Chapter 11

Eleanor Harrington set the sack containing the notebooks on her home office desk with a sense of anticipation she hadn’t felt in years. Her young handyman had dropped them off that morning—five spiral bound notebooks, handed over only after she’d promised to return them unharmed, his reluctance evident in the tight grip he’d maintained until the last moment.

“I have fifty-two notebooks in all,” he’d admitted, standing awkwardly on her doorstep. “Some essays, lots of poetry. These are just a sample. But I’m thinking you’ll be disappointed. I write plain, not fancy.”

The revelation hadn’t surprised her. She wasn’t sure what she’d expected, but fifty-two filled notebooks, if they were filled like these were, were something far more substantial than she’d dreamed. The young man had been less than forthcoming, understandable, given the private nature of such writing.

“I want to learn,” he’d said, his clear gray eyes direct and open. “Could be, you have something to teach me.”

Now, alone in her study with a cup of Earl Gray, Eleanor carefully opened the first notebook. She’d been in publishing for over thirty years, was an editorial director at Hartwick Press, had discovered and nurtured dozens of writers. She prided herself on her ability to spot genuine talent, to differentiate between competent writing and the rare work that could move people, change minds, illuminate corners of human experience that usually remained in shadow.

The first notebook was dedicated entirely to Al and Nicholas’s carpentry experience. Eleanor had expected simple observations, perhaps some workmanlike descriptions. What she found instead was extraordinary.

Nicholas wrote about Al’s hands—how decades of work had transformed them into instruments as specialized as any surgeon’s, how they could assess the quality of wood through touch alone, how they bore the scars and calluses of countless mistakes made and lessons learned. But beyond the physical descriptions, Nicholas explored Al’s relationship with time—how the old carpenter existed simultaneously in multiple temporal dimensions, his body moving in the present while his mind anticipated problems ten steps ahead and his muscle memory executed skills learned thirty years in the past.

Eleanor found herself completely absorbed. Nicholas’s writing wasn’t polished in a conventional sense—it lacked the literary flourishes of MFA graduates, the clever wordplay of professional essayists. But it possessed something rarer: powerful absolute clarity of vision, a laser-like focus on the essence of his subjects, and a philosophical depth that never became pretentious.

She moved to the second notebook, which contained poetry. Here, she had expected to find the typical self-absorbed verses of a young man working through personal trauma—and there was some of that. But most of the poems were observations of places and people, moments of connection or insight. They were spare, almost austere in their construction, yet emotionally resonant.

One poem about dawn at a construction site brought a perfect memory of a sight she had seen and ignored:

First light on steel streets.

Men arrive, breath clouding the air.

Creation begins.

Simple, haiku-like, yet it captured perfectly the quasi-religious experience of building something from nothing, the silence of a work site before the day’s noise began.

The third notebook was “The Philosophy of Maintenance”—observations about the people who kept the world running: janitors, mechanics, plumbers, groundskeepers. Nicholas had written an extended meditation on a school custodian he’d observed during evening classes, comparing his methodical cleaning routine to a monk’s devotional practice.

“Sully moves through the hallways with the same careful attention a priest gives to preparing the altar,” Nicholas had written. “Each classroom is a station in his nightly ritual. The excellence of his work is invisible—noticed only in its absence, when something is left undone. His mastery lies in crafting order in spaces where others can achieve their own excellence, a foundation that supports without calling attention to itself.”

Eleanor set that notebook aside and picked up the fourth, which explored the concept of flow—that state of complete absorption in a task where time seems to disappear. Nicholas had documented instances of flow he’d observed in others and analyzed what created those conditions. There were detailed notes on a sushi chef’s rhythmic preparation of fish, a court stenographer’s trance-like focus during rapid testimony, a violinist’s practice routine.

The fifth notebook was personal—reflections on Nicholas’s own search for meaning through work and study. Here, Eleanor glimpsed fragments of his history, oblique references to “before” and “after,” mentions of a solitude that had been both punishment and salvation. She began to piece together a story: some sort of profound transformation had occurred through reading and discipline, a methodical rebuilding of self.

Four hours later, Eleanor had read through all five notebooks. She sat back in her chair, mind racing. In thirty years of publishing, she had rarely encountered such authentic, thoughtful writing. Not beautiful in a conventional sense, but compelling honesty and original perspective.

What struck her most was Nicholas’s ability to see—truly see—the people and processes others overlooked. He wrote about their work’s contribution with a reverence usually reserved for art or religion. He found philosophy in fixing things, poetry in precision, meaning in maintenance.

And his concept of arete—excellence specific to a person or thing’s purpose—provided a framework that unified these observations into something potentially powerful. It wasn’t just descriptive writing; it was a groundbreaking worldview of ordinary people and their work that resonated in an age of distraction and superficiality.

Eleanor reached for her phone and called her brother David, Hartwick’s publisher.

“David, it’s Eleanor. Remember when we were wishing we had something unique for the fall list? I think I’ve found something extraordinary.”

She described Nicholas’s notebooks, his philosophy, his unusual background.

“It’s raw,” she said, “but the voice is authentic and the perspective is unlike anything in the current marketplace. With some shaping and guidance, this could be significant.”

David was cautiously interested. “Is there enough for a complete manuscript? And is he willing to be edited?”

“There’s more than enough material—he mentioned having over fifty notebooks. As for editing, that remains to be seen. He’s ... he’s unusual. Intense, brilliant, but very guarded. I’ll need to approach this carefully.”

After ending the call, Eleanor made herself another cup of tea and began to plan her approach. Nicholas Carter wasn’t a typical author. He hadn’t sought publication; he hadn’t even considered his writing as something meant for others. To guide this project successfully, she would need to understand him better.

She thought about their interactions over the past year—his methodical work on various projects around her house, his unfailing punctuality, his studied politeness. She’d noticed his intelligence immediately, of course, but had assumed it was narrowly practical rather than philosophical. How many other people had underestimated him in similar ways?

Eleanor opened her laptop and began typing notes for a potential book proposal.

WORKING TITLE: THE EXCELLENCE OF ORDINARY THINGS

AUTHOR: Nicholas Carter

CONCEPT: A collection of philosophical essays exploring the concept of ‘arete’ (excellence) as manifested in everyday work and workers. Through detailed observations of craftsmanship, service, and maintenance, Carter reveals the dignity and meaning available in the most overlooked occupations and tasks.

UNIQUE SELLING POINTS:

- Authentic voice from outside the literary establishment

- Fresh perspective on work, craftsmanship, and meaning

- Bridges philosophical concepts and everyday experience

- Potential appeal to readers of Matthew Crawford’s “Shop Class as Soul craft,” Annie Dillard’s observational writing, and Studs Terkel’s “Working”

MARKET: Thoughtful general readers interested in philosophy, craftsmanship, work, and meaning. Potential adoption for courses in philosophy, American studies, labor studies.

BACKGROUND:???

She paused, considering that last point. Nicholas’s background was a mystery. She wondered where all this came from. His writing wasn’t confessional; it looked outward rather than inward. But where did I spring from?

Eleanor closed her laptop and gathered the notebooks, handling them with reverence.

She had intended to stop reading for the night. She had already gone through five of Nicholas’ notebooks, making notes for their upcoming meeting, and it was well past midnight. But there was a sixth notebook in the grocery bag the others had come in.

Something compelled her to reach for it—a battered black composition book held together with a rubber band. It that looked older than the others, its corners frayed and its spine cracked.

Unlike the other notebooks, this one had no label, no indication of its contents. She assumed it might be more observations on everyday excellence, perhaps focused on another trades person or service worker.

The moment she opened it, she found it was something else entirely.

The first page bore a simple date—five years earlier—and below it, a single sentence: “My name is Nicholas Carter and I am in hell.”

Eleanor felt a chill. The handwriting was different here—jagged, pressed deeply into the page, the letters uneven. Nothing like the measured, precise script in the other notebooks.

She almost closed it immediately, recognizing she had stumbled upon something never meant for her eyes. This wasn’t one of the notebooks Nicholas had intentionally shared; it must have been mixed in accidentally. Professional ethics suggested she should set it aside.