The Write Thing

I’ve been waiting for Patrick Rothfuss’ new book, Wise Man’s Fear, for some time. Then, one day, something wonderful happened. I’d been sick for the previous few days with the flu, but had been going to work because we were busy and short-staffed, so I wasn’t in the best headspace.

Then it happened.
I heard.
A release date.
Something happened deep inside me. Birds started singing Meatloaf ballads. I saw new colours. All was well.

Then a tripped-out Unicorn appeared. Having been awake and on my feet for something like thirty-five hours at that point, my grip on reality was slipping. Nevertheless, I stood my ground.

After much awkward discussion with the Unicorn, I eventually determined that it was trying to tell me that my destiny was to buy and review Wise Man’s Fear as quickly as possible.

But there was one small problem. I live in Australia, the ass-end of the world when it comes to releases of anything. If I was lucky, I’d get my hands on Wise Man’s Fear a few months after the rest of the world.

Luckily, the Internet was on hand to save me. The Master Himself directed me to the first stop in my quest.

The Signed Page was selling copies of Wise Man’s Fear! I could get them signed, too, and even dedicated. The international shipping cost nearly as much as each book did, but was determined. So determined, in fact, that I ordered five copies. Why five? My thought process went something like this:

“Wow, I can’t wait to read this book!”
“Hmm, I should get more than one copy. Wise Man’s Fear is a book I’m going to want to hold onto for ages. So if I read one now, then I’ll get a spare that I can keep in good condition.”
“But then if I read it and want to give one away as a prize or something, I’ll have to give away my good copy! Better get a spare.”
“But then what if something happens to the house? I should get another spare to keep somewhere safe, like my friend’s house. That way, even if the house catches fire or floods, I’ll still have a backup.”
“But it doesn’t make sense to just have one copy at my friend’s house. I should have two backups, one to read and one to keep.”

And that is how I ordered several hundred dollars worth of the same book. Now, some part of me knew that the books weren’t going to get to me with lightning speed. After all, Mr Rothfuss had to sign them all, and then they’d have to be mailed out. A Herculean task. Nevertheless, I was certain that I could wait until the books reached me to read them. The delay wouldn’t be that long.

I ticked off the days.

On the first of March, I got a phone call from my bookseller, Sprenty. Sprenty and his bookstore live in Tasmania, which is a little triangular island on the bottom of Australia. I grew up there. It is nice. It is also very far away from Sydney, which is where I live now.

It is approximately 1,000km (650 miles). The world marathon record is a little over two hours. At near-Ethiopian speeds, it would take me at least 50 hours to run/swim there, not to mention having to fight off sharks, snakes, and the Kraken that guards the river Derwent’s entrance to Hobart, Tasmania’s capital.

Hell, I’ve been out of the state for a year. That’s long enough for them to consider me an outsider, and set the Tasmanian Dragon onto me.

Between the thought of dozens of desert marathons, fending off the Kraken, and then dealing with the Tasmanian Dragon…
I decided not to go.

“Do you want me to mail you a copy up?” Sprenty said. “If you pay for Express Post, it should reach you tomorrow.”

Perfect.

I slept a fitful slumber, dreaming of Patrick Rothfuss sitting atop a pile of money and reading to me in his booming, melodious voice. About halfway through the dream, BRIAN BLESSED barged in and suggested he take over the narration. The two of them talked of manly things. I tried to join in, but they mocked my pitiful beard, and I woke up, left unfulfilled and with great beard envy.

The next day went by at a snail’s pace. Every few seconds, I would sprint to the window, convinced that a car driving past was the postie van, bringing me my long-awaited book. It was not to be. The post came and went. No book.

It was Friday. The flights down to Tasmania were $250. I couldn’t both fly to Tasmania and eat for the next week, and my virus had left me thinner than an orphaned supermodel.

Something inside me snapped, very gently.

I was going to read that goddamn book.

So I did the only thing a mostly-sane, still-slightly-hallucinatory man-fiend would do.
I leapt on my goddamn unicorn and rode into town. (In hindsight, it may have been my bicycle.)

The journey was more hazardous than Frodo and Sam’s stroll into Mordor. My unicorn stubbornly refused to obey even the simplest of commands. I couldn’t tell the difference between oncoming traffic and hordes of Orcs. It was 45 degrees and about 80% humidity.

By the time I’d biked for thirty minutes into town, I’d shed 4kg in sweat and other vital fluids.

I kicked down the door of a boutique bookshop.
“Do you have Wise Man’s Fear in stock?” I bellowed.
The clerk stared at me blankly.
“Maybe out the back?”
“GO AND CHECK!” I bellowed again.

Then it happened.
The holiest of holy moments. (Sorry, wife)
They had just got their shipment in.
The manager came out from the back and glowered at me.
“This book doesn’t go on sale for another few days….”
I gave him a ferocious eyeballing.
He looked at me. Reeling on my feet. Muttering about a mythical ungulate under my breath.
“But we can sell you this one now.”

The world faded to slow motion. I stumbled my way across the road to a ramen restaurant. I think I ate a bowl of ramen. I left my unicorn/bike in town and caught the bus home, reading as I went.

Then I got home and, one-handed, made myself a litre jug of tea and sat on the couch.

Some time later, my wife got home.

“Oh, you got the book? Great!”
“Mmstwrfl.”

Time passed.

Then it happened.
Around 3am that night, I finished Wise Man’s Fear. One sitting. Ten cups of tea. Three bathroom breaks.

I dutifully went to bed and tried to get to sleep. I couldn’t. My mind was full of Rothfuss’ poetry.

I tossed and turned for an hour or two before doing the only logical thing.

I got out of bed and started reading it again.

My wife found me passed out on the couch at noon the following day, having made it through a second time.

It took two days for my sleep cycle to return to normal.

For the review itself, read this.