles. Early this morning the sky was white, though less than white. Now I send my eyes out into the green sky and see what I hadn’t seen through this balcony before. I can’t help but miss the child. Perhaps because he was right. No wonder he felt content and comfortable enough to berate me in my own home. At least he felt as I do now, when he was smothered. Benign, giving and morose all at the same time. I displace my cheek and it slides down the window pane at a rate slow enough not to concern me. Far from it. I go with it. What a journey, I think. Smiles. Forget benign, I’ve misjudged this. That I can see clearly now. It’s euphoria, this window. I can see all that I needed to see and it’s all because of these wonderful vibrations from this moving room.

Scratching Mahogany

Free Writing, , , ,

I ran the usual thoughts through my head and hoped that they were from the heart. This time it ended up with me collapsing on my bed and shouting into the sheets, fists gripped tight. Conscious act. Probably.

Just listen to the music. No time. “What?” came the inquisitive. Laced with what I was meant to convey as a quiet yet sincere concern. “Ah.” Thoughts. “I just fucking banged my toe on the bed again.” Chuckling and smiles wide.

“And I’ll stand over your grave ’til I’m sure that you’re dead!”

Harmonica.

“Don’t have no High School Football teams or nothing like that though. No cheerleaders.”

Why’d he say that? Stop talking. Cigarette.

More aware of time and day, I marched and door knocked. My Father answered and in the usual manner, merely left it ajar and made his way for the table in his dining room. He did it so our hello’s would be reserved for when seated. Mahogany with ornaments but mainly magazines placed over scratches and mug stains, not so much as to hide them; he didn’t care who knew they were there. More to suspend our blushing at such hideousness.

“Yeah, I finished last month.”

“Doesn’t mean you’re a qualified teacher though.”

“Well it does.”

He frowned, purposefully dismissive. “Well. When I did it you still had to complete a few years teaching. So right now you’d be just a trainee.”

“Yeah, right now I’m a teacher.”

“Yeah, right now you are.”

Look at the table, move a magazine. Or two. Yeah, I moved two.

Chess again. We play to the invisible crowd. It’s not enough for us both to just play each other. We have to think that someone can see us, or know that we’re playing. Look. His grubby garden fingers patted a dog and lurched toward the board. He always took so much pride in making a sound as he clapped a piece down on the board. The sound growing in intensity as the game went on. Or if a significant move was to be played, he’d look at me first, head still facing the board, and make it, checking to see if I was taking in what he was doing. His physical, to him one-and-the-same with his cerebral. I moved pieces at a greater speed, Queen to H6. I considered the notion that I played chess like I play life. But disregarded the thought almost as quickly as it came about. That way of thinking is something disgusting to me. So is that. Can’t shout into the sheets now. His Rook took my Bishop as if fate was real.

Eyes. Mahogany. Magazines.

I couldn’t sit comfortably on that chair. The chair I always sat on during these Chess sessions. Castle-King-side. I quipped that he purposefully gave me the uncomfortable chair. He laughed with me.

“Yeah but there’s nothing wrong with the chair.”

I withdrew the smile as I muttered “Yeah, I know.”

We talked about books. I hadn’t read any of the stuff he had recently. He hadn’t read any of what I was reading. “It’s funny that our tastes don’t even overlap.” I said. “Well, when you were young, your Mother was very liberal with letting you read what you wanted. Which is fine to a point, but you probably became comfortable within that when you reached puberty.”

“I think it’s got more to do with individual taste. Anything created can only be judged with a reminding prod to yourself that personal taste is a factor.”

“Mmm” he agreed. “I think it’s got more to do with being mollycoddled toward puberty.”

My bishop took his. He wasn’t concentrating.

“Still, you’ve always had good taste in popular music. What was that band you had me play?”

“Joy Division.”

“Yes, very dark. Very menacing.”

Nothing he ever said annoyed me. I didn’t care. When did he stop having anything over me? These thoughts were clear, no confusion. He looked at the board for the longest of times. I looked at him every now and again, hoping he’d show me what he was cooking up. He placed his Queen behind his King. No loud clapping. The game had reached one half of an hour. I couldn’t tell you what moves preceded the one he made in which I could barely hear the wood meet glass. It took me less than a thought to realise why. I moved my Bishop wider than the imminent smile and said “Check mate, right?”

We both looked at the board. My Dad moved the magazines. I ran my nails into the mahogany. No more eyes.

The afternoon went on as per our usual. I got the feeling that my Father was searching for conversation to negate the Chess game which incidentally, was the first time I’d beaten him apparently. We concluded that I’d rode my luck well.

—

Years later I found his stupid poetry book. I read all about that day again. I read about how I had surpassed him and how he could never put into words what he had felt. I got the feeling it wasn’t pride, or that it had much to do with me at all. Why does everyone reach for the pen if words fail them? I suppose that’s what he refused to do at the time. I read, not even taking in a rhyme, something about life. But he’d lost his point as the emotion drained from his blood in the first few lines. I thought about articulating this critique when I saw him and laughed at that thought itself. Remember. I sat at the mahogany table. Sickness had changed my Father, it took the closeness to death for him to realise that no one cared about scratches and mug stains, and if they did “they could go fuck themselves.” Now his favourite finisher to any statement regarding people.

I opened his door “Happy Birthday” I gestured. He said they’d all been happy birthdays. “If you ask them.”

“Hey, wanna play Chess?”

I couldn’t help myself. He didn’t answer.

He asked if my sister was coming. I reminded him that she hated him. “Well that’s no reason not to come and wish me a happy birthday”. He sighed “It’s not like I’ll have many left, if any at all. Life is not an inexhaustible well

The Ghostwriter's Booksigning

Non-fiction, , , , ,

I went to a book signing for a book I wrote the other night–only another person, a kind doctor, signed the books.  The cover of the book features his smiling face and this same image graces the posters that were propped all around the store.

But it would be impossible for you to find even the merest mention of my name anywhere near the book.  Why? Because I ghostwrote it.

Allow me to define ghostwriting for those of you who may still be confused about it (in my travels I find many who are).  A ghostwriter (moi) writes a book for someone else and that other person’s name appears on the book.  If I’m very lucky, the “author” might thank me in the acknowledgments.  On some occasions, ghostwriters get a “with” byline.  As in “Stupid Worthless Memoir by Famous Vacuous Star with Ghostwriter.”

But most of us ghostwriters get nada but a paycheck.  Which is why we do it, of course, because ghostwriting can be among the most lucrative of writing assignments.  You are writing a whole book, after all, not just an article or series of articles for a website.  You are expected to know how to take bunches of information, perhaps some interviews, and vague thoughts and organize them into a readable, informative book.

A great number of business and self-help books are ghostwritten.  Ditto with celebrity biographies and so-called novels.  (You really think Nicole Richie has ever read a novel, let alone written one?)  Rumor has it that some popular mystery series are actually ghostwritten and many readers believe that some of the most prolific romance writers employ ghostwriters to help them churn out the novels.

I can’t verify those rumors, though I suspect they may be true.   I also suspect that many novelists have learned their craft churning out books under the name of a best-selling author.  But I think I prefer to stick to non-fiction.

To my way of thinking, non-fiction ghostwriting projects suit me just fine.  I enjoy learning about different subjects and getting into the mind of the person who I’m writing as.

Last week was the first time I’d ever actually experienced a booksigning where the “author” of the book was signing what I wrote.

I had a blast, met a lot of nice people and reconnected with the folks who hired me.  The thing is, I don’t feel the emotional connection to the book that I would with, say, my novel.  And while I’m proud of the finished product, I’m not so invested in it that I can’t let it go.

We’ll be starting the next book in the series soon and I’m looking forward to attending future book signings.  I wish I could give the book some publicity and send you to the website, but alas, then it wouldn’t be ghostwritten anymore, would it?  (And let me tell you, the whole ghostwriting thing wreaks havoc on the old resume, since I can’t really blatantly list all the books I’ve written.)

Fun as this book signing was, I look forward to the day when I’ll be signing my own novel at a book signing!

Warrior of Light – Issue no. 179 – The First Cardinal Virtue: Faith

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First we spoke in this space of the seven capital sins. The series enjoyed a wide repercussion among readers, which made me very happy. But what about the seven cardinal virtues?

The sins come before the virtues. As a wise man said, he who has not sinned has no merit in his virtue — because he has not overcome any temptation. Most holy men of any religion generally lead a dissolute or apathetic life before they dedicate themselves to the spiritual quest.

So, since the series on sins has come to an end, and following the logic of the path of Light, we shall dedicate the next columns to the seven cardinal virtues, beginning with Faith. They are derived from the sum of three theological virtues, plus another four based on Plato which were adapted by Saint Augustine and Saint Thomas Aquinas (there are many divergences regarding the four complementary virtues, so I have decided to choose the more conventional list).

According to the dictionary: from the Latin word fide: confidence; religious belief; conviction with regard to someone or something; firmness in fulfilling a commitment; credit; intention; theological virtue.

According to Jesus Christ: The apostles said to the Lord, “Give us more faith.” And the Lord said: “If your faith is as big as a mustard seed, you could have said to this mulberry tree, ‘Be pulled up by the roots and planted in the sea,’ and it would have obeyed you!” (Luke, 17: 5-6)

According to Buddhism: “We are what we think. Through thought we build and destroy the world.

“We are what we think. Your imagination can do more harm than your worst enemy.

“But once you control your thoughts, no-one can help you so much, not even your father or your mother.” (Extract from Dhammapada, a collection of some of Buddha’s principal teachings)

For Islam: “How do we purify the world?” asked a disciple.

Ibn al-Husayn replied: “There was a sheik in Damascus called Abu Musa al-Qumasi. Everyone honored him for his wisdom, but no-one knew if he was a good man. One afternoon a flaw in construction caused the house where the sheik lived with his wife to fall down. In despair, the neighbors began to dig among the ruins. After a while they managed to locate the wife.

“She said: ‘Leave me. First save my husband, who was sitting more or less over there.’ The neighbors removed the debris from the place she had pointed to and found the sheik, who said: ‘Leave me. First save my wife, who was lying down more or less over there.’

“When someone acts like this couple, they are purifying the whole world through their faith in life and love.”

The faith of denying reality: “One year ago I gave a speech in an aircraft-carrier saying that we had succeeded in reaching an important objective, accomplishing a mission, which was to remove Saddam Hussein from power. As a result, there are no more torture chambers, no more mass graves.” (George W. Bush, 30 April 2004. In the same month, the world was to see the photos of torturing in the Abu Graib prison, and the collective executions of the civil war between Shiites and Sunites continue up to the moment I write this column).

According to Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlava: A disciple sought out the rabbi and said: “I can’t manage to talk to God.” “That often happens,” replied Nachman. “We feel that our mouth is sealed, or that the words just don’t come out. However, the mere fact of making an effort to overcome this situation is in itself a beneficial attitude.”

“But it isn’t enough.”

“You’re right. At such times, what you should do is look up at the sky and say: ‘Lord Almighty, I am so far from You that I can’t even believe my own voice.’ Because the truth is that the Lord always hears and answers. It is we who do not manage to talk, for fear that He will pay no attention to us.”

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