The secret

I was on my way to interview Bob Waters, the best selling author of “A Gaze Over History”. There were ten books in the series, covering a range of historical events from The Tudors to the abolition of slavery in the USA. Bob, because of the richness and vividness of his writing, was beloved by critics and readers alike. He possessed the ability to transport the reader to a remote period, while so many history books were flat and uninspiring. Each new book in the series would sell out in a matter of weeks, making him an outstanding writer in his field.

Despite his devoted fan base and the many online forums dedicated to “A Gaze Over History”, little was known about Bob Waters. He very rarely gave interviews or made public appearances, preferring to let his work speak for itself. The only exception he would make to this rule was when a new title was about to be released. I was surprised when on the eve of the release of his eleventh book, my office got a phone call. Local Eye, the online magazine where I work, was hardly the kind of media that someone of Bob Waters calibre would usually get in touch with. As the name suggests, we deal with local issues. So, why me? The question kept going round in my head as I drove to Mr Waters house that morning. I was also filled with excitement, as I, like so many others, was a huge fan.

I pulled up outside his house, walked across the gravel and rang the doorbell. It took a few rings but, eventually, the door opened and I was in the presence of one of my heroes. Inside I was freaking out like a schoolgirl but outwardly, doing my best to remain calm. We shook hands and I said, in my best professional tone: ”Mr Waters, Emily Shepherd, Local Eye. We spoke on the phone.” “Oh yes, Miss Shepherd, I remember. Come in, won’t you?” he said with a warm smile. He stepped to one side for me to walk in.

I was led down the corridor and shown into the living room. Mr Waters offered me a drink: “Tea, coffee, juice?”. “Water will be fine.” I replied. When he brought the drinks in, I got myself settled on the sofa, he sat opposite me in a green leather armchair. “Mr Waters, I have to say I was a bit surprised when you asked to be interviewed by Local Eye. Surely The International is much more suited to a man of your talents.” In reply, he smiled and said: “Nonsense, I like supporting the underdog. The International will be fine without the extracts of my latest book but it will boost your readership. Should we get started?” I nodded and said “Yes, our readers will be excited to read these extracts.”

He excused himself and left the room. When he returned he had with him a copy of his latest book titled ‘Out of Sight: Rediscovering Lost Civilizations’. An array of sticky notes mark the extracts he has chosen. Rather than handing the book to me he sat down and said in a gentle tone, “Miss Shepherd, in my research about you I read that you are quite a fan of my books, is that right?” “Yes!” I replied enthusiastically. “Isn't everyone?” I mumble quietly. Bob continued “Well, rather than giving you the book I thought I would read the extracts to you, then you can transcribe them. Would this be acceptable to you?” “Yes, that’s so kind of you!” I retort; no longer able to keep the high pitch of excitement from my voice. Not only was I lucky enough to be interviewing Bob Waters but here he was about to give me an exclusive private reading. I felt giddy. He settles in his chair, pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose and turns to the first extract. After clearing his throat he began to read. If only I'd brought my audio recorder rather than just my notepad.

Listening to him read, enthralled by his ability to paint pictures with words, I almost forgot to write anything, but of course I did. His writing was so engaging, I wondered how he could write so well, how he first discovered his talent. My thoughts and writing were interrupted by the startling sound of the book thumping shut. I smiled, regaining my composure, and said “Thank you very much Mr Waters, that was captivating! Now, just a few more questions if I may?” “Of course” he replied cheerfully. I asked him some general background questions like; where he grew up and how his upbringing was. When I asked my final question; the answer came as a surprise.

Finishing my drink, I enquire, “Mr Waters, you are able to write so vividly, what is your secret”? He is silent for a moment and becomes a little distant. “Secret, it’s funny you should phrase it like that, rather than try and explain it to you, I would like to show you something, I hope you will indulge me Miss Shepherd”. He gets up and walks to the door. Mystified, I follow. He leads me out of the living room, down the corridor and stops in front of a closed white door and says by way of explanation. “I was top of my class in history throughout my school years, however when I went to study history at university I found the workload overwhelming. I began falling behind in my studies, I couldn’t concentrate, historical events became jumbled in my head; dates became interchangeable. I really tried, even attending every study session I could fit into my schedule. After a few months of making no progress every essay I turned in was marked boring and uninspiring. Rather than embarrass myself further I decided I’d rather stay out late and party with my friends. One night, after a late night drinking session, I returned to the halls and fell asleep. Later I woke up to an incoming video call. Who would be calling me this late, I wondered. I didn't recognise the number so I tried to ignore it but the caller persisted. In the stillness of my room the noise seemed to be getting louder until I could no longer bear it and answered reluctantly. The screen divided into many windows, in each of these windows is a scene from history playing out”.

I begin to laugh but the look on his face is so serious I quickly compose myself. He continues, “I am no fool, I know how crazy this sounds, I thought I was dreaming myself. I tried to exit the video call numerous times however it would not close. I gave up and went back to bed and slept soundly till morning. When I awoke the videos were still playing on an endless loop. Days passed, I got more and more frustrated by my lack of progress, my professors still marking my work with variations of boring and uninspired. Eventually I decided to incorporate what I saw in the videos. When I did, my essays improved and my professor's comments changed from derogatory to complimentary. It’s like I didn't have to try; even graduating with honours. But none of my coursework, my dissertation included, felt like it had been written by me. I had just been fed this information by someone; or something. To this day I still don’t understand. The entire series of ‘A Gaze Over History’ has been written in this way. I have tried writing other books in alternative genres but I fail miserably. Turning slowly with a sigh, he opens the door.

Bob Waters’ study was an oblong room, sparsely furnished with white bookcases on the walls and on the far side of the room under a sash window is a matching desk. Upon its surface sat a black laptop and just as he had described, multiple windows of historical scenes played on a loop. The clarity and level of detail is striking. So this is it, this is the secret he’s kept for so long. I found myself getting lost in the images and then suddenly realising that Mr Waters is speaking to me. My attention is jerked back to him, “I can select any period or date by using this drop down menu. Which part of history interests you the most Miss Shepherd?” “I suppose the Ancient Egyptians have always intrigued me.” Bob then selects this period from the menu; the current images disappear and are replaced by magnificent scenes from ancient Egypt. Showing pharaohs, markets, slaves, their method of embalming; the list goes on. I marvelled at the videos for what seemed like hours before enquiring, “Why are you telling me, a low grade local journalist? Surely you know if the secret gets out it might ruin your career.” “I am well aware,” he replied, his cheery disposition changed to gloomy. “That is the exact reason I seldom give interviews; for fear that I would have been questioned about my creativity and inspiration. I am not a very good liar Miss Shepherd, however when you came today I felt I could trust you.” he smiled weakly, “besides I needed to tell somebody; for years I have felt fraudulent, like I have committed plagiarism, not worthy of the praise being heaped upon me. I know that many authors use tools to help them write; I feel as if I have become a tool myself.” He breathes out.

“Now you know everything Miss Shepherd; the choice is yours of what to do with this information. I do hope you will share my burden and keep my secret, as you call it, to yourself. If you choose not to honour my wishes I would ask that you consider this: Does it really matter where creativity comes from? Is it really anybody else's business? Whatever your decision, I trust you’ll make a wise one.”

Later, when I left the home of Bob Waters, I have to admit that I was disappointed after learning that Bob was not the writer I thought he was. All the skill he possessed to transport his readers came not from his own talent and knowledge, but just some videos on a laptop screen given to him by some ‘higher power’. It was almost laughable. He asked me to keep this secret to myself, but I was a journalist. Is it not my duty to share this with the world? The extracts he’d provided were sure to delight our readers; but this insight into Bob Waters’ creative process would be of interest. On the other hand, just by publishing what I knew, I risk disappointing Bob's fans and destroying the career of a highly celebrated author just to promote myself. What if I wasn’t believed? I would never get taken seriously and never work as a journalist again. Then I would have destroyed two careers.

I had a lot to think about. The driving conditions changed frequently on the drive home; from sun to rain and back again, the weather, like my mind, it seemed, would not make a decision.

A few weeks later on my lunch break I find myself looking at a copy of “Out of Sight”, featured in the bookshop window. I think to myself, “You were right to trust me Bob; I didn’t tell anyone your secret; well, I guess it's ours now.”