For as long as Jack could remember, he had considered himself a writer. His wife, Jill, was of the opinion that writers were just insomniacs with a desperate need to be heard. Jack knew this to be true, but kept their shared. He was one of those serious writers that understood that to be a great writer, one could not simply rely on imagination and talent. Courage and self flagellation were just as important. When he was a teen, Jack read Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood. In his twenties he often thought; if someone as gifted as Capote was unable to finish another novel after completing that non-fiction novel, what hope would there be for him. Jack knew that he would never be a great man, not like Hemingway or Twain. If he could be a good man, a real man, maybe he could grow to be a decent writer.
And so Jack grew up, got married and tried to live a real life. Tried to be a good American and a decent husband. As they grew older Jack and Jill gradually improved their social status. Eventually they became two or three social circles removed from Margaret Atwood. But if they had been in her social circle, they were the kind of people she’d have over for dinner. They’d smoke pot in her living room and talk about the failure of the carbon credit trade, vintage furniture and the future of science fiction. But they aren’t in Atwood’s social circle, so they eat lasagna and drink bourbon with various NYU associate English Literature professors. They understood that the beauty of routine helped sell the illusion of control, and had the pragmatic wisdom to know that this was ok. There is no way these lovebirds could ever know that they were the happiest married couple in America, maybe even the world. A couple that proved to be more than just a portrait .
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