The Bedrock of Truth: Part 1

By Amanda Zieba

Emerson was the ultimate Leo Rock fan. No, more than a fan, she was a Leo scholar. A Leologist, she liked to call herself. No teeny-bopper fangirling or jersey chasing for her. Emerson was a hardcore, lifelong and incurable literary admirer of fiction author extraordinaire, Leo Rock.

Not only was she a member of several online fan forums and an attendee of the yearly convention devoted to all things Leo Rock, she had also won multiple Leo-Trivia competitions, both online and in person. Emerson was the first in line at Barnes and Noble each and every time a new book was released, even though history had taught her the author never showed up for signing appearances. She’d filled an entire moleskin notebook with her favorite Leo quotations and even had t-shirts made – in multiple colors. She wore them almost every day and when she’d walk the city streets, the white font was always visible. Keep Calm and Leo On. She, not-so-secretly, hoped that one day, Leo would see her and say hello. Because she’d been so loyal. Because she loved his stories so much. But he never did.

It had been six months since internationally acclaimed author Leo Rock disappeared. Died? Maybe? No one was really sure. To be fair, he was never all that visible to begin with. In a letter to the editor in The New York Times, the best-selling and award-winning author announced that he was taking an indefinite break, a career-ending sabbatical, a permanent vacation. He vowed he wasn’t going to write another book. Ever. However, like everything else he’d ever written, there was more, a deeper layer, discoverable, if you were willing to look a little harder.

And where Leo Rock was concerned, Emerson was always willing. Her father, a poetry professor, had introduced her to the writings of Leo Rock when she was just six. The wandering fantasy tales wallpapered her imagination. The sound of her father’s voice reading Leo’s words filled her ears, her bedroom, her childhood. When she was old enough to tackle the behemoth tomes on her own, she read everything. And that’s saying something.

In his letter to the editor, Leo left hints. One final manuscript remained. If someone were to pull out the clues and follow them, the manuscript could be theirs. One last story from their favorite author. Why the world would need this final story when he had given them so many already, seemed almost baffling. But for his devoted fans, having one last bit of magic seemed not only fathomable, but desperately important.

In a follow up article, a Times staffer wrote that “his letter was the latest episode in a saga of mysteries surrounding the prolific author.” Because as spellbinding as his stories were, the fact that he wrote them entirely unseen was likened to modern day sorcery. Leo Rock had never given a face-to-face interview, nor answered questions over the phone. He had never done a public reading or facilitated a workshop. His picture never appeared in Time Magazine’s Most Influential People of the Year, although his name was on the list several times.

He once wrote a short story for The New Yorker in Times Square. He posted pictures online of his notebook and pen, amidst the crowds on the street, surrounded by neon signs and taxis accompanied the article. But no one had ever claimed to see him. EVER. His publisher littered the internet with photos of his workspace and pages of his works in progress. He wrote everywhere. At his apartment, on airplanes, standing in line for coffee. But never, in any of these photos, did the master author reveal himself.

His fans would try to chase him, track him down, catch a glimpse of the genius at work. They’d hang out in his favorite haunts, try to spot a mysterious figure scribbling in Central Park or in a nameless coffee shop. They’d hang out on Avenue of the Americas, where all the major publishers had offices, but they were never successful in finding their adored writer. To be honest, it wasn’t a fair game of hide and seek. They had no idea what they were looking for in the first place.

He was everywhere and nowhere all at once.

Leo Rock’s lack of public appearance did nothing to discourage his fans. If anything, the odd and eccentric set of circumstances seemed to propel Leo’s fame even further. Some critics claimed his elusive behavior was purely a publicity stunt, while others speculated that his work was really a collection of several authors all writing together. These theories were debated and torn apart and reconstructed in publishing forums, academic circles, and pop culture gossip magazines. Even his publisher claimed to have never met him in person.

The fans didn’t care and continued to buy his books by the million. None of it mattered as long as he continued to produce their beloved tales. Because the fans didn’t care, his publisher didn’t care, and everyone carried on reading and discussing and loving the work of Leo Rock.

At some point, Emerson couldn’t remember when exactly, but probably around middle school, when kids were mean, and bodies were weird, and everyone should really just be alone until all the hormones balanced out, Emerson picked up a pen. At first it was easy to see where Leo’s stories stopped and hers began. Eventually, however, her skills and craft, long influenced by the master, dramatically improved. Emerson took Leo’s characters on new adventures in new worlds, but eventually left them entirely behind as she created people and universes all her own. Leo’s influence was always there, in inspiration at the very least, but by the time Emerson got to college, she was a damn fine writer all on her own.

This made her want to find Leo even more, to thank the author, face to face, for giving her the gift of story. When she read her idol’s mysterious letter in The Times, she knew her chance had finally come.

At first Emerson’s journey had mostly required mental sweat. As a graduate student at NYU, it wasn’t a situation that was unfamiliar or uncomfortable. In addition to screenshotting the digital version of the article in The Times online, she bought multiple copies of the actual newspaper, carefully clipping the letter and keeping each copy in strategic places. One she kept glued in the notebook she carried everywhere, as a good creative writing student was bound to do. A second, she laminated and slid between the pages of her favorite book, obviously written by Leo, and a third was stored in the back of her teeny tiny New York City loft apartment closet, in a fire-proof safe. None of her extra efforts were necessary though, because her Ivy League brain managed to memorize the piece within a week of its publication.

But memorizing it had turned out to be the easy part. It took months to pull out, assemble, and organize the clues. It took her even longer to be feel comfortable spelunking, especially since New York City was a little short on adequate landscape in which she could practice. There were several caves in upstate New York, but like a real New Yorker, Emerson didn’t own a car. This small detail turned out to be a good thing because it led her to Garrett.

TO BE CONTINUED…

Click here to read Part 2!

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