The Notebook - By Nicholas Sparks Page 0,68

nine months later Ryan Cody was born.

Midtwenties life check. Good job, nice wife, kids, beautiful house overlooking a creek—what more could there be? In May 1993, I found out. Cheers, the television show, broadcast its final episode. Bob Costas did an hour-long show prior to the episode, and I remember lying awake most of the night after it aired. Cheers had been on for eleven years—an entire era of my life—and yet, I still hadn’t fulfilled my dreams. At 4:00 A.M., I knew I had to give writing another shot. A good one though, not a half-hearted effort like before. I researched the market, decided on my topic (a love story), conjured up a couple of characters based on my wife’s grandparents, and thought about my plot for almost two months before writing a word. At the time, Alzheimer’s was big in the news, and I decided that would be the “vehicle” I would use to create a sense of tragedy necessary for a quality love story. I typed out 80,000 words, cut it by 28,000 words, and in January 1995 I finished the book.

In February, my company transferred my family from New Bern to Greenville, South Carolina. I put the book on hold till I had a permanent address, sent out letters to twenty-five agents in July, and signed with Theresa Park of Sanford Greenburger Associates. On October 19, the book arrived in New York and on October 23, 1995, at 12:02 P.M., my life changed forever. At that moment, I remember, I was serving fried chicken to a group of nurses.

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Prologue

Is it possible, I wonder, for a man to truly change? Or do character and habit form the immovable boundaries of our lives?

I ponder these questions as I watch a moth flail wildly against the porch light. I’m alone outside. My wife, Jane, didn’t stir when I slipped out of bed. Midnight has come and gone, and there’s a crispness in the air that holds the promise of an early winter. I notice that my hands are trembling before I bury them in the pockets of my heavy cotton robe.

Above me, the stars are specks of silver paint on a charcoal canvas. I see Orion and the Pleiades, Ursa Major and Corona Borealis; somehow I feel I should be inspired by the realization that I’m not only looking at the stars, but staring into the past as well. Constellations shine with light that was emitted aeons ago, and I wait for something to come to me, words that a poet might use to illuminate life’s mysteries. But there is nothing.

This doesn’t surprise me. I’ve never considered myself a sentimental man, and if you asked my wife, I’m sure she would agree. I do not lose myself in films or plays, I’ve never been a dreamer, and if I aspire to any art form at all, it is one defined by rules of the Internal Revenue Service and codified by law. For the most part, my days and years as an estate lawyer have been spent in the company of those preparing for their own death, and I suppose that some might say that my life is an exercise in banality because of this. But even if they’re right, what can I do? I make no excuses for myself, and by the end of my story, I hope you’ll view my character flaws with a forgiving eye.

Please don’t misunderstand. I may not be sentimental, but I’m not completely without emotion and there are moments when I’m struck by a deep sense of wonder. It is usually simple things that I find strangely moving: standing among the giant sequoias in the John Muir National Forest, for instance, or watching ocean waves as they crash together off Cape Hatteras, sending salty plumes into the sky. Last week, I felt my throat tighten when I watched a young boy reach for his father’s hand as they strolled down the sidewalk. There are other things too: I can sometimes lose track of time when staring at a sky filled with wind-whipped clouds, and when I hear thunder rumbling, I always draw near the window to watch for lightning. When the next brilliant flash illuminates the sky, I sometimes find myself filled with longing, though I’m at a loss to tell you what it is that I feel my life is missing.

My name is Wilson Lewis,