Nicholas Sparks

You are a popular, wealthy writer, but that brings you little comfort today.

You are in NewHampshire for the funeral of your wife’s father. It is not the ending you’d have written. And there is something else: At precisely the appointed time, your cell phone rings. You have been dreading the call.

You answer. “Nicholas Sparks.”

The caller, a magazine interviewer, greets you and expresses his sympathy for the loss of your father-in-law.

“Thank you,” you say, wishing you could be doing almost anything but talking to this guy. Comforting your wife of 20 years, mostly; hugging your five kids.

The interviewer reminds you that you’d met 13 years ago during the makeshift tour for your first novel, “The Notebook.” You don’t remember him, and don’t try to. You’ve met fans and interviewers beyond counting. Does this guy have any idea how many readers you have? The interviewer thanks you, too many times, for agreeing to speak with him under the somber circumstances.

Yeah yeah yeah. “It’s okay,” you say, holding the cell phone to your ear like a shell, wishing for the sound of invisible oceans rather than intrusive questions.

You want to be with Cathy. Even though her father had been sick for some time and in increasing distress, his death has been hard, stirring dark riptides in your heart. But you trust your publicist, Edna Farley, whom you acknowledge in your latest novel. She has told you this seems like a polite, sincere fellow, this interviewer.

The interviewer starts with your new novel, “The Last Song.” That title has added poignance for you now, in New Hampshire for the funeral. Why this novel, the interviewer asks; what was it about the story or characters that demanded your time and talent? There is an edge in your voice, just this side of condescension, that perhaps you don’t mean to be there.

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