Angels Overhead

by Kathleen

Nothing: no space, no time, no Thomas. No light, sound, needles poking him—no tubes forced into him.

That much had surfaced.

Afterwards, a tug. The atmosphere stirred and he heard birdsong. He lay lost in dimness, while a girl slammed a metal railing.

Becca said, “You make me sick!”

Such a feathery, caressing sound, Becca’s anger.

“Why did you ask me here then? Why can’t you leave me alone?” Another girl. He summoned her name but none came. Just the voice. “Bitch.”

Birds trilling above his head. Angels fluttering their wings.

Later, faint sensations seeped through him, as if filtered through damp wool. Thomas remembered his daughter, Becca, and the second girl, Ashley—daughter of Julia. How he loved Julia! In secret. In dark nothingness, he had always loved Julia. But she was married to George.

George knew. Before they got in the car, George had confronted him. Suddenly, after years. Their daughters graduating from school. The way you look at her, he said, is unreal.

After that, George yelled and threatened and Thomas had yelled in response. Both of them wild with rage. Love was uncontrollable, not reasonable.

Hydroplaning, he recalled that sensation. What progress he was making, remembering the car hydroplaning.

Thomas woke perhaps a week later. Or maybe only a few minutes. Awake, asleep now, he couldn’t pretend. Fatal car crash in torrential rain. George was gone but still taunting him: Come on, it’s over. What are you, chicken?

Every time he woke now, Thomas sustained consciousness longer. His eyes opened and rolled toward the light. Julia sat by his bed, knitting. She told him she was learning from a book, which kept sliding off her lap.

Thomas tried to speak. He said Julia but no sound come out. Nonetheless, she dipped toward him, her face circled in light. He touched her hair hanging down.

Why hadn’t he touched her hair eons ago? Oh, yes, he remembered.

The gulf between reality and what he had wanted was so enormous he had wondered why the geography alone didn’t kill him.

Now the world had changed. He touched Julia’s hair and cheek and she said, “Hello.”

Thomas had yearned for her so desperately, he feared the immensity of his desire would overcome him; he’d black out. But now Julia was touching his hand and for once he feared nothing. He kissed her fingers and she restored him. He became whole.

The Author's Cut

Director’s cut, extended edition, restored version – you’ve probably stumbled over these phrases in the context of a film, but in the context of a novel? Not likely. Although some classics have been altered a little from edition to edition – for corrections, adding prefaces and notes – but very few have had, say, their endings changed. Tweaked a little, yes, but nothing major. Henry James some minor alterations to Portrait of a Lady (something about too much ambiguity or whatever). It’s not as if there’s a version of Gone with the Wind where Rhett comes back a second after not giving a damn and says, “Sorry about that, Scarlet. I got caught up in the moment.” If he did, there would probably be rioting.

The final version of a movie is less final apparently. Once a director becomes prominent enough, they can go back to their older work and re-cut it – sometimes to get closer to the version they had in mind that the studio didn’t agree to for whatever reason, sometimes to fix technical aspects, and sometimes simply because they’ve rethought the material over the years. Milos Forman’s director’s cut of Amadeus has about twenty minutes of extra footage, all worthwhile, but given that the theatrical cut already runs close to three hours, you can see why some of it had to be trimmed. I forget how many versions of Blade Runner there are – I also forget why.

But novelists don’t re-cut their books, however prominent they become. There aren’t any “extended editions” or “author’s versions” in circulation. At least, as far as I know it’s unheard of, but someone please jump in and correct me if I’m wrong. You have to wonder why that is. Well, maybe you don’t, but it struck me that once a novel is printed – that’s it. Done. No more changes except for correcting typos. I suppose you could argue that if a book is successful, there’s no point in changing the ending or editing it in any other way. And if it’s not successful, you might feel somewhat indignant, not to say a little humiliated, at the idea of changing an ending or whatever other changes occur to you in order to make the book successful. On to the next, as they say. (I don’t know who “they” are, actually.)

And how about DVDs with additional commentary tracks? Impossible in a book. Well, more annoying really – until books finally go digital – which we can assume is still quite some way off. There are annotated versions of classics, but that’s more to clarify specific details in the text, enlighten problematic aspects, etc., than to reveal how the book was created. That’s probably a good thing, too, because it would likely take away some of the magic. Once someone teaches you that disappearing-reappearing acts can only be done with identical twins or objects, it’s not as intriguing seeing the item disappear at one end of the stage and then reappear at the other end.

But – it could be utterly brilliant to see someone completely deconstruct their own work. The mystery might be gone, but the craftsmanship would still be there. I suppose that’s what workshops and author’s lectures are for, but think of your favorite book, now imagine the author took you through it step by step and revealed it in all its technical glory. Significant, enthralling, and instructive? Or maybe unnecessary, boring, and sacrilegious? It could very well go either way. Some DVD commentaries are wonderful, others are disappointing. Some movies are improved by being revisited and reedited, and others should be left well alone. Personally, I’m not looking for a trend of reediting published books to get started or having alternate endings float around in different editions.

I do think that once you’ve published, you need to accept whatever mistakes you’ve made and try not to repeat them. You can’t expect to be the same writer and the same person – forever. You can only hope to still be proud of what’s done, however amateurish it seems in retrospect. And you can also pray that no one amplifies its importance by putting it on a school curriculum. Although now that I think of it, forcing school children to study it may be precisely the way to make sure it’s not taken seriously, much like Shakespeare, whom people have a tendency to edit at their own discretion.

I’d be grateful if someone could find a version of Hamlet where he stops whining after the first act and doesn’t set off a chain of death and despair. If there had been DVDs in Elizabethan England, Master Will probably would have done it himself. The savvy old playwright may have written several alternate endings and versions for all of his plays, to be selected according to the audience’s wishes. He may have done a lot of things, given the opportunity, or he may have only smiled at me and said, “Woman, get thee to a nunnery.”

It did occur to me to end this post about three hundred words sooner, but this was the shortest I could whittle it down to. Consider it the author’s cut.

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