Dick Hill

[Note from Admin: We have filled (I think) all of the open slots as of November, but here is one last blast from our past. Dick Hill is an award winning voice talent - I met him because of his narration of the books of another Storytellers alumnus, Richard Steinberg. I thought his farewell piece was particularly memorable...so here it is again.]

THE GREAT AMERICAN NOVEL is a term often applied to Mark Twain’s book chronicling THE ADVENTURES OF HUCKLEBERRY FINN. The work deserves that name. I can’t remember how many times I’ve read it, but I just finished recording it for the third different publisher. None of these publishers know, of course, that I would have done it for free.

I enjoy and admire all of Twain’s work, with Letters From The Earth a particular favorite, but the story of Huck and Jim and company is the one I value most. In it, Twain taught me more about hatred and humor , ignorance and innocence, downright nastiness and upright nobility than I could have the insight to so accurately perceive on my own in a lifetime. It’s been almost half a century that the book has been a part of my life, revisited often, an unfailing source of wonder and joy and rueful recognition. Not to mention the fact that recording it, bringing to life Huck and Jim and the Duke and the King et al present the greatest and most rewarding challenge I could ever hope for. I imagine it’s somewhat akin to what it must be like for a professional golfer to play St. Andrews, or a violinist to get their hands on a Stradivarius or Amati.

From Twain, I head immediately into a piece of non-fiction, GUT FEELINGS:The Intelligence of the Unconscious, by Gerd Gigerenzer, which promises to be quite fascinating, with a pair of mystery/cop novels after that, then ROBINSON CRUSOE, a memoir by two members of the original Band of Brothers made famous by Tom Hanks’ film, and after that FOLLOW THE MONEY: How George W. Bush and the Texas Republicans Hog-Tied America, by John Anderson. I had originally been offered a biography of Dick Cheney, but demurred. I gladly accepted the replacement for that time. And time is the issue at hand.

I count myself blessed to have gotten to a point where I am offered much more work than I have time to handle. I love the work itself, and I now can pick and choose projects, which are now recorded from my home studio with my wife Susie directing and engineering and keeping me honest. We thank whatever powers that be daily for our situation, and given the fact that it’s only the last few years we’ve been able to put money aside for our old age (at 60, I’m not sure just when I’ll decide that has arrived, but I do believe it’s not all that far off) we feel we need to take advantage of our position and work just as much as we can. We also cherish the opportunity to spend time with grandkids, and to do a little to help the kids out. All of which, in my own graceless and long-winded way, has led me to the realization that I must withdraw from being a SU contributor. Sara’s examination of deadlines provided a well-thought, well-written, and at this moment, highly ironic read for me. I look forward to her future offerings, and to continuing to visit and see what the rest of the regulars gift us with, but given the amount of time it takes this reader to write, and the fact that time is a disappearing commodity, I’m going to have to sign off with this last offering. Thanks to you all for the chance to participate and learn, especially to Dave and of course to Rick.

By Dick Hill

Written as a STORY FOR ALL AGES, presented for the congregation of the Universal Unitarian Church of Greater Lansing for children and adults alike in Joe Pesce and Brando as the don voices, just before the youth went to their religious education classes. Freely adapted, hell, ripped off, debased and screwed with, from a traditional Buddhist tale.

Same Contente and Gino Dissatisfaccione were the very best of friends, which was rather surprising, since they had such very different outlooks on life. Same Contente always seemed to appreciate each moment that life dealt him. Yesterday was a good example.

“Man oh man, I sure do like ice cream cones.” Sam said. “An’ ya’ know what? Vanilla is pretty good! Lucky thing we found dat dollar, an’ we could each get a cone for ourselves. Dis is indeed a splendid day. And da sky is really quite a magnificent blue, doncha’ think? Lookit’ dat one little flurrfy white cloud. I think it looks kinda’ like a bunny.”

On the other hand, Gino Dissatisfaccione always felt that things used to be better, or could be better, or should be better, and thinking like that made him so unhappy that he seldom took a moment to enjoy himself.

“Vanilla.” Gino complained. “Ya’ ask fer a chocolate cone, and all dey got is vanilla. What kinda’ ice cream truck is dat, I ask ya’? No chocolate, sheesh! An’ since all we had is one lousy dollar, stupid vanilla cones is all we could get. Why couldn’t we’a found FIVE dollars, den we coulda’ had jumbo hot fudge sundaes! Like Frankie Fortunata. He’s always gettin’ jumbo hot fudge sundaes. I hate dat guy! Man oh man, my life is a bummer.”

“I dunno’, Frankie’s alright. He let us come to his party, an’ it was real nice.”

“Nice? Waddya’, nuts? He’s just a showoff. Him an his party. An his jumbo hot fudge sundaes, three times a day I bet! ‘Cept he don’t hafta’ find five dollars, his old man just gives it to him. Whenever he asks. Hey dad, can I have five dollars for ice cream? Sure son, why doncha’ take ten, jes in case.”

“Actually, I’m pretty sure Frankie is lactose intolerant, so he NEVER gets ice cream.”

“Don’t let him fool ya’. Guys like him they get all the ice cream they want. Hey, look up dere at dat cloud. Betcha’ dollars ta donuts dat clouds gonna’ turn dark and nex’ thing ya’ know it’s gonna’ start rainin’. Sheesh.”

“That’d be okay. It’s a hot day, an’ it’d be fun to be out in da’ rain….(burp) Dat was really good”

“Fun to be in da’ rain? Yeah, right, waddya’, nuts? Aw, geez, lookit dat? Darn ice cream all melted! Lousy vanilla! Now all I got is dis soggy stupid cone.”
And he threw it down in disgust.

“Maybe next time you should complain less and lick more.” Sam said.

“The two friends continued walking until they came to a small stream, and who do you suppose was standing there? Frankie Fortunata.

“Hi Frankie” said Sam.
“Hello-o-o Frankie” said Gino, in what was frankly a very very snotty voice.

“Hi guys,” said Frankie. “Looks like the bridge is closed for repairs, and I don’t know how to get across.”

“It’s not very deep,” said Sam. He and Gino were wearing old shorts. “We can just wade across.”

But Frankie was in his very best clothes, since he was going to his grandma’s birthday party. So Sam offered to carry him across the stream, piggyback. And he did just that. Frankie thanked Sam and went on his way, and Sam and Gino continued their walk. Sam was enjoying the lovely day, but Gino was very unhappy. Finally he turned to Same and said, “I can’t believe you carried Frankie across the stream. That guy’s so stuck up, and you know I don’t like him, but you did it anyway, and it really makes me angry. Dat Frankie is like a big heavy ball of anger in my gut, and frankly, I’m gettin’ tired of carryin’ it around!”

“Gee,” said Sam “then maybe you should put him down. I put him down two hours ago back at the stream.”

“Aw, you’re nuts. You just ruined my day completely. I’m outta’ here.”

So Gino stomped off angrily, while Sam continued his walk, enjoying the sun, and the little white cloud, and a few minutes later, he found a five dollar bill.

P.S. Gino caught up with Frankie later that day and knocked him down and got his good clothes all muddy and took the ten dollar bill Frankie’s father had given him that morning and used it buy a jumbo hot fudge sundae and a bag of gummy bears AND a kite, and for the rest of that day he was very very happy indeed. But we all know it wasn’t TRUE happiness, the kind you get from doing the right thing. Or I dunno’, maybe it was. Sometimes it’s hard to know what really the right thing. Guess we all have to figure it out for ourselves.

–Dick Hill

By Dick Hill

The other day Bill Maher spoke of new theories that link the disappearance of bees with microwaves from cell phone usage, or some such thing. With no bees, plant life disappears. Guess who’s next. He quoted Albert Einstein, the great forward thinker, who said that if the bees died, mankind would follow within four years. Mahr then opined that if this theory proves correct, he still didn’t believe our society would surrender their phones. Sadly, I guess I have to agree with him.

There’s ample evidence that our wanton consumption of fossil fuels is threatening the way humans live on this planet. Indeed, if we will continue to live at all. Yet we seem incapable of recognizing this global threat and rising to its challenge. Americans, in particular, seem so committed to dangerous foolhardy behavior……..ecologically, politically, personally. Unable to see beyond the comfort of the status quo. Is there a leader who could make clear the dangers of how we live. Our disregard for the long term, for our neighbors, the poor, the underserved? Call for a national effort, a national sacrifice on the scale of our great national effort in the last World War, when it became a point of pride to support the effort? And if such a leader appeared, would we have the resolve, the strength of character to follow? Days like this one I doubt it. I doubt myself. Give up cell phones? Unlikely.

Unseen waves of death.
As the bees go, so do we.
The call is vital.

I think I’ll go trade these dark thoughts for a bar of dark, 70% cocoa, imported chocolate. I’m prediabetic, but what the hell does THAT mean anyway. I don’t feel any different than I did before the doc saw those blood sugar levels. Maybe I’ll call Dial-A-Joke. Would it be such a loss if mankind were to disappear anyway? We’re just part of the big cosmic expression of the ONE, aren’t we? Maybe that’s how we make it to the next level, the true realization of the Universal Self. Then again, I may be fulla’ shit. Often am.

—Dick Hill

By Dick Hill

Forget the madeleine, it was the taste of paste that brought me back. Not even the taste of paste, but the memory of the taste of paste. Staples is where we buy all our business supplies, mostly paper and blank cd’s for sending off wave files of our latest job. We also do a lot of copying. We get our books for recording on standard 8 ½ by 11 loose sheets, and go to Staples to make a copy of the script for Susie to follow as she engineers and directs my reading. While she handles the copying (I tend to muck things up and elevate my blood pressure dealing with copiers) I wander around looking at all the swell stuff. The other day I was looking for things that would could occupy the grandkids, and though I found a good supply of glue sticks, and Elmer’s Glue, and something called Power Pritt gel adhesive that “Features a unique “top down” dispenser bottle to ensure immediate application!”, the days when you could find a dependable, snackable adhesive seem to be gone. The days of paste are past. And I was a little saddened by the passing. It’s funny what sticks in your mind. Just thinking of paste brought back an intense and immediate memory of its taste, and with it other memories.

Third grade. Donna Smith. A quiet, pretty girl, with smooth lovely skin. Glowing amber is how I described it years later in high school when I wrote adolescent poems trying to win her favor, but when she came into our third grade class, the new kid from exotic Atlanta, I remember marveling at that skin and comparing it to my Sanford gum eraser. The gum eraser is inextricably linked to a bright red pencil box, which in turn reminds me of the bike.

It was a standard, one-speed, with coaster brakes. Might have been one of those Schwinns that you can see now in bike shops. Expensive retro conveyances. My dad had one of his old pals pick it up for him at the salvage yard where he’d once worked and bring it down to the basement of our four unit. We lived in the upper rear flat, and I learned sometime later that while I was at school he would lock the brakes on his wheelchair, hoist himself out, scoot to the hall, then use his still powerful workingman’s arms to lower his butt step by step down to the basement, no ramps in those days, then work his way over to the padlocked wire cage assigned to us. There he sanded the frame, applied a glossy new coat of paint, added chromed fenders, cleaned and oiled all the working parts.

He gave it new white handle grips with pink plastic streamers, and a chromed basket attached to the handle bars.

Money was always in short supply. A series of illnesses and an explosion while he was torching a car in the junkyard where he had worked part time after his shift at the plant had put my dad in that chair. He had, I think, a sixth grade education, and had left the family farm during the depression and moved to Milwaukee. His life lost it’s definition when he could no longer work. He spent his days carefully reading the paper, hauling himself to his feet to wash dishes at the sink, or make dinner. My mother worked as a nurse’s assistant, and there was a terrible and dangerous and twisted shift in our family’s existence when she became the breadwinner. When he was forced to surrender his identity as a working man, he surrendered much much more. He was an intelligent man, with a good sense of humor and a love of music, but these qualities only rarely surfaced. For the most part he was very quiet, and humble and submissive. Defeated.

He occupied himself for many hours each day making potholders out of nylon loops, stretching them across a little metal frame, weaving other loops through. The sort of thing an eight year old might spend a rainy afternoon doing. Reduced as he was to being as powerless as a child, stuck in that upper rear flat overlooking the alley out the north facing windows, I imagine all his afternoons felt clouded and gray. Some potholders were sold for pennies, most we gave away to relatives at Christmas. He was sure to keep track of what colors or color combinations he gave people, making sure they didn’t receive duplicates. They were our family’s offerings when the extended clan gathered to exchange gifts at Christmas. The bike was a real accomplishment. Product of god knows how many hours painfully balancing against the work bench carefully sanding and painting and cleaning and reassembling, how many trips up and down those flights of stairs on his hands and ass. A great investment of love and labor and careful workmanship that transformed a worn rusted discard into what I can now recognize for its real value. Its real value. It must have given him a rare and fleeting sense of accomplishment.

On my birthday I was told there was a special present waiting for me in the basement. I knew what that meant. I’d been borrowing a neighbor’s bike to work toward earning my Boy Scout merit badge in cycling. Now I’d finally have a bike of my own, one I could use for the final step toward the badge, a fifty mile trip up and down the glacier carved hills and hollows of the kettle morraine outside Milwaukee. My dad sat in the open doorway in his wheelchair as I thundered down the stairs, then listened for the whoops and hollers of joy that never came.

In those days, long before the appearance of 10 speeds, and 21 speeds, and four thousand dollar mountain bikes, the ultimate dream for me was a black, three-speed English “racer” with skinny tires and hand brakes like the other guys had. What I saw was a bloated, vulgar, hand me down obscenity. I stood there staring at it, bitter tears of disappointment coursing down my cheeks. The bike was like the county issued boots I wore instead of new sneakers, it left a taste as unsatisfying as the processed charity cheese that was a staple in our house. My dad finally called down, asked what I thought of my present. I screamed back that it was stupid, that I hated it. I ran out of the house and didn’t come back till late that night. I never rode the bike, and it disappeared from the basement a few weeks later.

My dad died while I was in Nam. He was a good man, and I did love him, but not as much or as well as I should have. Funny the things you remember. Funny what sticks in your mind. Like paste.

–Dick Hill

by Weston Ochse

We’re coming into convention season where we’ll come together with peers, publishers, artists, editors, reviewers, and more importantly, fans. Conventions are amazing opportunities to, not only meet people you’ve only met online, rekindle friendships, but to also promote one’s career. I wrote an essay last year that applies to us all. Once again I provide it for your reading pleasure. Govern yourselves well. Or else.

You did what? What were you thinking? No chance in hell they’re going to respect you in the morning. And they took pictures? Oh, you are so screwed. Sucks to be you. I’m so glad that I’m not the one who did what you did.

My first big convention was World Horror Convention 2000 in Denver, Colorado. I was able to do things then that I’m not able to get away with today. Not only am I now a married man, but people recognize me. I’m sure if you were to google pictures of me, you’d find the one where I used beer cans as horns while a few friends of mine made a man sandwich on the bed. Or I could just save you the effort.

In Denver I had a blast. I partied late and often with the cabal. Pentagrams were burned in carpets. Animal rights protestors were incited by lurid posters. I spent real quality time talking with Dick Laymon, Doug Clegg and a bunch of writers I’ve come to know and love as friends. I signed my first autographs. I met my wife. Really, I couldn’t have had a better convention.

But that picture of the manwich and me is still online. If I ever make the New York Times Best Seller list, that picture will be online. If I ever run for governor, that picture will be available for all to see. If I ever become Pope, the College of Cardinals will have a field day with the ecumenical implications of the manwich. The only saving grace is that I’m not actually part of the manwich. Boy, I’d hate to be those guys.

But let’s face it. That picture, in the great annals of convention debauchery is rather tame. Right now images are flashing uninvited through your minds of things you’ve witnessed that are far far worse. We’ve all seen, and sometimes done, things that send shudders of embarrassment through our spines.

Nowadays when I’m at a convention, I need to remind myself that I’m no longer that anonymous partier trying to relive the best scenes in Animal House. My actions are magnified. I also need to remind myself that I’m not used to staying up until 4 AM, so when I begin drinking at 8 PM, by the time I reach 4 AM it means I have 8 hours of alcohol in me. Zoinks! There are times I’ve done things and said things that have left me embarrassed the next day. If it wasn’t that most everyone knows that I’m a good soul, I’d have shaved my head, grabbed a saffron robe and hitched a ride to Thailand long ago.

So in the best tradition of Storytellers Unplugged where we try and pass on hard learned lessons to those of you who dare to want to know them, thanks to my friends at The Other Dark Place, I’ve gathered a list of Does and Don’ts that you should consider prior to attending any and all conventions; especially considering that the World Horror Convention in Ontario is right around the corner.

• Do introduce yourself to everyone.

• Don’t follow your favorite author down the hall, stopping when they stop, starting when they start, and repeating the word screwdriver over and over and over in a childlike voice.

• Don’t go to the wrong hotel and spend 4 days sampling bikini waxes.

• Don’t pass anything under a bathroom stall for someone to sign.

• Don’t get drunk and start groping editors, especially after you’ve tried to pitch your latest novel to them.

• Don’t try to steal beer from Alan Beatts’ Borderlands Party while underage. He’ll find you.

• Do keep a pen with you at all times. You never know if the only time you get Straub to sign a stack of books is in the elevator or breakfast buffet line.

• Don’t ask an author to sign a stack of books in the breakfast buffet line.

• Don’t get in an elevator with Harlan Ellison.

• Do bring more money than you think you’ll need.

• Don’t think you’ll be getting sleep

• Don’t walk up to a vendor table, assume that the magazines are free, and leave without paying.

• Do have a few drinks while at a party.

• Don’t get so drunk that you are forever known as, “That drunk we saw throwing up everywhere.”

• Do introduce yourself to your favorite writers.

• Don’t forget your own name or how to actually speak.

• Do bring lots of booze.

• Don’t suggest to Coop that maybe this would be a good time to cut back on the coffee and smokes.

• Do speak to Peter Straub if he attends. He is a nice cultured quiet spoken bear of a man with a hysterical quiet sense of humor if you pay attention.

• Don’t swim in the Koi pond at NECON.

• Do put your “Do Not Disturb” on your door.

• Don’t expect the hotel staff to respect it.

• Don’t let Coop take your camera into the
  men’s room.

• Don’t walk up to a guy, grab his name badge, squint, pull so hard on it he moves and exclaim, “What kind of a fuckin’ name is Dan0oo anyway?”

• Don’t be such a hillbilly that you have to have John Skipp show you how to uncork the tub after a shower.

• Do sit next to Keene at the mass signing. You’ll sell more books that way. You’ll also get to meet all of the folks in line to see him.

• Don’t be used as a prop in a Harlan Ellison
  yarn.

• Don’t bring your self published book and glad hand it to every editor and writer at the convention.

• Do bring copies of self published books to give to Wenchie, BloodyMary, Renfield and Suzie (The Reviewers at HorrorWeb). And also bring your camera for the priceless looks they’ll give you and your running shoes if you have any hopes of outrunning them or the books
  they hurl back at you.

• Don’t cram onto an elevator with 20 people when the elevator’s only meant for 10-15. It WILL get stuck…especially if it’s at Horrorfind in Maryland. (And if you are in that situation, and you have the only cell phone, DON’T insist on being such a maroon that you
  call your lawyer before calling 911.)

• Don’t let anyone sign any part of your body that can get you in trouble later.

• Do take chances. Talk to people, pitch your book when asked, and approach that person whose name you know but who you’ve never been formally introduced to.

• Do bring extra everything, including money and space.

• Don’t incur the wrath of the hotel chefs by stealing their idol lest they form a posse and hunt you down.

• Do talk to people about their tattoos.

• Don’t, after drinking until 5 AM, get talked into an 8:30 AM pitch to a NY publisher because there’s suddenly an open spot.

• Do throw cheeseballs during readings.

• Do take pictures of EVERYTHING.

• Don’t take the incriminating ones with YOUR camera.

• Don’t go up to Maurice Broaddus and exclaim, “Wrath! I thought you were bigger!”

• Don’t go up to Wrath James White and exclaim, “Maurice! You’re one nasty cretin.”

• Do check out random fiction readings if you get a chance, because a lot of them are pretty awesome, and they’re always kind of sparsely attended.

• Don’t introduce yourself to someone with “That man over there needs to die. Help me figure out how.”

• Do walk up to Tom Monteleone and ask him if he’s really Italian, if only so that the rest of us can watch the thermonuclear explosion.

• Do allow the dominatrix to whip you in public only if you remember that even cell phones can take pictures these days.

• Don’t glance at someone’s nametag and then walk away if you don’t recognize the person’s name.

• Do attend the panels, because even if they’re really dull, it’s kind of funny to watch the pained looks on writers’ faces.

• Don’t get stuck in an elevator with Harlan Ellison, but if you do, make sure that he includes you in the class action suit against the hotel.

• Don’t walk up to an editor who has a story of yours under consideration and and ask, “Why haven’t you read it?”

• Don’t walk up to an editor that rejected your story, and start berating them about it, if you have any hope at being published anywhere… ever.

• Do spend time in the bar, even if you don’t drink, because that’s where the action usually is.

• Do not tape posters on the walls of the hotel. It only gets the hotel staff mad at the conventioneers and the convention staff takes the brunt of the hotel’s ire.

• Don’t shirk your duties if you’ve been elected to moderate a panel, and trick Jack and Seth into doing it instead, so that you can go drinking.

• Do have a great time, because in the end, conventions are opportunities for everyone to come together on an even level and enjoy each other’s company without the stresses of everyday life.

And remember, it’s all fun and games until someone punches the dominatrix.

by Dick Hill

Writing is difficult for me. I don’t exercise the muscles enough. Oh sure, I shoot off a fair number of emails to friends and business acquaintances, and I endeavor to make those entertaining (and for the business contacts, endearing), but that’s easy stuff. The expectations of most of these folks when they open their typical message are, I hope and expect, low enough to ensure that my offerings are a touch above the norm. Often a response in vein is prompted, so I can feel good about tickling somebody’s fancy and prompting a bit of writerly whimsy on their part, but this is all very light stuff. Bold plays in a penny ante poker game. To attempt to write something meant to stand up to a taller measure is daunting, which is why I so admire anyone who does so. And those who succeed, well…….they really earn my respect. That’s why, I suppose, I have developed a friendship with our contributor Rick Steinberg, who by most other measures is a miserable, irascible human being with few discernible redeeming graces.

For me then, writing something that I offer as more than something tossed off, has mostly been an unpleasant exercise. Kinda’ like cranking up the speed and grade on my treadmill so that I’m truly working hard up in the red light endurance level, it’s not something I often push myself to do. The two times I really managed to do the hard work were when I wrote for the stage, and those two efforts were both moderately successful. GUS AND ANGIE was a dramedy dealing with the relationship between a father facing death from an astrocytoma (brain tumor) and his daughter. It was named new play by a Michigan writer, and worked well in a couple staged readings and one full production. BOOMERS, a musical made up of monologues and songs, written to be performed by four actors playing some 20 different characters, has had a professional production that sold out and earned an extended run, as well as some community productions. Excellent reviews and audience response were gratifying, but the show has never really gone anywhere. This month however, I struck a deal with a small professional company to dust it off for a fall production. Not a lot of money involved, but then I’ve never been starry-eyed enough to consider my forays into writing as a source of income.

Talking with producer/director of the company, he mentioned one piece in particular, a monologue and song delivered by a woman dealing with her mother’s alzheimers. His own mother had suffered with that disease, and he said he wasn’t sure how he’d be able to direct it without breaking down. The piece never failed to be a powerful one in previous productions. Nested between a pair of ribald, comic offerings, you could look out into the audience and see just how many middle aged folks were moved to tears. I’m as proud of that little piece as I am of anything I’ve ever written, and the interesting thing is that it came so easily. My music writing partner and I spent a good deal of time fine-tuning the song, but my lyric had come very easily, and the monologue came even more easily. Different from most of my efforts. I’ve included them here. I wish I knew how to stick in a music file so you could hear the simple, beautiful melody Jeff English wrote, and the wonderful job my wife Susie Breck did delivering it on the demo we cut. A voice over introduced her as Anna Mae, a boomer born in 1947, from Charleston, South Carolina. Susie used a soft Southern accent, which I always find a lovely sound, and one that lends itself incredibly well to storytelling. Her delivery was quiet and measured, searching out the images and memories as if for the first time, slow, and secret, and sacred. A sharing that made each audience member feel as if they were the only one hearing these private thoughts. Read it slowly, see the pictures in your mind, and you’ll have some idea of what she gave us.<!–[if supportFields]> ADVANCE \d 5<![endif]–><!–[if supportFields]><![endif]–>

Alto

(From stool, perhaps a scarf added, Junior League)

My mother has alzheimer’s, and I sometimes wonder if that isn’t going to be the defining issue for us, being the first generation blessed with parents who lived long enough to face this ugly thing that eats your soul before your body. Momma was always my rock. My daddy died when I was in second grade, and Momma and I went to live with Mamaw. She had a big old house with a sunny backyard and lots of flowers, and Momma and I would sit out there in the sun, and she’d braid my hair, and then open up her copy of James Joyce’s Ulysses, because he was a genius, and she’d read the same page she always read, the first one, and then she’d put it down and pick up something else. And on the best days it would be Zane Grey, and she’d read it out loud, and I would picture myself as one of the Zane girls, running to the stockade under a hail of withering fire, my apron full of much needed powder, or bullets, or…bandages? I forget. She would read just one chapter, no more, and tell me if I wanted to hear what happened next I’d have to read it myself. And then she’d close the book and stare off over the yard with this lovely peaceful smile, and then we’d do what she called high tea. She has a nice room now, as nice as you could hope for, I guess. She has a few of her things, and I try to keep some plants alive. I see her Tuesday and Thursday afternoons and Sunday mornings, but I don’t know if she sees me anymore. She spends a lot of time in her Kennedy rocker, looking out the window at the tiny garden they have with that same smile she used to have at Mamaw’s. I know she was happy then. Maybe she’s happy now. I don’t know…..I hope she is.

MAMA

A: Are the words still there inside you?
Is it lovely what you see?
Do you know I’m here beside you?
When you dream, is it of me?

I wish you buzzin’ bees and lots of flowers.
Red Rose tea and an old straw hat.
You and me and magic hours with Zane Grey,
and a big ol’ cat.

Sun bright, sky blue,
a plate of ginger snaps.
James Joyce feels ignored,
so he takes a nap.

Tell me Mom is Dad there with you?
Does he hold you even now?
Take you in his arms and kiss you?
Are you fine and young and proud?

Or are you the little girl now?
And does Mamaw hold the book?
We’d be friends if I could join you.
Tell me when and where to look.

I wish you buzzin’ bees and lots of flowers.
Red Rose tea and an old straw hat.
You and me and magic hours with Zane Grey,
and a big ol’ cat.

Sun bright, sky blue,
a plate of ginger snaps.
James Joyce feels ignored,
so he takes a nap.

Mama, tell me where you’ve gone.
Is there a girl with hair to braid?
I hope it’s somewhere nice and warm.
I hope that you are not afraid.

Once you said I was your mirror.
In my face your youth shone through.
Is the mirror working both ways?
Where you’ve gone, will I go too?

I wish you buzzin’ bees and lots of flowers.
Red Rose tea and an old straw hat.
You and me and magic hours with Zane Grey,
and a big ol’ cat.

Sun bright, sky blue,
a plate of ginger snaps.
James Joyce feels ignored,
so he takes a nap.

(BLACKOUT)

 

—Dick Hill

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by Dick Hill

I think my good friend Rick Steinberg mentioned in these pages as he covered for me last month that he did so because I was involved in the longest, most challenging narration job of my life, the taping of AGAINST THE DAY, Thomas Pynchon’s latest, longest, long awaited novel, to which information I must add my confession , that in truth I had never read Pynchon before being awarded this job, which, given the buzz about the work, and the huge splash created in literary waters by the controversial prize-winner and his Olympic sized opus, I consider it an honor to have been charged with, particularly in light of the enormous challenges presented by a genius of this sort to any reader, let alone a reader presuming to read the words aloud, for those words issue forth in a variety of styles that range from boy’s adventure novel to science-fiction to humorous song, (not always in English) to noir detective homage, and through half a dozen more styles and enough characters (numbering in the hundreds!) that I created an alphabetized set of index cards to keep their voices straight, though not all of the characters were, straight that is, for a fair number of them were of Cambridge education, though among those were not the anarchists, bombers, private detectives, nor Bela Lugosi or any of the plutocrats or the quaternionists and other mathematical types who spouted formulae that were greek to me and for the most part the western American sorts who brought to mind sometimes the classic literary cowboy sort though they tended more often to have a mining background which accounted for their familiarity with explosives that gave them a connection to other miners and bombers in Europe and Italian submariners and of course the wonderful yet awful mayonnaise drowning scene and the various foreign names and places which posed a challenge which was surpassed only by the master writer’s incredible vocabulary, embracing as it did an awe-inspiring and somewhat depressing number of English words I’d never before heard nor dreamt of and all this in a book of 1085 pages, which came out to a little over 53 hours of recorded audio and the largest check I have ever received, said fact being but one of the marvels about this work, not the least of which was the occasional inclusion of sentences nearly as long as this one, though far more gracefully shaped.

That’s in contrast to something I heard yesterday on NPR, a

snippet in which some sort of challenge was made to sum up an idea, or a life principle, or even, perhaps, a life in only six words. The fellow did so thusly, as an example

“If there’s more, I want it”. Six words. They said a lot.

It appears to me that unless one is truly titanic in terms of talent, (as Mr. Pynchon most certainly is, in my estimation. My director, engineer, lover, wife Susie and I stopped to marvel at some passage of cutting humor, erotic intensity, brilliant philosophical insight, groan-worthy punsmanship or some other masterstroke of literary derring-do a hundred times or more) it might be wise to exercise some judicious restraint when it comes to verbiage, and the six word exercise might be helpful in developing writer’s muscles of that sort . That’s all I have this month. I may be fulla’ shit. Often am. So here I offer my attempt, …….

Cut, cut, then cut some more.

dick hill

by Dick Hill

Okay, it’s not jazz this time, though jazz did trigger this little riff, for what it’s worth. I’m not a trained singer, but I’ve always had iron pipes, and a pretty good musical sense. (Not a trained musician of any sort, but I’ve played one on tv. Well, on stage, anyway.) In years past I’ve had a fair number of roles in musicals. Some chorus work, but mostly character or even lead roles. It was easier for me to sing solo than to do chorus work, because of the freedom I had, well, the freedom I took, to tweak the song a bit so I could hit it with my vocal sweet spot so to speak. Capitalize on my strengths, such as they were, and avoid my weaknesses in front of an audience accepting of such practice.

Sometimes, though, I’ve found myself in a situation where “style” wasn’t an option, and I had to sing it as written. Some bit of an oratorio or a madrigal, some such hoary piece that was better known by the listeners than by me. In over my head, out of my depth. Either sing the piece as written and expose my inability to do so well, or rearrange it slightly to lie within reach of my strengths and do a good job handling a bad imitation of the original. Either way is bound to disappoint the knowledgeable, and unfortunately, there are knowledgeable folks out there. I attend a church, well, a Unitarian Universalist church, which is more like a debating society than a church, and find myself asked to sing such pieces occasionally. This is definitely a knowledgeable crowd, but I give it my best shot, comforting myself with thoughts of the humility I’m exercising. And hey, they’re Unitarians. Like that kid Mikey in the old commercial, they’ll eat anything, A not quite so accepting listener, however, would at the very least, pity my shortcomings, or if I tried to disguise them by rewriting, by making it up to suit myself, despise them, and walk out of the joint.

All this comes to mind because of a piece I recently recorded. In it, a rather stereotyped tough guy is speaking to the woman he eventually wins in the end. Part of the author’s rendering of this guy as a man’s man who can stand up to all villains and win the heart of the fair maiden is to make him an ex-Marine. Fairly widely accepted shorthand for tough, capable, manly man. As an ex-jarhead myself, I generally have no problem with that characterization. Fuckin’ A, straight shit, USMC, Uncle Sam’s Misguided Children. I’ll buy into that any day, and even do what I can to spread the legend. HOOrah. However, this author goes on to have the guy explaining the necessity of a tough decision to the heroine by relating a combat story. One where he and the other members of his squad of hard-bitten elites left wounded comrades crying out for help in the jungle because a platoon, or maybe it was a company, of NVA were closing in. Marines do not, I repeat, do not, leave their wounded behind. It’s an article of faith. Part of life. I imagine it has happened some time or other, but any Marine who acted that way would not pull the incident out and use it as an illustration of hard-headed realism, or whatever the hell it was the author was shooting for. It would have been a gnawing shameful secret that ate at the guy’s gut and colored his entire life in dark murky grays. (Which would have made for a far more interesting story) Any Marine who came across that passage would be likely to toss that book, the same way any classical music lover would likely walk out of the joint if I tried my bush-league Broadway-Vegas stylings on the bass-baritone solos from Handel’s Messiah. Hell, I’m not even sure if I spelled Handel right, (Haendel?). I sure as hell can’t sing his stuff.

Guess what I’m saying is, even fiction writers have to hew to a certain level of accepted truth. Fail to do so at your own peril. Even more appalling is failure to fact-check and edit carefully in non-fiction. (Funny how our brains work, mine leading me to this next story of non-factual facts, which I’d all but forgotten.) Tun’s Tavern, 10 November 1775, Philadelphia is a date any jarhead knows as well as his own birthday, and probably better than his or her spouses. It’s the birthday of the Marine Corps. Can you imagine my shock, some years back, to be recording a non-fiction history of the Corps that started off by getting that date wrong? By a fair number of years? I informed the publisher I could not and would not record the piece as it stood. It went back for fact checking and further editing, leaving me to wonder why in hell that hadn’t happened first, and what would have happened if the reader hadn’t known better. They held up the print edition too. Maybe there’s less effort to fact check and edit these days than there is to market. There’s certainly a world of difference between the bulk of what I see nowadays and the beautifully flowing, mistake free books I’ve taped by Faulkner, say, or Twain.

I’ve also come across numerous passages in the many outdoors books, or thrillers, or police procedurals, where authors have described simply impossible feats of marksmanship or physical prowess in a book that isn’t written in the style of an over the top, mythically gifted kind of thing, but seems instead to want to be taken as true life, gritty realism. You lose the grit and the realism when suddenly your anti-hero becomes super-hero.

So write about what you know, and check what you write for accuracy and feasibility. Then check it again. Don’t have much more to offer than that I’m afraid, and won’t have a chance to try to do better. Things have been incredibly busy in the studio, more work than I’ve ever had, and absolutely no time to do anything BUT work for weeks now. However, part of the work involves doing a little checking myself, a bit of research, not for facts, but for pronunciations. And that led me to a phone call today checking pronunciations of various wise-guy’s names with a source given me by the author of a soon-to-be-released non-fiction book. A very helpful, amiable fellow who, among a life full of other crimes, had happened to kill six people. Real life guy every bit as colorful as anything I’ve ever seen in a Scorcese flick or on HBO. Also bright and funny. Way cool.

So that’s all I’ve got this week, and even that may be of questionable value. I may be fulla’ shit. Often am.

–Dick Hill

by Dick Hill

You can’t have jazz without rhythm. It may be familiar, a 32 bar, repeating sort of thing, or it may be Brubeck telling you to Take Five but do it in four, or creating a seven-sided unsquare dance, but in some form or other it’s there. Same, or so it seems to this non-writing reader, with writing. Now, I’m talkin’ prose, not poetry, so it’s not gonna’ be as readily apparent. In fact, most often, it may not be apparent at all. But I believe it’s there. It’s what guides my delivery as I record, and I think it does the same for your readers who don’t move their lips. I’m not sure writers are always conscious of the rhythms they bring to a piece, it may be something that flows unconsciously from their pens, but it is nonetheless there. A major part of my job is finding that rhythm.

Sometimes the rhythm is something that only plays out over a series of scenes, or even chapters, which I guess you could liken to the rhythm of the seasons, sometimes more immediate, like the beating of a heart. I once recorded Hawthorne’s THE SCARLET LETTER, with its customary introductory piece, THE CUSTOM HOUSE. Take a look at just one Hawthorne sentence…

In my native town of Salem, at the head of what, half a century ago, in the days of old King Derby, was a bustling wharf,—but which is now burdened with decayed wooden warehouses, and exhibits few or no symptoms of commercial life; except, perhaps, a bark or brig, half-way down its melancholy length, discharging hides; or, nearer at hand, a Nova Scotia schooner, pitching out her cargo of firewood,—at the head, I say, of this dilapidated wharf, which the tide often overflows, and along which, at the base and in the rear of the row of buildings, the track of many languid years is seen in a border of unthrifty grass,—here, with a view from its front windows adown this not very enlivening prospect, and thence across the harbour, stands a spacious edifice of brick. Compare that to the robust rhythms, say, of Hemingway’s THE OLD MAN AND THE SEA.

I’m pretty free-wheeling and improvisational, as much as you can be, when I record people’s work. I read every word, of course, and use my voice as best I can to match mood and character, but I often ignore punctuation, stringing sentences together in a breakneck or breathless manner to underscore the author’s intent. It works well in the audio format, and I’ve gotten very positive responses from authors regarding this practice. If the author were to put it on paper the way I deliver it, it’d probably look like stream of consciousness, and might be a bit off putting, yet that is often the truest presentation of what they offer, and they’ve told me as much. It’s not something I’m inventing or imposing, so much as uncovering……simply giving voice to. I have a hunch many of your readers unconsciously pick up on the rhythm of a scene in the same manner, racing through action scenes, lingering and savoring more lyrical, evocative passages. I sometimes pause, as if searching for the perfect word, the capper, to some thought. Of course I don’t need to search, it’s right there on the printed page, but the search enhances the value of what follows.

Just yesterday I recorded a short story by Tolstoy, YOUTH. It was a beautiful recollection of summer nights, of stepping silently into the dark wonder of the lawn surrounding a house, of listening to the sounds of life retiring inside, awakening in the trees without. It demanded a slow unfolding of memory’s treasures, set off and made sacred by still, hushed caesuras. Like negative space in art, those pauses can be eloquent, allow the listener to join me in that moment of search, before sharing that sense of wonder and awe in discovering ”…both Nature and the moon and I were one.”, which I offered slowly and reverently as…”both Nature (beat) and the moon (beat) and I (lo-o-ng beat) were one.”

There is a rhythmic possibility, if not inevitability, inherent in all writing. I do my best to uncover those possibilities when I read aloud, and I think your readers do the same, if not as consciously and purposefully as I do. But then, I’m offering a performance of sorts, appearing, as a friend and fellow voice talent put it, in the role of Ivana Paychek, and it behooves me to do everything I can to honor and embrace through my craft what the writer has created through his art. What Sinatra, or Ella, or Mel Torme do with their phrasing of a lyric, that’s what I aspire to do when I read. Hey, a guy’s gotta’ dream, right?

Sometimes a writer will very consciously offer a rhythm that is impossible to ignore. One that is purposefully used to drive home a message of importance. One that grabs you by the throat, (or the heart) and demands you listen. One that says, here, pay heed to what I say. Want a great example of that sort of strength? Take a look at my friend Rick Steinberg’s last entry. Librarians.

So I’m gonna’ wind this up now. A commercial catch phrase just horned in on my thoughts. Beef. It’s what for dinner. Rhythm. It makes good writing. Of course, I may be fulla’ shit. Often am.

Gonna’ sign off with my trigger words, to prime the pump for next month’s attempt, same as I did last month. Jazz again. I think there’s something more there.

– Dick Hill

By Dick Hill

So my friend puts me in touch with a guy who asks if I want to be a contributor to this collaborative journal, Storytellers Unplugged. I’ve read some of his entries, and some from other folks, so I wasn’t totally unfamiliar with it. Write about writing? Not exactly the best fit, I thought. In the first place, I’m not a writer. I don’t write. Other than emails, an occasional letter to the editor, and last month a letter of recommendation for a good friend seeking tenure. (I got a real kick out of that one. Took me four and a half years, plus two summer school sessions to make it out of high school, and that was it for formal education and me. Truancy, minor crimes, boredom, lack of discipline, you name it. Just not cut out for school. So there I was, writing a letter explaining why I felt Dr. Michael Pal’o’mine should be granted tenure in the Department of Fancy Academic Stuff at a small midwestern college. I should point out that Michael does indeed teach and lecture about Fancy Academic Stuff, but he himself is not a Fancy Academic. Regular sort of guy. For a Brit. When he asked if I would write this thing, speaking as a professional of some regard in my definitely not chosen, more or less stumbled into, field, I was happy to oblige. Asked him if he had a preference as to what color crayon I used. But I digress.)

I have written some things for the stage, and they were produced, one even won a prize, but once I’d satisfied myself that yes, I could write a musical review, and yes I could write a successful straight play, I had no further interest. I don’t feel I have anything to share with the world that hasn’t already been said, and far better than I could ever manage, so my writing pretty much ground to a well deserved halt. I have some talent in that regard, (easy claim to make if you have no output for people to look at) but I am by no means a writer. As my aforementioned friend who nudged me toward this exercise has often said, writers write.

So just what is it I can offer to this journal? Well, I may not write, but I do read. I do it aloud. Into a microphone. It’s how I earn my living, and it’s a fairly decent one. I’m lucky enough to have stumbled into this work, which seems to be a perfect match for my talents and temperament. I’m lucky that critics and listeners and authors generally seem to feel I’m good at it. I have recorded a lot of books. From Twain and Steinbeck down to mystifyingly successful hacks whose names I wouldn’t share even if I hadn’t managed to erase them from my memory. When you record an audiobook, you are reading every single word, doing your best to find what’s of value and present it in the best way possible. Since you are reading every single word, savoring what’s delicious, trying to make up for what’s not as well prepared with superior plating and presentation, you notice a lot. A lot. Things that are filled with grace, things that are clumsy and misshapen. Things that lead you toward truth and beauty on paths you’d never have discovered on your own, things that limp and shuffle and walk blindly into walls, and expect you to follow. If the creators of those literary lumps could hear what sort of remarks are exchanged among the narrator and director and engineers as they deal with such things, they’d be appalled. And maybe, in some small way, enlightened, . The work may work 99.9 percent of the time, but all it takes is one pothole to make the reader stop and groan, deal with the sense of outrage at what the author has tried to foist upon him, or perhaps merely neglected to attend to, and fall out of that suspension of disbelief that I think is as necessary for readers as for theater audiences. Maybe if I share a few observations from the booth, they might serve to help aspiring, or even established, writers produce something that will flow more evenly, engage more completely, or at the very least, not offend. Then again, I may be fulla’ shit. Often am.

Some writer or other has said that he always ends his sessions by setting down a word or sentence that will be the start of his next day’s work. Can’t remember who it was, but he was an actual writer, and as such, knows a lot more about this stuff than I do, so I’ll take his advice, hoping that next month it will prove helpful to me. Jazz. Next month, jazz.

dick