The Unifinished Stories (part 2)

SHORT STORY MONDAY

At a writers group in Bedminster, NJ, a frustrated young novelist learns about an exceptionally talented writer named Richard Allen Garston through an old timer there. A member of the group named Willis responds to the younger man's inquiries, confirming Garston's talent and whetting the narrator's appetite for more information about this unknown talent.

The Unfinished Stories of Richard Allen Garston (2)

"I became acquainted with Richard Allen Garston through a writer's group which met irregularly for readings in the late fifties. It was a closed group. That is, by invitation only." Willis laughed, a soft short burst. "We called ourselves the Royal Pines. Horace and I were quite privileged to be a part of it, actually." Willson Willis sucked on a pipe, which made him look especially writerly. "What a shame that one of the great writers of our time will be forever forgotten because of his brother's insanity."

"What kind of things did he write?" I asked.

"From what I could tell he wrote stories, if you can call it that. He created characters and put them in situations."

"You never read his work?"

"He brought fragments to our group, but it was obvious --" He broke off.

I waited.

"His output was prodigious."

"How could you know that?"

"I saw the piles of manuscripts. There were actually two people, I believe, who read most of what he wrote. His brother Greg and one of the other writers in our group, Gary Spencer. When Gary finished reading Garston's work, he quit his job. Went away and became a Trappist monk."
"A Trappist monk?"

"Garston committed suicide about the same time and his brother became guardian of Richard's work. His brother, I was told, refused to speak with anyone about the stories and eventually had them burned, saying they were 'of the devil'."

"If he was such a good writer, why was he never published?" I asked.

"He never finished anything. Richard had developed a whole catalog of rationales and justifications for his mounting pile of unfinished manuscripts. He usually told the group he was following his Muse. I remember on one occasion he produced an elaborate philosophical defense for his habit of incompleteness beginning with the explanation that he was creating life and if his characters were to live forever then the stories must be free to continue living. That is, and here he was emphatic, the stories could remain fluid -- free to assume new forms, to expand, to diminish -- only as long as they were left unfinished and unpublished. It was his hope, he said, that his stories might have a life that would never end. Wait." Willis held up his hand like he was reaching for something or grabbing a moth out of the air. "Now I remember. Something about hope. He said he was fighting to give his characters hope. Something like that. Anyway, should a story be captured in print and closure be reached, there seemed no more possibility of change. Without change there is only death."

"That makes sense, I guess." During the pause I tried to formulate another question, but Willis needed no prodding to continue.

"I don't believe that was it, though," Willis said in a leading way. "To a few of us Richard confided -- he always made light of it, but we've since wondered if this were not closer to the truth -- that he had made a deal with the devil. He said he was like Scheherazade, staving off death by creating his own tales for 1001 nights. In some way I suspect that if this were the truth, it's a wonder that he kept it up for more than eighteen years."

"Based on the stories, or rather, pieces you read," I interjected, "what is your personal evaluation of Mr. Garston's significance as a writer? I mean, if a tree falls in the wilderness and nobody hears..."

Willis leaned into me, lowering his voice. "By what measure do we determine a writer's significance? His contribution? As you know, I've achieved a measure of critical acclaim, but I can't hold a candle to Richard's work. Even the little I read from his manuscripts made me ashamed that I was calling myself a writer. I don't mean to say I'm not good. I capture my stories adequately enough. I care about my characters and their stories. I also care about my readers. But am I a great writer? Not by that highest standard. I'm probably just clever and I work harder than a lot of other people. Now Richard, he was a great writer. A complicated man, but a great, great writer."

I lay awake long into the night, my mind quickened by this single mesmerizing question. What was it that drove Richard Allen Garston to produce so many unfinished manuscripts, to build so many beginnings without resolution? I needed to know.

CONTINUED