A Beginning, a Muddle, and an End: The Right Way to Write Writing Read online

  Edward thought for a moment. "Here's one: 'He died.'"

  "That doesn't seem very lively," said Avon.

  "Then you've understood the story perfectly," said Edward.

  Avon sighed. "I think resting would suit me best."

  "Do that and you'll be the first snail I've ever seen wearing a suit," said Edward.

  Avon put his pencil aside, lowered his head, and closed his eyes. But after a while he sighed. "I have to admit, Edward, doing nothing makes me restless."

  "That's because you can't do nothing."

  "I can't?" said a startled Avon.

  "You can do your writing. You can do a dance. You can even do smart things. But I don't see how you can do nothing. Because if you're doing nothing," explained Edward, "then you must be doing something, which is certainly not doing ... well ... nothing."

  "Edward!" cried Avon. "I've been doing nothing for most of my life!"

  "No wonder you're exhausted," said Edward.

  "Do you have a suggestion?"

  "Try doing something," suggested Edward. "I think you'll find it much more enjoyable."

  "I did write Something," said Avon.

  "Well then, do something with it."

  "What exactly could I do?"

  "Try thinking about nothing."

  "Isn't that hard?"

  "Nothing to be taken lightly."

  "What about heavy thoughts?"

  "Only if you have strong feelings."

  "I'll try," said Avon, and almost immediately cleared his throat, his ears, his eyes, and his mind of everything.

  Edward waited patiently. After a couple of hours went by, he asked, "Avon?"

  "Yes, Edward."

  "Are you thinking about anything?"

  "I'm thinking about not thinking. But it worries me."

  "Why?"

  "Because my father always told me not to be thoughtless."

  "And my father always taught me that it's the thought that counts."

  "I'd much prefer that."

  "Why?"

  "Because I've always been good at mathematics. So if it's one's thoughts that count, my writing might add up to more than Something."

  "That," agreed Edward, "figures."

  CHAPTER SIX

  In Which Edward Offers a Song

  The next day, when Avon woke up, he said, "Oh, Edward, I feel so dismal about my writing."

  "Have you actually been writing, then?"

  "No, just talking about it."

  "Not to worry," said Edward. "Most writers talk about writing way more than they actually write. Then, when they finally do write, they mostly write talk, not writing. So maybe I can cheer you up. Do you remember how I once taught you some songs?"

  "Faintly," said Avon.

  "Loud songs, actually," said Edward. "And I know they were good songs, but in the end they were ant songs. The point is, I've been writing a snail song. It's meant to cheer you up."

  "Edward," cried Avon, "how thoughtful of you to up the ante! I'd love to hear it."

  "It's not quite finished," said Edward. "But so far here's the way it goes." The ant took a deep breath and began to sing:

  "This is a snail song because

  It takes sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo long to sing.

  That's because snail songs

  Take a looooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong, long time to sing.

  Because if a snail song didn't take

  Sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo

  Long to sing, it wouldn't really be a snail

  Soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooong!"

  Edward looked at his friend. "What do you think?"

  "I think snails might like it a lot," said Avon. "It has a very catchy melody."

  "Do you think it needs work?" asked Edward.

  "I can make one suggestion..."

  "Please."

  "There may be too many o's."

  "You might be right," said Edward. "Maybe if you sang it, I could get a better sense of that."

  "Happy to give it a try," said Avon. He began to sing:

  "This is a snail song because

  It takes soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo long to sing.

  That's—"

  "Hold it!" cried Edward.

  "What's the matter?" asked Avon.

  "When you got to the 'sooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo' part, you left out one of the o's."

  "I did?"

  "I'm afraid so."

  "I'm very sorry," said Avon. "Let me try it again." Taking a deep breath, he started to sing the song a second time:

  "This is a snail song because

  It takes soooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooo long to sing.

  That's—"

  "Forgive me, Avon." Edward felt obliged to cut in. "That time you added an o."

  "Edward, are you absolutely sure?"

  "No question about it. I mean, I wrote that song, so I can tell when others get it wrong."

  "Well, no offense," said Avon, "but—does it really matter?"

  "Of course it does."

  "Why?"

  "Because if you sing it differently than I do, it's really two songs."

  "Would that be so wrong?" asked Avon.

  "Two songs don't make it right," said Edward.

  "And that," agreed Avon, "most certainly would be wrong."

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  In Which Avon and Edward Have a Few Words

  The next day Avon was resting after many hours of thinking about what else he might write on the piece of paper that lay before him other than the Something he'd already written.

  "Edward," he announced, "I think I'm hungry."

  "Would that," asked Edward, "be hungry for ideas, new words, or—?"

  "Stomach hungry, actually. Only I don't see much to eat."

  "Yes, I'm afraid our kitchen is empty," said Edward. "So you might have to eat your words."

  "I'd be happy to, except I've only written one word," said Avon. "I was hoping for more nourishment. Could you recommend a particularly good word?"

  Edward thought for a while. Then he said, "I've always liked raddle."

  "What's it mean?"

  "It's an old-fashioned word for red."

  Avon shook his head. "Too rare for me," he said.

  "Then how do you like your meat?"

  "Actually, I find meetings boring," replied Avon. "I'd rather make myself a leaf sandwich."

  "How do you do that?"

  "It's a piece of bread between two leaves."

  "Might I suggest you turn over a new leaf?" said Edward.

  "Edward," said Avon, "I simply want a bite to eat."

  "These days creatures seem to be content with sound bites," said Edward. "Yet sound bites are rarely sound."

  "That still leaves me hungry."

  "Well, if you didn't want to eat your words," said Edward, "there's always food for thought."

  "If I had some thoughts, I'd gladly exchange them for food," said Avon.

  "Then you'd become thought-full."

  "Edward," said Avon, "you are my best friend, but sometimes I think you try too hard to be clever."

  Edward became raddled with embarrassment. "Avon," he said, "a word to the wise is sufficient."

  Avon thought for a while, and then he said, "Edward, what wise word would that actually be?"

  Edward shrugged all of his shoulders. "Creatures have spent years trying to discover that word. I'm not so sure there is one."

  "Edward," said Avon, "those are the wisest words you've ever said."

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  In Which Avon and Edward Have a Spell of Spelling

  After having spent yet another day writing nothing, Avon decided he needed some fresh air. Edward was agreeable. So the two friends stepped out of their house, only to have Avon suddenly say, "Edward, look over there! Unless I miss my guess—"

  "Avon," said Edward, "if you practiced your guessing, you wouldn't miss so much."


  "What I was trying to say, Edward, before you interrupted me, is that I think an anteater is coming our way."

  "An anteater! Why is he on a tree?"

  "Since you're an ant, I suppose it's because of you."

  "Then I have no intention of staying here."

  "Edward," said Avon, "don't be frightened. I think I can protect you."

  "How are you going to do that?"

  "I suppose being a writer has something to do with spelling. So I intend to save you from this anteater with spelling."

  "I had no idea you were a good speller."

  "I know all my letters by heart," said Avon.

  "Avon, in all the time I've known you, I've never seen you receive so much as one letter. So your alphabet can't be very complete."

  "Not only is it complete, I can arrange the letters, too. For example, I know the difference between g-o-d and d-o-g."

  "You have things backward," said Edward.

  "Edward!" cried Avon. "I'm trying to be straightforward."

  "You think you're smart," said Edward, "but in ancient Egypt they worshipped a god named Anubis who was a dog. So if you lived then, the difference between spelling g-o-d and d-o-g wouldn't have been helpful. You could have spelled the word in either direction and you'd get the same thing, a dog and a god."

  "That sounds like religious dogma," said Avon. "Edward, you simply are going to have to trust me."

  In fact, the anteater was approaching rapidly, his long, sticky tongue constantly poking about.

  "Edward!" cried Avon. "Hurry! Get behind me!"

  "Avon," said a frightened Edward, "I just hope you know how to spell."

  "Don't worry," returned Avon. "I intend to do what I'm hoping."

  "But what you're doing and what I'm hoping, and what I'm doing and what you're hoping, may be four different things," said Edward from behind.

  "Shhh!" said Avon. "He's here."

  The anteater lumbered up to Avon and stopped. "I beg your pardon," he said. "I'm quite sure an ant was here a moment ago. Perhaps you can tell me where he went."

  "What did you want him for?" asked Avon.

  "What do you think? I am an anteater. I'm hungry. And I eat ants."

  "Excuse me for asking," said Avon, "but how do you spell that?"

  "Spell what?"

  "What you eat."

  "Ant. A-n-t."

  "I don't wish to alarm you," said Avon, "but I think you're making a huge mistake. I think it's an aunt—a-u-n-t—that you like to eat."

  The anteater was startled. "Are you suggesting I've been eating the wrong thing all my life?" he cried.

  "I'm afraid so."

  "I'm feeling sick," said the anteater, sucking his tongue back into his mouth with a slurp.

  "Maybe you'd best go to a doctor and get an antidote."

  The anteater started to turn around, only to stop. "Wait a minute," he said, looking back. "Can't an ant be an aunt?"

  "I suppose," admitted Avon.

  "What about that ant I just saw here—an aunt or an uncle?"

  "I assure you," said Avon, "that ant will never become an aunt."

  "I do beg your pardon," said the anteater, and he waddled away in search of an aunt to eat.

  A very happy Edward came out from behind Avon's shell. "Avon," he cried, "you're a genius! It was as if you put a spell upon that creature."

  "It just goes to show," agreed Avon, "that in this world U can make a difference."

  CHAPTER NINE

  In Which Avon and Edward Get into an Argument

  Having dealt with the aunt eater, Avon went back inside to write. He stared at the paper—which still had only Something on it—and by the next morning he suddenly had an idea. "Edward?" he called.

  "Yes, Avon?"

  "How long have we known each other?"

  "Are you counting minutes, days, or years?" asked Edward.

  "Don't they add up to the same thing?" said Avon.

  "There are always fewer years than minutes," Edward said. "But though there are fewer, a year is too long to think about. On the other hand, I find days much too short. I much prefer thinking about months. There's something comforting about the word month."

  "Month always reminds me of munch," said Avon. "And munch reminds me of lunch. And that reminds me that one of these days we should eat."

  "But to get back to your question," said Edward. "I have a hunch we've known each other for a bunch of months. What makes you ask?"

  "In all that time," said Avon, "we've never had an argument."

  "It's a curious thing about arguments," said Edward. "While creatures often lose arguments, I've never heard of anyone getting an argument."

  "And more curiously," agreed Avon, "even if you don't have one, you can still get into one."

  "It would have to be large enough to contain two creatures," said Edward, "since you can't very well get into an argument all by yourself. Why are you so interested in arguments?"

  "My idea," said Avon, "is that if we had an argument, I could write about it. Do you know what an argument might cost?"

  "It might cost us our friendship."

  "I don't want that!" cried Avon.

  "Actually," said Edward, "arguments come cheap: Which is to say, they don't take much to keep alive. Give an argument a little bit to chew on every once in a while, and it will live for a long time. My parents had an argument that went on for years."

  "What was it about?"

  "He said she liked to argue. She said she didn't. It was something they often disagreed about. The point being, while some arguments grow old, they rarely change. In fact, the longer they hang around, the less likely anything will change."

  "My point is," Avon reminded his friend, "we don't have one. Perhaps that's why I can't write. Every story needs some tension, but there's no tension in my life. It makes me very tense."

  "If we had an argument," asked Edward, "what would you like it to be about?"

  "Do we have a choice?"

  "It probably wouldn't be helpful to argue about things upon which we agree," said Edward.

  "No argument there," said Avon.

  "My point exactly. So, just go ahead and say something," suggested Edward. "I'll disagree, and then, there you are, we'll have our very own argument. Then you can write about it."

  "What if you agree with what I say?"

  "Just pick something that's easy to argue about."

  Avon became thoughtful. "Got it!" he cried out after a while. "Let's have an argument about breathing."

  "Breathing?"

  "I think it's a good thing," said Avon. "What do you think?"

  "Many things," said Edward.

  "Edward," said Avon, "you're supposed to disagree."

  "I can't argue about breathing!"

  "You could if you wanted to."

  "Avon, nobody would say breathing is bad for you."

  "A rock might."

  "Why would a rock say that?"

  "Because rocks don't breathe. I've always assumed it's because they don't like it."

  "Avon," cried Edward, "rocks don't think, or talk. Why are you grinning?"

  "I think we've found an argument."

  "Good. Then go write about it. The truth is, arguments make me sleepy."

  "I won't disagree," said Avon. He thought for a bit, and then he wrote.

  "Edward, I think I've got a title for my book. I'm going to call it The Little Rock That Didn't Like to Breathe."

  "What would happen in the story?"

  "The rock would hold its breath."

  "For how long?"

  "Until it changed its mind."

  "Forgive me, Avon, but rocks don't have minds. They are thoughtless."

  "Really?"

  "No question about it."

  "That explains it."

  "Explains what?"

  "For years I've talked to rocks. When they didn't answer, I always thought they just didn't want to speak to me. Now you say they are thoughtless. I certainly don't want
to write about rude rocks!"

  And he scratched out his title.

  CHAPTER TEN

  In Which Edward and Avon Remember Something They Forgot

  "Wait a minute!" cried Edward. "We've talked a whole lot about writing, but we've said nothing about your grammar."

  "She was a very nice creature."

  "What about your grandpa?"

  "He was nice, too."

  Edward nodded. "I suppose one's grammar is always relative."

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  In Which Avon and Edward Observe a Nest

  Two days later, in the early evening, Edward was on the back porch, resting from a day of doing nothing.

  Avon came out of their house. "Another frustrating day!" exclaimed the snail. "I still can't find anything to write about."

  "Avon," Edward whispered, "look over there," and he pointed with four of his legs. "That bundle of twigs and leaves," said Edward.

  "How come we never noticed it before?" wondered Avon.

  "We've been looking for ideas, not twigs and leaves. Creatures usually only see what they are looking for."

  "Are you suggesting we should look for what we don't see?"

  "You can see more that way," suggested Edward.

  "But that thing just looks like a confused mess," said Avon.

  "Actually," said Edward, "I think it's a nest."

  Sure enough, as they looked on, a crow popped her head up and stared at them with beady black eyes.

  "We beg your pardon," said Avon. "We didn't know anyone was here."

  "Where else do you think I'd be?" asked the crow. "If I'm not there, it's more than likely that I'll be here."

  "You could be someplace else," suggested Edward.

  "But that snail already said I was here," said the crow. "And since I'm not anyplace else, here I am. In fact, this is my nest, and I've been sitting on my egg for fourteen days."