After many months of hard work, Charlie’s story was finally ready. He’d spent all his spare time writing, checking, and rewriting it, until he was certain it was of excellent quality, even spending less time than he had hoped with his family over the Summer. Sometimes, when he struggled to write, he thought of how proud everyone would be. He could imagine Walter’s face when he would show him the magazine, and that alone would motivate him for the rest of the day.
A few weeks after he sent his story in, Charlie received a letter from the Fowler’s Magazine, asking him to visit when he could. It was on a Sunday afternoon in October when he made his way to their office in the downtown area. The closer he got, the more nervous he became. By the time he stood outside the door, he could feel his heart pounding. All the confidence he had vanished, and he considered turning around. No, he told himself, you’re not giving up now, not after all this time. Shaking, he opened the door.
The room he found himself in wasn’t spectacular. There was a desk with a secretary in front of a staircase in one corner, and a door with a plate with “John Fowler” on it in the other corner. Charlie walked awkwardly over to the secretary.
“What brings you here?” he asked, looking up at him.
“Mr Fowler wrote to me, sir,” Charlie replied, quietly, “Regarding my story.”
“Charlie– Charles Murdock, sir.”
He scanned the list, before smiling. “Ah, there you are. He’s not seeing anyone right now, you can come in.”
Inside Mr Fowler’s office, everything was immaculately kept. Charlie had expected the room to look somewhat like a disorganised library, with papers and books everywhere. Instead, drawers lined the wall, labelled with letters of the alphabet. Behind a desk sat Mr Fowler himself, reading a set of papers. “Take a seat,” he said, without so much as glancing at Charlie.
After sitting there for what felt like hours, but was more likely to be only minutes, Charlie spoke. “So, why did you want me to come here?”
“I asked you here to return your manuscript to you personally,” he said, holding the pages, “I consider it to be the John Fowler difference.”
Charlie smiled, taking back the manuscript. He didn’t want to admit it, but he was afraid of Mr Fowler. He refused to show that he was scared, though, so he decided that he was going to talk minimally to avoid taking any chances.
“Now, I’ll play it straight with you, no beating around the bush. I won’t publish that story.”
“What? Why not?” Charlie could feel his heart pounding louder, his body sinking into the chair. The story was great, this had to be a mistake. He found himself blinking back the tears welling in his eyes. Not now, damn it.
“I don’t mean to be rude, but I barely made it through this story. It was boring, not to mention, such a childish perspective of death. ‘He knew that no one was there for him, and that he was truly alone’. God, he’s isolated himself, that’s why he’s alone!” Mr Fowler gestured at Charlie, “And… this, you’re hardly ten, right? It explains a lot.”
“I’m fourteen,” replied Charlie, hiding his face.
“Still, I haven’t published a story from anyone older than seventeen. You must be dreaming if you thought it was that easy.”
“What do I do, then? How do I get this published?”
“My advice? Ask a well-read person what they think. Your schoolboy friends won’t give any decent advice if they spend all their time playing sports.”
“My friend isn’t athletic.”
“Well, is he scholarly? I doubt it. Find someone who reads good stuff, not drivel, and get them to read this. They’ll tell you everything you’ve done wrong.”
The meeting didn’t carry on for much longer, and when Charlie finally left the building, he no longer held back his tears. He wasn’t upset anymore; he was mad. How could he have thought this would go well? After all, Mr Fowler was right, he was a child. He wasn’t even allowed to drink yet, why would he be some genius with words? Still, some harsh words weren’t going to stop him. Despite Mr Fowler’s criticisms, he was determined to prove him wrong and get the story published. He didn’t know anyone who was as well-read as him, but there were people he’d trust with his life. So, he found Walter’s house, and knocked on the door. When he opened the door, he couldn’t help but smile at him.
“Charlie? Are you alright?”
“Yes. Well, no. Do you want to help me revise my story?”
Even if Walter would sometimes suggest the worst ideas, Charlie didn’t care. He simply appreciated spending the rest of the day with his best friend. As he was about to leave, he heard Walter say, “Just so you know, I really love your story.” Charlie couldn’t stop smiling for the rest of the day.
