The Writer: Chapter 4

In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

That’s in the Bible, so it’s a fact. Much like water boiling at 212 degrees Fahrenheit. But, you see, the boiling point of water depends on a lot factors, like altitude, air pressure, and, of course, the purity of the water.

Is there anything we can be certain of? Is the world around us real? Are we just puppets on strings, or chaos is the only true constant in our lives? Some philosophers say that we can only be certain of the existence of our own thoughts. That, my friend, is called solipsism.

Don’t look so troubled. I’m going to tell you something that no one else can.

What if I were to tell you that words can change the world? That God simply wrote us into existence?  But first, I’m going to read you a story. It’s really short and it only took me three cigarettes and twenty minutes to write.

 

Mr. Nobody

 

A man is enjoying his morning coffee in one of those fancy cafés they have down on Fifth Avenue. Flakes of dandruff fall from his hair and settle on his black sweater. He’s holding tight onto a small notebook. He’s ready to write, to embark on the fantastic odyssey of being just an observer. He’s a writer. He’s also a virgin – and not in an Andy Warhol kind of way.

This man is scribbling down pieces of conversations and jokes because his editor told him that his works don’t feel alive. His characters are all copies of himself. He’s like a painter doing only self-portraits.

Good or bad, his stories are his only possession in this world, the only thing that keeps him going. He’s glaring around at all these strangers talking and laughing: supermodels sipping lattes, hedge fund managers drinking twenty year old scotch, and he thinks that Sartre was wrong. Hell isn’t other people, hell is just people that are happy or seem to be happy.  But he can’t help falling in love with all these strangers, simply because they have something he doesn’t. Because he’s a cliché, his life is nothing more than images and vague sensations put together, an unattractive cocktail made by an inexperienced bartender.

Then she walks in. She passes him by and takes a seat at the bar. And he gulps. Her ocean blue eyes scream with giddy joy. Her straight black hair, she’s tied it back in a ponytail that goes all the way down her back. Her skin, her eyes, her lips, her Mona Lisa smile. She’s everything he’s not.

And he needs one thing to make her love him.

But he hesitates. What will all these people that he doesn’t know think about him? He wants to talk to her, but his freedom is limited by what others expect him to be.

Each and every one of us is nothing more than an image reflected on a broken mirror – who we really are, who others think we are, who we think we are, and who we want to be will never coincide.

He stands up and staggers his way to the bar, with his pen in one hand and his notebook in the other, like a desperate fan. He swims through that sea of wealth and decadence, waves of expensive cologne smashing against his body, his heart beating like a fist inside his chest because this moment is going to change his life forever. For better or worse.

After he’s finished talking to her, he’s going to go home and start a new story. A love story. She’s going to be a character; she’s going to be the one all the other characters will revolve around. He’s going to smoke a lot and drink a lot. He’s going to curse and he’s going to use the delete button countless times. He’s going to write until he falls asleep, defeated by the painful exhaustion of being all alone in the loneliest of worlds.

And then he’ll wake up in the morning and erase everything.

“Hi,” he says, forgetting that he is no one in particular. Just another Mr. Nobody. The photo on his ID card is so ugly that he doesn’t even deserve a name.

The goddess turns around in her stool and looks at him. She frowns. “What do you want?”

He needs one thing to make her love him. Because stories are his only possession in this world. He gulps and clears his throat as loud as possible. “What’s your name?”


This chapter (and the short story that forms most of it) was inspired by my own dread of having to go to the doctor. I wrote it while waiting for my father to come pick me up. I was terrified of what bad news I might be receiving, while also thinking that writing was my drug of choice whenever I wanted to escape reality.

I could be anyone I wanted, and for this particular reason, I decided to be no one in particular.

Makes you think if you we are as powerless as we like to believe or simply so strong that we decide to play this game in which we pretend to be weak.


THE E-BOOK BUNDLE

”I completely fell in love with Cristian Mihai’s beautiful way of writing. His main character, Chris Sommers, is an embodiment of realism. His persona was much attune to what some of us feel about ambition, love, and the realization of heartbreaking disappointment. I felt a connection to him in a much deeper level than I’ve ever known. Mihai’s writing style just reaches out to you, captures you – without letting go for a moment. It’s also very personal that you just can’t help but love the main protagonist. There were times where it pained me to stop reading because I wanted to note down my favorite quotes from the novel because it was just that amazingly brilliant.” – E.S. praise for Jazz.

Fourteen years of writing. Six years of Amazon releases. A lot of time and effort. Experimenting with style, technique, and storylines. This is what this e-book bundle is all about.

An e-book bundle containing my five major releases. And something special. At a special price.

Jazz – Read reviews on Goodreads here.

My first novel, an unrequited love story. Classic. I set out to write Jazz, owning nothing more than a few scattered images and the desire to write about Paris. I built my beautiful and mysterious woman, my young and naïve writer, and all the other characters in my story. And brick after brick I built my melancholic city.

Sometimes the characters let me in without complaining too much. I was allowed into their world the minute I punched the first keys. But other times it wasn’t like that. Other times I had to work hard to get in; I had to struggle to leave the real world behind.

”This book was very unexpected. It made me think about what is means to be a writer, what the process of creation means not only to the creator but to those who are affected by what has been written. Much of what Mihai says here will resonate with anyone who has ever struggled to put words on paper.” – Cynthia Dumarin, praise for The Writer.

The Writer – Read reviews on Goodreads here.

The Writer is a novel about a guy, Jonathan Fisher. It’s a first person account of how he became a writer.

The Writer is also what some people might call Literary Fiction. With a touch of Magical Realism.

The Writer is Metafiction, meaning that it’s a novel about a writer writing a story.

The Writer is a frame-story. Jonathan Fisher somehow decides, on a mostly random basis, that he wants to read a story to the audience. Well, it’s not precisely the audience, because Jonathan Fisher is actually addressing a certain someone. Anyway, he still insists on reading from his short story collection.

And then there’s this guy, Jonathan Fisher. There’s something broken about him. He’s just an observer. That’s what makes him so frightening. He’s the kind of guy who’ll walk right past a woman getting mugged. He never intervenes. He’s happy to be a shadow. I know there are far worse people (and fictional characters) out there, but…

Dream City and Other Stories – Read reviews on Goodreads here.

A magnificent painting, a few memories in a notebook, a letter to his son. Paul is dying, and he wants one thing and one thing only: he wants to feel he’s in control. He doesn’t feel free anymore, just because a disease is eating away his life, so every morning when he wakes up he puts a gun to his temple and closes his eyes.

Like he says, “True freedom comes from the realization that you can kill yourself at any time.”

 

 

2:22 AM – Read reviews on Goodreads here.

“Where have you been all my life?” you once asked her. You stared her in the eyes and smiled and she smiled back, a bit scared by what you just said.

You told her that you’d like to hold her hand.

“Why?” she asked.

“Because I could conquer the world… if only you’d hold my hand.”

She lay down her cup. She put it to the side of the table, then moved the ashtray next to it. Then she did the same with your cup. She put her hand on the table, palm up. And she said, “You’re brave, you know? To think that you can conquer the world with just one hand.”

2:22 AM is a short novel written from the perspective of two people who break up. They don’t want to, but it happens. The days go by, they both struggling to find comfort in the fact that the other one is never coming back.

”I was drawn in after reading the first page. Being a “hopeless” romantic I could empathize with both characters but I felt a connection with “him”. The authors description of loneliness, excitement, regret and pain is so intense, I became emotional while reading. It is gripping, honest and touching. Beautiful story…” – Melanie Lawson, praise for 2:22 AM.

closer is the story of a man who is so seduced by the desire to get rich that he becomes involved in a world where anything is permitted. His journey to the top is interrupted by the consequences of his past actions. Things become darker, more violent and more sexually disturbing than he could ever have imagined as he tries to break himself free from his past.

Deft, shocking and unforgettable, this gripping tale about risk, consequence and the treacherous balance between the two reveals a world where there’s nothing to separate right from wrong.


And a bonus. The Best of Cristian Mihai(2012-2017). Essays and blog posts. On art, life, love…

This e-book bundle is available for only $19.99 $9.99 on my e-store here.

CLICK HERE TO PURCHASE AND SUPPORT MY WRITING

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3 thoughts on “The Writer: Chapter 4

  1. Of course I will go to your e-store and buy this bundle. You are an amazing author – and I want to drown in one of your stories. Jazz sounds like the perfect way to go! When, in Mr Nobody, you wrote, “Each and every one of us is nothing more than an image reflected on a broken mirror – who we really are, who others think we are, who we think we are, and who we want to be will never coincide,” I was enchanted. I want them to coincide! It’s called authenticity. Oh, how I pray for who I want to be to link with who I become and who others see! Your writing makes me more determined, Cristian. Thank you! ❤

    Liked by 1 person

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