Is Sammie Real?

April 2025

TAT: Mr. Solly! Welcome. May I take your coat?

SOL: Thank you, TAT. What a beautiful day.

TAT: Indeed. I spotted you from my open window the moment you emerged from the woods. I watched you pushing the neighbor kids on the swing, sniffing the lilacs. I do the same things!

SOL: It’s just like I remember. You look well, young man, and I’m feeling better than last week. I understood your hope to visit my place. But last week was not the right time. I will surprise you one day, bring you there blindfolded in the dark, and let you awaken to the dawn.

TAT: That would be lovely, Mr. Solly. Hot tea?

SOL: Thank you. We must call each other by our real names, at least once whenever we meet.

TAT: I’m not very comfortable with that, but all right, Older Wiser Me.

SOL: Very good, Younger Me. I’m not sure I’m that much Wiser.

TAT: You know more.

SOL: I’ve seen more, but the journey continues at every age.

TAT: You’re grimacing. Are you hurt, Mr. Solly?

SOL: Just stiff. The Single Hound howls nightly, right after sunset, and his haunting cry rattles my bones. I don’t fear him, but he draws nearer every day.

TAT: Are you saying your time is up? I need to see your place before you’re gone, meet some of your friends, and knock on the desk where you write.

SOL: We will have time for that.

TAT: Whew!

SOL: You didn’t publish our last two conversations.

TAT: They felt too personal. I kept them, though, for Sammie.

SOL: For Sammie Also Seeks. SAS. Not so different from TAT.

TAT: Do you know her? Is Sammie real and living in your time? I address her directly at least once a week in my journals, hoping she exists one day to study this author’s late writing journey and let it propel her to greater things.

SOL: I cannot reveal such details, TAT. She’s real to you, and that’s enough. If I were to tell you there was no Sammie in the future . . .

TAT: Then I might be discouraged.

SOL: And if I told you she lives, she’s a tremendous scholar working on her PhD studying your books, and she’s writing greater adventures than you ever did . . .

TAT: It would warp me.

SOL: Severely. You’ll know soon enough everything that I know. Last week, when you called, it was a difficult time for me. I was reflecting upon what just happened to you, the scam, the crushed optimism. You’re still so vulnerable.

TAT: I’m rebounding, thanks to faith, family, and friends.

SOL: Relationships—one of the greatest sources of meaning and growth. They endure, even beyond the grave, and they’ll keep you from returning to Burnout.

TAT: I’m also taking action. I sent a query this week to a fine agent, a successful writer whom I’ve met personally. You’re smiling.

SOL: TAT, I know exactly where you are. I will reveal nothing, but I can permit myself to relive these pivotal moments. Otherwise, what’s old age for? And yet . . . this reliving becomes a problem of its own.

TAT: I don’t see any problem with remembering—not when it makes you smile.

SOL: You’re quite right. There is no more problem. I’m moving on in my dotage, building new friendships, mentoring young doctor-writers—just like you—all trying to make sense of their traumatized lives and give good accounts in the life to come. What a joy! I’m content.

TAT: So what was the problem last week when you didn’t want to talk?

SOL: A rut of remembrance. I got stuck in my thoughts for several days after rereading the last page of your father’s favorite book.

TAT: The Great Gatsby.

SOL: Gatsby. Can you still remember the last line?

TAT: How could I forget?

SOL and TAT: So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.

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