-11-

Steve had picked a lunch place with outdoor seating so the dogs could come along. When Virginia opened the car door, Anax jumped to the ground and raced over to a tree that she spent a good moment examining with her nose. As soon as she saw Steve coming, she took a closer look at his dog. It was an attractive young Siberian husky with blue eyes. Her tail began whirling in a circle like a propeller. “That’s a good sign,” said Steve. His dog lay down in greeting, and Anax answered with an enthusiastic bow. Both humans were pleased and relieved.

“Sometimes she has kind of a little dog complex,” said Virginia. “You know, acts as if she’s saying, ‘Don’t underestimate me, I’m bigger than I look.’”

“Shelly’s pretty good-natured,” answered Steve, “but she’s a powerhouse. I have trouble keeping up with her. Let’s go into the restaurant. I’m hungry.”

After ordering, Virginia brought up the subject of her dog’s intelligence, a favorite topic with her. “Sometimes I wonder if I’m at the wrong end of the leash. Is it just because I’m bigger? Who decides these things? Have we ever tried to ask elephants how they feel about the rank we’ve assigned them on our self-invented scale of intelligence?”

“If I ever meet an elephant who can talk, I’ll be sure to ask them.”

“If we’re so smart, maybe we can figure out a way to learn their language. I can imagine how the conversation would go. So, they would say, What gives you the right to order us around? Oh, we would tell them, We’ve been to the moon. How nice, they would tell us. Can you live there? Did you sample the vegetation? How is your life better since you’ve been to the moon? Let me tell you something, says an old bull elephant. I’ve been to a waterhole over that way that none of the others have seen. It wasn’t a very good waterhole, so I don’t bring it up in casual conversation. If I were to go around bragging about it, the others would all laugh at me.”

“That does kind of put it in a different perspective,” said Steve with a grin.

Virginia decided to bring up his story, recounting both her own and Amanda’s thoughts. “So where are you going with Virtual Paris (or Whatever)? Is it a novel?”

“I’m not quite sure. I think so. But I rarely have any idea where I’m going when I start.”

“That’s one of the things I wanted to ask you. So what is it like when you sit down to write a story? Do you already know what you’re going to say, what comes first, how it ends?”

“No, not at all. It comes to me as I write. I’ve tried making an outline, and it just doesn’t work for me.”

“So how do you come up with your ideas?” she asked him. “When you sit down to write, where do you go for inspiration? Is it like turning on a tap? Do you look at the keyboard and feel it start to flow? I mean, I’ve written stuff—letters, grant applications, reports—and it’s more or less okay when I know what needs to be said, but if I sat down to write a story, I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“Well, it sounds weird, but the thing is I actually kind of hear a voice.” He looked at her to see what her reaction would be.

“A voice? Is it dictating, or what?” She thought about the voice she had heard. Did all writers hear them? Why should she, a non-writer, hear a voice apparently intended for someone else—someone who had already written and published the work, long ago, and was no longer around to hear it? Could it be a mix-up in the writers’ switchboard on high? Had she accidentally stumbled through the wrong door and met someone else’s muse? In her own mind, she had always kind of thought there was a well of creativity that she dipped into when she was editing her pictures, but she had assumed it was uniquely her own, not a well that anyone else had access to.

“Yeah, in a way. It’s basically the voice telling the story, with all the right emphasis and inflection and everything. Sometimes, when I’m trying to write, it just comes, and then again sometimes it doesn’t. I’ve never seen any mention of anything like it in how-to articles online about writing, or in the occasional book I’ve read about it. I don’t suppose it’s that way for everybody. Or maybe it’s just that nobody wants to admit to it. It does sound a little nutty. How do you experience the creative impulse?”

“That’s a good question. When I’m editing a photograph, I just keep trying things until they work. The kids used to call it my ‘video game.’ Do you think we’re powered by the same—what did you call it?—creative impulse?”

“I wish I knew. But if you describe your experience, and I describe mine, maybe we can zero in on the answer.”

“Tell me more about the voice. It uses the same words you write?”

“Definitely. Although I’m finding, with age, that the words don’t always come the way they used to. So I may hit a snag where I know in my mind what I want to say, but the only word that pops up isn’t quite right. So I look it up in the thesaurus and run through the list of synonyms until I find one that feels right.”

“You’re kidding! Your muse has age-related difficulty expressing itself?”

“Just like everybody I know.”

“Is the voice a he or a she, by the way?”

“Depends on what I’m writing. If it’s dialogue, it’s the voice of the character. Otherwise it may be the voice of the narrator or it may sound sort of like my own voice. It’s funny even talking about it. I get so used to it I don’t even think about it anymore. But I sure do notice when it isn’t there.”

“Do you have any tricks to make it come? I’ve heard about writers having all kinds of cures for writer’s block, like the smell of rotten apples—I forget who that was.”

“Going for a walk mostly works for me. Since I have to walk Shelly anyway, it’s something I’m doing all the time.”

“Do you ever write longhand?”

“Not if I can help it. But it has happened, like when I was traveling. I’ve always found the computer a liberating factor for my writing. It’s so easy to make changes.”

“Yeah, computers are amazing. In the early days, photography was slow and time-consuming. They came up with some fantastic results, but they sure had to work hard for it. What I do now is a breeze in comparison. I do it all sitting in my comfy desk chair.”

“Which is maybe not the healthiest way to spend your time.”

“No, but I have a dear friend who makes sure I get out of the house often.” She gestured toward Anax. Then she took the mental equivalent of a deep breath and added, “I especially appreciate it because lately I’ve been hearing things in the house. A voice, actually. That’s one of the reasons I’m so interested in what you were saying.”

“Wow! Do you recognize the voice? What does it say?”

“I don’t think it’s my own voice, but it’s hard to tell. You’re going to think this is crazy, but it actually appears to be reading aloud from Virginia Woolf.”

“You’ve read her before?”

“Well yes, but it was a long time ago.”

“Maybe it stuck with you better than you thought.”

 “So you mean maybe I have a photographic memory without even realizing it, and something is triggering my subconscious to pull it up now, years later, not as a visual, but as an auditory hallucination? I suppose that’s possible.” Her tone made it clear that she didn’t really think so.

“Well then, maybe we can come up with another explanation. Maybe someone has been reading them to you in your sleep without you being aware of it.”

“Someone, as in an angel?”

“No, I was thinking about a member of your family. Didn’t you say your daughter was a researcher?”

“Yes, but I would hope she would respect the rules of ethical research about obtaining informed consent.”

“Okay. What do you think it is?”

“I don’t know. The only thing I could come up with was that there’s an unconscious link between people named Virginia that causes them to communicate across time and space. Is that wild enough for you?”

“I suppose it’s possible,” Steve said, imitating the dubious tone she had used herself, but with the addition of his own suppressed mirth. “Or, how about this: you read it once, right? So it’s imprinted on your subconscious, which is ever vigilant, especially when it’s feeling neglected, so it digs up a thing or two and throws it at the wall to see what will stick.”

 “My subconscious is sulking? That is a new one. So it behaves like an unimaginative politician? I would hate to think so. Still, you’re right that that’s the most likely place for it to be coming from. I just really don’t like at all the idea that it’s throwing a tantrum. Not at all.”

“I don’t guess any of us really like it that we aren’t completely in control. Or that deep down we have less than heroic impulses.”

“Oh no, that’s for everybody else. I’ve never had an uncharitable thought in my life.”

They grinned at each other. Steve called for the check, but Virginia insisted on splitting it. No way she was going to be anything less than an equal partner. There’s no such thing as a free lunch, and she was not going to be beholden to him, no matter what. He didn’t seem like the kind of guy who was counting up how many favors they owed each other, but wasn’t he a bean-counter by profession? You can never be too careful.