Eli's Masterpiece
With the initial shock of dying having subsided, Eli was, to put it mildly, pleased with discovering his new surroundings. The view from the cottage window overlooking the mountains and the pines surrounding the lake, the neatly trimmed hedgerows lining the front walk, and the songbirds enlivening the morning air with
their music, Eli found to meet his every expectation as being the perfect setting in which to write his masterpiece. This stands to reason; of course, as it was Eli himself who had dreamed the cottage and the view into existence in the first place. To be specific, the cottage had been occupied previously. However, with each new tenant, the landscape varied to accommodate its occupants tastes. For example, the hedgerows along the walk, the songbirds, even the tulips in the flowerpots to the right of the swing on the front-porch were recent additions due completely to Eli's flair for such details.
A short adjustment period was needed for Eli to accept the fact that he had just died. At first, he did not take the news well at all, ranting and raving about unfinished works and the like. These situations are to be expected and Eli's angel, being one well prepared, was able to calm Eli down without much trouble.
With a half dozen red, ballpoint pens stuffed in his shirt pocket and a visored cap tilted back on his head revealing a greatly receeded hairline, Eli thought that the bossy man in the cottage with him resembled a newspaper editor or a pressman, but certainly looked nothing like an angel. There was none of that radiant glow Eli had somehow always associated with celestial beings emanating from this fellow. In all honesty, Eli could not recall ever having met an angel or a newspaper editor for that matter. So, he had no real basis for his comparison, a fact the angel was quick to point out to Eli.
Eli's angel motioned to the view outside the cottage window. "All of this is here Eli because you desired it to be. The cottage, the valley, even those tulips were all created from the longings you birthed and stifled while living that pathetic life you just finished with down there in the city. Eli, you dreamed up this place. It's all
yours. So, here's the plan. You have here your woodsy-type setting and your solitude. And here is your typewriter." Eli's angel walked away from the window across the wood floor and sat down in a plain looking office chair in front of a small writing desk on top of which there was a typewriter and a formidable stack of typing paper.
‘Believe me, that typewriter was more difficult to requisition than those pine trees out there." continued Eli's angel. "So, be careful with it. Now, it's time that you get started...and remember, you're on a deadline here. Type away."
Before Eli could get a word out, the angel had disappeared, leaving Eli alone in the one-room cottage in paradise furnished with a chair, a desk, a supposedly rare typewriter, and enough typing paper for an epic novel. Eli looked around the collage window to the mountains behind the lake and wondered if he was dreaming and what that angel, or whoever he was, had meant about a deadline.
A little background information should prove helpful at this point. During his life, Eli had worked as a clerk in the city in one those multi-storied office building, in a small cubicle. Eli's responsibilities included the following: Eli would answer a call that rang into the phone in his cubicle, completely fill out a two-copy form with the information received from the call, file one copy of the completed form in his basket, hand the other copy three cubicles down to someone whose name he could never remember and was to shy to ask, though he thought it was Sally or Cindy, then return to his own cubicle to answer the next call, which would begin the process over again. Eli had held this same position for nine years.
In his heart of hearts, Eli's dream was to one day become a writer. in fact, Eli envisioned himself writing a masterpiece novel, the concept for which he had worked out to the last detail, mostly between telephone calls in his cubicle, though he had yet to write down a word. The novel's hero would be a shepherd, whose
passion for a certain shepherdess would drive him over the countryside performing great deeds in order to win the lady's favor. Eli often imagined the beauty of the countryside where his hero would spur a white mare, or maybe "charger" was the more romantic word, well, a horse of some sort anyway over the hills. The desire to one day write this novel was the purpose that kept Eli going through those long days in the cubicle.
Then, one afternoon quite suddenly, Eli had just finished his last call before the two o'clock break, the lights went out. When they were turned on again, Eli found himself at the cottage confronted with some man who looked like a newspaper editor, who was telling Eli that he had died and was claiming to be his angel.
"So, this is Heaven." Eli said aloud though there was no one in the cottage to hear him now. "Here, I will write my masterpiece.‘
Outside the cottage window, Eli listened to the melodious chirping of the songbirds and the whispering of the breezes whistling through the pines surrounding the lake. The entire countryside emanated peace and vibrated tranquility. Now, one would be inclined to believe this an ideal setting for an aspiring writer to begin work on a novel featuring a shepherd's romantic adventures, but to an individual accustom to
the noises of city life: ringing telephones, bustling crowds, and streets busy with tire screaming taxi drivers, tranquility has a particular foreign and unsettling quality.
Not long after he was left alone in the cottage, Eli was reduced to stomping his heels, marching across the wood floor creating as much noise as possible in an attempt to relieve his anxiety. Memories of a frantic city life were bombarding his consciousness. The harder he tried to concentrate on the peaceful surroundings outside the cottage window, the more intense became the torrent of boisterous thoughts that were flooding Eli's mind with a deluge of busy city images. At the point of desperation. Eli called out, "Help!" No sooner had he cried out, then did the editor-capped, bald headed angel with the red-pen stuffed shirt pocket unceremoniously appear.
"S0", said Eli's angel, "All done are we? And long before deadline. Let's have a look."
"No, we are not all done!" said Eli sarcastically, who at hearing the word deadline from this popping-out-of nowhere-without-the-slightest-warning angel was reaching a new point in frustration.
"No, I am not done," Eli repeated. "In fact, l am having a really hard time getting started with those birds chirping, and those pines whistling all over the place, and all of this quiet is driving me out of ..."
"Hold on Eli." interrupted the angel. "This setting was made to order for you. You spent your entire life wishing for a place just like this. Now that you have it, I'm afraid you're stuck with it." Eli's angel gave Eli a sympathetic look and gently led him by the arm away from the window to seat him in the chair in front of the
typewriter.
"Write what you know and don't call me again until you have something to show me.Remember your deadline Eli." With that, the angel was gone before Eli could get the words "what deadline" out of his mouth.
Eli, who after the meeting with his angel was more frustrated than ever, stared at the blank sheet of paper in the typewriter and tried to envision his hero bounding across pastoral meadows in search of adventure, but the scenes playing themselves out in his mind were those of people living dissatisfying lives in the
city. The more sweetly the songbirds outside the cottage window chirped, the more vivid became the images and sounds of city life inside Eli's mind. Eli was at the point of tears when a new thought caught his attention.
‘The angel said that I should write what I know. I really don't know all that much about romantic shepherds," mused Eli, "But, with what I know about the disappointments of life in the city, I could write volumes."
Eli's mind was buzzing with ideas. He typed like a man with a purpose. His lingers flew quickly over the keys capturing the images racing through his mind: depersonalized city dwellers, dreams pulverized by the frantic rat-race pace, hopes paved over with the concrete of neglect. Eli wept over his work, his tragic masterpiece, as he painstakingly captured on paper every pathetic, tear-eliciting detail of the deluding city life. The process was emotionally draining, but Eli undoubtedly knew this was the work destiny had meant for him, and he was determined to see it through to the end. For weeks, day and night, Eli hunched over his typewriter oblivious to the heaven outside the cottage window and labored over his manuscript.
When Eli's angel appeared again in the cottage, he found Eli sobbing over the typewriter, furiously tapping away at the soggy keys like a concert pianist banging out Rachmaninov.
"Well, it looks as if we have adjusted to our surroundings well enough. Let's have a look." Eli's angel picked up the nearly completed manuscript, flipped the visor up on his cap, and pulled a red ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket. Eli stopped his typing, wiped his eyes, and watched anxiously as the angel read through the sheets and sheets of paper, pausing only occasionally to scribble a comment in a margin.
There was a complete silence in the room for a full minute after the angel had completed reading the last of the pages; and with that silence, Eli knew that he had written a masterpiece to leave the angels speechless.
"Wait until you read the final chapter," urged Eli breaking the silence. "You want to talk tragedy, this is going to make Lear look like a fairy tale."
"We have to talk Eli," said the angel. ‘If I would have known you were making this kind of progress, I would have been her much sooner."
‘So, you want to talk publishers and percentages, right?" Eli gave a knowing look to the angel.
"No," said the angel. "It's not that. Listen, Eli. It's like this. First off, you have the talent. I mean, this piece of writing is classic. I'm in tears over it, but there is something you really need to know."
"What, don't tell me." said Eli. "There are no publishers up here."
"No, there's no problem getting this published, turned into a screenplay, and cast. The thing is...," said the angel, "This is your story that you have written, Eli."
Eli shot a confused look at the angel. "Of course it's my story. I've been bleeding over every word of it for weeks now."
"You don't understand Eli." said the angel. "What I'm saying is that deadline is nearly up and you're going back to live the story that you've just written."
"Back?" said Eli. "Back where? You don't mean..."
"That's right." said Eli's angel.
‘That's how it works. We all write our own lives, both up here and down there. Eli, you have made some
definite strides. That timid office clerk thing last time was pretty lame, but each according to their talents as the saying goes! You see Eli, you have finally become what you have always desired. You're a first-class writer. You know what it means to feel for the story line and be true to the emotions of your characters, to honor the tragic aspects of their lives. Eli, this could be one of the best ever. Believe me, I've seen my share in my time. Eli, you're one in a million."
The angel paused for a moment before handing the nearly completed manuscript back to Eli. 'It's up to you where you take this. You're the one who has to live it, Eli. Deadline is up tomorrow. I'll be around early to see what you decide. You're something special kid. My money is on you."
His words echoing in the quiet cottage, the angel disappeared, leaving Eli sitting at the desk alone with his typewriter, his deadline, and his masterpiece.
their music, Eli found to meet his every expectation as being the perfect setting in which to write his masterpiece. This stands to reason; of course, as it was Eli himself who had dreamed the cottage and the view into existence in the first place. To be specific, the cottage had been occupied previously. However, with each new tenant, the landscape varied to accommodate its occupants tastes. For example, the hedgerows along the walk, the songbirds, even the tulips in the flowerpots to the right of the swing on the front-porch were recent additions due completely to Eli's flair for such details.
A short adjustment period was needed for Eli to accept the fact that he had just died. At first, he did not take the news well at all, ranting and raving about unfinished works and the like. These situations are to be expected and Eli's angel, being one well prepared, was able to calm Eli down without much trouble.
With a half dozen red, ballpoint pens stuffed in his shirt pocket and a visored cap tilted back on his head revealing a greatly receeded hairline, Eli thought that the bossy man in the cottage with him resembled a newspaper editor or a pressman, but certainly looked nothing like an angel. There was none of that radiant glow Eli had somehow always associated with celestial beings emanating from this fellow. In all honesty, Eli could not recall ever having met an angel or a newspaper editor for that matter. So, he had no real basis for his comparison, a fact the angel was quick to point out to Eli.
Eli's angel motioned to the view outside the cottage window. "All of this is here Eli because you desired it to be. The cottage, the valley, even those tulips were all created from the longings you birthed and stifled while living that pathetic life you just finished with down there in the city. Eli, you dreamed up this place. It's all
yours. So, here's the plan. You have here your woodsy-type setting and your solitude. And here is your typewriter." Eli's angel walked away from the window across the wood floor and sat down in a plain looking office chair in front of a small writing desk on top of which there was a typewriter and a formidable stack of typing paper.
‘Believe me, that typewriter was more difficult to requisition than those pine trees out there." continued Eli's angel. "So, be careful with it. Now, it's time that you get started...and remember, you're on a deadline here. Type away."
Before Eli could get a word out, the angel had disappeared, leaving Eli alone in the one-room cottage in paradise furnished with a chair, a desk, a supposedly rare typewriter, and enough typing paper for an epic novel. Eli looked around the collage window to the mountains behind the lake and wondered if he was dreaming and what that angel, or whoever he was, had meant about a deadline.
A little background information should prove helpful at this point. During his life, Eli had worked as a clerk in the city in one those multi-storied office building, in a small cubicle. Eli's responsibilities included the following: Eli would answer a call that rang into the phone in his cubicle, completely fill out a two-copy form with the information received from the call, file one copy of the completed form in his basket, hand the other copy three cubicles down to someone whose name he could never remember and was to shy to ask, though he thought it was Sally or Cindy, then return to his own cubicle to answer the next call, which would begin the process over again. Eli had held this same position for nine years.
In his heart of hearts, Eli's dream was to one day become a writer. in fact, Eli envisioned himself writing a masterpiece novel, the concept for which he had worked out to the last detail, mostly between telephone calls in his cubicle, though he had yet to write down a word. The novel's hero would be a shepherd, whose
passion for a certain shepherdess would drive him over the countryside performing great deeds in order to win the lady's favor. Eli often imagined the beauty of the countryside where his hero would spur a white mare, or maybe "charger" was the more romantic word, well, a horse of some sort anyway over the hills. The desire to one day write this novel was the purpose that kept Eli going through those long days in the cubicle.
Then, one afternoon quite suddenly, Eli had just finished his last call before the two o'clock break, the lights went out. When they were turned on again, Eli found himself at the cottage confronted with some man who looked like a newspaper editor, who was telling Eli that he had died and was claiming to be his angel.
"So, this is Heaven." Eli said aloud though there was no one in the cottage to hear him now. "Here, I will write my masterpiece.‘
Outside the cottage window, Eli listened to the melodious chirping of the songbirds and the whispering of the breezes whistling through the pines surrounding the lake. The entire countryside emanated peace and vibrated tranquility. Now, one would be inclined to believe this an ideal setting for an aspiring writer to begin work on a novel featuring a shepherd's romantic adventures, but to an individual accustom to
the noises of city life: ringing telephones, bustling crowds, and streets busy with tire screaming taxi drivers, tranquility has a particular foreign and unsettling quality.
Not long after he was left alone in the cottage, Eli was reduced to stomping his heels, marching across the wood floor creating as much noise as possible in an attempt to relieve his anxiety. Memories of a frantic city life were bombarding his consciousness. The harder he tried to concentrate on the peaceful surroundings outside the cottage window, the more intense became the torrent of boisterous thoughts that were flooding Eli's mind with a deluge of busy city images. At the point of desperation. Eli called out, "Help!" No sooner had he cried out, then did the editor-capped, bald headed angel with the red-pen stuffed shirt pocket unceremoniously appear.
"S0", said Eli's angel, "All done are we? And long before deadline. Let's have a look."
"No, we are not all done!" said Eli sarcastically, who at hearing the word deadline from this popping-out-of nowhere-without-the-slightest-warning angel was reaching a new point in frustration.
"No, I am not done," Eli repeated. "In fact, l am having a really hard time getting started with those birds chirping, and those pines whistling all over the place, and all of this quiet is driving me out of ..."
"Hold on Eli." interrupted the angel. "This setting was made to order for you. You spent your entire life wishing for a place just like this. Now that you have it, I'm afraid you're stuck with it." Eli's angel gave Eli a sympathetic look and gently led him by the arm away from the window to seat him in the chair in front of the
typewriter.
"Write what you know and don't call me again until you have something to show me.Remember your deadline Eli." With that, the angel was gone before Eli could get the words "what deadline" out of his mouth.
Eli, who after the meeting with his angel was more frustrated than ever, stared at the blank sheet of paper in the typewriter and tried to envision his hero bounding across pastoral meadows in search of adventure, but the scenes playing themselves out in his mind were those of people living dissatisfying lives in the
city. The more sweetly the songbirds outside the cottage window chirped, the more vivid became the images and sounds of city life inside Eli's mind. Eli was at the point of tears when a new thought caught his attention.
‘The angel said that I should write what I know. I really don't know all that much about romantic shepherds," mused Eli, "But, with what I know about the disappointments of life in the city, I could write volumes."
Eli's mind was buzzing with ideas. He typed like a man with a purpose. His lingers flew quickly over the keys capturing the images racing through his mind: depersonalized city dwellers, dreams pulverized by the frantic rat-race pace, hopes paved over with the concrete of neglect. Eli wept over his work, his tragic masterpiece, as he painstakingly captured on paper every pathetic, tear-eliciting detail of the deluding city life. The process was emotionally draining, but Eli undoubtedly knew this was the work destiny had meant for him, and he was determined to see it through to the end. For weeks, day and night, Eli hunched over his typewriter oblivious to the heaven outside the cottage window and labored over his manuscript.
When Eli's angel appeared again in the cottage, he found Eli sobbing over the typewriter, furiously tapping away at the soggy keys like a concert pianist banging out Rachmaninov.
"Well, it looks as if we have adjusted to our surroundings well enough. Let's have a look." Eli's angel picked up the nearly completed manuscript, flipped the visor up on his cap, and pulled a red ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket. Eli stopped his typing, wiped his eyes, and watched anxiously as the angel read through the sheets and sheets of paper, pausing only occasionally to scribble a comment in a margin.
There was a complete silence in the room for a full minute after the angel had completed reading the last of the pages; and with that silence, Eli knew that he had written a masterpiece to leave the angels speechless.
"Wait until you read the final chapter," urged Eli breaking the silence. "You want to talk tragedy, this is going to make Lear look like a fairy tale."
"We have to talk Eli," said the angel. ‘If I would have known you were making this kind of progress, I would have been her much sooner."
‘So, you want to talk publishers and percentages, right?" Eli gave a knowing look to the angel.
"No," said the angel. "It's not that. Listen, Eli. It's like this. First off, you have the talent. I mean, this piece of writing is classic. I'm in tears over it, but there is something you really need to know."
"What, don't tell me." said Eli. "There are no publishers up here."
"No, there's no problem getting this published, turned into a screenplay, and cast. The thing is...," said the angel, "This is your story that you have written, Eli."
Eli shot a confused look at the angel. "Of course it's my story. I've been bleeding over every word of it for weeks now."
"You don't understand Eli." said the angel. "What I'm saying is that deadline is nearly up and you're going back to live the story that you've just written."
"Back?" said Eli. "Back where? You don't mean..."
"That's right." said Eli's angel.
‘That's how it works. We all write our own lives, both up here and down there. Eli, you have made some
definite strides. That timid office clerk thing last time was pretty lame, but each according to their talents as the saying goes! You see Eli, you have finally become what you have always desired. You're a first-class writer. You know what it means to feel for the story line and be true to the emotions of your characters, to honor the tragic aspects of their lives. Eli, this could be one of the best ever. Believe me, I've seen my share in my time. Eli, you're one in a million."
The angel paused for a moment before handing the nearly completed manuscript back to Eli. 'It's up to you where you take this. You're the one who has to live it, Eli. Deadline is up tomorrow. I'll be around early to see what you decide. You're something special kid. My money is on you."
His words echoing in the quiet cottage, the angel disappeared, leaving Eli sitting at the desk alone with his typewriter, his deadline, and his masterpiece.