Sedona Law 5 by Dave Daren (e book reader android .TXT) 📗

Vicki and I cleared the area around the sword, and he pulled it off the stand.

“It’s been dulled to be a historical artifact,” he told us, “but it still has an edge to it. You can hold it if you’d like.”

I shrugged and grabbed the weapon from Alfred. It was heavier than I expected, but it didn’t take long for me to get a feel for it. I played around with a couple of fencing moves, and Vicki and Alfred laughed.

“I have to get a photo of this,” Vicki snickered.

She pulled out her phone and took shots of me with the sword, and then we switched off. When Vicki grabbed the sword, she looked damn hot.

Alfred and I both laughed as she pulled some sort of I don’t know, Mortal Kombat, hot Asian warrior chick moves.

“Damn,” I whistled as I caught it on video.

“Well, if you’re ready,” Alfred said, “dinner is served.”

I nodded, and Vicki returned the sword to Alfred. Then he took us out a backdoor to a gorgeous waterfront dining area.

“This is beautiful,” I remarked as I looked around. A white pavilion with twinkle lights and antique style lanterns covered an outdoor table.

“Wow,” Vicki said with wide eyes. “I didn’t even know this was out here.”

Alfred smiled. “I’m glad it pleases you.”

Dinner with The Count was simple. He served a French Onion soup with a baguette, a salad, and a white wine as we listened to ducks and the gentle stirring of the pond.

The Count told stories of his adventures in England while we ate, and how he had been to Oscar Wilde’s museum when he was in his twenties, and then met him in a seance.

“He’s the one who commissioned me to write,” Alfred said as he sipped his wine. “Everything I am is because of Oscar.”

“Jimi Hendrix told Henry’s dad to start a garden,” Vicki remarked with a smirk before she took a bite of her salad.

Alfred nodded, but then he tilted his head quizzically. “Who?”

I wanted to laugh, but just smiled politely instead. “He was a rock star. It’s not a big thing. So, I saw the typewriter in there. Is that mainly where you write?”

He smiled and took a sip of wine. “I write in many different ways, using many different mediums. I find it helps the creative process.”

“What’s your process?” I baited him.

I’d known enough artsy fartsy types in my day to know how much he wanted to be asked that question.

His face lit up, and I knew I’d asked the right thing.

“It depends on what I am writing,” he replied. “When I was writing Gretchen and John, it was a regimented process.”

Gretchen and John were the main characters in Jerry’s ill-fated film, and I guessed his shorthand way to refer to the film.

“Gretchen and John,” he sighed as he went on, “I loved those two. They became good friends of mine, and they lived here in the cabin with me.”

I nodded and took a sip of wine. I assumed he was speaking metaphorically, but the more he spoke, the more I wondered if he was being literal.

“I just enjoyed their company so much,” he mused. “I wouldn’t write unless I could feel their presence, and I could feel what they were feeling. Sometimes, I believed they would take over my body, and I would be them. All I would have to do is act it out and describe what they were thinking and saying. I could even feel their body language. There were times they were so strong, writing was easy. It was just describing what was happening in here.”

He pointed to his brain, and I listened politely. I got that the whole writing process is a mysterious thing. I really did. But this guy was taking it to a whole new level.

“I have pages upon pages of scenes I transmitted from their lives that may or may not have any relevance to the novel I wrote,” Alfred continued. “I just felt it all happening, and I knew I needed to get it down. In some ways, it became backstory to the novel.”

I turned to Vicki, and she wore a smiling poker face.

“I added all of that,” The Count went on, “to the historical research I had, and I came up with something that feels genuine, organic, and real.”

“So, these characters take over your body?” I questioned.

“Well,” he said with a frown, “I wouldn’t put it so bluntly. It’s not unlike getting into character as an actor. You can feel your character, you can smell him, you can find his facial expressions … it’s all channeling.”

“Do you think Jerry did all of this with his writing?” Vicki asked.

“No,” he scoffed and made a disgusted face, “Jerry was a corporate writer. He wrote for the audience, for the page. He wrote to sell tickets and fill seats. He did not write for the love of writing, the love of a great character, or the love of getting out a story that needs to be told.” Alfred sipped his wine, and a dark expression came over his face. “These days, anyone with half a high school diploma and an internet connection can type up drivel and call themselves a writer. They have their … blogs.”

He spat the word out like it was bad candy or something.

“I understand technology moves on,” he continued to rant, “history tells us that those who don’t embrace it get left in the dust. And I have no issue with the medium itself, as long as the ‘blogger,’ as they say, can tell the difference between ‘they’re,’ ‘there’ and, ‘their'. It would seem that rules out half of the blog community.”

I didn’t tell him AJ was an important member of our firm and had an excellent blog. Although, I did have to agree