Part 8: Meaningless Acts

Spring has come, bringing a renewed energy with it.
Recoleta, her heartbeat thumping in her ears, steps into the publishing house building.
She carries no manuscript, only a letter—one barely large enough to contain a single long poem.
Recoleta: Alright, just drop off the letter, and it's all over.
After taking a deep breath, she slips the envelope into the manuscript submission mailbox and turns toward the exit.
Recoleta: Thank you, Ms. Hunting. And I'm sorry.
Editor Hunting: Whether to thank me or apologize, you should say it in person, Recoleta.
Recoleta's hand, reaching toward the door handle, freezes.
Following the rustle of an envelope being opened, Hunting's voice echoes from behind.
Recoleta: Ms. Hunting.
Recoleta watches as Hunting slowly approaches.
Under the overhead lights, she can barely make out Hunting's face.
Recoleta & Editor Hunting: I'm sorry.
Recoleta & Editor Hunting: ...?
Do you remember the first three questions you asked me? I think I finally know the answers.
Editor Hunting: The buildup to this answer is too long—long enough for the readers to nearly forget the question.
He returns home because, to him, it's "home." He meets the cowhand because he happens to be tending cattle. The characters know things the author doesn't because this is the cowboy's story. He has lived for many more years than the author has.
Editor Hunting: Of course, these are your characters. Your unique style shapes them, making them one of a kind.
I never truly understand the purpose behind every sentence I write. They flow from my pen, word by word, driven by an irresistible, instinctive current.
Editor Hunting: And I—I am a business hunter who works for profit, a bookseller who has abandoned her instincts.
I am a clueless bystander on the riverbank. I can glimpse the vitality of the river, but I cannot question the purpose of each ripple.
Editor Hunting: If I've already grasped its vitality, why should I question the purpose of each ripple?
Ms. Hunting, you have taught me so much, but I will never become the kind of writer you envisioned.
Editor Hunting: In you, I see an old sweater I once knitted—a glorious illusion.
Only now do I fully understand myself. My writing exists to follow a great era, to recreate a grand adventure.
Editor Hunting: I used to fantasize that the distant tremors would once again shake my heart through your words.
My writing exists to follow my selfish desires.
Editor Hunting: And this unrealistic fantasy is also my selfish desire.
I imagine myself living like a poet-romantically, hopelessly, rebelliously-recklessly indifferent to fame.
Editor Hunting: You should imagine yourself living purely, happily—like a true poet.
Blessed me, blessed me, my beating heart does drum-the fervent words of visceral realism, within my chest they thump.
Editor Hunting: Grow wildly, cast aside the damn pursuit of fame, and live recklessly.
Editor Hunting: And write. Write and write and write.
Editor Hunting: It's been an honor to know you, Recoleta.
A familiar setting, but the positions have shifted.
Recoleta leans back in the editor's chair, while Hunting sits upright on the other side of the desk.
Recoleta: Is this ... a metaphor for seeing things from a different perspective? Of empathy?
Editor Hunting: No, I just sat for too long, and my back hurts.
A moment of humor brings a smile to both their faces, melting the slightly icy moment between them.
Recoleta: I realize now that I never really understood you, Ms. Hunting, nor did I really try to.
Editor Hunting: Me too. I never really tried to understand what you truly thought. So, we're even.
Editor Hunting: But if you'll listen, I'll tell you a story.
Editor Hunting: A story about a young woman born during the literary explosion era.
A faint tremor flickers in Hunting's eyes.
Recoleta can sense the subtle change in her.
Editor Hunting: After graduating from the University of La Plata's literature department, the young woman declined her professor's invitation to pursue further studies and chose to enter the publishing industry instead.
Editor Hunting: In her handwritten letter, she wrote, "Professor Carlos, I want to be the Maxwell Perkins of Latin America."
Recoleta: Why would she want to be an editor when everyone else at that time was striving to be a writer?
Editor Hunting: This world has never been short on writers and poets, but these geniuses need someone to pass on their inspiration.
Recoleta: But she did become a great editor, didn't she? Because she's you.
Editor Hunting: No. She didn't become a great editor. She became a shrewd merchant.
Editor Hunting: You know, I've always worried that I would distort your work. Maybe the first version was already the best. Who could really say?
Editor Hunting: This is the eternal dilemma and ultimate question of an editor. It haunts me at night. Heh, in those moments, I feel like I'm the prey.
Editor Hunting: Don't get me wrong. I still think it's great when the books I edit are adapted into films, but I can't forget what they began as—Literature.
Editor Hunting: Literature is eternal. It's irreplaceable.
Words rush into Recoleta's mind—discussions about revisions, debates about literature, insights into life.
They wash over her like a rushing river.
Recoleta: I have an idea. A good one, I promise.
Recoleta: Even though I've given up on publishing my novel, I promise you, I will finish it.
Recoleta: Would you help me finish my novel? Not as an editor, but as a friend?
Recoleta knows this might be a meaningless act.
Editor Hunting: Of course. It's a deal!
Editor Hunting: It would be my honor, Recoleta. Let's complete this work together.
Editor Hunting: Yes, as friends, as literary companions, as people following their own desires.
Hunting knows this choice comes from an unnamed courage.
And she chooses to believe in literature, in fate, in acts that seem meaningless.
Just like Recoleta.