Frank Wydra

RETURN TO THE STORYTELLERS HOMEPAGE

Frank T. Wydra

The cherry blossoms are not yet in bloom, but the air is filled with the heady fragrance of spring. It is one of those sun-ripened days where people would rather feel the soft breeze upon their face than imbibe flowery Gewurztraminer indoors. Understandably, the gallery at the Gonquin is thinly populated, yet the regulars are at the table.

Mary, an eye-twinkle betraying her motive, says, “I understand that those who teach the subject say that to be effective writing must engage all the senses. My question of them is, what, then, are these senses?”

Bram, who the moment prior had been engaging his sense of taste, clears his throat and says, “Dear lady, surely you jest. The five senses, sight, smell, hearing, touch, and taste are known to every urchin. A better question is, to what degree should we, as writers, be aware of engaging all the senses in the words we pen?”

“Well,” says Edgar, “if the development of knowledge stopped with Aristotle, you and those street urchins of yours would be correct, but this, my man, is the twenty-first century. Have you not heard of thermoception, nociception, equilibrioception, and, proprioception, the ability to sense heat, pain, balance, and space? All are now considered distinct human senses.”

Papa grunts, and waves his unlit cigar. “Too complex, too complex. What Mary has asked about relates to writing, not science. For my money it is good enough to let the reader see the sun set, smell the manure, hear the loon cry, touch the silky dew on a summer morning, and linger over the taste of fine rum.”

Edgar’s back arches. “And what of pain? Tell me that Jake’s impotence caused no pain for Brett. Tell me that Pilar, with her wicked tongue, caused no pain. Tell me that Santiago felt no pain as the sharks ate the marlin. You, my burly friend, have made your reputation on making your readers feel the pain of your characters, and yet you wave it off with that stinking cigar of yours.”

Papa frowns and looks at the cigar, “This is a very fine Cuban.”

Al, hovering nearby, always alert to the comfort of his guests, asks, “You want me to open the door? Let some air in? It’s nice outside.”

He is ignored by all, but behind him I see a rotund figure with a cherubic face sauntering toward our table, tipping his white hat to those who recognize him.

“Truman,” I say, “come join us.”

“Of course, of course” he says, waving, taking an empty seat. “It is why I am here. And what is it we are having today?”

He is, as he had undoubtedly planned, the momentary center of attention.
Hoping to end the semantic tiff, I defer to Bram’s alternative and say, “We are having a conversation about the degree to which a writer should engage the senses in his work.”

Truman makes a limp-handed gesture, saying, “You know, a conversation is a dialogue, not a monologue. That’s why there are so few good conversations: due to scarcity, two intelligent talkers seldom meet.”

Edgar says, “Then we were clearly having a conversation before your arrival.”

Al places a drink in front of Truman and he takes a sip before replying. “I, of course, take no offense. Great fury, like great whiskey, requires long fermentation.”

Mary says, “Ignore him, Truman. It is a delight to have you here. And, of course, when it comes to engaging the senses, you are the master. Did you not once write, ‘The true beloveds of this world are in their lover’s eyes lilacs opening, ship lights, school bells, a landscape, remembered conversations, friends, a child’s Sunday, lost voices, one’s favorite suit, autumn and all seasons, memory, yes, it being the earth and water of existence, memory.’”

Truman cocks his head and in that insufferably superior manner of his, and says, “It is very nice. It must be mine.”

“What we have been dialoging about,” says Bram, with a wink at Edgar, “is whether the five Aristotelian senses will suffice, or are there other senses which must be satisfied.”

Truman says, “Writing has laws of perspective, of light and shade just as painting does, or music. If you are born knowing them, fine. If not, learn them. Then rearrange the rules to suit yourself. You know, most contemporary novelists, especially the American and the French, are too subjective, mesmerized by private demons; they’re enraptured by their navels and confined by a view that ends with their own toes. To me, the greatest pleasure of writing is not what it’s about, but the inner music that words make. So, of course, if there are other senses, engage them.” He takes a pose that looks suspiciously like contemplation then continues, “I would put emotion in that category. Good writing should appeal to that which is inside a person.”

Papa says, “Emotion is not a sense; it is a mental state.”

Truman waves a hand, “Whatever. It is a thing I do, and sometimes when I think how good my book can be, I can hardly breathe.”

Smiling wickedly, Edgar says, “I think we all pray that someday you may write such a piece, and if it is good enough, the condition will be permanent.

Mary puts her hand to her mouth. Whether it is in shock or to stifle a thither, I can not tell, but she says, “Whether we add Edgar’s senses to those of Bram’s and toss in Truman’s emotions for good measure, I hear no outcry that using them to elicit a response from the reader is venal.”

Papa says, “Of course not. But I agree with Truman, there.” He pokes the cigar in Truman’s direction. “Rearrange the rules to suit your needs. It is what keeps writing fresh.”

Truman, preening at the citation, says, “When God hands you a gift, he also hands you a whip; and the whip is intended for self-flagellation solely. Writing stopped being fun when I discovered the difference between good writing and bad and, even more terrifying, the difference between it and true art. And after that, the whip came down.”

Bram says, “Mary’s question was, what are the senses that ought occupy us as we scribble. This list is good, though I confess I do not fully understand this sense of space or balance of which Edgar speaks. Yet there is another which we have omitted. What of the other-worldly sense, the one some call the sixth sense, that which is beyond that which can be appreciated by the other senses, that which is beyond the individual or the collective self?”

“What of it?” Truman asks, though the quietness of his tone italicizes the malice of his reply.

“There is such a thing,” says Edgar. “I have felt it often, and it haunts my writing. When I wrote Eureka, I described, “’a shadowy and fluctuating domain, now shrinking, now swelling, with the vacillating energies of the imagination.’ Only recently has it been given a name, ‘electroreception,’ a sense discovered in animals, but not usually found in humans.”

Papa’s eyebrows caterpillar together, “Is that where an animal, say a dog, senses aspects of a human’s condition? How they know when you are ill or happy?”

Mary claps her hands and emits a gleeful trill. “I too, felt it when I wrote of Victor’s creation, though at the time it had no name. It was part of what I tried to convey, the electricity that permeates our existence.”

Edgar nods solemnly and has that look of his, suggesting he is elsewhere.
Truman sneering, points a question at Edgar, “Are you from California?”

We are all puzzled, but Edgar cocks his head, waiting for what he seems to know will be a jibe.

Truman, smarmy look on his face, says, “It’s a scientific fact that if you stay in California you lose one point of your IQ every year.”

Though no one utters a word, there is an electricity between the regulars that seems to say, it is good Truman does not often frequent these gatherings.

Note: Most of Truman’s observations are quotes from things he has said or written, and, as usual, seasoned to the taste of this writer.”

frank.writestuff@gmail.com
Friday, April 13, 2007

Frank T. Wydra

This afternoon the Gonquin glows. Al has turned up the lights and lit a fire to counter the storm. Weather seems to have driven folks inside, for the chatter is loud, and random spikes of laughter accent the noise. Uneasy laughter. Awkward laughter. Yet those at our table are reserved. Bram seems mellow, but Edgar is on edge. Storms do that to him.

Mary says, “This place seems different, today. Somehow, more tense.”

“It’s the storm,” Edgar says, “the lightning and wind put people on the cusp of madness.” As if he were confessing.

Bram laughs, “Dark and stormy night?”

Mary says, “In a deserted clearing.”

Papa says, “Location, you know, can be as powerful as any character in a story.”

Whether it is his mood or temperament, Edgar quibbles. “Nonsense. Characters have power, subtlety. And they are dynamic, subject to change as circumstance evolves. Not so with a story’s location. It is there, nothing more than a backdrop on the player’s stage.”

Mary, eyes wide, glances around the table, as if in disbelief at the words. “Edgar. How can you say that? Look at your FALL OF THE HOUSE OF USHER. How, if not the place being a character, would you categorize that setting.”

“Dear lady,” Edgar affecting a bored look, “you presume too much. I wrote the piece, and I would know if my intent were to make the setting a character.”

“No, no, no,” Papa hammers the table, almost upsetting his Daiquiri. “There is no doubt you are a great writer, perhaps the most versatile in this group, but even you, dear Edgar, are not in complete control of your work. None of us is. There are subtleties that flow below the surface of your mind. Things that you do instinctively, not recognizing their effect. It is that which makes your voice, your stories, distinctive.

“Nonsense,” Edgar giving short shrift to the notion.

The background noise grows louder as if acting the chorus to Edgar’s assertion, and I cannot help but feel that every ear is tuned to the table.

Bram says, “In a deft hand, location might well be considered a character. It can influence the outcome of the story and act as surrogate protagonist or antagonist. It can take on personality. It can evoke emotion. Are not these the things we expect of characters?”

Edgar rolls his eyes, as if dealing with a dunce and says, “What you forget is that location lacks motive. Motive is what separates humans from the pack. It is the essence of character.”

Mary snickers, then says, “Edgar, at times I think you delight in being contrary. All animals have motive. It is not a trait reserved for humans. The bear that swipes a salmon from the stream is motivated by hunger. The bitch that fetches a stick is motivated by a pat on the head.”

Papa says, “In my OLD MAN AND THE SEA, the marlin, sharks and Gulf Stream were, to me, all characters. They propelled Santiago. Without them it would have been impossible to show his indomitable will or his self-destructive pride.”

“With all due respect, for it was your story,” Edgar says, “I think you confuse symbol with character.”

Papa’s cheeks turn ruddy and his voice solemn, “Was it not a moment ago I heard you say of USHER that you would know if it were your intent to make setting a character? It seems to me that now it is you who are presumptuous.”

Al steps into what threatens to become a fray. “What say, another round? On the house? And does it seem a bit hot in here? Shall I let the fire die?”

Bram flutters a hand, signaling the man away.

Mary says, “There are many novels in which the setting, the place, the location—call it what you will—are so crucial to the development of the story that if they are not a character in the fullest sense of the word, they are so nearly so that they must be considered as such. Imagine a GONE WITH THE WIND and you see Tara. Imagine HUCKLEBERRY FINN and you are on the Mississippi.” The book and the location are inseparable.”

“Or,” Bram says, “NEUROMANCER and the computer.” Winking at Janet and George who are in the huddle, “Not to mention CHILD OF THE LIGHT and pre-war Berlin. The place in each of these drives the action. They are as much a character as any of the other players.

“But,” says I, “does it matter? I mean, who really cares?”

I have never seen Bram’s brows arch as high. “Young man,” he says, “I care. And I care not only as a writer but also as a reader. When you understand that the location is an integral part of the story, then you give it the respect it deserves. You develop it, nurture it, feed it as you would any other character. You give it nuance and meaning. You do not let it molder in the background.”

Edgar goes, “Pshhht.” Then says, “What goes into a story is what is needed. Neither more, nor less. If a location or setting is important, the competent writer will give it the depth it deserves. If it is immaterial to the tale, it will be treated lightly.”

“My dear Edgar,” Mary says, “Is that not how you would treat a character?”

He closes his eyes, seeming to suffer silently, before saying, “Were a place a character, I would need to give it a voice.”

“Ah,” says Papa, “a place can have a voice. Think of the wonderful descriptive rhythms Berendt used to portray Savannah in MIDNIGHT IN THE GARDEN OF GOOD AND EVIL.”

A smirk on Edgar’s face. “Considering it was non-fiction, which is not what we are discussing.”

“True,” Papa says, “but the piece read like fiction and there are some who say—given the subjective portrayals he employed—that, had the names of the players been altered, as was done in the movie, it could have been a fiction. But put that aside and consider Michener’s body of work from THE SOURCE to MEXICO or Rutherfurd’s British books, all with a place as the central character and an unmistakable voice. Come now, Edgar, you must concede the point.”

“I,” Edgar, draining his glass, says, “concede nothing.”

Nor, would any of us who know him, expect less.”

frank.writestuff@gmail.com

Tuesday, March 13, 2007

Frank T. Wydra

There is a notable buzz around the table today. All the regulars—Mary, Edgar, Bram, Papa, and I–are here. Bram started the chatter when he said, “there is this writer, a Rick Steinberg, who posited in a recent posting that, ‘The first responsibility of the writer is to be understood.’ And, to make his point, the man used me as an example.”

Mary says, “I remember that. He implied that you felt pain when your Count, rather than Victorian morality, was vilified.”

“Exactly,” Bram says.

“Ah, yes,” says Edgar, “caused a bit of a stir around that literary circle. Most agreed with his premise, but I, for one, have difficulty with it.”

“How so?” Papa says. “I have always been an advocate of clear writing, writing that people can understand.”

“I agree,” Mary says. “What good is writing when it can not be understood?”

Edgar, curmudgeon that he is, leans back in his chair, as if relishing the challenge. Raising his hand, he signals Al to bring another round. Smiling his wolf’s smile, he says, “I find no fault with clarity. What I question is the canon that it is the first responsibility. Without a message, understanding matters little. It is no more than gibberish.”

“Well, now,” says Papa, “the message is a given. Something that is, well, understood.”

Bram says, “Is it? As Mary so aptly said, messages can be misinterpreted.”

Al arrives with a fresh round and stands a moment, listening, before dispensing the drinks.

“I hope,” Edgar says, “that you are not implying that Bram’s writing was unclear. I, for one, found it a most accessible book, though I will admit the style was different.”

Papa’s back seems to stiffen. “I think you misunderstood what I said. What is implied is that there is a message, not what that message is.”

Al says, “”I have read many books that seem to have no message. I read for entertainment, for escape, not to be burdened by some writer’s philosophy.”

Mary, smiling sweetly at Al as he places a sherry before her, says, “Philosophy. Yes. I think that is what separates the craftsman from the artist. There are many who can turn a pretty phrase, even some who can write entertainments, but how many writers have the talent–or inclination–to add a second layer to their work, one which represents their view of the world? It is there that the message is often fogged by the surface story. Take Melville’s Billy Budd. On the surface, it is an entertaining story of oppression at sea. But at the next level it is a commentary on the nature of good and evil. The surface story itself is well written, it communicates. It is, as Steinberg admonishes, understandable. But what of the second story? That which is hidden at the next level? Is that, too, understandable to the reader who does not probe its depth?”

“Excellent example,” Bram says. “And appropriate in that Budd, because of his speech impediment, is unable to communicate, thus strikes down his accuser. Yes, yes, yes. It brings into focus the conundrum Steinberg poses. It is easy to confuse style with substance, to assume that where there is eloquence of voice or density of prose meaning lurks below, when, in fact, there is nothing more than vapor.

Papa says, “I think you ask too much of the writer if you expect each and every one to layer their story with meaning.”

“And yet,” Edgar says, is that not what great writing is about, creating through words a kaleidoscope of meaning? Turn it one way and one truth is revealed. Turn it another and a new perception emerges. Does it not require both a philosopher and a poet to write such work?”
And I say, “But not all writers aspire to greatness. Some want only to be published, to prove to themselves that it can be done. Others write because it is a job, a livelihood. Still others for recognition or the admiration of their peers.”

Papa says, “I can not imagine a writer who does not aspire to greatness. No matter how clumsily they drop words on paper, deep within is a voice singing of immortality. And, surely, except for those few who happen upon a large audience, there are easier ways to earn a livelihood. No, for the every-writer amongst us, it is the lottery of greatness that drives them.”

“Well then,” Bram says, “from that it follows that all writers must have, as their first responsibility, some message they wish to convey.” Gesturing grandly, “Some here call that a philosophy, but it could as well be a political statement, an observation on the human condition, a commentary on the vagaries of nature, or any other message the writer seeks to communicate, what some might term an essential truth. Can we agree on that?”

Edgar says, “I think it is axiomatic. In even the most widely read fictions, there are underlying philosophical themes. Twain in Pudd’nhead Wilson, and his other work, tackles the question of nature versus nurture. Lee’s Mockingbird is about justice. Even today, LeCarre’s continuing theme is the perfidy of large organizations, and Crichton,” a bow to Mary, “not unlike your work, Madame, warns against science run amuck. Even Steinberg in his excellent book, Gemini Man, philosophizes on the direction of evolution and its impact on humanity. And yet, I am hesitant to put a stake in the ground,” a smile at Bram, “proclaiming any responsibility to be prime.”

Papa says, “Come now, there must be rules. Else anarchy will reign. Writing understandable work seems a sensible rule.”

Edgar shrugs, “What we do is art, why not give anarchy a chance. Joyce’s Ulysses has been maligned, and yet it has an audience. Some have called Gibson’s Neuromancer unintelligible, but it is a classic. Even Sullivan’s Harry Moon and Water Wolf are considered dense by some; others revel in the wordplay. Who understood Catcher In The Rye on first reading? How accessible is A Canticle for Leibowitz? So, who is to say, there must be rules? As artists, we, each in our own way, make the rules. Readers will applaud or ignore us as they see fit.”

There is silence around the table. It is an unusual sound.

After a moment Bram says, “As Edgar says, my book, Dracula, was different. No, not its storyline, though that, too was unique in its time, but in the way I wrote it. It was an epistolary novel, a series of letters, telegrams, and the like, unusual in its day. So unlike my other work. Yet, it is the one for which I am remembered. What says that about style? Perhaps what Edgar says echoes Shakespeare, ‘this above all, to thine own self be true.’ If there is a first responsibility of writers, should that not be it?”

Mary says, “If we must do Hamlet, let it be philosophical. ‘To be, or not to be… …ay, there’s the rub; for in that sleep of death what dreams may come?’ Is that not what we do? Put dreams to word? Is that not our first responsibility?”

“Or,” says I, “’There is nothing either good or bad, but thinking makes it so.’”

And Al, always on the prowl for an extra buck, says, “’ My favorite Hamlet is, ‘Drink deep ere you depart.’”

frank.writestuff@gmail.com
Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Frank T. Wydra

Mary, always the most effervescent of those around the table, clapped her hands at the sight of the newcomers. “Chucky, how delightful! You’re just the person we need for this discussion.”

The bearded Chuck Dickens, swept off his beaver hat and made a gracious bow. “My dear Miss Shelly, the delight is all mine.” Rising, he said, “And I have brought Eric with me.”

There, in the flesh, was Eric Blair, known to most as George Orwell, an irregular visitor to the Gonquin Table. Eric raised a hand to all and took a seat next to me. Edgar, and Bram lifted a glass to the newcomers, and Papa, most likely in consideration of Eric’s consumption, extinguished his omnipresent cigar.

Al, the Gonquin’s owner, said, “All due respects to the rest of the gang, here, if anyone knows how to name characters, it’s Chuck Dickens. What can I get you boys?”

“Lord bless you!” said Chuck, “a man must take the fat with the lean; that’s what he must make up his mind to, in this life.” Clearly, he thought well of himself.

“Al’s quite correct,” Mary said. “What we were talking about as you arrived was the importance of finding the right name for a character, one that personifies his or her essence. You, with characters named Scrooge, the Artful Dodger, Pip, and Mr. Bumble, exemplify the successful writer in this regard.”

Papa said, “Not to mention Cratchet, Oliver Twist, or Tiny Tim.”

“Well,” said Edgar, “we are now in the middle of it. For my money a solid plot is more important than picking pretty names.”

Eric, drink in hand, raised it to Edgar and said, “It heartens me to hear a man speak his mind. If liberty means anything at all, it means the right to tell people what they do not want to hear.”

This, of course, brought a grin to Edgar’s face for he was usually the lonely curmudgeon opposing the rest of us.

Bram said, “Certainly a good plot is needed. But, given that, names count. If Huckleberry Finn were Humphrey Ford, would he be a rapscallion? If Hannibal Lecter were Harry Luce, would the fright be the same? If Sam Spade were Sylvester Sapp would he be as dark? Not for my money. It is the diligence, the creativity of the writer finding the right name that cements the character in the reader’s mind.”

Eric coughed, and said, “Sometimes the first duty of intelligent men is the restatement of the obvious. Some, like me, try to hide their identity with a pseudonym, so why would we do less in our stories?”

Chuck said, “You, my friend, are too serious. Take another glass of wine, and excuse my mentioning that society as a body does not expect one to be so strictly conscientious in emptying one’s glass, as to turn it bottom upwards with the rim on one’s nose.”

Eric shot back, “To see what is in front of one’s nose needs a constant struggle. In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.”

Chuck’s palm slapped the table. “Talk, talk, talk. NOW, what I want is, Facts. Teach these boys and girls nothing but Facts. Facts alone are wanted in life. Plant nothing else, and root out everything else. You can only form the minds of reasoning animals upon Facts: nothing else will ever be of any service to them. This is the principle on which I bring up my own children, and this is the principle on which we must discuss this issue.”

Al, alerted by the sound of hand on wood, hurried to the table. “Sounds like someone ordered another round.”

Chuck, sheepish at his outburst, twirled a finger acknowledging the drinks were on him. Given his royalties, no one objected.

Mary, ever the peacemaker, said, “Well, then, let’s look at some facts. This last year two authors topped the charts. Dan Brown with his DaVinci Code and Joanne Rowling with her Harry Potter books.

“Ah yes,” said Bram “Rowling takes great care in the naming process. Harry’s nemesis is Voldemort with its suggestion of volatile death. As sinister name as was ever coined. Draco Malfoy, Harry’s antagonist, combines hints of Dracula and maliciousness, and, of course, his father Lucien, could be a reincarnation of the devil, Lucifer. Add to them other dark characters dubbed Severus Snape, Slytherin Salazar, Delores Umbridge, and of course, Scabbers, the rat, and the point is made.

“Conversely, Albus Dumbledore, whose name suggests both humbleness and gold, heads Hogwarts. Hermione Granger, namesake of Hermes, the messenger of the Gods, is one of Harry’s close friends. Other sympathetic characters are John Remus Lupine, a werewolf with the name of Rome’s founder.

“These are names that will elicit images into the twilight of a reader’s time. Mention a Malfoy, Snape, Dumbledore, or Granger and they will connect across the timelines of memory and refresh tired synapses.

Chuck sent out a gleeful, “Ride on! Rough-shod if need be, smooth-shod if that will do, but ride on! Ride on over all obstacles, and win the race.”

Eric gave him a disdainful look. “It seems all names are equal but some are more equal than others.”

Papa, picking up Bram’s thread, said, “Dan Brown, in The Da Vinci Code seems less concerned with naming, as if he pulled them from a dictionary of baby names giving a nod only to nationality. The male protagonist is Robert Langdon and the French female protagonist is Sophie Neveu. Good serviceable names, that evoke no sense of personality. The antagonist is Leigh Teabing, a wealthy, driven, cripple. They are simply tags upon which to hang some characteristics. The names are not memorable, and had not Brown sold three and a half million of the book, it might have been forgotten the day after being read.”

“Yes,” Edgar said, but you miss the point. “You admit the man sold millions without resorting to tricks. It was the plot that did it. You can not refute that fact. He had no need for pretty symbolisms in the names.

“Yeah,” Al said, “there was enough of that in the book.” While we appreciate Al’s comments, his arguments are not often given weight.”

Eric said, “Bravo, Edgar. It is also true that one can write nothing readable unless one constantly struggles to efface one’s own personality. Good prose is like a windowpane.”

Chuck said, “Accidents will occur in the best-regulated families. It could be that the man was in the right place at the right time with the right story.”

“Or,” Mary said, “That the Doubleday’s P.R. department went into overdrive. Rowling, on the other hand, built her readership by word of mouth, kids talking to kids about a good read. The test is, which book will be remembered a generation from now? And, will the naming of the characters keep the book fresh in our minds. Good naming rivets the character to his persona. It provides a hook that capsulates the person for the reader. It is what keeps generations coming back to a Dickens.

Chuck smiled as he always did when praise came his way. “She has produced some delightful pieces, herself, sir. And it would be remiss for me to omit that legions still read her work as well as that of my friend Bram, there. And what have they at their core if not a memorable character with an unforgettable name.”

Eric shook his head. “What can you do against the lunatic who is more intelligent than yourself, who gives your arguments a fair hearing and then simply persists in his lunacy?”

And, as so often the case around this table, so it went, neither side bending, neither side breaking.

Note: Most of Chuck and Eric’s observations are quotes from things they have said or written, seasoned to the taste of this writer.

“Doublethink means the power of holding two contradictory beliefs in one’s mind simultaneously, and accepting both of them.”

George Orwell (Eric Arthur Blair)

frank.writestuff@gmail.com

Saturday, January 13, 2007

Frank T. Wydra

Papa is on his second daiquiri when Al sidles up and says to the table at large, “Hey, I see where yer pal, Skipp, is fornicating with the movie business. You think he’s serious?” John Skipp, a story teller of the unplugged variety, had recently written an essay, actually more of a dump, on his newfound romance with the movie-making craft, and this, I suppose, is what Al is talking about.

The Table is a little skimpy this afternoon with only the regulars crowding its apron. Bram, eyes bloodshot from his late night writing, says, “Smart move. Back in my time the pen was mighty, but now if it’s not on the screen, it’s not happening. Still, the man’s craft is writing. In movie-making he’s no more than a novice.”

Papa says, “We are all apprentices in this craft. No one ever becomes a master. But,” Papa looks to the ceiling and his eyes dew, as if he is remembering a better time, “but, my friend, you are right; things are different now. Back when we were scribbling, it was possible to change the world with a book. No more.”

“Rubbish” Edgar says. “A well written book with a significant message will always turn heads. And a mind flipped on its side is the only fulcrum needed to move the world.”

“That’s true,” Mary says. “Books have always been a catalyst for change. Just remember, Harriet Stowe’s little book. Why, Lincoln even said to her, ‘So you’re the little woman who wrote the book that started this Great War!’”

“Yes, yes, Bram says, “but that was before the movies.”

Edgar says, “What about Orwell’s Animal Farm? It started the tide turning on communism. Or Sinclair’s, The Jungle? That book rewrote the rules on packing pork. And, clearly, both of them were in print during the golden age of the silver screen. No, no, Bram, you and Papa are wrong on this.”

Al, sensing a good fight, is enjoying this. And, knowing how libation loosens the tongue, he signals a waiter to bring a round on the house.

Papa, hands clenched in front of him, elbows on the table, seems about to cleave the point with his co-joined fist. His voice is stern, as if he is lecturing to miscreants. “That was then. Now is now, and you are out of touch. Stories on paper are no longer sufficient to move the mass of minds necessary to effect meaningful change. You can talk, if you will, about writing with passion, but passion alone is not sufficient when people do not read. Nor can it compensate for diminished attention spans or the lack of critical thinking. Name me, if you can, one fiction in the last quarter century that has so captured the imagination of the American people that it became the yeast of change.” He scans the table holding, in turn, the eyes of us seated here with his, waiting for a response. It is a fierce, challenging look, one worthy of a hunter who has stalked lion in the bush.

Uncowed Mary says, “The Silent Spring.”

Bram snorts and says, “Though many think Carson’s book ought to have been labeled a work of fiction, it was not.”

Papa, smiling, says, I too will concede that that book and a handful of others—Friedan’s, Feminine Mystique; Haley’s Roots; Nader’s, Unsafe at Any Speed—changed life as we know it. But, as Bram so aptly notes, they are not works of fiction. They are not stories. They are at worst philosophies and at best, science. What we around this table are about is fiction, made-up tales designed to showcase an elemental truth.

“Well, then,” Edgar says, If it’s fiction you want, there is no end to stories that have changed the way we view the world. Try Burgess’s Clockwork Orange, it turned public opinion against behavioral conditioning or Crichton’s Jurassic Park which showed the dangers of cloning or–.”

Mary uncharacteristically interrupts, “Or Irving’s Cider House Rules where he made a strong case for abortion.

Edgar, eyebrows raised at the interruption, finishes his sentence, “Or LeCarre’s Constant Gardener where he takes the pharmaceutical industry to task. For my money that book was a kissing cousin of The Jungle.”

Al who has not ventured from the table says, “You know, of course, that John LeCarre is David Cornwall’s pseudonym.”

Papa gives him a condescending glance, then says to those of us at the table, “These books you name make my point for not one of them stood alone. What gave them their persuasive power, their ability to imprint their message on the consciousness of a people, was their transformation from print to celluloid. Each of them was turned into a film, and it was the movie—rather than the book–that turned heads. I would argue that without that transformation the messages–the essential truth written by the author–would have lain fallow, as have the thousands of other messages penned in the last quarter century.

Bram says, “Which takes us back to Skipp and his new found love. It is my opinion that that young man, whatever his other flaws, has touched the Rosetta. Whatever our motivation, we, as writers, seek to share our truths with the world. Mary, Edgar, in our time the only medium we had to convey our message was the written word printed on paper. But, as the quirky McLuhan said, ‘The Medium is the Massage.’”

Again Al adds an un-asked-for footnote, “McLuhan originally intended the word to be message, but the typesetter erred.”

Bram, ignoring the comment, continues, “Now, the medium has changed. Books are convenient receptacles for a story, but so is a script. One of the most compelling messages ever filmed was The China Syndrome, which, of course, was never published in book form. Yet the film alone, so closely was it linked to the disaster at Three Mile Island, prejudiced the nation against nuclear power. So, what I’m saying is, that, today, if you wish to impress an idea upon a populace, you must somehow capture it visually. You must make a movie.”

Mary, brow furrowed, says, “Are you saying that books are passé? That novelists will become scriptwriters?”

Papa shakes his platinum-furred head, “No, no, I don’t think he’s saying that at all. There are many nuances and subtleties, interior dialogs and atmospherics, that the writer playing with language can weave into a novel. Often these can not be transmitted to the screen, thus they provide a special enjoyment for those who take the time to read. The novel, however, is no longer the end. It is now the starting point. The reading population is dwindling, just as the audience for stage plays has shriveled. The book market remains, but it is shrinking. On the other hand, those who watch movies, whether the screen be large or small, is exploding. So, as Bram says, if your wish is to have your idea penetrate the consciousness of the masses, you must see that your work moves from book to screen.

Edgar in a rare concession says, “Well, this Skipp may be right. Though it is old, most of my work has been converted to film.” He smiles, “I confess that from time to time I enjoy watching this piece or that.”

“So, too, have mine,” says Mary.

“As all of ours have,” says Bram. “I suspect that without that transfer they would be forgotten, as many of my works have been.”

Edgar, now frowning, says, “Film is a cozy abstraction, yet I can not but feel as though something valuable, some artistic core, will be lost.”

Papa nods. “And, perhaps, something gained.”

frank.writestuff@gmail.com
Wednesday, December 13, 2006

Frank T. Wydra

The regulars, crowded around the table, are bantering back and forth when Mary Shelley says to Edgar, “Good stories tell a tale while great stories reveal a truth.

“Ah,” Edgar says, “Truths are fickle. One person’s truth is another person’s fiction. It’s that simple. So, I find it impossible to believe that all great stories carry some ponderable truth. In fact, I would argue that often the purpose of great literature is to do no more than entertain. What could be better than an interesting story, well told?”

The table is crowded today, both Sam Clemens and Oscar Wilde making an infrequent appearance. Oscar, not one to let a comment pass without a quip says, “Edgar, my good man, you overstate it. The truth is rarely pure and never simple. As you know, modern life would be very tedious if it were either, and modern literature is a complete impossibility! Which is to say, I hate vulgar realism in literature. The man who could call a spade a spade should be compelled to use one. It is the only thing he is fit for.”

Sam slaps his thigh and gawks at Oscar, saying to Edgar, “Having Oscar at this table is like sitting next to the man who carries a cat by the tail. We learn something we can learn in no other way. And,” now winking at Mary, “so you know, between us, we cover all knowledge; he knows all that can be known and I know the rest. So, if there is truth in literature, we will find it.”

Mary, knowing that when the two get together they will try to best each other, is not put off by their antics. She says to the table at large, “I am serious, here. The difference between good storytelling and great literature is the revelation of an essential truth in the later. I challenge anyone here to name a great fiction that does not have at its core the examination of an elemental truth, things such as insights into the immutable forces of nature or the human condition.

Al, owner of the Gonquin, hovering, checking our drink status, says, “Hey, that’s easy and right back at ya, Mary. How about that book you wrote, the one where the doc creates the monster. Good yarn, sci-fi and all, but no elemental truth.”

Eyes roll. Al serves great drinks at reasonable prices and makes sure that our table is always ready, but sometimes his mouth manacles his brain.

Uncharacteristically, Edgar salvages the situation. “Perhaps,” he says, “you need to give the book a closer read. As I recall, the core of Mary’s Frankenstein was the consequence that befalls man when he tries to imitate God. You may or may not believe in a God, but that does not take away from what she posits, which, if I may speak for her, seems to be the truth she is illustrating.”

Mary gives him an appreciative nod and a smile. It is not often they agree.

The inimitable Oscar says, ”Nicely done, Edgar. One can always be kind to people about whom one cares nothing. It shows, I think that if one tells a truth, one is sure, sooner or later, to be found out.”

Bram says, “All this talk, yet no one has met your challenge. Let me, therefore, suggest that today’s popular fiction is often no more than characters and plot, yet they garner literary prizes. Does that make them great fiction?”

Sam Clemens says, “Few things are harder to put up with than the annoyance of a good example. So, give me a for instance.”

And Bram says, “Well, sir, I’m sure you would acknowledge that the books earning the Pulitzer are candidates for greatness. It is a prestigious literary prize. So, what about that fellow Michener, the one who wrote the travel books? Where is the great truth in travelogues? Yet he won the Pulitzer for fiction.”

Now it’s easy to be intimidated around this table with the likes of Shelley, Stoker, Poe, Clemens, and Wilde trading quips. But, I’ve always liked Michener and since he’s not here at the moment, someone has to defend him, so I take a sip of Jack and say, “Hold on.” It’s not often that I turn heads, but this is one of those moments where expectant eyes stare at me. I realize that most around the table no longer read as they did when they were writing, and Michener’s works may have escaped their attention. “Old Jimmie the Mich got his Pulitzer for Tales of the South Pacific, a book that explored racial prejudice. He followed up on the theme in Sayonara and again in Hawaii. Not a lot different than Sam, there, in Huckleberry Finn. So, I think you have to admit that the truth he was laying out in his books was that prejudice is insidious, it warps perspective. By no means a travelogue.”

“So,” says a smarmy Bram, “are you saying these books are classics?”
“I knew it,” Sam says, “A classic –that’s something that everybody wants to have read and nobody wants to read.”

“No,” I say, “Perhaps not classics, but still great books. Great writing, which is what Mary was talking about, tells a story well yet has something more, which is an important truth at its core. Think of Orwell and Animal Farm or Sinclair and The Jungle or our own Papa’s Old Man And The Sea.”

Papa waves a hand dismissing the notion but his bearded smile betrays his pride.
“I admit,” says Oscar, “that it is a terrible thing for a man to find out suddenly that all his life he has been speaking nothing but the truth.

“The problem,” Papa Hemingway says, “is that it’s hard to tell if a book has staying power until it has some age on it. And Mary, with all due respect, the great books are those that are read long after the writer turns to dust.”

Mary wrinkles her nose at the notion. “Not always. Sometimes a great book is one that raises an issue and then fades. Look at Harriet Stowe’s little book. Some people say its portrayal of slavery launched the Civil War. Though many have heard about the book today, I doubt it is widely read. And those who do read it now tend to condemn it for the stereotypes it drew, forgetting that the book helped end an outrageous practice. Yet it was a book with an elemental truth at its core and an effect that freed millions.

Oscar says, “Ah, Mary, you are equating good literature with morality. The books that the world calls immoral are the books that show the world its own shame. There is no such thing as a moral book or an immoral book. Books are well written or badly written. That is all.”

Before Mary can answer, Sam cut in, “What nonsense. Often the surest way to convey misinformation is to tell the strict truth. What counts is how you dress up the truth. Clothes make the man. Naked people have little or no influence in society. So my dear Oscar, while I grant that the telling is important, I agree with Mary that it is the sharing of a truth that makes the book. The problem as I see it, though, is that most writers regard truth as their most valuable possession, and therefore are most economical in its use.”

“You know,” Mary says, a wistful smile settling on her face, “I think I have won the day. When Sam agrees with me and when Oscar can offer no more than quips, it cements my position. I’ve often felt myself the revolutionary thus I can take comfort in Orwell’s words ‘In a time of universal deceit, telling the truth is a revolutionary act.’ It is, I think, the goal all writers should seek.”

“Aye,” says Sam with a wink at Mary, “But no real gentleman will tell the naked truth in the presence of ladies.

Not to out done, Oscar raises a glass and says, “I do not approve of anything that tampers with natural ignorance. Ignorance is like a delicate exotic fruit; touch it and the bloom is gone.”

We all laugh, knowing the man cannot bear to have been bested intellectually by a woman. But the deed is done, and he will have to live with it.

Note: Most of Oscar’s and Sam’s observations are quotes from things they have said or written, seasoned to the taste of this writer. As Stephen King said, “Fiction is the truth inside the lie.”

frank.writestuff@gmail.com
Monday, November 13, 2006

Frank T. Wydra

TGIFers crowd the Gonquin, but Al keeps our table open until we dribble in. Edgar, Bram, and Mary, the regulars, are there first. From the glass count, Edgar’s already on his second round. I sit down and order my Jack-on-the-rocks, and, before it arrives, Steve Crane slaps me on the back and takes the seat to my right ordering his whiskey, neat. Irving–somehow neither I nor the others can bring ourselves to call him Washington, so he answers to the last name—along with Papa come in, arms linked, arguing over the superstition surrounding the day.

Smile as bright as the full moon, Irving says,” Let’s put it to the group.” And Papa with his trademark laconic shrug agrees.

Al, seeing the newcomers, is there with their regular drinks, which is one of the things I like about the Gonquin; Al knows our tastes and caters to them. But, now, rather than retreat, Al hovers, waiting to hear the sides in this debate.

Papa, pointing a stubby finger, says, “I’m telling Irving, here, that today, Friday the thirteenth, has the reputation as a day of horror. No, he says, there is no more horror associated with this combination of day and date than with any other.”

Lanky Irving looks askance, “If you don’t mind, I will state my own case, which is that both the day, Friday, and the date, the thirteenth, have unlucky connotations. But luck, in my mind, is different from horror, which is a reaction or response, so a day and date can not, by themselves, represent horror.”

“Ah yes,” Steve chimes, “but can not a day be horrific? If so, what is being quibbled is nothing more than semantics.”

Irving gives him a look with just enough malice to suggest that he would willingly subject this Crane to the trials that befell Ichabod.

Mary, too, bristles. “I would think that, to us, semantics is everything.”

Bram says, “Actually, Friday and the thirteenth are linked together, in ways that foreshadow horror. The day itself, is named after Freya, the golden teared Norse Goddess of fertility.” He raised his eyebrows, “You see the connection, fertility and the lunar cycle of twenty-eight days, which, of course–”

Mary interrupting, “We get the point, Bram.”

Deterred, Bram continues, “Well, yes, and, as I was saying, legend has it that a dozen witches of the North met in a cemetery on Fridays–which was their black Sabbath–in the dark of the moon. On one such night Freya came down from her mountain and presented the group with a cat. To honor the occasion, the witches decreed that the number of witches required for a coven would be thirteen, their number that night plus Freya. So, if you associate witches with horror, then it is but a step to Friday the thirteenth being a day on which horrible things happen.”

Papa smiled, though it was not certain whether the cause was Bram’s point supporting his thesis or the Daiquiri he had just downed.

Steve says, “This discourse reminds me of my scribbling. Listen,” and he recites,

“Think as I think,” said a man,
Or you are abominably wicked;
You are a toad.”

And after I had thought of it,
I said, “I will, then, be a toad.”

There is laughter around the table. Except for Irving, who scowls and says, “Treat this lightly, if you will, but Mary said it best; words are what we are about. And when we accept a notion, build it into our prejudice, it flavors our perception of reality. Friday the thirteenth may be many things, but is not a day of horror. It commemorates no holocaust, forecasts no Armageddon. At best, it is a day where the squeamish are cautious, lest luck betray them. And Bram, Friday was named after Frigga, not Freya.

Bram raises his eyes to the ceiling. I assume it is for Irving’s new quibble.

Edgar, eyelids at half mast, raises a glass, “To Irving, the man has spine.”

Some of us take up the toast. Others, do not. The field, it seems, is evenly divided.

Mary says, “But what of luck? Why should this day presage luck, either good or bad?”

Al, who has been listening, surprises us by saying, “What I hear across the bar is that through history, both day and date have an unsavory reputation. Even Chaucer in his tale said, ‘And on a Friday fell all this mischance.” And there are those who consider thirteen as unlucky simply because that was the number attending Christ’s Last Supper. Now-a-days, many hotels skip thirteen when numbering floors. No other day of the week or date on the calendar has a similar distinction. But, in truth, the pairing of the two into significance is recent, sometime around the turn of the last century. Best I can tell, the earliest reference to the combination was in the New York Times, in 1908. But, say what you will, some people do, in fact suffer from paraskevidekatriaphobia.”

Open-mouthed, we look at our bartender. Who expected this of him? He smiles, asking, “Any one for another?”

Finally, I find my tongue. “You know, whenever the urban myth started, I think we’d all agree that today, at a minimum, Friday the thirteenth is considered an unlucky day. And, here I agree with Irving, luck—even bad luck–is different from horror. Luck is chance. It is random. It happens or it doesn’t. Horror, even horrific deeds, are not random chance, they manifest evil. We may experience horror as a result of bad luck, but I do not think horror can be associated with a day or date. Rather, it flows from an event. I suspect, Friday the thirteenth’s reputation morphed into horror with the release of the slasher movie, ‘Friday the Thirteenth,’ where Jason has an unlucky accident and his mother avenges his death.”

Now the table looks at me as if I were Al. I find refuge in the Jack.

“Not just the movies,” Edgar says, “If you have 13 letters in your name, you will have the devil’s luck. Remember Jack the Ripper, Charles Manson, Jeffrey Dahmer, Theodore Bundy and Albert De Salvo? Count them. All have 13 letters in their names.” He rolls his eyes. “They epitomize horror. More than coincidence, I’d say.”

“Steve says, “I’m still not getting it. Who really cares?

Papa says, “You know, you may be right. Luck, horror, what’s important is the story.”

Irving says, “I care. Distinctions are important. The Bard says it for me, ‘This above all. To thine own self be true. And it must follow, as the night the day, thou canst not then be false to any man.’ How can you write a story that does not share a truth? If we delude ourselves to the nature of things, where is truth?”

Heads nod. Chins shake. Glasses are raised. Words flow. And so it goes. Sometimes it seems that around the table it is more important to explore an idea rather than reach a conclusion. That is the horror of a table such as this. Just my luck to have a seat.

frank.writestuff@gmail.com
Friday, October 13, 2006

Frank T. Wydra

Edgar, Bram, Mary, and I are sitting at our usual table at Al’s. The others either haven’t arrived, or aren’t coming. But, no matter. Four, plus Al who sometimes chimes, is enough for a conversation. I’m sipping my Jack-on-the-rocks, Mary’s got her sherry, the others, eclectic in their drink, have fizzes of some sort. The place has its normal happy-hour buzz with the after-workers stopping for a quick one before catching the train.

I say, “What I’m wondering, is why, given that the bloggers on this site are talented story tellers, why has this blog gravitated toward an essay format?”

Bram says, “You think?”

Mary says, “Oh, yeah. My guess would be more than half of the postings are essays.”

Edgar, waving a paw at us, says, “I think you are mistaken. They tell stories, here. Look at that piece Steinberg did on his Mother. As good a story as I’ve ever seen. It had great characterization, a hint of mystery, a solid theme, and enough emotion to make Annabel Lee weep.”

Al, checking to see if we were doing okay on the drinks, pipes, “Hey. I read that piece. It was good. He used literary sauce to flavor a plot point.” He laughs, “Kitchen talk.”

We look at Al. Waxing poetic is not his normal chatter. More often, it’s a grunt or a wink reinforcing some irreverent quip. But, hey, the Gonquin is Al’s bar; who’s to argue?

Edgar, who likes his juice, raises two fingers, signaling Al to bring him a double of whatever it is he’s drinking.

Mary, always quick to pick up, says, “Al makes the point. Stories like that are rare enough to be remembered. Given this group, they should be the norm.”

Always the toady at this table, I say, “Mary’s right. I did a count, and last month only about a two thirds of the pieces on SU were essays or commentaries. You know, short compositions presenting the personal view of the author. Not that I have anything against essays, but, y’know, an essay’s not a story.

Bram says, “Yes, I see that. But, so what? An essay is just as good as a story. Sometimes better. Depends on the subject.”
Edgar says. “They’re different. There is no rule that the post has to be an essay or a story. It can be anything. The whole purpose is to illuminate, to share. The format is up to the author. Besides, essays are wonderful instruments with which to make an objective point.”

I say, “Of course they are. But that’s not the point–”

“Well, what is the point?” Edgar cuts in.

I take a sip of the Jack, then place the glass precisely in the center of the cocktail napkin before answering. “The point is that the people who are writing these posts are story tellers. Damned good storytellers. Somewhere in their troubled past they have come to the conclusion that the best way to convey a message is in story form, in other words by laying out a series of fictional or true events. It is what they do. They are not essayists. They are story tellers.”

Edgar says, “Repeating a point does not make it stronger.”

I think of how many times he used “Nevermore,” but say nothing.

He continues, but now there is an edge to his voice, “Are you saying story tellers can’t be essayists? If you are, then I have a problem with the notion. I, for one, have successfully written in several styles including both fiction and the essay.”

Mary, laying a hand on Edgar’s arm, says, “Calm down, Love. That’s not what he’s saying at all. And we all know you’re talented, you don’t have to impress us.” She rolls her eyes. “Sometimes you’re like my husband, the way he goes on about poetry. But the truth of the matter is, if Percy were on this blog, his postings would have both allegory and meter.”

Edgar politely, but conspicuously, moves his arm from under Mary’s hand. He and Percy have different thoughts on how poetry should be written.

Mary raises her eyebrows for the rest of us. It is not often a man rebuffs her touch.

I, perhaps to break the developing tension, perhaps because it is helps make the point I have introduced, say, “When the bloggers post stories—versus essays or commentaries–it seems, at least to me, that they are at the height of their power. Edgar, you’ve already mentioned one of Steinberg’s stories, but he also did the piece, Three O’clock In The Morning, which was in a story format.”

Bram says, “Wonderful piece. Of course, I’m drawn to anyone writing about the middle of the night.”

“And what about Wes Ochse’s Coming Of Age, the piece he did about the evolution of his son?”

Mary, hand now daintily holding the sherry glass, says, “I liked that one. There was such longing, such warmth, he so much wanted his son to become a man. I could identify with that.”

“Or Skipp’s On Broken Teeth And Salvaged Dreams, where for the pain of a tooth he sells his firstborn. Was that a story, or what?”

Edgar says, “It seems as though you are contradicting yourself. Look at all the excellent posts that are being published in story format.”

I smile a satisfied smile, for my point is made. “Yes, but there are thirty posts a month and only a few tell a story. Only these few string together events while developing a theme, a character, an emotional framework. These sparse examples are memorable not only because they display superb craftsmanship, but because of the format in which they are presented. They are stories. Not essays. They show rather than tell.

“Edgar says, “I found most, if not all of the essays on this site to be both informative and well written. I do not see the point in dictating a format.”

Mary rolls her eyes again. “Edgar, sometimes you are so dense. He’s not dictating a format, only making an observation, as you did in that poem of yours, Valley Of Unrest.”

“That,” says Edgar brightly, “was a wonderful poem.” His back straightens and he starts, “Once it smiled a silent dell, Where the people did not dwell—“

Mary quickly stops him, knowing, as we all do, that he will not stop until he has wrung the last tear from the piece. “Yes, yes, it was. So, will you not concede that in making their points, Storytellers are best served by telling stories?”

He shakes his head, with, I think, a hint of melancholy, “No. No. I will not concede that. Sometimes a story is best. Sometimes a poem. Sometimes an essay. Sometimes a rant. Sometimes a commentary. It depends.”

Bram tilting his head, as if trying to phantom the darkness of Edgar’s mind, says “Upon what?”

But Edgar does not answer. He has drifted to that special world he alone owns.

And so it goes, we sit around the table, drink our poison, raise these notions, flap them in the wind to free the wrinkles, but in the end, it is just talk, glorious talk that serves no purpose but to enlighten. But, outside, it is a dark world.

frank.writestuff@gmail.com
September 13, 2006

Frank T. Wydra

It’s one of those suicide gray days for which February is famous. Outside, month old snow is etched with the black of week-old melt and the temperature hovers around twelve above. The sun rises after I do and sets before the gin and tonic are mixed.

Actually, it’s not. But if I let myself believe it was the midsummer, sunshine day it is, I would not be sitting here, hunched over my keyboard watching twelve point Times Roman ping my flatscreen.

Yet, in my fictional eye, it is that sunshiny day, and I am walking down a fictional dirt road with my fictional invention, Joe. As we walk, a chipmunk scurries across the road, and a bluejay complains as it scoops down from a bough. The humid promise of showers make the air ripe with green decay. Yet, there are no clouds, so I do not worry. Nor, I believe, does Joe, for what beliefs could he have other than those I impress upon him?

He’s a nice fellow. Younger than me, much younger and tall. Yet his stride does not leave me in the dust. “Joe,” I say, “we need to give you some character, something that the reader can hang on to, something that makes you alive.”

“Jeremy,” he says.

“What, Jeremy?”

“My name. It’s Jeremy. Not Joe.”

I laugh.” No, you don’t understand. I’m the writer, and I get to name the characters. You’re Joe, a plain, straight-forward, hard-working, Joe.”

He shakes his head and gives me a lopsided look. “It’s Jeremy. You can call me Joe, if you want, but inside, I’m Jeremy. It’s who I’ve always been, who I’ll always be. And, besides, I already have character. For one thing, I tend to be argumentative.”

I’m already seeing that. Here’s this guy, this figment, who doesn’t even know his role in this story, and he’s telling me, I’ve got it wrong. Well, maybe not wrong, just different from the way he sees it. Which is really pretty presumptuous since an hour ago, he didn’t exist. “I’m not sure I need for you to be argumentative,” I say, avoiding the name thing.

“Well, maybe you should call central casting, because I’m argumentative.” He seems to reflect on that. “Look, okay, maybe not argumentative, but I know what I know, and I don’t like people trying to convince me of things that I know to be false.”

What’s he talking about, central casting? I’m central casting. This is my story and I know who this guy is that I put on the page. He’s Joe. And he’s solid, straightforward. Hardworking. An everyday guy. Not some aesthetic Jeremy who probably has a sister named Tiffany and a dog named Gus.

Joe-Jeremy stops. “Hey, maybe I’m not right for this part. But, tell the truth, it feels good being here on this page, walking down this road. So, why not hold off on the name thing until you get to know me better. And by the way, although I’m a little argumentative, I can also be reasonable. I try to see the other guy’s viewpoint.” He gives me a big smile, a warm, hick smile, then turns, and starts walking again, saying, “C’mon Gus.” And damn if there’s not a mutt off sniffing the bushes.

“Joe,” I say, “You wouldn’t happen to have a sister?”

“Yeah. Tiffany. Kid sister, but smart. Y’know, when I was growing up, I used to think most girls were airheads. But, I’ve got to tell you, Tiffany, she set me straight. Told me I was an immature, close-minded-bigot.” He laughs. “You can imagine how I took that. But, y’know, she was right. She didn’t try to argue with me, because I would have dug my heels in. But, every time I made some stupid remark about women, she’d let me know. After a while, well, you get the idea. And, by the way, it’s Jeremy.”

Catching up, I say, “Look Jeremy. You’re not getting this. What I need for the story is a guy who’s been batted around a bit. At the moment he’s down on his luck, but he has this ability to bounce back, to make lemonade out of lemons. Guy like that wouldn’t have a dog named Gus or a Tiffany for a sister.”

“The lemon-lemonade thing is a cliché,” he says. “Okay between us, but not something you’d want to put in a story. And what makes you think I’ve not been knocked? Look at these jeans. Patched.” He lifts a foot so I can see the hole in the sole of his shoe. Up comes his shirt. “Count the ribs. You think some guy who lives on easy has this many ribs showing?” And I notice a badly stitched scar on his belly. He drops the shirt. “Gus, here, I found him, he was half dead. Hit by a car. No home. So, I took him in. And Tiffany. You don’t know anything about her. My folks never had anything. Dad worked in the stock yards, Mom on the line at Ford. I come along, Mom says, ‘name him after the old man, Joe, like his father before him.’ But ‘No,’ Dad says. ‘This kid is going to be something. More than another Joe.

“So, they go to the library and look up names in this book and find out that what people with money are calling boys. And they’re names like Christopher and Derek and, yeah, Jeremy. So, I get Jeremy, and a few years later Tiffany gets Tiffany. She was almost an Amber, but Dad liked the way Tiffany sounded. Mom got to pick Jeremy, so Tiffany was Dad’s.”

“Whoa,” I say. “This is way more than I need to know. But, okay. I can live with Jeremy. And the other stuff. Most of that’s pretty good. The scar? Where’d that come from?”

“A fight.”

“What, a fight? You give me the history of the human race when I ask about the name. And something like a scar—what’d I count twenty stitches—all you got to say is a fight.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“What’d you mean you don’t want to talk about it. You’re my character. You got into a fight, got a scar that looks like a zipper to your guts, and you’re not going to tell me about it?

He kicks the dirt and a cloud of dust hangs in the air. “Zipper to your guts. I like that. But, no. Hey, you’re the writer. You’re supposed to have all the answers, develop all the characters. So, you make something up.”

And that’s how it goes as we walk down that dusty road of making a story. You start out thinking you have control, that the characters are players on your stage. But when you start talking to them, you find out they have a voice, that they know things about themselves that you never knew, that they have surprises and secrets, that they have the ability to take over and leave you in the dust.

As I walk down the story road, some of the dust goes away, and becomes hardpan, then gravel, then macadam, then concrete. It is a slow process with each step hardening the arteries. So, too with the characters who people the pages. They start as dust, but if you give them a chance, they will take the story over and make it their own.

Frank.writestuff@gmail.com
August 9, 2006

by Frank T. Wydra

The second best day of the year. Mailman arrives. I rip the brown wrapping from the bulky book and plop in a corner of the carpeted room where no one can spy. The Sears Roebuck Catalogue is here.

And what a tome it is! From bras to bicycles, wagons to woolen underwear, the world’s bazaar is pictured, penned, and promoted. Did they have that last year? Where’s the pink flamingo I’ve been saving for, nickel a week? And, nine of ten items, one of those three words: Good, Better, Best.

Good. Better. Best.

Genius. Marketing genius. Only have a quarter? Buy “Good.” It will meet the need, it will satisfy the lust, clothe the naked, feed the hungry, warm the cold, comfort the sick. It is the corduroy slacks that hum until the tenth wash. Other adolescent heads may turn and titter at the staccato rasp of brushing thighs, but the pants are tough and sturdy. All that can be asked of “Good.”

Without a “Good” there is no “Better.” Just hyperbole. Just ad-man jive. Just lingo, by jingo. But, add a bell, add a whistle, add a buffalo nickel and buy “Better.” Better. Who does not want Better? The word is a swagger. You are not of the hoi polloi. You can afford more, and those who read the book–its aficionados in the next two-flat–will know. Yes, they will, I tell myself. Pre-washed corduroy slacks. No rasp. No titter.

Yet, up there at the apex of the pyramid, that angel atop the Christmas Tree, the Nirvana of expectation, the summit of sophistication, the crest, crown, peak, pinnacle, vertex of desire is “Best.” Only another dime. How few spend that dime. It is a separator, a PhD in a high school world. It is the chrome and horn and white-walled tires of a Husky bike on a street where scooters are made of roller skates and two by fours and orange crates and bottle cap reflectors held together by four-penny nails. And only another dime. Wide wale, this time. Pile with style.

Sort of like writing.

There is the “Good.” Solid craftsmanship, forged in a Bessemer and guaranteed to last as long as it takes to get through the read. Quality words, well stated. They tell a story. There is plot, character, place. A beginning, middle, end. And when you finish reading it, it was well worth the day. Perhaps you learned a little. Perhaps you passed the time. It was, how shall I say it? “Good.” It is the fast-food story written to be consumed on-the-run as the commuter train rumbles or the lunchtime drags. It is the food of gluttons who read a book a day with no need to stop for reflection or an unexpected feeling, and who brag of it. It is Good. Perfectly Good.

Yet, for only a nickel more an idea lurks. A theme, some call it, a second stratum that insidiously weaves through the words to provide a meaning not immediately identifiable. It is a counterpoint, sometimes reinforcing, sometimes contradicting, always amplifying. It is not accidental. It is intelligent design. It is the purgatory of Billy Budd.

The compelling combination of craft and concept can propel these lucky tomes to giddy heights, as high as Dorothy tromping through poppies. It is the stuff of which the Crichtons, and Browns are made. These scribblings make you think. No, really. They make you think. They force you to think. You can not read them without thinking. They are Ginkgo Biloba in print. Can you clone a raptor from a rock? Did Jesus fornicate with Mary the Mag? They are more than pulp. They are Better. They are sellers.

But they are not stellar. They lack that certain something, that je ne sais quoi. Well, actually, I do know what it is.

They lack that silver dime that transforms Better to Best. That sliver of silver dubbed emotion. Brother, can you spare a dime? The pathos of that question makes you weep. It is that well crafted story, layered with ideas and gilded with feeling. Ah, yes. This is the grail. The book that–as you read it, as you let it lay in your lap, as you turn its last page, as you think about it the next week, the next year, the next lifetime–makes you cry, laugh, hurt, love, makes you feel the loneliness, the despair, the hope, the passion. Makes you feel.

But not just emotion. Without the underlying steel of the story or the graceful design of the elusive idea, the chrome of emotion has no foundation and is no more than a shiny, effervescent mirage that will not survive the wind. Think Proulx and her Close Range Stories. Superb voice. Train wrecks of lives. There, but for the Grace of God–. Yet hope. Redeeming hope. Think Conrad and Darkness. Stark reality in a shroud. Deep into the jungle of life. Verdant ambition. Yet despair. Eternal despair.

Craftsmanship. Theme. Emotion. Layers laid on layers until the whole is more than the sum of its warts.

Good. Better. Best. Words I remember from an old catalog, a dream book, pictures of what might be. Yet, even today, they remain toll booths on my writing road. If only I can find another nickel. Better yet, a dime.

Aug 13 2006
Contact me at: frank.writestuff@gmail.com