'The Antique Clock': reflection

After reading two John Cheever stories and discussing him in class, I found that writing this piece was not too difficult. Because we had pinpointed his style and the general techniques he employed in his stories,  it was easier to emulate this when creating my own. When we were asked to write down elements that we would then work a story from, mine was originally completely different. I had a Western in the daytime with a main character called McCarthy. Then as soon as I went to write the first sentence, it seemed to take on a mind of its own. The main factor that remained throughout, was the clock being the significant object. 

While Cheever's 'The Enormous Radio' revolves around the radio to a large degree, 'The Antique Clock' only alludes to the clock subtly in the beginning. I was trying to channel Cheever here, as he introduces the reader to Jim and Irene with a brief description of their backstory before the tale begins. I introduce various aspects of Edgar in the beginning of mine, writing about his family and the type of values Edgar has. However, I decided to have these over the course of the starting paragraphs rather than explain everything in two sentences. In short stories, it is these little, key details that allow the reader to have sufficient information and then engage with the story which, in short fiction, is usually faster. For example, Cheever reveals that the radio broadcasts their neighbour's conversations very quickly. So in my third paragraph I explicitly said that the clock is the object of Edgar's mission although I do not state why. I tried to plant the information within an earlier paragraph, as although Cheever's straight-forward, grounded style is effective, I wanted to surprise the reader somewhat. 

The Antique Clock

The cobbled streets felt cold and foreign underneath Edgar’s well-polished shoes. Somehow they didn’t belong here, or he didn’t. The smell of manure mixed with the acrid smoke that seems to be entwined with city life singed his nostrils. Searching through the darkness, he found the fresh steaming pile that had been left in a carriage’s wake. Curious, for a carriage to be out this late. Though such notions could be attributed to be, should I be seen. With this thought, he shuffled into the shadows, not that there was any light to cast such hiding places. A gloomy light leaked from the antique clock high above the town, but not enough to see by. Nevertheless, he continued moving in what would seem to be a highly suspicious form – tentative footsteps, paranoid surveying of his surroundings. Dark houses rose up in all directions, without so much as a candle on a windowsill to indicate life within. Edgar was pleased with his choice of time, although his choice of activity was not strictly illegal. It was merely a mission of principal and a way to improve his self-worth after its recent decline.

Although his current predicament would seem to indicate otherwise, Edgar was a rather respectable fellow. He came from a wealthy family who put value in morality rather than materials, quite opposite to the rest of the aristocracy they found themselves associating with. For, while they were conscientious, hard-working, self-funded people, breaking the class system was simply detrimental for future prospects in business and relationships.

The clock chimed seven melancholy gongs, signaling to the town that it was only 7pm so the folk should be toasting a supper in their homes. Then why the darkness? Truthfully, it was this strange phenomenon that Edgar’s mission revolved around and the reason for his consciousness at this weary hour.

Direction

And I watch on helplessly,
as the birds fly south for winter
though they won't be coming back.
The North is betrayed but strong,
for East and West need both compass points.

Is there a contrast between the truth of our lives and the story that we tell (ourselves and others) of our existence?

I think for anyone, there is certainly a significant contrast.

Regardless of whether you're a pathological liar or someone committed to honesty, certain aspects and truths of our lives remain hidden, avoided or merely stretched and adapted into more suitable paraphrases. You may not be ashamed of your life, you may have no regrets even, but certain truths are often omitted whether it is for your benefit or for those with whom you interact. There's always going to be a point or scenario where a feeling of inadequacy (whether that's accurate or a reflection of insecurity) where adjustments of the truth of ourselves and lives are more appropriate or helpful. Of course I'm not saying that everyone lies constantly and there's always going to be a perfect exception, an anomaly to the rule. But where would we be without these white lies, these adaptations? Certainly nowhere completely different, but perhaps you'd have different friendships if you revealed that you kissed her brother, or attend a different university if you studied as hard as you told your parents you did. 

I suppose to this extent, the contrast isn't that stark, most people only change or omit little things from the story of their existence, those things that may taint a stranger's opinion of you and cause the judgement you fear. As long as you don't create a whole fabricated world like Adam Sandler's character in Just Go With It. 

For John Cheever, pretending that he was heterosexual was important in the time that he lived, so as not to break the law and continue to support his family through his career as a writer, which could have been a lot less successful, were he to admit to his homosexuality.

"If you write, you're a writer aren't you?"

 In the most basic sense, the act of writing would make you a writer, because that's how the verb forms work - someone who dances is a dancer, someone who writes, is a writer.

However, what society recognises as a 'writer' is some untouchable being that creates fiction of pure gold and profound knowledge. Every prolific writer seems to be 'unique' in the sense that no one but J K Rowling could have produced Harry Potter and no one else will create anything to a similar degree, although the same is said about Suzanne Collins. With successful books being turned into lucrative film franchises, these authors and their works are effectively defining generations as the books and films span decades. The word ‘writer’ carries a lot more weight as a result of this. If you conducted a survey on any random sample of people asking who their favourite writer was, every single person would name someone famous/published because it is these two features that we acknowledge when discussing a 'writer'. It is the same with any other art form. When asked to name an actor, you wouldn't choose your neighbour who's currently the lead in the school play. You associate the word 'actor,' just as with 'writer,' with heavy connotations of fame.

Conversely, it can be said that anyone who writes is a writer, as there is no large difference between someone who writes for pleasure and someone who writes for a living.

Based on both of these arguments, I have to say I believe that not just anyone who writes is a writer, only those who choose writing as a career. Talent and success level have no real bearing on my definition of a writer.