"It's not like some other fears, where I've just got to find the will to step up. It's more like eating when you're nauseous." Mason handed him the hotdog. "Every word is a new struggle."

"That's what writing is."

"Do you want this gig or not, Mason?"

Mason nodded. "Yeah, I want it. I just need more material ... Or maybe less-there's so many ways to go...."

"How about this?" Warren was dressing his dog. "Why don't you write me a few different letters? Then you don't have to worry about it being perfect. I can choose what parts to use. It's not like I'm going to just hand over whatever you give me, right?"

"All right." Mason handed him a Sprite.

"Tell me," said Warren. "Why did you start writing in the first place?"

"What do you mean why?" why?"

Warren seemed to think about it, then changed his question. "Well, if it's so difficult, why do you keep doing it?"

11.

Why did you start writing in the first place Is that a pertinent question?

Think about it.

To tell stories.

No.

To tell my my stories. stories.

Closer.

To bear witness.

To whom?

To me.

Why?

So that others would, too.

Now we're getting somewhere.

Yeah. I'm a narcissistic jerk. How's that supposed to help?

Try it in the third person.

Mason used to be obsessed with being cool. He roamed the world in search of ways to prove just how cool he was. But it's a tree-falling-in-the-forest type of thing. It doesn't matter how many trains you hop, how many rabbits you skin, how many rafts you build, how many bar fights you almost win, how many times you crouch in the shade of your own duffle bag-boots beaten and dusty, the desert burning behind you-waiting for that next ride to anywhere, if n.o.body's there to see it.

And so he'd learned to write in order to doc.u.ment his own coolness, his guts-his good-looking, good-lighting, good-karma hair days-the stuff that would sell a man to pretty girls and a fickle G.o.d, so they'd take him as a hero.

But Mason didn't care what people thought of him any more. Wash your clothes in enough gas station bathrooms, break enough of your own vows and eventually you don't give a s.h.i.t-which is too bad, because the desire to impress people at least keeps you connected to the world somehow. And it's hard to write a book when you don't give a d.a.m.n about the reader. Warren had been right: it was time to put the novel aside-to write something for a man who loved the reader madly. But how to make her love him back-to show show him to her? him to her?

Try it in the third person?

And why not present tense?

Warren in Love-Take FiveHe is on a train. The air outside is burning with brush fires, pulsing and crackling in the twilight. People are stuffing the broken windows of the railway car with blankets and shirts to keep out the smoke. There are goats in the aisle. The smoke swirls in, a chicken flaps out, aflame as it shakes to the ground.He is on a dark beach. It has been storming for days-huts collapsing, people huddled in fear. The ocean is bleeding, rusted red and frothing, yet somehow he is pulling fish from the shallow, churning waves. He cooks them up, sparks rising in the air. He is carrying medicine through a desert. He is going mad from the heat and n.o.body ever speaking his language. He is jumping from a cliff into aqua-blue waters. An ugly dog follows him, won't leave him alone, so that he can't even get on a plane and go home-because of the dog; it's the closest he's come so far to love.And would you believe that he he is this same man, hunched over this desk-bad hair, unsure eyes, trying to write a love letter-a big man with vague dreams and desires stuffed into a suit? He knows no one can see him. No one could possibly see, by looking at him, the things he's done. The thoughts he's had. All that bravery and fear. It's like it's not even him. Like you wake up a new person every day-no credit at all for the life you've lived. He feels huge and invisible, as if the universe itself finds him c.u.mbersome, irksome, baffling, boring-like every time he tries to do something strong, his big hands and thudding brain mess it up.... is this same man, hunched over this desk-bad hair, unsure eyes, trying to write a love letter-a big man with vague dreams and desires stuffed into a suit? He knows no one can see him. No one could possibly see, by looking at him, the things he's done. The thoughts he's had. All that bravery and fear. It's like it's not even him. Like you wake up a new person every day-no credit at all for the life you've lived. He feels huge and invisible, as if the universe itself finds him c.u.mbersome, irksome, baffling, boring-like every time he tries to do something strong, his big hands and thudding brain mess it up....Who's that? It feels like there's someone out there, in the fog. For a moment his heart jumps, not in fear but hope. He straightens his back, narrows his eyes, stabs at the keyboard with confidence-trying to look like there is magic in his head.

The next morning Mason printed the letters, spread them on the table in the middle of his apartment, and read them again. Nothing looks good with a cocaine hangover. For the most part it is a horrible ghost of emptiness. But then there are those rare moments of all right all right-those random, leftover bursts of energy, fort.i.tude, drive. And suddenly you're out the door.

Mason rounded the block three times. He could have headed for the hills, but instead he stayed close-thinking, sick and energized. So when he was ready he was already there, up the stairs, back to the desk, all right and ready to focus. He pushed the letters together and looked at them anew.

One thing he'd learned over the years: trying to mythologize yourself rarely had the desired effect. Why had he thought doing it for somebody else would be any different? It was time to write the truth.

So Mason sat down for one more letter: "Warren in Love-Take Six." It began like this: I've got a lot of fears. I am scared of heights and tunnels.

12.

Twenty days after first they'd met, two weeks after Warren had paid $1,005 for a hotdog and a Sprite, he gave Mason another $4,000 for ten pieces of paper.

"Aren't you going to read them?"

"Later."

"But ..."

"Six letters, Mason. At least one of them's got got to be good. Don't you think?" to be good. Don't you think?"

It was a grey day, with a heavy warmth in the air.

"You want a hotdog at least?"

But the big man, nodding a sort of thanks, was already lumbering off down the street.

Mason put the envelope of money behind the counter, picked up a sc.r.a.per and started on the grill.

Warren walks west on Bloor Street. The low clouds swirl overhead, rumbling, and then it starts to rain. Light at first, but within minutes it becomes a downpour, streaming across his sungla.s.ses. He holds the envelope inside his jacket, his heart beating against it, and walks on-the clean water cascading over him. He loves the rain. The only thing better: thick night fog.

They were sitting at the table in his open concept loft.

"I sold a story," said Mason.

Chaz put his finger on top of the money. "You're flapjacking me, sh.o.r.e-leave."

"What happened to popstand?"

"You got a stack like this, standing on dry land? You're a sailor on sh.o.r.e leave."

"And I'm flapjacking you?"

"d.a.m.n straight."

"Are we playing or what?"

"Deal 'em up."

They traded about a thousand back and forth for a while then went out on the town with it, hit a few bars. Mason made out with a girl in a bathroom, Chaz dropped some jerk's cellphone into his pint of beer and they watched the sun come up from the roof of a pool hall.

It was a beautiful day.

Notes on the Novel in ProgressThe story is the thing. Without the story you got nothing, chump. Look out the window. Spadina is ginger root salesmen on the steps of a synagogue. It is lingerie for a dollar, fake trees in real earth, giant chickens made out of chicken wire on storey-high pedestals in the middle of the avenue. It is a Gothic castle, right there, in the middle of the avenue. It is a mad man with an invisible kite, fighting the winds in the middle of the avenue. It is screeching tires, growling outpatients. It is a dead pig, slipped off a truck in the middle of the avenue. It is not the middle of the road. It is a drastic, aching, red-brick surprise.Possible t.i.tle:A Drastic Aching Red-brick Surprise

13.

It was a new world-a debt-free one. And other things had changed, too. Since watching the sunrise with Chaz, Mason had done his d.a.m.nedest to get his act together. He hadn't done drugs in four days. And so he was barely hung over when two policemen-one in uniform, one not-walked up to the Dogmobile.

"What can I get for you?" said Mason, his head down, fiddling with a bag of buns.

"Mason," said one of them.

"Dubisee," said the other.

He looked up, a bun in each hand.

They were definitely familiar: a blurry, irksome memory, seen through metal diamonds-chain-link, then the back of a cruiser. "I'm Detective Sergeant Flores," said the plainclothes one with the mahogany skin.

"Are you kidding?"

"About what, exactly?"

"I don't know. I'm trying to run a business here."

"Okay."

"I've sobered up a lot since ... since last time."

"We're not here about that, Mason."

In retrospect, Mason preferred sir sir.

"Do you know a man named Warren Shanter?"

"Captain Kirk?" said Mason.

"Not Shatner. And not William! Warren Sha ..."

"You mean Warren?"

"Yes, that's what I said."

"I didn't know his last name was Shatner."

"It's not."

"Sorry," said Mason. "You guys make me nervous."

"That's fine. We just want to know how you knew Mr. Shanter."

"I don't know."

"You don't know how you knew him?"

"Knew?"

"What?"

"You said knew." knew."

"Warren's deceased."

Mason's hands felt awful with the stupid plastic gloves on. He took them off and dropped them.

"Are you okay, Mr. Dubisee?"

The stench of burning plastic filled the air.

"What happened?"

"There was an incident ...," said the detective.