The Seventh Novel - An Introduction
Part 1 of a novel that narrates one man's attempt to finally come to terms with a disastrous event that devastated his world beyond repair.
The light from a single candle pierced the darkness; its fragile flame flickered and swayed in a punishing draft from the time-weathered wooden window frame. Particles of ancient dust were effortlessly hoisted into the candles amber halo, and held within its subtle orb of warm air, where they glistened and danced like a small cloud of enchanted pixie dust.
A modest display that would escape the attention of many, yet the eloquent antics of this single flame were enough to inspire Jonathon Emery Blake, a writer of some renown, until the dreaded writers block had yielded its strangulating grip on his soaring career.
Over the previous two years, No less than six J.E. Blake novels had been penned and published, all with astounding success. Literary critiques, world wide were united with their acclaim for his genius. A fan-base of many thousands eagerly awaited the release of a seventh. And, all this orchestrated by the merciless demands of a profit-hungry publishing team, baying at his door, pressing with relentless fervor to bulge their purses from the fruits of his labor.
Novels one, two and three had flowed from his pen with swiftness and ease. However, four, five and six had ultimately drained him, both mentally and physically. The vigorous stream of the author's creative juices had gradually evaporated as the demands on it increased, and now, sadly, for all concerned, it seemed only the bitter dregs remained, their progress along a once flourishing bed, inevitably slow and reluctant to emerge.
The first joys of inspiration were short-lived, first giving way to hesitation, then to an increasing sense of fear. The fear that may be he wasn't ready to write the story that would force him to unlock the agonizing memories that he had locked away in the dark abyss of his subconscious. Memories that were so horrific, they were too painful to recall.
Jolting himself free of the candles mesmerizing glow, Jonathon realized that he was compelled by the need to preserve his very sanity and exorcise the demons that he had hidden away from for far too long. Number seven would be the agonizing narration of an accident that had not only embedded its fiery images within his nightmares, but scared him mentally and physically ever after.
Ten painful years had passed since the fire had claimed his home and family. Before that ill-fated winter's night, life had been sweet for Jonathon Blake and his beautiful young wife, Clarisa. After a blissful year of marriage their union had been blessed with the birth of their daughter Annabel.
In the months that followed, father, mother and daughter wallowed in the delights of what seemed then, to be ultimate happiness. It seemed that their good fortune knew no limits. Following the premature demise of a distant uncle, Jonathon had met but a couple of times in his early adolescence; they became the unsuspecting beneficiaries of the old man's last will and testament. Not only moving from their modest suburban semi to a palatial country house, with obedient servants ready to accommodate their every whim, but in receipt of wealth and fortune they would never before have dared to dream of.
Life could not have been any better. Then on a bitter, snowy night the cold and merciless hand of fate snatched it all away and turned the beautiful dream into a horrid nightmare that would haunt Jonathon's existence with unrelenting torture. The savage flames that invaded that night and stole everything he held dear, ultimately seared the unbearable images of their demise into every fiber of Jonathon's consciousness.
There remained but one unfortunate survivor of that night. The father and husband, who was now condemned to reliving every torturing second, nothing could erase the fiery images he endured in unimaginable pain. Not even the long lapses of unconsciousness, resulting from his own horrific injuries were sufficient to afford him release from the cruel consequences of the single event that took his world and reduced it to a living hell.
After years of denial and self delusion Jonathon struggled to consign his agonizing memories to the dark recesses at the back of his mind with a misguided hope that there they would stay. The barrier of flimsy forgetfulness he had eventually built to contain his hurt was decaying day by day. Once more he was descending into a dark section of life that he had no wish to survive for a second, punishing time. Consuming guilt was claiming him again.
As the flame from the candle continued to dance in the draft, its fragile resistance to its inevitable defeat convinced its entranced audience that now was the time to recall the hidden horrors and seek the answer to the question he had never dared to ask ... Why?
To ask why he had been so cruelly condemned, was probably the one question he would never be afforded the solace, that conclusion might bring. To understand 'how' the fire had started, might at least allow him a faint hope of apportioning blame to someone other than himself. To forget the entire horrific incident was something that he never for a single second considered possible, or indeed something he would wish for. He sought no more than a reluctant desire to make his torturing memories more bearable. In that very instant he decided that the vehicle for this painful process would be 'novel number seven'.
His unenviable task would be to narrate and honestly chronicle the disastrous chain of events leading up to and including the night his world shattered, regardless of the consequence and suffering this might bring.
Whatever the result the closing chapters might divulge, one thing was certain. There would never be a number eight. Seven, could never be anything less than a painful conclusion, lending it any other purpose would render it insignificant and meaningless. Whatever followed lay in the hand of fate that had already robbed him of everything.
A modest display that would escape the attention of many, yet the eloquent antics of this single flame were enough to inspire Jonathon Emery Blake, a writer of some renown, until the dreaded writers block had yielded its strangulating grip on his soaring career.
Over the previous two years, No less than six J.E. Blake novels had been penned and published, all with astounding success. Literary critiques, world wide were united with their acclaim for his genius. A fan-base of many thousands eagerly awaited the release of a seventh. And, all this orchestrated by the merciless demands of a profit-hungry publishing team, baying at his door, pressing with relentless fervor to bulge their purses from the fruits of his labor.
Novels one, two and three had flowed from his pen with swiftness and ease. However, four, five and six had ultimately drained him, both mentally and physically. The vigorous stream of the author's creative juices had gradually evaporated as the demands on it increased, and now, sadly, for all concerned, it seemed only the bitter dregs remained, their progress along a once flourishing bed, inevitably slow and reluctant to emerge.
The first joys of inspiration were short-lived, first giving way to hesitation, then to an increasing sense of fear. The fear that may be he wasn't ready to write the story that would force him to unlock the agonizing memories that he had locked away in the dark abyss of his subconscious. Memories that were so horrific, they were too painful to recall.
Jolting himself free of the candles mesmerizing glow, Jonathon realized that he was compelled by the need to preserve his very sanity and exorcise the demons that he had hidden away from for far too long. Number seven would be the agonizing narration of an accident that had not only embedded its fiery images within his nightmares, but scared him mentally and physically ever after.
Ten painful years had passed since the fire had claimed his home and family. Before that ill-fated winter's night, life had been sweet for Jonathon Blake and his beautiful young wife, Clarisa. After a blissful year of marriage their union had been blessed with the birth of their daughter Annabel.
In the months that followed, father, mother and daughter wallowed in the delights of what seemed then, to be ultimate happiness. It seemed that their good fortune knew no limits. Following the premature demise of a distant uncle, Jonathon had met but a couple of times in his early adolescence; they became the unsuspecting beneficiaries of the old man's last will and testament. Not only moving from their modest suburban semi to a palatial country house, with obedient servants ready to accommodate their every whim, but in receipt of wealth and fortune they would never before have dared to dream of.
Life could not have been any better. Then on a bitter, snowy night the cold and merciless hand of fate snatched it all away and turned the beautiful dream into a horrid nightmare that would haunt Jonathon's existence with unrelenting torture. The savage flames that invaded that night and stole everything he held dear, ultimately seared the unbearable images of their demise into every fiber of Jonathon's consciousness.
There remained but one unfortunate survivor of that night. The father and husband, who was now condemned to reliving every torturing second, nothing could erase the fiery images he endured in unimaginable pain. Not even the long lapses of unconsciousness, resulting from his own horrific injuries were sufficient to afford him release from the cruel consequences of the single event that took his world and reduced it to a living hell.
After years of denial and self delusion Jonathon struggled to consign his agonizing memories to the dark recesses at the back of his mind with a misguided hope that there they would stay. The barrier of flimsy forgetfulness he had eventually built to contain his hurt was decaying day by day. Once more he was descending into a dark section of life that he had no wish to survive for a second, punishing time. Consuming guilt was claiming him again.
As the flame from the candle continued to dance in the draft, its fragile resistance to its inevitable defeat convinced its entranced audience that now was the time to recall the hidden horrors and seek the answer to the question he had never dared to ask ... Why?
To ask why he had been so cruelly condemned, was probably the one question he would never be afforded the solace, that conclusion might bring. To understand 'how' the fire had started, might at least allow him a faint hope of apportioning blame to someone other than himself. To forget the entire horrific incident was something that he never for a single second considered possible, or indeed something he would wish for. He sought no more than a reluctant desire to make his torturing memories more bearable. In that very instant he decided that the vehicle for this painful process would be 'novel number seven'.
His unenviable task would be to narrate and honestly chronicle the disastrous chain of events leading up to and including the night his world shattered, regardless of the consequence and suffering this might bring.
Whatever the result the closing chapters might divulge, one thing was certain. There would never be a number eight. Seven, could never be anything less than a painful conclusion, lending it any other purpose would render it insignificant and meaningless. Whatever followed lay in the hand of fate that had already robbed him of everything.
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