What happens when a modern-day Mephistopheles offers a writer fame in exchange for his soul?

TODAY

“So, how many followers do you have now?”

“Four hundred thirty-seven, but that was at breakfast, and who knows how many more I have by now.”

“How would you like to have 300 million subscribers?”

THAT’S when I deciphered the message Ms. Biz’s face was sending me. I’d seen it before.

FOUR MONTHS EARLIER

The dapper gentleman with the black goatee and pencil mustache caught my eye. As I caught his.

I was struggling over the latest draft of my third novel (the first two were abject failures) as I sipped and nipped at coffee and scone at The Ground Floor. Mired deep in a setting description that was going nowhere glacially, I happened to look up and lock eyes with this rather distinctive chap who returned my glance with a purposeful one of his own. He stood out in high contrast against the boho crowd at the coffee shop.

In trying to describe the facial expression he wore, I can only suggest that it was somewhere between curiosity and invitation, perhaps with a fillip of “what have you got to lose?”. And, I would add, not the slightest whiff of deviancy (that I could detect).

Wearing a well-made tweed jacket with elbow patches, a white button collared shirt beneath a navy cashmere pullover, razor-crease linen slacks and expensive barrister shoes, and topped with a black felt Tyrolean, the gentleman looked like a model in a mature men’s fashion magazine plunked down in the midst of this indolent crowd of shuffling slackers.

My curiosity got the better of me. I closed my laptop, grabbed my “red eye” coffee and walked to where he stood.  

“I’m sorry”, I began, “do I know you?”

“That is a very interesting question. If you mean, have we met somewhere before, I can assure you we have not. No. I am quite pleased, however, that you decided to acknowledge my pointed gaze. Now, as I am not really interested in ordering a beverage”, the stranger continued, “and since you have yours already, what do you say we stroll outside to take advantage of a most glorious spring day? After you!”, he guided me toward the door.

I did not resist his gentle urging, as the outdoors truly did beckon with all that spring had to offer. I cannot explain why I did not give the unusual stranger a complete pass, but I guess my curiosity demanded a bit more information. And he was so tastefully dressed.

Having gotten over my silent bemusement, I sought to determine what I was letting myself in for by accepting his invitation to ramble. “Hey, uh … this is not about some ‘business opportunity’, is it? Because - “. My companion was chuckling before I could finish my thought.

“What is there in life that is not a ‘business opportunity’ when you think about it? Rest assured, I am not trying to rope you into a franchise scheme or anything of the sort”. He raised his countenance to the skies to get the full effect of the solar warmth and smiled. “But strictly speaking, what I have to offer you is an opportunity in a business very important to you.”

“Really? Well, then”, I countered, “you must be a publisher, because the only business I care about is getting my current novel published.”

“Ah yes”, he enthused,” Falcon Fallen is the working title, no?”

I did a double take. NO ONE knew about my manuscript or its proposed title.

“Your surprise is duly noted, and no sir, I am not a publisher. You might say I am a facilitator of sorts.”

“But how do you know about my novel, and what is it that you facilitate? Are you an agent?”

We continued to stroll to the end of the block, where the mysterious fellow indicated we should avail ourselves of the crosswalk that would lead us to the park, a lovely greenspace frequented by bikers, joggers, walkers, moms with prams, students, and lovers.

“Not a literary agent, no; and yet I am an agent in every sense of the word. I have sought you out in order to extend an offer to you - an offer I think you will find most intriguing. As to my knowledge of your current project, well … all will become clear as our discussion ripens.”

“Please go on”, I said, as confused as I was curious.

My chatmate came to a stop and faced me directly. “I propose an exchange between the two of us. I make your current novel an unqualified success … and in return, you give me your immortal soul.” His expression was one of quiet optimism and self-assurance.

An uncertain smile spread across my face. “You’re joshing me, of course!”

“Not for a moment, my good man”, he assured me. “I should think this offer would be a ‘no-brainer’ for you. You are an atheist, are you not?” His question was rhetorical. “You don’t believe in heaven, hell, or the soul, so you would be signing away a … a ‘nothing.’”

“Correction”, I replied. “I‘m agnostic; I used to be an atheist - until I found out they didn’t have any holidays.”

Satan (for indeed, such was the identity of my interlocutor) laughed heartily. “A brilliant witticism, my good fellow!”

“And you’re right”, I continued, “I don’t believe in the ‘soul’ or ‘God’. Or ‘the devil’ for that matter, (he bowed his head humbly at my recognition) so that kinda leaves you out, too”, I pronounced, perhaps a bit smugly.

“Well, then good sir, you have absolutely nothing to lose. Convince me that I’m wrong.”

A feeling, nothing more, urged me on. “Define ‘unqualified success’”, I demanded. Just out of curiosity, I wanted to know what was on the table across from my putative ‘soul’.

“Why”, the Tempter enthused, “it means whatever ‘success’ means to you! Fame? There will be no more famous novelist than you! Riches? You will need to hire people to count the people who count your money! Acclaim? Falcon Fallen will ascend to the pinnacle of the canon of great literature of the ages!” The Deuce looked at me as though I were a slow student. He seemed to expect me to scramble for a pen to sign on the line that is dotted.

That, I was unprepared to do. And yet, I had not completely disallowed the notion that this stylish Mephistopheles might have something to offer me.

“Let me get this straight”, I attempted to clarify, “In exchange for signing away this ‘soul’ that you seem assured that I possess, you will take my manuscript and get me published? By a legitimate publishing house?”

My companion brightened. “Precisely! But, oh my! so much more. Falcon Fallen will not only be published … it will become a runaway bestseller whose title (your marvellously alliterative title!) will be on everyone’s lips! Film producers will line up to secure the rights to your masterpiece for the screen. Book shops will not be able to keep Falcon Fallen on the shelves. Your publisher will print skatey-eight kadillion copies in thirty-seven different languages!”

[Now, at this point in the story, I am obliged to admit to myself (and to you, dear reader) that I am painfully aware of all my shortcomings as a writer. I really am. Humbled by my shortcomings, to be honest.]

Two hopeful, hopelessly amateurish attempts at conquering the sci-fi/horror/futurist/occult writing world - Bleeding Planet and Ghost Star Robot - failed to get any serious attention. Other than one hundred twenty-eight rejection slips between the two of them.

I was the starry-eyed fool who self-published Bleeding Planet to the tune of 250 paperback copies, vowing to self-promote my talents to the world. Friends (who all swear they read the (free) book and LOVED IT!) accounted for about 1/10 of the inventory. Meanwhile, every weekend since I received the five cases of books, I have been hauling two cases around the tristate area in the company of a caravan of sad-sack erstwhile literary stars for public library book signings. In two months, I have spent seven days over 1,000 miles and sold three more books.

All of which is to say that I would be the slightest bit suspicious of any publisher - especially one of the Big Five - who might claim my work was going to be the next Harry Potter.

And so I humored the Devil by figuratively stepping my foot onto the used car lot, as it were. “Do you mean to say that you can give my manuscript to some … some business concern that can transform my prose into something the public wants?”

“You put it very well, good sir”, said His Darkness, as he tipped his tyrolean to a pair of nuns strolling by us in the park (I failed to notice if my companion had revealed horns).

I started up again, with a little attitude. “So, I lose total editorial control of my vision while some hired-gun wordsmith carves up my magnum opus into a bucket of pieces that he re-arranges to his own devious purposes”, warming to my outrage, I break out a masterful performance of indignation.

“Oh my goodness”, the debonair demon countered, “there would be no carving anything, no sir! No. They will take your manuscript and publish AS IS – that is, verbatim - and print the first 200,000 hardcovers tout de suite! Like, today even.”

“No one will change a word of it?”

“Not a jot, nor even the slightest tittle, no, sir.”

“Is anyone going to edit it? At least proofread it?”

“Not necessary, sir. Improve on a masterwork? The very idea! That would be gilding the lily. No, sir, the world (and by this, I mean the literary world as well as the blue marble third from the sun) is about to discover the idiosyncratic dynamism of your literary vision!”

(Wow. Flatter much?)

“Did I not hear you agree with me when I said ‘… some business concern that can transform my prose into something the public wants?’ How then is this manuscript of mine going to be transformed, if no one touches the thing?”

“I am surprised”, said the Devil, “that a man with your mastery of the English language doesn’t see the possibility of another meaning of the word transformed. This publisher-to-be-named-later will not attempt to transform your prose; it will undertake (and do so successfully, I might add) to transform the whole world’s appreciation for your anomalous, if not to say unusual, writing style.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I had no idea what he was talking about.

Satan realized that, while the wheels were turning, my conscious self had not picked up all the slack as yet, and therefore, I was a little slow to appreciate the entire diabolical picture.

“Let me see if I can paint the scene for you”, he buttonholed me into his personal space, which became a classroom-for-two of sorts, “Publisher grabs Falcon Fallen, prints 200k, spends a decent several million on a world-wide ad blitz. Instant vibe. Everyone’s talking. Before anyone (besides yourself) has a chance to read even the table of contents, said publisher gets the book into the hands of the aristocracy of the literary criticism world.

“Assured by the publisher that you and your book, under the auspices of my organization and its otherworldly resources, are going to take the publishing world by storm, the ordained tastemakers will snap to the task of touting Falcon Fallen and its faux primitif style before any second-tier poseurs have a chance to weigh in with reservations. Once the Archbishops of All That Is Literary have spoken, the rest of the herd will fall in line without a second prompting”, he concluded, as if he had just outlined plans for the D-Day Invasion.

“Now I know this is a put-up job!”, I shook my head knowingly, “You mean to tell me you can work some kind of magic and make the world suddenly acclaim a totally unknown writer with NO published works to his credit as the greatest living writer?”

“Oh my, let’s not leave out the dead ones! Charles Dickens and James Joyce would fistfight each other to be compared to you, as well!” said the fallen angel. “And the ‘magic’, as you refer to it, IS amazing, although a whole lot more readily understood than a magician’s powers of prestidigitation, I guarantee you.”

“But I’m a …. Let me put it this way:”, I paused thoughtfully. It pained me somewhat to level a critical gaze at my own handiwork, but I did. “I am not … I am NOT … a ‘great writer’, and furthermore (bombs away!) there is not a way in the world that my work would ever be considered among the great literary works of all time, much less publishable.”

“Want me to prove you wrong?”, he tempted, a jaunty smile replete with raised eyebrow.

“The notion is INSANE! I can’t all of a sudden BE a great writer! I have to BECOME a great writer! I need to learn and perfect my craft! I need to tap into inspiration! I need to sweat and toil and fail and, dare I say, suffer for my art!”

The Devil manifested an excitedly patient expression. “My young friend, it would take you decades - if not EONS - of hard work, rejection, and failure to break through on your merits alone - IF EVER! There’s also a matter of raw talent, which you would need to acquire by some means or another.

“For the exchange I have proposed - your unacknowledged and unvalued soul in exchange for unIMAGINable success - you get that which you most desire and I get something of which you profess no need. It’s perfect!”, he concluded with a cherry on top.

I suggested we find an unoccupied park bench and sit for a while, and what do you know - there appeared one at the very moment I thought of it. A mature red maple cast a dappled shadow over the bench. We sat. I continued.

“You seem of the opinion that I would be willing to take such a shortcut to literary immortality”, I suggested.

A bright smile and an abbreviated nod from my companion sufficed as an answer.

Now, to paint you the picture in even more vivid hues, I am out on a beautiful spring day, loafing on a bench with The Lord of the Flies in a Georges Seurat composition, deciding on whether or not I want to become the me I dream about all the time. All I have to do is make the emptiest of promises to a gullible trader.

I locked my eyes on his - and stifled a scream as I beheld for the first time in my life a measure of the vileness and evil in this human world that froze me to the marrow. I couldn’t breathe.

I found that if I looked at a spot on his chin, I could avoid those ghastly eyes and see only a handsome European-looking chap. So that is what I did. He had a handsome chin.

“It’s not fair”, I muttered - almost like a curse.

My bargaining partner seemed truly perplexed at my statement. “Good gracious, If the offer is not fair, it is my organization getting the worst of the deal”, the Devil asserted with incredulity in his voice. He also had a handsome voice.

“It’s not fair that I’m getting something that another writer would have to sacrifice greatly for!”, I said, “Somebody is getting screwed so that I can go to the head of the class! There’s only one literary god in the heavens at any one time, and with the assistance of your diabolical chicanery,

I may end up cutting out … another Balzac, Tolstoy, Jack London. And some hard-working talented person’s words will disappear in the ether.

‘‘Man, I’m twenty-six years old - imagine if I work my ass off to create a masterpiece by the time I’m fifty, only to have to eat the dust of some hopeless hack who hooks up with YOU for a free ride to Easy Street!” 

“Well”, said the Devil,” if you want to suffer for your work, we’ll always have a billet for you at our place. I can guarantee you won’t want for opportunities there. Eternally.” The Demon leaned back expectantly. It was time for me to choose.

TODAY, AGAIN

Several months later - August in fact - I happen to be sitting at one of the outdoor tables at my favorite microbrewery, enjoying a dark and aromatic Imperial IPA as a reward for having completed twenty-five straight days of 2500+ words per. A new project, one to which I have committed myself to fleshing out the story with the ‘sheer volume’ approach.

Not only had I written a novel’s worth, but I had then polished each day’s output to a nicety. Reading aloud, listening to myself, judging the fit and finish of the prose I wanted to assemble around my plot. More smooth surfaces, fewer blockhead mistakes and missteps.

Meanwhile, my employer at the home security firm is getting my minimum attention but so far without noticeable negligence on my job. On-call remote customer service gigs have their busy and slow periods of activity, and I sought to fill every gap with more production on the writing side.

My newest project (working title: Without a Hint) is a few days away from submitting in manuscript format to an editor with whom I had worked before. By the weekend, I should have all the rough edges knocked off of it.

So, the picture I’m painting is now a Cezanne exterior in a high-walled, ivy-suffused, courtyard. I imagine myself as the Struggling Artist on the streets of Paris, instead of a boho neighborhood in Charleston. And yes, I am alive to all the ambient aural tapestry. Birds, mopeds, sirens, horn honks, gusts - and even private discussion.

I did not seek out the two involved parties.

These two serious women of middle thirties came through the saloon doors and out into the courtyard. It was their choice to sit two tables away, enjoying their glasses of Chablis(?). The taller of the two, red of head, has an earnestness about her that seems to come through her pores. Form-fitting ripped jeans, sensible but decorative flats, tee shirt and a North Face windbreaker. Red, red hair, but I perceive some magenta in there somewhere.

Conversationalist #2 was dressed for the boardroom, stylish auburn bob. Serious, as I said, and she was “put together”, as my girlfriend would describe it. Ms. Biz’s eyes betrayed a sense of - I don’t know - Adventure? Practical Joker? Victory? Happy Warrior? But something didn’t….

Then they started talking.

Eavesdropping was not my intention.

They were passing a phone back and forth - I sense that it belongs to the earnest redhead - and doing lots of finger sliding, oohing, aahing, and so forth. Occasionally a brief comment with some finger spreading to embiggen the fine points of some image or other. Not an unusual shared activity.

Ms. Earnest is telling Ms. Biz about her dream to be a viral personality, to be a social media influencer of world fame. Perhaps in the realm of some fringe health regimen that absolutely everybody needs to follow - I don’t know, a mention of “gut microbes”. Red mentioned that her YouTube channel was gaining dozens of new followers daily, and she wanted so much to make it big. She wants to monetize.

I was still puzzling over that expression on Ms. Biz’s face when the following exchange took place:

“So, how many followers do you have now?”

“Four hundred thirty-seven, but that was at breakfast, and who knows how many more I have by now.”

“How would you like to have 300 million subscribers?”

THAT’S when I deciphered the message Ms. Biz’s face was sending me.

I’d seen it before.