Prologue

The Old Man by Ted Arundson 

(pastel on paper, 1970)

Ted Arundson turned 80 years old in February, 2027. His initial self-published work was a novel, The Singular Mind, which focused on the effects that artificial intelligence will have on humans in the next two decades. He was 72 years old at the time of its publication.

Ted had never gone to school for writing or journalism, never attended a writers’ workshop, and never had a story or article published under his own name. Ted’s career was a testament to self-learning and adaptability. ​ With no formal training in writing or art, he built a successful career in advertising, rising from draftsman to creative director before opening his own design firm. ​ Along the way, he taught himself skills like perspective drawing, airbrushing, and film editing, which he later applied to his passion for storytelling and visual art.

From an early age he’d had a passion for books, so as he grew older he took the lead from copywriters with whom he worked to create imaginative advertising headlines and body copy for ads, compose press releases and mission statements, write solicitation letters and craft corporate biographies. As a jack of all trades, Ted was sought after by smaller clients as a cost-efficient alternative to larger promotional firms, since he had a talent for grasping the essence of his clients’ needs and translating their ideas into succinctly written prose and imaginative graphics.

Ted learned early that there is a mystique that surrounds both the art and writing processes, and realized that most individuals in business had little ability to follow their thoughts to believable ends in order to create promotional literature that enticed people to buy their products and services.

Ted had learned his writing skills not from marketers, but from novelists like Dreiser, Ferber, Steinbeck, Mailer and Fitzgerald, and he found beauty in the words they used that he never found in lessons learned in school.

After a 45-year career in advertising and marketing, at the age of 69 Ted found that his client base had begun to shrink, even as he and his small agency had adapted over time to the use of the internet, social media and online marketing. Several of his core clients had retired and some had passed away. Others had merged their firms with larger companies that offered an array of services beyond the capabilities of Ted’s small staff.

As billings began to decrease, Ted found it necessary to reduce expenses, and after many sleepless nights he turned much of his existing business over to his younger associate, leaving himself with little to do but worry– about growing older, becoming irrelevant and lacking a sense of purpose.

On one especially tedious day in 2019, after finishing a novel by Julian Barnes, Ted decided to try his own hand at writing fiction, a genre he’d never before considered. Arriving home that evening, he mentioned the idea to his wife, Helen, who said, “As far as I know, as long as I’ve known you you’ve never written a smidgen of dialogue, except for that one story you started years ago filled with smutty language.”

“You’re right, I haven’t, Helen,” he admitted, “but I believe I can, and I now know what I want to write about.”

“What, may I ask, would that be?’

“Artificial intelligence.”

“And  when did you become an expert on that subject? Who do you want to impress? Do you even have an outline prepared, or is this just another crazy idea?”

A bit peeved at his wife’s response, he answered, “No, I haven’t got an outline.”

“Well then, good luck with that,” replied Helen. “You’ve done well with your paintings, so why not create more of the  artwork that you know people will want?”

“I don’t really want to paint what people want,” responded Ted. “What I really want to do is write a work of fiction.”

“By fiction, you mean pretend characters about whom to spin some far-fetched story that tells people what you want them to know?” continued Helen.

“No.. but yes,” answered Ted, beginning to sound like a petulant child. “I might base the characters on people I know, or not. Maybe one will be like me, and the rest I’ll make up out of my imagination.”

“Look, Ted, I know you’re in a funk over your business slowing down, but you’ve got plenty of skills you’ve mastered you can put to use. Your paintings are good, and people like your work. You could do commissions or paint small paintings. Why do you need to waste time by avoiding your core abilities?”

Ted chose not to get in an argument with his wife. He had enough things on his mind to worry over, and she often saw things from a different perspective than he did.

“You might be right, Sweetie. I just don’t know how to cope with things right now.”

“I’d suggest you get some sleep and think about your project later when your head’s clear.”

Ted could barely sleep that night. His mind was restless as it continued to return to the sudden idea that had come to him while he was speaking to his wife, and that was now taking shape into a story.

  Not to let the concept escape him, he woke up earlier than usual the next morning, took his medications, made a cup of coffee and headed to work, climbing the stairs to his office two at a time as he hadn’t done in years. He turned on his computer and opened Microsoft Word. There was a moment when the blank screen presented a challenge. But in those waking hours between moments of sleep the previous night, he’d already found a direction for his project, and the precursors of a few of the characters who would populate his story.

Ted typed in: 2029.

He followed those words with, Will I still be alive? If so, what will I be doing? Will we still be typing words, or just speaking them? Or will we only need to think about them to have them appear on the page?

Ted spaced down a few lines, and wrote: Prologue.

Little did Ted know that every skill he’d developed throughout his career, every talent he’d enhanced, and every success he’d forged would be eclipsed by this particular moment in time, during a period he’d feared would be the twilight of his life and career.

He then began typing: November 13, 2027

Ted scans the tables draped in pink fabric under the blue lights of the Cipriani ballroom, his gaze settling on Helen, elegant in a pale blue gown and pearls from their fifteenth anniversary. A white and lavender corsage is attached high on the single strap that crosses the front of her dress. She sits tall and erect, but is somewhat muted by memory problems diagnosed as early stage Alzheimer’s. She’s 76 years of age—four years younger than her husband.

Many of the people at surrounding tables are unknown to Ted. He understands that by their presence at the National Book Awards Ceremony, they must have successful careers in the world of arts and letters. He also knows that few have heard of him despite his nomination, and even fewer have read his book, Predictions.

Ted spots his friend Bob Greenhouse and his wife, Doris, walking towards them, smiling. Bob bends to give Helen a kiss and Ted rises from his seat to hug Doris. Bob was Ted’s champion and the sole reason why Ted has made the short list for the awards and been invited to the event.

Ted dressed carefully in formal attire for the dinner as specified in the notification accompanying his invitation received just a week and a half ago. His submission was entered by Penguin Books, a paperback imprint of Penguin Random House, and he was quite shaken by his publisher’s recommendation. Bob Greenhouse had read each of Ted’s novels, amazed that the novice writer was able to surprise him with his insights from chapter to chapter and book to book. Ted’s latest book contains modern insights that for Bob, a physicist, simplified many complex theories proposed by the scientific community.

Bob, a tenured educator at Princeton, had worked with a colleague, Yiyun Steppens, and collaborated on various projects with a freelance literary agent, Emily Forland. Bob had met her at a poetry reading at the University’s Richardson Auditorium. From what he knew about Emily, she represented a broad range of clients in genres from fiction to graphic novels and from nonfiction to biographies. After Bob finishes reading Ted’s latest book in draft form, he begged Yiyun to read it without disclosing Ted’s name, age or resume. Three days later, Yiyun gets back to him.

“Okay, Bob, who wrote the book you sent? It reads like it’s by a mature writer, and it’s my impression that this novelist knows much more about astrophysics, molecular biology and evolution than most of us do. I searched the internet to find out about the two concepts he embraces, and was only able to find the basics of what he’s proposing as probable...for the Earth and for us as humans.”

“Yes, Yi. This is his seventh book, and each one reaches out with concepts further than I could have understood, if he wasn’t so capable of simplifying his ideas and then integrating his resulting conclusions.”

“I like his characters. They’re believable, while the situations they get into are far from normal,” replies Yiyun. 

Bob pauses, and then asks, “Is it a book you would recommend, Yi?”

“To whom?” 

“To Emily... Emily Forland?”

“I need to know more, Bob. Who ’s the writer? Who represents him? What else has he written?”

“His name’s Ted Arundson. He’s from the Philly area. And, as he would say, as a writer he’s largely invisible. But as a visual artist he has a significant internet presence.”

“How long has he been writing?”

“Novels... ? Six years.”

“Where did he study?”

“Nowhere. He has an associate degree in mechanical engineering that he earned from Temple Technical Institute.”

“How old is he, Bob?”

“79 on his next birthday.”

“Oh, my God!”

“He’s self-published six previous books, including a children’s book, illustrated 40-some years ago, Two years ago he wrote a two-act play on the life of the lyricist Lorenz Hart, but he hasn’t found any artistic director of any size theater to even take a look at his play.”

“How do you know him?”

“He assisted my wife with advertising some years back when she worked for Sungard. He designed one of their logos and created some displays for her for an exhibition.”

“And all of the books, and the play? All written in less  than five years?”

“You can look him up online at TedArundson.com.”

“I will, and I’ll pass the book on to Emily, and follow up with both you and her afterwards so I’m sure she’s read it. It’s quite remarkable.”

“One more thing, Yi.”

“What, Bob?”

“Please don’t reveal to Emily anything personal about Ted, including his name, until after she reads the book.”

Yi’s momentarily silent, and then, after processing what Bob’s said, responds,  “Oh, yeah, I get it. You think she’ll be prejudiced by his age.”

“And his lack of qualifications as a writer,” responds Bob.

“As you thought I would have been?”

“ As you would have been,” he explains.

“I’ll get back to you.”

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