The Thoughtful Writer (standard:drama, 3419 words)
Author: Nathan Goodrich	Added: May 10 2003	Views/Reads: 3466/2290	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
The relatives of George Tibian Maxwell make a living by using his good name to sell books, but what is the truth behind this legendary author's only bestselling book?

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story

the great grandson of the famed author George Tibian Maxwell I. 

George was the fourth of a string of authors.  The first being his great
grandfather, the next being his grandfather, and of course his very own 
father.  They were all named George Tibian Maxwell in a vain attempt to 
honor the man that started it all. 

Although George had only gotten one novel published during his time, he
still felt that he knew a thing or two about the business of writing.  
He was also a natural up on stage in front of a large audience that 
wasn't sure what they were in for. 

As one kid slept to his right, he decided that it would be best to blow
into the microphone.  A piercing squeal sounded through all of the 
speakers and the poor kid jumped and nearly wet his pants.  Thus he 
began. 

“Well hello everyone.  As you all know, I am George Tibian Maxwell IV,
not to be confused with my dad, my grandfather, and of course my great 
grandfather.  Well then, where should I begin?”  The audience was so 
quiet, you could have heard an ant scream.  He glance around hoping for 
any interest and realized he was in a bad place at the moment.  “Okay 
then.  Well, my name originally comes from my great grandfather, who 
wrote  one of the most famous novels of all time, entitled The Wind and 
the Rock. 

“He was a great man with many noble causes in his life and aside from
his number one passion, which was writing, he was also a doctor.  He 
spent most of his free time writing and although he only wrote one 
novel, he did write some additional short stories.  He was a great man 
with much insight into life. 

“One interesting thing about his style of writing is that he loved to
put multiple meanings in his work.  He had a talent for telling a 
seemingly simple story with a common moral, but when it was all over, 
the readers were shocked to learn that there was much more to it than 
they thought.  He weaved symbols, and themes into his tales like they 
were patchwork quilts.  And boy, lemme tell you, no one can do it quite 
the way he could.  Of course there have been imitators, but they have 
never come close to writing with as much complexity as he did without 
mucking it all up. 

“When I was in college and I first read his book, I was amazed at how
much thoughtful wisdom he had put onto those pages.  At first I 
wondered if he meant to do it.  By that I mean, was he even aware of 
all of the themes, morals, and literary devices, that he had packed 
into his work?  Well, of course the answer is yes!  That is what 
writers do!  We talk about life the way we see it, and some of us see 
life in a much more gifted way than others.  That is why there are the 
readers and the writers.”  He smiled arrogantly at one of the few young 
ladies that was actually paying attention to him. 

“Well, anyways, I bet you're wondering why I decided to be a writer. 
Well the answer is a simple one really.  Ya see...” 

Mr. Tidwell was now on the stage lightly tapping him on the shoulder. 
“I'm very sorry Mr. Maxwell, but these students are being taught about 
your great grandfather's book right now, so if you could only discuss 
the main points of it, that would be great.  Thanks.”  Mr. Maxwell 
smiled lightly and walked off the stage, following closely behind Mr. 
Tidwell. 

Mr. Tidwell became aware of his presence by the eyes of the students
watching quietly.  He frowned to himself, and slowly turned around with 
another one of his slight smiles.  “What is it Mr. Maxwell?” 

“Well, you see, we have a tiny problem here.  And that is that I was not
aware that you simply wanted me to speak because of my name!  I mean I 
should get a little respect here.  I am a critically acclaimed author.” 


Mr. Tidwell nodded and simply leaned towards George's right ear. 
“Listen to me you dumbass!”  His whisper carried throughout the entire 
auditorium, then he retained his calm stature and began to whisper for 
real.  “Mr. Maxwell, you must understand my position.  These kids are 
studying the original George Maxwell's book and I know that it is 
inconvenient for you, but I thought that it would be great if someone 
related to him could explain what he meant in certain parts of the 
book.” 

“I understand what you were thinking you were getting, Mr. Tidwell, but
you must understand my position!  I am not him!  I never even met they 
guy cause he's been dead for an awful long time!”  He was yelling at 
the top of his lungs by now.  “And you know what?  I'm gonna tell you 
why I wanted to be a writer anyways!”  He turned and faced the students 
who by now had found the assembly to be very entertaining.  “The only 
reason that I am a god forsaken writer is because I am a lazy asshole 
who realized that if I pay some real writer to write a book in my name, 
I can sell millions of copies just because I share the same name of 
that miserable old bastard!  I hate writing and I think that my father, 
my grandfather, and my great grandfather are idiots for actually 
writing it!”  He calmed down after a couple of seconds, thanked the 
audience for being so great, spit in Mr. Tidwell's face, and left 
through the same door that he entered, but not before asking the 
beautiful Mrs. Williams out to dinner. 

George Tibian Maxwell III 

While walking down the street one day on his way home from the bus
station, George Tibian Maxwell III got a terrible surprise from one of 
his many fans.  He was walking on the sidewalk minding his own business 
when a cry came out from behind him.  He turned only to see a 
middle-aged woman flapping her trap over a stolen purse.  The alleged 
thief was running right in his direction, but he quickly decided that 
this burglary was none of his business, so he turned around began his 
walk home. 

As soon as he lifted his right foot, he realized that his right shoelace
was untied.  So he did what any person that likes comfortable feet 
would do, and he bent over to tie his shoelace.  Of course as his luck 
would have it, the instant he kneeled down, he felt someone fly over 
his back.  He had inadvertently tripped the thief. 

For a brief moment the man wiggled on the ground, but then got to his
feet and was about to take off again, until he noticed who stood before 
him.  A wide, toothless smile filled the hole that was his mouth, but 
then he decided to break the silence with a horribly squeaky voice.  
“Oh my God!  Is that you?”  He walked towards George III and slapped 
his arm.  “Hell it is you!  Boy do I feel stupid that I had to meet my 
idol during an attempted robbery!” 

George was shaken at the very thought of this redneck being able to
read, let alone one of his own books!  “You've read my work, eh?” 

“Oh yes sir!  Me and the boys in the county jail just love your book. 
We especially love the way you compare the relationship of the father 
and son with an abstract object, like the wind, to a solid object like 
a rock.” 

If there was any hope of George smiling, it was all gone the moment he
realized that this man had mistaken him for his grandfather.  He 
frowned and decided to tell the man a thing or two.  “Listen to me you 
sick redneck jackass!  I am not the man that wrote that damn book!  I'm 
just his grandson, but I am a writer and if you would like to read some 
of my work, which is probably to hard for you to understand, then by 
all means please like me for what I've done!  Not for what a dead man 
did sixty years ago!” 

The thief looked hurt.  “But wait a sec!  You look just like his here
picture.”  He pulled a wallet size picture of the original George 
Tibian Maxwell that came from the back of his book out of a wallet.” 

George was considering slapping the man.  “Well of course I do!  I'm
related to him you idiot!  Look at the picture, it says the year he 
died.” 

“Oh.”  He looked at it.  “Well what da ya know!  It does!  Go figure. 
Sorry friend!” 

George was in the middle of wondering why a thief was walking down the
street with his grandfather's picture, but before he could complete the 
thought the woman who's purse was stolen, had shown up with a police 
officer. 

The man returned the purse, but before the officer escorted the him back
to jail, George told the officer that the man had also stolen his 
wallet.  When the man stated that it was his rightfully owned wallet, 
George simply asked the officer to look inside for a picture of him.  
The officer did so and the wallet was given to George.  He walked home 
triumphantly, but was still a little mad about being a writer who would 
probably never get credit for his own work.  He hoped his five year old 
son, George, would eventually become a writer and make him proud. 

George Tibian Maxwell II 

At the age of seventeen, George Tibian Maxwell II, was a brilliant
student in school who loved to write more than anything in the world.  
He would write whenever he had the time to do so.  However, it wasn't 
always easy considering that his father, the original George Tibian 
Maxwell was a doctor, well known in their community for advancing the 
methods of abortion. 

George's father wasn't very supportive of his writing at all.  He saw it
as being a waste of talents that could have been used for a different 
career, such as a lawyer or maybe even a doctor. 

On the glorious day that George II finished his first novel, he decided
to ask his father's opinion of it, although he knew that it was 
probably just a stupid mistake.  His father originally refused to read 
it, but a week later George woke up one morning and found his novel 
sitting on the floor of his room that said, “See me before you go to 
school.”  George didn't even have to ask who had written the note.  He 
could tell from the fact that it got right to the point, that it was 
none other than his father's very own request. 

When George walked into his father's den that morning, he found that he
was already sitting in his thinking chair, probably considering how to 
break his son's heart.  On this particular morning, he managed to 
surprise his son, “How do you do it?” 

“Do what?”  George II was afraid of what was to come. 

“How do you think up all of these hidden meanings that you put in your
stories?  I mean, do you really sit at that desk of yours and plan how 
you're going to place a symbol somewhere to help support one of your 
ideas?  If so, how did you ever come up with the idea to use the wind 
and a rock as a metaphor for a father-son relationship?” 

George was both relieved and happy at his dad's sudden interest.  “Well,
actually no not at all.  I just write everything off the top of my 
head.”  He paused and chuckled to himself.  Then a wide smile formed 
from ear to ear.  “This is so great dad!  I can't believe you actually 
like my work.” 

His father made sure that his happiness would end right then.  “Now wait
a minute.  I never said that I liked it.  As a matter of fact I can't 
believe that you still waste your time putting stupid ideas on little 
pieces of paper.  I'm even more upset about your little hobby now that 
I know that you waste so much damn time planning out this worthless 
crap!  Listen to me right now son!  This is ending today!  You are not 
to write again while you are still living under this roof, understood!” 


George sat on the floor, breathless for a moment.  Tears began to streak
down his face, then he told his father to go to hell, went in his room, 
packed up all of his important belongings, and ran away.  He would 
never return to that house. 

Of all of the things that George took with him when he left, there were
two very important possessions that he left behind.  One was his 
relationship for his father who, by the way, never forgave himself for 
making his only son leave his house at the age of seventeen.  The other 
was all of the stories, including the novel, that he had ever written.  
He had only put his name on one of the short stories. 

Once his father realized what a great son he had pushed away, he locked
up all of George's stories inside the big safe that was on the wall 
behind his desk in his den.  Every now and then he would get them out 
and read them for his own enjoyment. 

One afternoon, seven years after he left, a letter arrived which
informed George's father and mother that he had pursued his career as a 
writer and had been married for five years.  Together they had two 
children that were going up just perfectly.  However, there was one 
problem with this letter.  It was only signed by George's wife, not 
himself.  When his father wrote back to find out why his son's 
signature was missing, he received another letter informing him that 
his son had died, just three months earlier in an automobile accident 
and that his wife was not sure how to tell them, so she left it out of 
her first letter. 

George Tibian Maxwell 

If you were to ask the original George Tibian Maxwell what the happiest
moment of his life was, he would have told you it was the moment that 
his only son was born.  The first time he held his son, he felt as if 
he was on top of the world.  When his son took his first step, he 
danced on the roof of his house making sure to yell loud enough so 
everyone could hear the news.  When his son was taught how to use the 
outhouse, he told him how proud he was to be his father.  When he 
taught him to catch his very first fish, he made sure to let him know 
that he was his special big boy. 

The day he took him to his office to see exactly what a doctor did, and
he didn't seem interested, he told him how disappointed he was.  When 
his son told him that he wanted to be a writer, he told him he was 
ashamed to be the father of such a lazy kid.  The day he forced his son 
to runaway, he realized that he was wrong.  Then, finally on the day 
that he received word of his son's death, he became ill and died a week 
later. 

This man, Mr. George Tibian Maxwell became known as one of the finest
writer's of his time on the day that his widowed wife found the 
contents in the big safe in the den.  She was so shocked and excited by 
the fact that her husband had taken up writing when their son left, 
that she had decided to get his work published.  There was also one 
story in the safe with her son's name on it which she also had 
published. 

By the time of Mrs. Maxwell's death, her son's short story was forgotten
by all, but her husband's novel, The Wind and the Rock became an 
instant classic loved by all. 


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