Nicholas's Story
Copyright© 2025 by writer 406
Chapter 12
Nicholas went to the meeting with low expectations. What he really hoped for was some clever insight into how he might learn some better ways to express himself. They were a publishing house after all; they should know stuff like that. He touched the flash drive where he stored the photos he had taken over the past couple of years. He had impulsively grabbed it out of his desk drawer as he was heading out the door. Not sure why he brought it—maybe as a backup, in case the writing conversation went nowhere.
Hartwick Press occupied the top two floors of a renovated warehouse on the edge of downtown. The lobby featured exposed brick walls, industrial lighting, and framed book covers—their biggest successes, he assumed. The receptionist directed him to the elevators. “Mrs. Harrington is expecting you. Third floor, suite 302.”
He was dressed in what passed for his formal clothes—clean khakis, a button-down shirt that wasn’t frayed at the collar, boots that he’d polished the night before. Not impressive by publishing standards, probably, but the best he had. He’d showered twice, scrubbing his hands with a brush to remove the ingrained dirt that came from working with tools every day. Some of it remained in the creases of his knuckles, permanent evidence of his trade.
The elevator opened directly into a reception area. A young woman with purple-streaked hair looked up from her computer. “You must be Nicholas Carter. Follow me, Eleanor’s waiting for you.”
She led him down a hallway lined with more book covers, then opened a door to a corner office with large windows overlooking the city. Mrs. Harrington—Eleanor, as she’d asked him to call her—stood to greet him. She wore a simple black dress and reading glasses on a chain around her neck. Professional, but not intimidating.
“Nicholas, thank you for coming.” She gestured to a sitting area with two comfortable chairs and a small table. “Would you like water? Coffee? Tea?”
“Water is fine,” he said, taking the chair she indicated. His notebooks were stacked neatly on the table between them. Five of them, just as he’d left them with her. A sixth notebook—a black composition book separately. He recognized it immediately and felt his stomach tighten. He hadn’t meant to include that one.
Eleanor noticed his gaze. “That one was mixed in with the others,” she said quietly. “I started reading it before I realized it was ... different from the rest. I apologize for the intrusion.”
He said nothing for a moment, processing this. His most private thoughts, the darkest period of his life, were now exposed to a relative stranger. The old Nicholas would have been angry, would have felt violated. The current Nicholas just accepted it as something that had happened, something he couldn’t change.
“It’s fine,” he said finally. Not because it was, but because discussing it further served no purpose.
Eleanor studied him carefully, then handed him a bottle of water from a small refrigerator near her desk. She took her seat again, arranging herself with deliberate movements, clearly choosing her next words with care.
“I want to be direct, Nicholas. Your writing is exceptional—not in a conventional literary sense, but in its authenticity and insight. The way you write your observations and analyses, the feel you have or the people, the connections you draw between philosophical concepts and everyday work—it’s unique and valuable.”
He opened the water bottle and took a small sip. “Thank you,” he said, because that seemed expected.
“I believe there’s potential for a book here—a collection of essays centered around your concept of arete. With some development and organization, it could be quite significant.”
He hadn’t come expecting this level of interest. Publication had never been his goal. Writing was just a way of processing, of learning, of making sense of what he observed. Writing was his safety net.
“Why would anyone want to read my observations?” he asked, genuinely curious. “They’re just notes to myself.”
“Because they reveal what people miss,” she replied without hesitation. “You see the dignity in ordinary work, the philosophy of your arete in everyday actions. That’s valuable.”
She reached for one of his notebooks—the one about the diner waitress—and opened to a page she’d marked with a slip of paper.
“Here, you write:
’June moves through the cafe like a chess master plans moves, seeing five steps ahead, positioning herself optimally for what comes next. Her quiet competence isn’t something she learned from books—it’s hard learned craftsmanship, wisdom in motion. Philosophers separate mind and body; June proves how false that distinction is.’
Eleanor looked up at him. “That’s not just observation; it’s insight. It connects concrete reality with abstract concepts in a way that’s accessible and meaningful.”
He nodded, understanding her point. It was strange hearing his private thoughts read aloud, strange considering them as something others might value.
“I’ve drafted a potential outline,” she continued, reaching for a folder on the table. “A collection of essays organized thematically, exploring different dimensions of excellence in ordinary work and life.”
She handed him the folder. Inside was a detailed proposal: chapter outlines, potential titles, even some thoughts about marketing. It was surreal seeing his scattered observations transformed into something so structured, so purposeful.
“This would be a significant project,” Eleanor explained. “We’d work together to select and develop the material from your notebooks. Some pieces would need expansion, others might be combined or reorganized. But the core vision would remain yours.”
He flipped through the proposal, noting how she’d grouped his observations into categories: Excellence in Labor, Excellence in Service, Excellence in Craft, Excellence in Thought. It made sense, created a coherence he hadn’t seen in his own scattered writings.
“What would this involve, exactly?” he asked.
“Initially, we’d select which pieces to include. Then we’d work on developing them into complete essays—filling gaps, strengthening connections and clarifying ideas. I’d be your editor, helping shape the material without changing your voice or perspective.”
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