Excerpt from "Painting the Invisible Man" by Rita Schiano

It’s said there are no coincidences; everything happens for a reason. I don’t know about that. I’ve never been one to bandy about pithy nuggets of wisdom. Life’s experiences are far too complex to be whittled down to nine words. I prefer to think that what happened on the morning of October 20, 2004 was a keying error, a simple mistake; that the telephone call was synchronal, possibly even serendipitous, rather than some sort of causal determinism.

That morning I was energized, focused, and ready to work. My laptop was open and booted up. I had gathered my writing talismans: Webster’s Encyclopedic Unabridged Dictionary, Roget’s International Thesaurus, a freshly brewed Thermos of Starbucks’ Caffé Verona blend, my Sex and the City cappuccino mug, and my hardcover edition of The Hundred Secret Senses complete with jacket featuring a stunning black-and-white photograph of the author. The items were in their assigned spots. Webster and Roget to my left; the Thermos stationed atop the buffet behind me. The filled mug of coffee sat at arm’s length to the right of my computer, and my Muse, Amy Tan, watched over me from the back cover of her book placed strategically alongside the steaming mug.

Every creative person needs a Muse. Amy Tan is mine. I don’t know her, mind you. Never even met her. And until last month I had not even read any of her books. I was having lunch with my client Rose Nash, a grade-school teacher-turned-children’s author who was about to start the first leg of a three-month long book-signing tour. We had just finished eating our Veggie Delight mixed greens salads accompanied by Pellegrino with lemon. While in the midst of sharing a thick slab of chocolate mousse cake, Rose reached into her ever-present Fendi tote and pulled out a worn copy of The Opposite of Fate: Memories of a Writing Life by Amy Tan.

“Have you read this book?”

“I’m embarrassed to admit I haven’t read any of her books,” I responded as I scanned the page of praise. An examined life recalled with wisdom and grace, wrote Kirkus Reviews.

“Although I did see The Joy Luck Club and I do own a first edition of The Hundred Secret Senses. Mint condition. Does that count for anything?”

“Not a thing.”

We both laughed.

“All the while I was reading this book, Anna, I kept thinking about you. There are so many similarities between…” Rose’s voice faded into the background as I locked on the back cover copy.

…shares the story of how she escaped the curses of her

past to make a future of her own…

Rose’s voice faded in. “The way she reflects on the world reminds me of you; the way you express yourself. It’s no wonder you are a writer.”

I was touched—a business client who thought of me as a writer. I hadn’t thought of myself as a writer for quite some time. For the past seven years I’d been pecking away at a novel. Writing furiously for days, weeks, and then writing nothing for several months at a time. But I would not abandon the story. I loved the characters too much. And every time I got back to them, I fell deeper in love. But love was not enough to keep me regularly engaged in their unfolding.

I attempted to hand the book back to Rose, but she threw her hands high into the air as if I was brandishing a gun.

“No. I want you to keep the book. And I insist you read it. Don’t make me demand a book report!”

I laughed heartily. “Okay, Teach. I’ll read it. I promise.”

Later that night while reading Amy’s musings, I felt I had found the eastern counterpart to my western soul. I identified with her personal struggles: Both our lives had been touched by a tragic family history, and by a brutal murder. Both our lives were dominated by our ethnic heritage. Both of us sang in bands.

Our greatest difference? She wrote about it; I danced around it. Amy heard the echoes of her family history and resonated with them. I chose to cover my ears until the knelling ceased. It was no wonder that so many years had produced so few pages.

Halfway through The Opposite of Fate I decided to read The Hundred Secret Senses. The book had been collecting dust in my office for several years. I plucked the book from the shelf. The hardcover creaked as I turned it over for the first time. The crisp front pages seemed to yield gratefully as I ran my fingertips down along the spine’s edge pressing them flat—a technique learned in grammar school. I skimmed the acknowledgments, pressed two more leaves. Chapter One.

My sister Kwan believes she has yin eyes. She sees those who have died and now dwell in the World of Yin, ghosts who leave the mists just to visit her kitchen…

I carried the book into my bedroom and snuggled under the comforter. I read for hours and hours, fighting fatigue as dusk melded into night and night into dawn. Just as the sun rose above the horizon I drifted off and entered the world of my dreams….