Orson Card - Maps in a Mirror - The Short Fiction of Orson Scott Card

Abe’s life-transforming insight is that serious contemporary American literature is squarely within the genre of celebrity autobiography, which can only be successful to the degree that the author/subject is, in fact, celebrated. Therefore the serious contemporary American novelist must become famous before publishing anything, so that when his fiction- cum -celeb-bio appears the public will not expect cognitive processes to be involved in the reading of the book.

Indeed, the book is not meant to be read. Rather it is purchased to be a talisman of the reader’s sympathy with the Celebrated One. Having been created by the celebrity, the book is the most easily obtained scrap of his or her personal detritus, giving its purchaser immeasurable powers in the arcane vodun of Celebrism, the folk religion of the American people. The book is not an end in itself; it is a channel to the god, and therefore must be endued with mystery. Any attempt to understand the novel would show the worshiper’s lack of faith in the Celebrated One, as if the presumptuous reader feels himself capable of judging whether the Celebrated One is worthy of celebration.

Hence Abe Snow realizes that to take his place in the pantheon of contemporary American letters it is essential that his genius and vision be so celebrated that he need not concern himself with the tedious labor of creating stories that people might voluntarily read for pleasure.

With this understanding, Abe’s long-time writer’s block evaporates at once, and he writes the ideal novel. Through a series of machinations that I have not yet thought of, Abe contrives to become a famous writer with a famous agent, and then his book brings more than a million dollars at auction.

Abe’s working title, and the title he expected to see on the finished book, was, as befitted the ideal novel, F---ing Good Read. The publisher, however, presents to him the results of a survey of literary opinion-makers showing that during the coming decade they will no longer be impressed by the word f--- . The publisher offers as an alternative the title Damn Fine Novel. Abe Snow finds this acceptable, and eight million copies are printed, shipped, sold, and worshipfully not read.

In addition, Abe writes a very short story about the writing of Damn Fine Novel which is published, under the title “Damn Fine Novel,” in a magazine of unassailable literary reputation. This does not increase the audience for the ideal novel, but it does mean that Abe moves directly from the bestseller lists to the anthologies of contemporary literature assembled and xeroxed by literature professors for the edification of their graduate students, who will then write theological essays affirming that Damn Fine Novel is holy writ and should be required reading for all American students. This, plus heavy exploitation of foreign and film rights, guarantees that Abe Snow will never have to write again.

At this point I (not the narrator of the story you imagine that you are reading, but the implied author of the story you are in fact reading) am uncertain whether all this happened within Snow’s book Damn Fine Novel or whether his book Damn

Fine Novel was part of my own story “Damn Fine Novel,” which may or may not be the story that you, the inferred audience, are reading. And if you are in fact reading and attempting to understand it, I must say it shows a surprising lack of faith on your part, which hurts and disappoints me after all we’ve been through together.

The box was in the living room when Billy came home from school. “What’s in the box?” he asked. “You’ll see,” said Mom, “as soon as Dad comes home from work.”

When Dad came home, he opened the box. Inside was a television set. All of Billy’s older brothers and sisters were happy to see the television, but Billy was more interested in the box. It was as tall as Billy, and so wide he couldn’t touch both ends at the same time. Billy thought the empty box would be a lot more fun than the TV.

“Dad,” said Billy, “can I have the box?”

“Sure,” answered Dad.

The next day Billy hunted all over the house for things to put in his box. He found an empty toothpaste tube in the bathroom, and an empty cereal box in the kitchen. He found a whole box full of old buttons. He found a shoe that didn’t have a mate. And he put them all in his box in the living room.

When his sister Annie came home from school, she said, “What is that box still doing in the living room?”

When his brother Todd came home from school, he said, “Does Mom know you have all that stuff in here?”

When his sister Dora came home from school, she said, “Can’t you play without making a mess?”

And after dinner they all said, “What is all that stuff for, Billy?”

Billy didn’t say anything. He just sat inside his box, putting the cereal box, the toothpaste tube, the buttons, and the shoe right out in front.

Dad smiled. “Why, it’s a store, of course,” he said. “How much are those buttons selling for?”

Billy thought for a minute. “A hundred dollars,” he said.

“Oh,” said Dad. “I’m a little short this month, I can’t afford that. Don’t you have any bargains today?”

“Oh yes!” agreed Billy. “They’re on sale for two cents each.”

“That’s a real bargain,” Dad said. “I’ll take three buttons.”

Then he handed Billy six cents, and Billy handed him three buttons.

“Oh,” said Billy’s brother and sisters admiringly. “What a neat store!”

The next day Billy hunted for things again. This time he found a yardstick, and Mom gave him some string. He tied the ends of the string through the holes in the ends of the yardstick. He pulled back on the string and the yardstick bent a little. Then he let go of the string with a twang.

“SWICK!” he said. “SWISH! ZIP!”

When Annie came home from school, she said, “Is that box still in the living room?”

Billy was hiding down inside the box. When she said that he stood up and held the yardstick out, and twanged the string. “SWICK!” he said. Annie left the room, laughing.

Todd came home and said, “Does Mom know you’ve got the yardstick in your store?”

Billy twanged the string at Todd and said, “ZIP! No she doesn’t, cause it isn’t a store!”

Todd left the room, saying, “I thought it was a store.”

When Dora came in she said, “What’s all this twanging and zipping and swicking? Can’t you play without making noise?”

But Billy only twanged the string at her and whispered, “SWICK! ZIP! SWISH! TWANG!”

And after dinner they all asked, “What are you doing, Billy?”

Billy didn’t say anything. He ducked down inside the box where no one could see him. Then he stood up and twanged and zipped them all.

Dad smiled. “Why, that’s a castle, of course!” he declared. “Are you a knight?”

“No,” answered Billy. “I’m the king. And if you come any closer, I’ll get you with my bow and arrow.” And then Billy pulled back on the string with all his might to make a huge twang. But the string didn’t twang at all. Instead, the yardstick broke right in half.

“Oops,” said Billy, “I’m sorry.”

Billy’s brother and sisters were about to say, “I told you this would happen,” but just in time Mom said, “Well, looks like without a bow you’re not a king anymore, are you?”

Billy looked at the broken bow. “Nope,” he agreed.

“Now it’s just a yardstick,” Dad said.

Billy looked at the two pieces in his hand. “I think it’s two half-yardsticks,” he said.

“Well then,” Dad said, “it looks like that box isn’t a castle anymore. What can it be now?”