Basement Files: Ghostwriters in the sky

April 27, 2004

Adelaide, Australia

On a warm autumn afternoon in Adelaide's south side, a group of avid readers has gathered in the parking lot of a Brentano's bookstore to stare at the sky. Alerted by a quirky human-interest feature in the Adelaide Sunday Mail, they've come to see a first-of-its-kind "reading and signing" by the world's pioneer in literary skywriting, Jack Wysong.

Well, some of them. Out of the admittedly scant crowd of 12, at least three are holding placards that denounce American involvement in Iraq. An older man brandishes a crude sign accusing the United States of crippling the Australian lamb industry with protectionist tariffs. But the rest are here to see a dazzling new talent at the very top of his game.

With Wysong circling overhead, Bantam editor Amy Ehlert steps forward to address the crowd. "Thank you for coming today," Ehlert says, nervously glancing at some 3x5 cards she holds for support. "I'd like to say that Jack has really been touched by his reception here in Australia. It means a lot to him."

"We just came to see if Americans can actually fly planes in foreign countries without dropping bombs on innocent children," one of the protesters shouts.

"Umm, all we're dropping today are literary bombshells," Ehlert says to a sudden, embarrassed silence, as her ill-chosen words fall flat before the assembled crowd. "Alrighty, well...we're going to start today with a reading from Jack's as-yet-untitled work in progress. Afterward, Jack will conduct a brief signing for those of you who pre-order the novel. Okay, any questions?"

"If the novel's not finished," one woman asks, "what exactly will Mr. Wysong be signing?"

"Well, the sky," Ehlert says. "I thought that was clear. So, obviously, beyond your name, you'll want to keep your inscriptions exceptionally brief. Okay? Well, let's get started. Today's passage is from chapter four. The young Jack has just discovered his father's infidelity and he sits, numb and depleted, in the luxurious lobby of the Mayo Hotel."

"Sounds a bit like Biff in 'Death of a Salesman,'" says a man from the crowd.

"Okay, let's be very careful about what we say," Ehlert interjects, eager to smother any suggestion that Wysong's work borrows from others.

The man eyes Ehlert incredulously, stunned by her condescending rebuke, but then slowly tilts his gaze upward, his hand meeting his brow to form a visor against the brilliant sky.

"Okay, Jack," Ehlert says into the radio. "Whenever you're ready."

With that, Wysong activates his smoker and begins the first, supple stroke of a capital U. But just three letters into the word "unfortunately," the crowd's attention begins to wander, with awe quickly giving way to impatience.

"Jesus, this is laborious," one man mutters to himself.

"Yeah, how long is this going to take?" another demands.

"He's not going to do more than one sentence, is he?" ask the man with the lamb sign.

Aware that Jack is losing his readership, Ehlert steps forward to reassure them. "Okay, this is, I will concede, an unusually long introductory clause, but as we get deeper and deeper into the paragraph, I think you'll be rewarded with some very vivid imagery."

"Paragraph...are you shitting me?" exclaims the lamb man. "I'm out of here."

Over the next five minutes, readers and protesters alike quietly break away from the dwindling crowd and make their way back to their cars. Soon, the parking lot is utterly empty. "It's the rudeness I don't believe," Ehlert says as she dismantles a cardboard stand-up of Wysong. "You don't just walk out of a reading. Thank God Jack isn't here to see it."

Desperate to salvage feelings, if not the day, Ehlert radios Wysong one last time. "Jack, there's just too many people down here. There's no way we'll be able to do the signings."

"Really? Well, shoot," Jack says, sounding genuinely disappointed. "What if we just did names?"

"Well, there's a lot of aboriginal names, Jack," Ehlert improvises. "Fifteen, 20 letters long, some of `em."

"Roger that," Jack says. "I'll just see you back at the base."

When Wysong lands, he acknowledges it hasn't been one of his better days.

"I don't know why, but I never liked flying in the Southern Hemisphere," Jack says later. "I mean, everything's the same spatially, but I always feel like somebody put the paper upside down in the typewriter. Know what I mean?"

Uncertain that I do, I ask by way of clarification, "Well, but if it's just blank, white paper, how can it be upside down?"

"That's my point exactly," Jack says, squinting skyward at the last of his dissipating letters.

In many ways, today's fiasco has mirrored the whole round-the-world journey itself. What began as a daring dream bathed in promise has become a test of endurance, one plagued by bad weather, mechanical failure and, worst of all, public apathy. But through it all, Wysong has persevered.

"There were plenty of days when I'd have a really low ceiling and I didn't feel like writing at all," Wysong remembers. "I mean, nobody on the ground could see what I was doing anyway, so what's the point, right? But Amy'd get on me pretty hard, saying nobody ever writes with the guarantee that his work will be read.

"And I guess that's what I'd tell the next generation of atmospheric novelists," Wysong offers. "You don't write for the recognition. And you sure don't write for the money. No, sir, you write because you love it."