The Pretender (25 page)

A Commune
was to be Sherwin’s epic. But he was economical. Only one novel lasted more than fifty thousand words. I might get away with sixty. At the rate I’m going, that will take forever. I have a few thousand faked words to build on. These act as a touchstone for the rest. Every day I delete most of what I write, then edit away the previous day’s work for good measure. When I can’t get any further I turn to this memoir. I need to remind myself who I am, or used to be. Only his voice creeps into mine as mine creeps into his, until I can’t tell which is which. Sherwin’s ghost is always here, looking over my shoulder. He mocks me, the perpetual pretender, impersonating a man whose shoes he can never hope to fill.

Most days, though, I sit down at the damned machine, try.