On a sunny winter morning, I put on a coat and headed for Benjamin’s Books. Ten chapters into my second novel, I was blocked with no progress in days. My deadline was still months away. However, I was a perfectionist about editing and wanted to lots of time between finishing the draft and sending it in. Falling behind like this concerned me. I figured a visit to my favourite bookshop might help.

I had been a regular at Benjamin’s since university, prowling the shelves of used books for nuggets of treasure. Jacob, the owner, was a friend. We connected through a shared love of writing. He had been my first fan, encouraging my early attempts at writing. I even let him read a draft of my first novel. He hated the story but said the writing was stellar. We celebrated together when it became a Canadian bestseller.

“Good morning, Dave,” Jacob called out as I entered, “I have something for you. You might find it amusing.”

The old man ducked under the counter, emerging with an old paperback. I took it and looked at the cover. Immediately, I chuckled. “Sinister Secrets of Saint-Loire by David Taylor,” read the cover.

“That’s quite a feat. I published a novel a decade before I was born.”

“Earlier, even,” the bookseller pointed out, “That’s a reissue. It originally came out in the early fifties.”

I turned to the first page and read a few paragraphs. The novel was a pulpy, fast-paced World War Two action thriller. That was quite different from my first novel, a dreamy magic realist story set in contemporary Toronto. The idea that another David Taylor succeeded as a different sort of writer intrigued me.

“Look like it’s a series,” I commented.

Jacob nodded.

“There are fifteen Dash Jackson novels. That’s book four. All are about a secret agent fighting Nazis and, later on, Communists.”

“Pretty standard for the era, I guess.”

“Yeah, they are. I prefer the ones set during the war. You can’t kill too many Nazis in my books.”

Jacob’s family had lost relatives in the Holocaust, though he himself was born after the war.

“How much?” I asked.

“Take it. It’s worth nothing. There’s eight of the series in a box I got from an estate. You can have them all.”

I shrugged.

“Why not? Maybe reading outside my usual will get me through my writer’s block.”

I spent the afternoon reading Dash Jackson novels. There was a new peril in every chapter. Bullets and fists flew constantly. At one point, I tensed up through a desperate car chase.

Three novels in, I went to my laptop and started typing. It was not a chapter for my novel, but a Dash Jackson story. I modernized the character and tone a bit. There was moral ambiguity the original would not have had. I kept Dash pure, but cast his superiors in a darker light.

“Guess what?” Jacob said on my next visit to Benjamin’s.

“No, what?”

“David Taylor is still alive,” the bookseller told me, “He lives here in Kitchener.”

I had not told Jacob about my Dash Jackson novel. It was finished, but I was unsure of what to do with it. After all, someone must hold the rights. I also had doubts about whether a modernized World War Two pulp story would fly with modern readers.

“You’re serious?”

“Very. I mentioned the books to another regular, a nurse. She says he lives in the retirement home where she works.”

He opened the cash register and pulled out a slip of paper.

“I wrote down the information. Maybe you can contact him.”

“He must be quite old.”

“One hundred last Saturday. He fought in the war. Apparently, there’s some of his own experience in those novels.”

A week later, I met my namesake. David was in good shape for a hundred; slow and a bit wobbly on his feet, but his mind sharp. I could see him as an older version of myself. We chatted. Then, nervously, I handed him a printout of my first draft.

“I won’t blame you if you hate this,” I said, “I have none of your war experience. But your books resonated so I started writing.”

The veteran chuckled.

“I like the idea of someone continuing the series. And that it will still have ‘David Taylor’ as the author. Say, maybe we are related. I don’t know my family tree well.”

“My mother was the expert on ours. She’s gone.”

I left and went home, determined to get back to my novel. Hopefully, I had Dash Jackson exorcised from my system.

David called a few days later.

“This is brilliant,” he said, “You’ve captured Dash perfectly. I like the more modern feel, too. You’re better at writing than I am. You should get this published. I can endorse it if that will help.”

I sat in stunned silence, then grinned.

“Let me talk to my publisher. Who holds the rights? If they do this, they’ll probably want to publish new editions of your originals.”

“I do. They reverted to me years ago. I figured there was no market so I sat on them.”

I smiled, my mind now churning with plans for another Dash Jackson novel. There was no writer’s block anymore, just pure writer’s adrenaline.

David died before my novel, or the reissues of his, came out. In his will, he left me the rights. That allowed me to continue the series without having to deal with his estate.

A year later, I came across a file box of Mom’s genealogical work while sorting through some of her stuff. Out of curiosity, I browsed through it until I found the Taylor family tree. I scanned it, wondering if there would be another David.

On a branch that started with my great-grandfather’s brother, I found David Alan Taylor, born in 1922. A note in Mom’s handwriting began, “WW2 veteran. Wrote some books.”

Her final note made me chuckle.

“Nickname was Dash.”