Robert Lubrican - For Want of a Memory

College, which he’d extended far beyond the average four years, taught him many things that had nothing to do with formal education in pursuit of a degree. He’d had to support himself and he’d knocked about, working at one time or another in a steel mill, a slaughterhouse, and as a hospital orderly. Every young boy’s dream to run off and join the circus was realized, and went well until he was caught in bed with one of the female aerialists, which is an offense on the level of a stable boy fucking a princess.

One of the things he learned was that most people were normal, unlike his family members. Moving to Australia after college got him about as far away from his crazy family as it was possible to get.

There is nothing in the world like being in a strange, faraway place to make one want to tell one’s story. And, it’s fairly normal for one to write down the story, to arrange it in one’s mind. Some discover that they’re not all that good at that. Others, like Kris, find release in writing that is second only to sexual completion.

And so, once in Australia, Kris became a writer. Others recognized his talent for writing and, quite suddenly, he was a published author.

But New York City still reigns supreme in terms of the publishing world and when his first book took off like a rocket, he decided to move back to the States, where there was the kind of stimulation that might fuel more best sellers.

He hoped there might also be a woman in New York who might bring out the "father in hiding" he thought himself to be.

There was a woman, as it turned out, but she was much more avid about forming a long term relationship than he was. She had already asked for a key to his apartment and offered him one to hers.

The problem was that Kris had only zeroed in on her because of one of his personal kinks. Kris was an ass man. He didn’t know why he was an ass man, but he was. And Lola had a luscious bubble butt that had made Kris' mouth water the first time he saw it-encased in a pair of skin tight toreador pants, with no panty line.

But, as it turned out, Lola’s ass was about all there was about her that made his mouth water. She was OK as a female. She was neither smart nor stupid. She worked at an ad agency, but had no drive to rise higher than her current position. She had no hobbies and no work experience other than her current job. That she was twenty years younger than him didn’t really bother him. She looked older than her twenty-five years and he looked younger than his forty-six.

But there was just something about Lola that made her seem vapid, once he’d spent a few months with her. When he thought of her in the role of a mother, he thought his children would be bored senseless during their formative years.

The real problem with Lola, however, was that the one dream she DID have was to be rich and famous. She made that quite clear when, after she asked "what he did" for the third of fourth time, he casually mentioned that he had written a few things that had been published. He’d made reference to obscure technical journals. She’d immediately waxed poetic about how someday he’d be a rich and famous, well-read author and that they’d live the high life then. When he wrote the books that she had in mind, and people found out how talented an author he was, she said, they’d be invited to all the best parties and treated as VIPs. At one moment, as she’d planned their fantasy popularity, she’d even sketched out a plan for personal security … for both of them.

He knew that if she became aware that he had published three best sellers, it would only be natural for her to want to brag that she was sleeping with the author of those best sellers.

And the problem with THAT was that Kris had come to treasure the anonymity that writing books under a pseudonym gave him.

It may seem odd to you, the reader, that an author who, after all, puts his work out in the public eye for all to see, might not want the public to see HIM. But there are good reasons for an author to want to stay invisible on a personal level.

One of them is that readers, particularly readers of fiction, have a natural tendency toward amateur psychoanalysis. And they always have questions. Why did you write that book? What does it all mean-between the lines? Where did the inspiration for that character come from? Is this book autobiographical? What was your childhood like? Do you REALLY have a sister who is a wacko religious nut? What denomination is she? Readers' appetites for personal details are voracious and unending.

And then there are those readers who have their own story they’d like to tell, but can’t, because they can’t write. They just naturally dream of seeing THEIR story in print … written by the author whose books they love to read. And how could that author object? It’s a GREAT story!

Of course, another pitfall is that there are those who want to be around the great man. They perceive themselves as destined to be part of his entourage-perhaps even to become the inspiration for a new character, based on their own intriguing and interesting lives and characteristics. Lola was one of those. She was forever suggesting that his "first big book" should contain HER as the main character.

And the fact was that Kris just wanted to write. One cannot write when surrounded by people asking questions and making suggestions and wanting to know when their fascinating life will be represented in print.

He was caught in a situation he didn’t want to confront. If Lola had free access to his apartment, it would be difficult to write and she would likely discover that he wrote much more than articles for obscure technical journals. She would find out, eventually, who he really was and he would have to insist that his identity not be revealed to others. Which would cause her untold misery, because her natural urge would be to brag-though she certainly wouldn’t have characterized it as bragging-about how she was intimate with the man who had created "Living With an Aardvark" and "The Cereal Killer" and "Diagnosis - Steatopygia!". That would lead to people wanting to meet him … and ask all those questions.

He took his privacy so seriously, in fact, that even his publisher did not know his real name. He received checks under his pseudonym, which was connected to his bank account. The bank didn’t care a bit that he did business under one name, while the account was technically under another. People did that all the time.

His publisher, whose voracious appetite was for profits rather than personal information, was pushing him for another book. He’d been given a hefty advance and six months to produce that book. With the advance also came the requirement to provide progress reports once a month.

The outline was done. The characters had been roughed out. The plot was generally identified. About a third of the book was already written in what he called preliminary paragraphs . He knew he was ready to write it. The story bulged inside him, demanding to be let loose. His muse was impatient. But the distraction of Lola was preventing him from letting his muse take over.

The answer was to find someplace to go where there would be no Lola … no publisher … no distractions.

Surfing the net, he found a vacation house on a lake shore in Connecticut. It was winter, the off season, and the rates were good. He made all the arrangements, using the new pseudonym of Larry Phillips. It was likely that during the six months he would be staying in Pembroke, people would find out what he was doing there. He didn’t want anyone in that town to connect Kristoff Farmingham with the book that would be written there. He sent a money order and received a contract in the mail, with a key and directions on how to find the place.

He packed three bags. His landlord had almost had a stroke when he’d paid his rent ahead for the five months he’d be gone. The advance was severely depleted, but that was all right. He’d get the rest when he turned in the manuscript. Then he’d probably start the whole process all over again.