Inspiration Lost

Claire was going to meet her favorite author. She was going to go to the National Art Gallery where Arthur Woodenland would see the painting that would inspire him to write his first best-selling novel.

“The Black dresser” wasn’t Claire’s most favorite book of his, “Green tables” was, but it would still take another 10 years, before he wrote that and Claire really wanted to meet Woodenland before he became terribly famous. So she fixed her hair, put on her nicest flowerprinted dress and fixed what she still saw as flawed in her beautiful face with some make up. She was off to meet the man who in her opinion was to be the best of all writers, so with Woodenland’s biography tucked under her arm she skipped along the sunny streets and towards the museum.

Claire wasn’t from the future, at least – not when you looked at it from her point of view. She had spent her entire lifetime in the same timeline.  She wasn’t nearly wealthy or prominent or old enough to travel through time. Claire also knew she would never be all that prominent and famous, because no one had bothered to write a biography of her future. No one had travelled one way or the other to bring her lifework, films or books to the dedicated fans, before they were created. Claire sometimes felt sad about this, but right now she didn’t, because she was going to meet someone who was important enough to have his work imported from the future where it was already a major thing.

But when Claire reached the National Art Gallery the front of the building was already flooded with girls and boys her age and Claire felt a wave of disappointment wash over him. Of course they would all come here to see the moment that launched Woodenland’s career. Claire swallowed, feeling a lump in her throat. She was never going to get her book signed with all of the other fans here. It didn’t even seem worth a try. Claire flipped through her book angrily and wondered why it hadn’t mentioned the hordes of fans there with him during his big discovery, so that she could have come earlier.

She slumped her way down the stairs and decided to make her way towards the department store down the street. She’d buy a big tub of ice cream so she could mop about this properly.

Arthur Woodenland was smoking nervously on the same side of the building that Claire passed, threating over the crowd that had assembled to watch him get inspired. He looked like he was ready to bolt when Claire noticed him and stared at the man with her mouth wide open, not quite believing her luck. Young Arthur however wasn’t quite sure which way to flee so he, defeated, let his young fangirl approach him.

“O-Oh my God,” Claire whispered and Woodenland felt progressively worst every time she repeated the same 3 words with growing astonishment. He wished she would say something else already, but she didn’t seem capable of doing that so Woodland spoke instead, his voice, shaking quite as much as hers had: ”T-they’re all on there waiting for me to get inspired. How am I supposed to get inspired when they are all waiting for me to?!”

Claire was a bit taken aback by the state of the man, but she spoke in a friendly, helpful tone still: ”Don’t worry. It’s all in here,” she said, giving Arthur the biography.

That only seemed to make the man feel worse:” I know, I’ve read it all,” he groaned.

“Then you know it will all simply come to you,” said Claire kindly.

“Will it? Will it really if I go in there with the knowledge that it does and with all these people watching?”

Claire didn’t know. It was true that the book hadn’t mentioned the fans, nor the fact that Arthur had been aware of this being the starting point to his career.

“What if I don’t get inspired at all?”

“You will. It says here you will!” Claire argued, but it didn’t seem like a very strong argument: ”If you don’t I suppose you could just by the book and write it off yourself? It’s on sale right now at the department store I’m going to.”

“What if I don’t write that book at all? I heard I don’t like it very much at all. What if I write – what’s your favorite book of mine?”

“”Green tables”, but you have have to write “The Black dresser,” before that’s how it goes! You write “Green tables,”  when you meet Cynthia.”

The author seemed to think it over:” Yes and then we get a divorce few years later. I don’t think I want to meet Cynthia at all anymore!”

Claire was saddened by this statement, of course, as every fan, she had been sad to hear of her favorite author’s future break up, but not to have it at all just seemed wrong. She sighed:”Can I have an autograph instead?” she suggested and Arthur smiled sadly, took the book and scribbled his name on the inner cover of the book:”You know, if I choose to write none of this stuff there is really no point of you taking this.”

“But you will,” Claire said certainly:”Because otherwise we wouldn’t be having this conversation,” but more importantly, because Claire didn’t want to imagine a life without Woodenland’s books.

“I think I will go and by an ice cream instead,” Arthur said, giving Claire her book back. Somehow she felt less excited about the autograph now, but her eyes still followed Woodenland until he disappeared behind a corner.

Claire made her way home, her appetite for ice cream was suddenly all gone. As she reached the front of the Gallery she wondered what the crowds here were all about. They somehow seemed equally confused about why they were here themselves. Claire looked at the large poster featuring this month’s exhibition. It was a painting young surrealist in France had painted in a wave of frustration when he bad been unable to assemble a black dresser brought from IKEA. An incident that had caused the Swedish company’s bankruptcy as the said talented artist had later killed himself, because of this frustrating event. Claire had always thought it was an overrated painting. There was nothing that special about it.