John B. Rosenman

by John B. Rosenman

– The struggle against power is the struggle of memory against forgetting.
(Milan Kundera)

I’m going to start with maybe a surprising statement: In over 90 percent of my fiction, real-life settings are not very important.

How can that be? Well, in the first place, a lot of what I write takes placeon other worlds or in other realms where I am the sole owner and proprietor. There, I make the rules and decide whether the planet has one moon or three, heavy gravity or light, green unicorns or blue, and so on.

In other stories I write, there is a real-life setting but it’s fairly general and generic. A little description establishes the room or house. If it takes place on a beach – well, we all know what a beach basically looks like, right? One tale transpires in a Wal-Mart clone where a man tries to return a purchase. Okay, it helped that I went to a Wal-Mart and actually “researched” the setting by returning a product and noticing both the procedure involved and the fact that there was a line on the floor behind which customers waited. Still, the amount of detail was modest. There was no need to describe the type of wood or metal that the service counter was made of or the precise arrangement of products available for sale in the store. Elaborate, intricate local color was not only missing but unnecessary.

Recently, though, I began a novel that takes place in a “distant” city. San Luis Obispo, California is a whopping 3,000 miles away from my home in Virginia Beach. It’s located between Frisco and LA roughly ten miles from the Pacific Ocean, and when my sister and parents were alive, I visited it about eight times to visit them. It’s a lovely, scenic small city with lovely scenic mountains or hills surrounding it, and I roamed about and liked it a great deal when I was there. Though I haven’t visited it since 2001, I thought there would be little difficulty in using this city for the location of my current novel. After all, I had visited SLO multiple times – right?

No, wrong.

Doubtless, my fellow contributors to SU have eidetic memory and never forget a detail or a face. Every street corner, every sensation, ever salient and minor impression is preserved in an imperishable form in their steel-trap minds. I’m sure that after Joe, Janet, or Justine, Skipp, Sully, Sarah or both Beths travel to New York or Paris or Rome with Dave, they return with a nearly perfect map of the place imprinted forever in their cerebral cortex or wherever the hell such things are stored. They can also describe the precise color and arrangement of the jasmine blooms outside their hotel rooms and the name of that quaint, fascinating boutique they found three blocks away.

The trouble was, I couldn’t.

One thing I’ve learned is that for me, memory fades and degrades. Hell, an experience fades and degrades even while I’m having it, or at least an instant later. Of course, I had already known that memory erodes and is even erased by time, but I have been surprised by the extent to which even treasured or repeated experiences in a favorite place pass through a similar process. C’mon, what was the name of that first gal or guy you kissed, and what was s/he wearing? What were you wearing and what did you have for lunch that day? Get my point?

So, when I began writing Dark Wizard, I found that local color had faded, the details sparse in unexpected places. But that’s okay. Like an aging pitcher with a lot of junk and a bag of tricks, I compensated. In fact, my spotty memory dovetailed rather nicely with my protagonist’s, for Kan (who can not remember his first name or much else for that matter) has
amnesia. Also, for some strange reason, he’s not very observant of his surroundings. Something’s out of kilter with him; perhaps he’s an alien or a guy who’s taken too many drugs. Whatever the case, he can’t provide street names or even a rudimentary map of parts of the city. Therefore, I don’t have to either.

But I did have to have some local color, some resonant details that would distinguish San Luis Obispo from say, Flatland, Kansas. One thing I did recall were the beautiful mountains or hills which are called the Seven Sisters. A little research on-line gave me their names and in a few sentences here and there, I was able to establish the general scenic features of the area and the city’s location near the Pacific Ocean.

So for sixty pages or so, my hero walks around in a mysterious fog. Trouble is, eventually that fog has to lift, and he and we have to learn something more about the terrain and street numbers.

SLO is a quirky city, and I wanted to get some of that into the novel as Ariel Carter, Kan’s attractive love interest, gives him a guided tour. One unusual feature is the Madonna Inn, a monument to bad taste, not only because of its garish, color-clashing exterior but because its insides would make an interior decorator scream. The Inn has a world-famous men’s bathroom (What? You didn’t know?) with a urinal that participates when you pee. An electric eye or sensor records your presence and sends water cascading down the back wall. During one of my visits to the city, I used this service. I saw the water run down the wall and laughed. Under the circumstances, you would think I would have no trouble writing the scene. Right?

Again, wrong. What did the urinal look like precisely? Were there other stalls in the room and where were they located? What floor was the men’s room on anyway? Maybe I didn’t need to use all this information and more when I wrote the scene, but at least I wanted to have it in my head. You see, when you describe a city like SLO, you can use a little poetic license and add things that aren’t there, but when you describe a local, well-known motel or landmark, you’d better have your facts right. Otherwise, somebody’s bound to say, “Un-unh, it ain’t like that at all. I’ve been there many times, and it don’t look that way.”

So, what was the solution? Should I open my wallet and spend a wad of cash to revisit the city? Book a flight and become a tourist again, complete with a camera and a laptop to record all my notes?

Fortunately, I didn’t have to do that. Instead I used an invaluable tool that is available to all writers who need to research a place or subject because they lack sufficient information or a good memory. It’s called the Internet.

Right now, under my “Favorites” tab, I have one site filed that reads, “The Urinals of the Madonna Inn.” No, I don’t have a fetish, unless it’s for accurate description. This site, which is one of several on-line, comes complete with photos, information, local lore and tradition, the whole nine yards, and it does what my faulty, fading memory can’t: It puts me squarely and securely into that men’s room, so I can describe it convincingly.

One thing I didn’t remember is the sheer size and precise appearance of the urinal. Here’s what Kan sees after giggling women leave the men’s room with cameras (it happens!) and he enters the place:

He stared at the massive stone structure that dominated the room. The rugged floor-to-ceiling urinal was made of slabs of white and brown flagstone and formed two lower walls or wings to the right and left. In the middle was an open area about five feet across. Unlike the smaller, more conventional stalls in the room, it provided no door for privacy.

Kan stepped closer and stared at the beige-and-white tiled floor and drain. As far as he could tell, there was no device to flush with.

I’ll spare you the rest of the business. Suffice it to say that Internet sources provided a wealth of detail about this motel. Did you know that it has over a hundred rooms “with elaborate decors and designs that embody specific themes? The Old West and Old Mexico, Golfers and Gypsies, Showboats and Swiss Chalets” [from my novel]. You can even SEE photos of each and every one of these rooms on-line and read their descriptions.

One more example from this motel, and then we’ll check out. One night I dined at the Madonna Inn’s Gold Rush Steak House. It definitely was not the Brown Derby or the Lone Star. Trouble is, after ten years, I was short on specifics. A few on-line photos and background information solved the problem, even providing a menu. Here is Kan when Ariel shows him the restaurant for the first time.

Upstairs [Note: the restaurant is UPSTAIRS from the men’s room], Kan stopped as soon as he entered the Gold Rush Steak House. It was the most amazing room he had ever seen, a visual bombardment that far surpassed the motel’s flamboyant exterior. At first, seeing the pink-rose carpet and the round and heart-shaped dining booths, he thought that everything was a lurid, flaming pink. But then he noticed the golden floating cherubs and the enormous, floor-to-ceiling central “tree” with twisting golden limbs and even more playful cherubs. White, red, and green blooms changed color even as he watched. The dazzling effect was enhanced by shining mirrors on the walls that reflected the heated décor.

After dinner, Kan participates in disco dancing (forty years from now it’s a fad again), and sources on the Internet helped me to get the specifics right. Probably the best thing about the Internet as a research tool is how quick and easy it is. When I was in graduate school, it took me hours to learn who ironed Queen Elizabeth’s ruffs. Now I can find out in minutes.

One last example: SLO is also known for Bubblegum Alley. I visited it once and recall an alley with a lotta gum on the walls that people had stuck there for decades, perhaps generations. Yes, it’s unsanitary and perhaps gross, but do you feel disgust or delight? One thing is clear: it causes greater foot traffic and more $$$ for merchants.

I wanted Ariel to take Kan to Bubblegum Alley, but even though I had visited it, there were too many things I didn’t know. Where, precisely is Bubblegum Alley? How long and how high is it? What are the walls made of? What is the alley’s history, and what kind of gummy patterns and symbols are on the wall? Who started the damn thing in the first place, and why? Again, I didn’t want to use all this info; I just felt I needed it at my command.

Once more, the Internet rode to my rescue. Bubblegum Alley is 15 feet high and 70 feet long and located downtown at 734 Higuera Street. There are many different brands and varieties of gum involved, including Bazooka, Hubba Bubba, and Orbit. Fraternity and sorority letters grace the walls, along with occasional gum wrappers, and there are multiple layers of different colored designs with embedded coins going close to the top. Sometimes someone attaches a condom for laughs.

That’s just a little of it, but I feel such detail makes my scene real, makes it seem that I’m an expert native. Did you know that some people believe that if a person walks through the alleyway while chewing gum and does not stick it on the wall, bad luck will befall him? Or that some couples show their love for each other in their gummy designs?

So, if your setting is vague and vanishing, search your memory by all means. But human memory fades and is often unreliable even about the things that matter most to us. Fortunately, especially for writers, the Internet can be a godsend, a vast, amazingly fast library at our fingertips, conveniently providing details we may never have known even in the first place.

—– John B. Rosenman

by John B. Rosenman 

(This is a draft or outline in progress of an hour presentation I will be giving in February to the Department of English and Foreign Languages at Norfolk State University.  We will be meeting in the Computer Lab, and the web sites you see at the bottom of the page will be programmed through Nomad so all the faculty attending can go automatically to those sites.  I thought this presentation might be useful to others who might be interested in getting published online or through the Internet, especially in the areas of Science Fiction, Fantasy, and Horror.) 

1. In the old days, before the rise of the Internet, if you wanted to submit something for publication, you had to print out a hard copy of your manuscript, seal it in an envelope (usually with a SASE enclosed), slap sufficient postage on it, and trudge to the mailbox to mail it.  Today, it’s quick, easy, fast, and above all, cheap.  Not only that, sometimes you might even hear back from an editor in minutes, hours or days.  Fifteen years ago, all my submissions were sent via snail mail.  Today, it’s virtually all e-mail.  It’s a brave new world for writers, and it’s changing every day, with podcasts, blogs, and elaborate writers’ web sites just a mouse click away. 

2. Some basics: whether it’s an article, novel, poem, or something else, do your best to make sure it’s as good as possible.  This means revision, more revision, and intelligent criticism from people who are good readers and critics first rather than friends and relatives who will pat you on the back and tell you how wonderful it is.  Listen carefully to what they say, pick and choose among their comments (which may contradict each other), and try not to let your feelings get hurt.  Be as objective and self-critical as possible without going overboard.  Perhaps most important: remember that it’s the manuscript that’s important, not you. 

3. Also crucial: you must (a) research online markets carefully, perhaps before you even write anything, (b) read their guidelines closely to see if your work fits their needs and slant, (c) read parts of the publications themselves to get a feel for what they want, and (d) present your work to them in a manner and format that conform to what they require.  If they want gay erotic fiction between 2 and 4,000 words in Times New Roman 12, cut and pasted into the e-mail itself, and single-spaced except for double spacing between paragraphs, DON’T send them a 12,000 word mystery as a double-spaced attachment in Courier 12 or a scholarly study of your favorite Gregorian chants in Century Gothic.  They probably won’t even read it. Now, here’s a list of some handy web sites with brief descriptions. 

1. http://www.duotrope.com/  Duotrope’s Digest – a sophisticated market tool for fiction, poetry, novels & collections.  You can tailor your search by genre, slant, word length, etc. 

2. http://www.ralan.com/  Ralan’s  Webstravaganza – perhaps the most comprehensive SF/F/H genre     market guide on the web, divided by pay rate.  Includes links to agents, writers, etc. 

3. http://www.anotherealm.com/prededitors/pubsubs.htm/  — Also comprehensive, this gives market     information on agents, publishers, magazines, you name it.  Warns about deadbeats. 

4. http://www.speculations.com/ — A place for writers to talk about markets and editors to post their     guidelines.  Like Duotrope (no. 1), it provides information about response times and other matters. 

5. http://www.storytellersunplugged.com/ — Thirty writers, including Yours Truly, post a monthly blog here on all aspects of writing, and readers can respond.  Includes links to writers’ web sites.   Note: You can learn a lot about writing and getting publishing online or through the Internet by reading our essays. 

6. http://www.johnrosenman.com/ — Your Host’s WordPress website, which he is currently designing.  Includes bio, recent releases, and Coming Soon attractions.        

by John B. Rosenman 

Literature comes in many forms.  There’s traditional print, electronic formats, graphic novels, cartoons, hypertext . . .  I could go on.  But the form I’d like to talk about is oral storytelling, or more exactly, memorization of literary texts and recitations in front of an audience.

Lately I had a harrowing experience with such an event.  My Department Head thought upper-class students should memorize and recite lines from exemplary literary works.  For my junior level English lit class, she required at least a dozen lines from Geoffrey Chaucer’s General Prologue to The Canterbury Tales in (Gulp!) Middle English.  She also provided web sites where students could listen to experts recite passages from Chaucer in a Middle-English accent, approximating the way we think the language sounded over 600 years ago. 

Like most students today, mine had little experience memorizing verse, let alone reciting it before others.  But hey, let it never be said that John Rosenman turned down a challenge.  Besides, I told myself, the students would be the ones doing the work, not me. 

So I jumped right in.  I began by dividing the class into three teams of six people each that would compete against each other for extra points on the Final Exam.  A stroke of genius: I named each team after one of Chaucer’s pilgrims.  Thus, we had The Knights, the Parsons, and The Clerks of Oxenford (“And gladly wolde he lerne, and gladly teche.”)  At that point I thought, “Hell, why limit myself?”  So I got the Dean to agree to judge the contest, and I arranged to have the whole thing videotaped. 

My students were less than sanguine concerning the idea, and their enthusiasm waned even further as we began to practice.  Now Anxiety reared its ugly head, because many students wouldn’t, or couldn’t, remember their lines.  Some declined (refused?) to come to the front of the class and recite them, mumbling that they’d be ready when the time came.

Students’ promises.  Ah, you can take them to the bank, just as you can rest assured that publishers will always honor their word.  Trouble was, I started to have doubts.  Soon, I’d wake up at 3 am, remembering a student’s feeble promise and the ones who had frozen like deers in the headlights when they faced the class.  Most students were struck mute at least once during their recitals, taking ten or twenty agonizing seconds to remember what came next.  And those who didn’t, often recited their lines inaccurately.  One in particular stands out. “He was a verray, parfit, gentil knyght” became “He was a pretty, fairy, gentile twit.”

True, some students were masterful.  But they were far outnumbered by those who seemed unprepared or simply unable.

So I cracked the whip harder and we practiced and practiced.  I tried to tell myself it would all come together, and that my class wouldn’t disgrace me in front of my superiors.  But while they improved, they took only baby steps.  I began to ask myself, “Am I wasting my time?  Wouldn’t we spend our time more productively by studying the damned subject rather than memorizing lines we’ll soon forget anyway?” 

The night before the Great Competition, I had a nightmare.  It was the Hour of Truth, and my students shambled in like rejects from Night of the Living Dead, lacking even the hunger of flesh-eating ghouls.  When summoned to perform, they lurched forward in rigor mortis steps and faced the audience with mindless stares.  Some drooled, and all were mute.  Chaucer, that “well of English undefiled,” turned over in his grave. 

Finally, the Moment came.  I resisted the urge to call in sick and went to the classroom.  The Dean and Department Head greeted me with expectant smiles. 

The students walked (not shambled) in.  To my surprise, they were reasonably well-dressed.  No jeans with fashionable slits in the knees.  No girls’ shirts with brazen signs that said, “SHOW ME WHAT YOU GOT.”  They all looked presentable. 

Dare I hope?  Could this experiment actually work? 

Every student was in place, and punctual.  It was Showtime, and I couldn’t put it off any longer. 

Dry-mouthed, I stood up.  For a moment I was like some of my students when they tried to recite.  I couldn’t think of a damned thing to say.  A few lines of poetry limped through my mind. 

Roses are red,

Violets are blue,

Sugar is sweet,

And you are screwed.

But I’ve been teaching a long time, and I can run my motor mouth even when the tank’s empty.  I greeted everybody, introduced our guests, the rules, the first team to perform, and then sat down. 

A second passed. 

Another second. 

Five seconds more. 

Finally, a student rose and went to the front of the class.  She stared at us. 

I estimate that my pulse passed 200 beats a minute.  Don’t even ask about my blood pressure. 

The student opened her mouth. 

Whan that April with his showres soote

The droughte of March hath perced to the roote . . . 

It was beautiful.  And the other students weren’t bad either. 

Oh, I’m not saying there weren’t rough patches.  One student read half his lines and another swung her chair around and faced the blackboard.  She sat that way for twenty seconds.  Then, as I started to sweat, she swung back and delivered her lines like a pro. 

When she was through another student came up.  In time the second team, the Parsons, started to perform.  Then came the Clerks of Oxenford. 

Four or five students were actually superb.  As the camera ran, they declaimed their lines with magnificent aplomb. 

Finally, the last student finished and sat down.  I rose on trembling knees and called for applause. 

The room rang with it for half a minute. 

Then the Dean rose and praised them, reserving special pats on the backs to those students who had actually attempted, with considerable success, to deliver their lines in Middle English.  He held forth for five effusive minutes, then announced that he had a problem: They were all so good, he couldn’t make a choice as to who deserved First Place (Fifteen extra points on the Final); Second Place (Ten extra points); or Third Place (Five extra points). 

I myself didn’t care who won.  My job was done, and I was drunk with relief. 

To decide the winner, the Dean had each team choose a spokesperson who would discuss a history question he gave them involving The Canterbury Tales.  The teams took a few minutes to discuss the question among themselves.  When they were through, the three students responded aloud to his question. 

And they were all brilliant.  For students who seemed to have taken a vow of silence in class, they were thoroughly articulate. 

The Dean sighed and then spread his hands.  “I’m still stumped,” he said.  “You’re all good, and I can’t choose.  So, there’s only one thing I can do.”

A long pause.

“I have to give you all first place.”

The students cheered, and the event ended successfully.  These days, I’m waiting for the film’s editing to be completed, so I can show it to our faculty. 

You may be wondering what the point of all this is.  Well, as I suggested earlier, the main thing is that students (and folks in general) seldom memorize literature anymore.  Once upon a time kids did it often because their teachers required them to.  They memorized and recited Marc Antony in Julius Caesar (“Friends, Romans, countrymen . . .”) or something else.  Today, it’s a fading art, and I can’t help thinking that we’ve lost something, that a whole generation is growing up with their souls unleavened by literature, their mental hard drives clogged by the worst jingles of pop culture rather than art. 

Why has this happened?  I think it’s due mostly to the general dumbing down of America.  The short story is on the endangered species list, and novels struggle to find readers unless they have short, action paragraphs seasoned with sex, violence, and simple words from a ninth grader’s vocabulary.  These days, too much is text-messaged with capitals, periods, and correct spelling omitted.  As for the Gods of the Marketplace, they have become fleeting and disposable, with a half-hour shelf life.  Yes, technology has brought web sites and electronic publishing and online literary communities like Storytellers Unplugged, but I can’t ignore the down side, the loss that society has sustained because of technology.  Special effects, Glitz, Special effects.  Americans want an instant fix, immediate gratification, and a new, gaudy gimmick for their jaded, overdosed sensibilities.  All too often, that gimmick is only a variation on an old formula, designed for those with the attention span of a fly.  Gawd help writers if they actually expect the reader to think or follow subtleties of plot, character, or (horrors!) delicate and prolonged descriptions of the natural world.

I’m probably overstating the problem.  Still, in a fast food, broad band, HD age suchas this one, we all need to treasure literary jewels more than ever.  The sublime orwell-turned phrase, the moving, unforgettable line or passage – they are precious, and if we lose them, we lose a part of ourselves we may never replace. 

So, was I wrong to take time from more orthodox studies to have my students memorize lines they will probably soon forget?  No, I was right.  Join me in the spring for my next project.  Who knows, perhaps it’s time to have students memorize a creepy, suspenseful, even gory passage from the realms of horror, penned by one of the fine writers on this site.

     — John B. Rosenman

by John B. Rosenman

October – my favorite month. And Halloween, grisly, gruesome, ghastly Halloween – my favorite holiday. Growing up, I sometimes wished it would last 365 days a year.

In honor of the Old Druid god Samhain and the Day of the Dead, here’s a little treat I wrote 25 years ago. It was the beginning of a 62 page novella, The Lazarus Trick, which was about a boy with extraordinary powers. As a kid, there was nothing I enjoyed more than the excitement of trick or treating. It was magical and scary, filled with infinite possibilities that embodied the essence of Halloween. Oh sure, I knew that at the best, I’d only get a candy bar, perhaps a Mars or Hershey’s with almonds. But you never knew for sure. Perhaps at the next house, or the one after that, when someone answered the door and you shouted, “Trick or Treat,” you’d REALLY get a surprise.

Okay, let’s rev up our chainsaws!

TRICK OR TREAT

“Wanna see somethin’ scary?” Mark said.

Tommy looked at Mark, who like himself was carrying a bag stuffed with candy, the reward of visiting 59 houses this Halloween night.

“Like what?”

“Like somethin’ so scary it’ll make the hair stand up on your head, that’s what!”

“That depends,” Tommy said cautiously. Mark was spooky, unpredictable, and had a tendency to get into trouble, yet he felt perversely attracted to him. His father, who did not share his fascination, had warned him to stay away from Mark. Why, if he knew . . .

“Shhh,” Mark whispered. “Just watch!”

Nervously, he followed Mark up yet another walk and watched while he pressed the 60th doorbell of the night. Mark’s impish face glistened expectantly in the moonlight.

The door opened and a kindly white-haired woman gazed at them. Somebody’s grandmother, Tommy thought in disappointment. Probably gab our ears off and give us a piece of gum. Or even worse, Sour Tarts.

“Well, what do we have here? Two boys, is it?” She beamed, and Tommy could see her pink, vacant gums. “And what can I do for you?”

Tommy adjusted his Batman cape and raised his bag. “Trick or treat!”

“Trick or treat, you say?” The old bitty practically went into conniptions at that, hugging herself and doing a little jig. Then she pointed a finger at them.

“You just wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Tommy watched her fade down the hallway and nudged Mark. “C’mon, let’s split. We ain’t gettin’ nothin’ out of her.”

“Oh, yes, we will.” Mark winked at him and Tommy thought of witches and goblins. Come to think of it, when Mark had first come here, he’d been quite popular. Now for some reason kids avoided him.

Footsteps. The old lady was coming back. Tommy saw a chipped bowl full of peaches thrust forward. Half of them looked rotten. Disgusted, he reached to take one.

She snatched it away. “Nooooo, you don’t!”

“Ma’m?”

“Do a trick first. That’s the rule! Least it was when I was a little girl.”

“A trick?” He looked at Mark in confusion.

Mark smiled. “What kind of trick would you like, lady?” he asked politely.

“Oh, something clever. Surprise me!”

“With the greatest of pleasure.” Mark grinned and something happened in his dark eyes. He pointed at the bowl. “Hershey bars!”

Tommy blinked. The old woman’s bowl was filled to the top with Hershey bars, the half-pound size that cost two bucks.

“How did you do that?” he gasped.

Mark shrugged.

The old woman looked at the bowl in disbelief. “Now where did they come from? I could have sworn I brought peaches.”

“You want trick or treat?” said Mark. “Lady, you got it.”

Sores appeared on the old woman’s face. Some of them suppurated and began to run. She dropped the Hershey bars and clamped shriveled hands to her face. One of the fingers fell off. . . .

“How about flying, lady?” Mark said. “Like to be a bird?”

Screaming, she rose and shot through a doorway. Through the front window, Tommy could see her whirling about the living room, occasionally banging into walls.

Mark turned and smirked. “Scary enough?”

Tommy tried to speak but he couldn’t. Horror filled him like ice water, and he wanted only to be back home. Why hadn’t he listened to his father and stayed away from Mark?

“How . . .”

“It’s a knack,” Mark said. “I don’t use it much ’cause I’ll get caught. But now and then . . .”

In the house the woman’s screams rose and fell. Tommy heard a thud. Then more screams.

He swallowed, surprised he could. “What – what are you going to do?”

“Do?” Mark contemplated the moon. “You know, maybe I’ll turn her into an animal next. A skunk maybe, or a pig. I never tried that before.”

Now the hair rose on his scalp just as Mark said it would. “No! Stop it, please!”

“Oh, all right. If you insist.” Mark pouted and looked at the house. The woman swooped out of one of the rooms and for a moment was just as Tommy had last seen her: disease-ridden and terrified. Then she was standing before them with a bowl of overripe peaches again.

“Thank you.” Mark picked one, rubbed it on his sleeve, and took a bite. The old woman started to collapse.

“Hey, lady,” said Mark, “you don’t remember a thing.”

The old woman blinked, straightened, and held out the bowl. “Have another, son.” She smiled. “Take all you want.”

“No thanks.” Mark tossed the pit over his shoulder and hooked Tommy’s arm. He felt himself being escorted back to the sidewalk. He looked down at his bag, surprised he was carrying it. It was filled to the brim with half-pound Hershey bars.

“Now,” said Mark, giving him a wink. “Would you like to see something really scary?”

by John B. Rosenman

“They rode off into the sunset together.”

“And they lived happily ever after.”

“Thanks to you, Sheriff, Black Bart’s gang is dead and there’s peace in the valley again.”

Un-unh. Not for me.

No way, Jose.

Mike Resnick has said that writers should devote 90% of their time to a story’s opening page, but more often than not, it’s the ending that lifts my skirts. Call it the other 90%.

Another great American, AKA Tricky Dick, once declared just before he left the White House for the last time, “It’s only a beginning, always.”

Amen, Brother. That I can get into.

Okay, some of what I say tonight may not even qualify as unconventional wisdom. Simply put, I don’t like neat endings for stories or even novels. I especially don’t like them for short stories, which should be prepared to take a risk now and then. I like endings that suggest the story goes on, and hey, big things are gonna happen next, so stay tuned. I like endings that make the reader do most of the work when it comes to figuring out the story.

Even more, I like endings where you’re not quite sure what happened, what the meaning of it all is. Even endings where nothing is resolved and which make some readers ask, “What the hey? Where’s the bleepin’ conclusion? What’s the payoff?” “Does he get the girl?” “Does he find God in the end or crawl into Satan’s lap?”

My first novel, The Best Laugh Last (Treacle Press) not only cost me two jobs (that’s another story), but ends with the hero suddenly undecided if he’s going to continue his crusade against the bad guys. Maybe, in fact, he should even sell out and join them. After all, issues in life are not always clear-cut but can be murky and ambiguous. Perhaps this time he should bend or even betray his principles. While it might not be the right thing, exactly, it could be the better thing to do. Perhaps in this particular case, the ends do justify the seemingly immoral or questionable means.

Thus in The Best Laugh Last, David Newman is left kneeling in the hot street, wondering if he should compromise with evil and acquire a little power in order to help others and make the system better. “Max,” he says, speaking to his nonexistent friend who has courageously left to start a new life, “I sure hope you make it.” But we don’t know if Newman will, or what choice he will ultimately make. Some readers didn’t like that Lady or the Tiger ending, but I did, and I still do. For me, Newman will kneel there forever, and I can always wonder which door he will enter and what he will find there – the Lady of Difficult but Justified Compromise or the Tiger of Righteous Rebellion that may ultimately devour him.

No John Wayne.

No white hats and black hats.

No swell of triumphant, heart-stirring music as folks file out of the theater.

Now I don’t mean to create the impression that none of my stories has a traditional ending that wraps things up in a more or less tight, neat bow. Sometimes you have to do it that way because the story demands it, because that’s the best ending possible. But more and more often these days, it seems to me that since life isn’t wrapped up with a tidy ribbon, fiction shouldn’t be either. Life and its meaning are often complex, ambiguous, uncertain, and it’s sometimes more enjoyable for both the reader and the writer to be left with a bone which they can gnaw on forever, trying to extract the last moral and metaphysical juices.

Remember Henry James’s The Turn of the Screw? Are the ghosts really there, or is the young, beleaguered governess stark raving nuts? Whatever you do, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know!

Sometimes the ending is dictated not by the obvious issue, but by another. In my story “Going Away,” which appeared in Space and Time, Marvin tells his insensitive wife he doesn’t love her anymore and that he’s leaving. Since he’s said this before and always returned quickly, Agnes isn’t concerned. This time, though, instead of stomping out the door, he goes and lies down in the spare bedroom, where he grows smaller and smaller, farther and farther away. Soon he’s “immeasurably distant,” his head amid the stars. Yet she can still see him.

What will Agnes do? While most may feel that the main question is whether she can bring her hubby back or join him, for me the true issue is spiritual or psychological, and the significant journey occurs not across the galaxy, but within herself. Consequently, I focus on her change of heart, her gradual realization that she has been cold and selfish toward her husband. Finally she apologizes to him and “ever so slowly,” begins “to crawl after him.” Not that there seems to be much chance of success. What will she do, crawl a hundred billion light-years to reach him? What if she bashes her head against the wall or gets sucked down a black hole? Even if she achieves the impossible, what will they do out there in the Milky Way? How will they eat or pay their bills? While we may wonder about such things, we will never find out. For me, the big concern is whether she can change and find the courage to act upon her self-realization, take that first step even if it leads to oblivion.

One last example: “Unknown Gods,” which I recently wrote, is steeped in ambiguity, my favorite sauce. Holson (notice the name) is a confirmed atheist but electromagnetic stimulation of his brain starts him on a spiritual quest. Soon his toothpaste tastes funny and his dead wife shows up. Then the sky parts like the Red Sea and “a divine face, a vast, ineffable spirit” sings within him as he embarks on a cosmic excursion that makes LSD trips of my generation seem like a visit to Hardy’s. Is any of this real? Has Holson found a real, objective God? Damned if the story knows. Like Scrooge’s nighttime visitors, Holson’s transcendent visions might be no more than “an undigested bit of beef, a blot of mustard, a crumb of cheese, a fragment of an underdone potato.” What’s important is that real or not, Holson experiences something that shakes him to his materialistic core. Suddenly all his old answers seem irrelevant and his former life, incomplete.

In the end, Holson escapes from a hospital, breathes “deeply of the cool dawn air,” and starts “walking toward the sun’s altar.” Are salvation and a divine presence waiting for him there, or is it just folly and madness? You, the reader, be the judge. As with many of my favorite stories, there are no easy, final answers. It’s not so much the destination that counts, it’s the process of becoming.

Just remember, folks. An ending is just a beginning. The important thing is to open yourself to change and take that first step.

by John B. Rosenman

A few days ago, my wife and I bought ourselves a new car. Now, some of you might think it would be a simple, joyful, liberating experience, especially when you get just the one you want at a reasonably low price. However, in other ways the experience can be like writing, a decidedly mixed bag. Call it one part joy, one part frustration, another part hope, another part anger. The recipe itself depends on the buyer, the dealer, the salesperson, and the flaming red, fickle finger of fate.

Did I mention that the situation was complicated by the fact that my son David’s car was in a repair shop because of engine death? This definitely complicated matters. Dave had a ’97 Hyundai worth about $12.16. Anyway, while buying a new car, we had to get an estimate for rebuilding his engine, so we tooled back and forth between the dealer and the shop. The next day we learned that it would cost $5000 for a new engine, which meant the Hyundai was a loss and we would give him our second car, a ’97 Grand Am.

The things we do for our kids.

Anyway, Jane needed a new car and originally thought she saw just the one she wanted in an ad for a Kia Sportage. The car was a manual, 2007, and it was advertised for around $12,000. Both of us were skeptical, but Jane called the dealer up. They assured her that she could get that model and year WITH AN AUTOMATIC TRANSMISSION for about the same amount.

So we drove over.

Well, it was just like some editors I’ve known. The closer you get to them, the longer your association, the less you find you can trust them. Not only were all the Kia’s in The $20,000 PLUS range (notice the PLUS), but some of them were four cylinder jobs. Less pep and power.

These days, more and more folks do their comparison shopping online. We could have gone home to my computer and started sniffing around there, but truth be told, I’ve always been a bit of an impulse, gotta-have-it-today buyer when it comes to cars. I’m similar when it comes to submitting stories and novels. I tell myself I can’t engage in deep research and read all the markets, and so after scanning their guidelines and web sites and perhaps reading one of their stories, I submit to what seems a likely place.

Meanwhile, back at the dealer, Kia Sportages were out, so we ambled toward the used car lot where we eventually found the car of MY dreams. It was a silver Grand Pris with 21,500 miles on it. List price: $21,995.

Well, that was just too much. We’d told the salesman that our limit was $12,000 and that we would be paying with cash on the barrel head rather than finance at 6% for three or more years. But you know how it is with dealers. $12,000 will barely buy you a set of tires these days. We told them to chop that $21,995 price down and split for dinner, visiting the repair shop on the way. There we received the tentative sad news that it would probably cost far too much to rebuild or replace our son’s engine for it to be cost-effective.

After a couple of $4.95 specials at Boston Market, we returned to the dealer. The salesman was a nice kid who had parachuted from planes 45 times in the Army. He smiled and laid the “final” offer on the table before us. They’d come down – a lot.

But not enough. It was still too high. We reminded him that we had said $12,000 tops at the beginning. Jane and I double-teamed him and murmured about leaving.

Wait, he said. What if he could get it down to . . . he named a figure considerably lower. I really liked the car, and found it difficult just to walk away. When I had test-driven the Grand Pris, it had handled like a dream. Maybe it had over 21,000 miles on it, but it had a new car smell and when I looked under the hood, the engine had seemed pristine and virginal. Dammit, I wanted that car.

So I shrugged. We both shrugged. And eyed the door.

Did I mention one thing we did that was smart? We waited to the last day of the month before going in. For many dealers, the last day is quota time, make your last sales period look good time. The old bottom line time. The message we were sending was that we wanted to close the deal that day because the next day it would be too late. And they wanted to close the deal too, end July with an extra sale.

The young salesman came back from his superior and said the figure he’d mentioned was a lock. Jane and I sighed and reluctantly said no. I indicated that we’d come up from $12,000, but his figure, while it was a fair deal, was still too rich for our blood.

The salesman consulted his boss, who came out and joined us at our table. He was a short Middle or Far Eastener, and he opened a multi-colored brochure and smoothly summarized the wonderful benefits and features they were already giving us. The Message: WE’RE ALREADY GIVING YOU THE DEAL OF A LIFETIME AND STILL YOU HAGGLE, YOU UNGRATEFUL PUPS!

Jane was less impressed than I was. She just didn’t want to spend that much. But I could already foresee that the Grand Am was going soon to David, leaving us with no car at all, and on top of that, I liked the way the Grand Pris looked and handled.

After listening to the pitch of the Man from the Mysterious East for a while, I interrupted and mentioned a still lower figure, a compromise. It was, I thought, my last bit of horse-trading. I felt like a tourist in a Mexican market, haggling over the price of a dress or donkey. ALWAYS assume the bastards are trying to cheat you and bid lower. ALWAYS make it plain that you don’t need their wares that much and are prepared to leave without even a backward glance. NEVER show too much interest or desire in what they have to offer.

My offer stopped Omar Sharif on a dime. Without another word the salesman and he went to his nearby office, where he made a phone call to HIS superior. Was it real or Memorex? What it real or for show? After a few minutes he hung up and they both returned and held out their hands. “Congratulations. You’ve just bought a car.”

Hallelujah. Praise Jesus – and I happen to be Jewish. Jane, despite her reluctance, was happy for me. Have I mentioned that she’s a wonderful girl? We had initially come to the place to buy HER a car, but the Grand Pris would basically be mine, even though we would have joint ownership. After all, I would be driving it to work, and she felt that a distinguished professor such as I should not have to drive a ten-year-old car.

At this point we were happy. I could see the sleek silver baby we’d bought glistening outside in the lot. Oddly, it was similar to just selling a story or novel for good bucks, just before the deal goes south and you find the editor/publisher is (1) a liar (2) incompetent (3) a fly-by-night incompetent con artist, (4) all of the above.

If you’ve ever purchased a motor vehicle at a dealer, you know that you usually just don’t walk in, slap your money or credit card down, and split. There are further steps and folks to see, hidden charges or options, subtle tricks in the boiler plate. Specifically, after you think you’ve closed the deal, the beat continues and you run or more likely crawl through a gauntlet. Oh sure, if you’re a multi-millionaire, you can just call them up and tell them that the ashtrays of your current Rolls Royce or Mercedes are full, and would they please deliver another one in the same color at your mansion by noon. But for us wage slaves, for us mere people on the pavement, it ain’t so streamlined and easy. After you’ve signed your name on the dotted line, you have to go from desk to desk and occasionally wait to see the next VIP in his office.

In our case, the whole process took over three hours. After “buying” the car, we had to submit to a finalizing process that involved two men. I forget their precise designations and job titles, but basically they introduced us to hidden expenses, charges, and options that dealers don’t want to mention e
arlier because the customers would sometimes bolt.

The first guy was very smooth. I’m not putting him down. At this stage, such a cog in the car-selling business has to be well-lubricated and slick. This gentleman introduced us to two basic options, one a car-repair package and the other, an elaborate processing treatment for both the inside and outside of the car so it would never chip, stain, or be dented. And if did chip, stain, or get dented, we could take it in for repainting or body work. After reflection, we went for the processing treatment, which cost slightly over a thousand dollars. After all, our salesman had already covered numerous features that we would be receiving, including a complete warranty that was good for five years or 100,000 miles. Knowing what many new cars look like after a few years, we figured a thousand bucks was a reasonable investment in the investment we had already made.

Then something happened that soured things somewhat. Our salesman had told us that we could simply use a credit card to buy the car. One of our cards was good for up to $35,000. But now this man informed us that their limit was $4000 per credit card, and we could use only one credit card. This meant it would be really inconvenient to purchase the car. We could use a credit card, but then we’d have to drain one of our accounts, and . . . well, you get the picture. What bothered me was why the salesman hadn’t known of this policy. I was also troubled because none of the senior sales consultants or experts knew why the dealership had this policy in the first place. (Later I was told that the reason for the policy is that credit card companies charge dealers more for higher credits.)

Anyway, this meant that I – or to be honest, Jane – would have to run around the next day transferring funds and making arrangements. They assured us we could still drive the car home. I thought, “Well, duh, of COURSE we can still drive the damned car home. You want us to take it off your hands.”

I couldn’t help thinking of publishers I’ve known who have sprung surprises on me at the last moment. Yes, you’ll get paid; it will just take a while. Or there’s been a delay in the publishing schedule. Instead of July, it should be November. Just fill in the blank here based on your own experience. In buying a car or selling to a publisher, a healthy amount of self-defensive, self-protective cynicism is essential. It’s not even enough to read the fine print. You have to be unceasingly vigilant and assume that something is about to go wrong or that someone is about to scam or deceive you.

Still, the business with the credit card was only an inconvenience. What the hell, I told myself. The next morning I’d drive in my new car to play tennis and would let Jane, my faithful, long-suffering wife handle the credit card mess. No problem-o.

After a ten-minute spell cooling our heels on a bench, Jane and I were led to the last high muckamuck, the man not only with the Keys to the Kingdom but with the Key to our new car. He was billed in advance as brisk and efficient. He talks fast,” our salesman said, the same one who had told us we could charge everything on our credit card. “He’ll whisk you right through.”

Yeah, right.

We went to the last office and the man there initially reminded me of Speedy Gonzalez. He commented on the fact that we’d been there for hours, and assured us that he would quickly facilitate the endgame. Okay, he didn’t use the word “endgame,” but that was what it was.

Things went well till he whipped out a sheet of paper and started talking about our car’s odometer and how much it would cost for repairs in five-thousand mile increments. By the time the car reached 100,000 miles, the charge for coverage would be nearly $2500.00. Jane and I both came alert at that point. “Wait a minute,” we chorused, “the salesman already said we had full warranty coverage. Five years, 100,000 miles of it!”

The man told us no, that could not be because our car was not CERTIFIED. Uncertified cars basically didn’t come with a warranty. We’d have to pay for that ourselves. We said no. Since the full, generous warranty was a major reason we had purchased the car, Jane indicated that we would vote with our feet and hit the bricks. They weren’t happy about it, especially since it would cost them $800 to certify the car themselves.

What would they do?

The guy frowned and left to consult with the salesman, to see if he had indeed promised us this warranty. Left alone in his office, we recalled that the salesman had now made TWO mistakes. The first one, which involved the credit card, was annoying but minor. This one was different, for it involved well over $2,000.

Eventually the guy came back and informed us that they were going to certify the car. We would get the warranty free.

That’s about it. Except I had to wait a while for the key. Finally I’d had enough. I barged into the last guy’s office. Sitting behind the desk, he looked like every shyster editor and publisher I’d ever dealt with. Gazing at him, I saw myself going postal and whacking the sumbitch right there, like a nutcase in one of my horror stories. “Hey,” I shouted, “how about throwing in a key with the car. Or is that extra too?”

A few minutes later, we had the key and drove off. So far, we’re happy with the car and glad we chose this dealer. Still, folks, my advice is to remember the Latin warning, “Caveat Emptor,” and to be always on the alert, even if it involves an apparently honest car dealer, editor, or publisher. No matter how conscientious and well-meaning they are, in the end you may be the one who is stuck with their mistakes and has to pay the penalty.

by John B. Rosenman

If you’re like me, you sometimes find the process of revision to be difficult because you’re too close to the story or novel you’ve written. It’s too familiar and you struggle to be objective. Perhaps you’ve already gone over your masterpiece a dozen times and each time, you’re not really reading so much as reciting the damned thing. To you it looks simply great, or if you sense there’s something wrong, you’re not clear what it is or how to fix it. What you need is a fresh eye for the narrative and a new nose for when its odor turns rancid. What you need, in other words, is to be a different person, someone with a totally different perspective who can read the work as if for the first time and see all its warts and blemishes clearly, and even more importantly, know how to correct them.

Well, there is a way to do this. Just put your story away in a time capsule for twenty-five years, and then revisit it when it’s all but faded from your mind.

This happened to me recently when I was rooting through my file cabinet and found a story I had written in early 1984. I barely recalled it, and when I sat down to read it, it was almost as if I were doing so for the first time. I saw all (well, many) of its faults clearly, saw where I had overwritten and gone overboard with my characters, saw where I had to sketch in the historical reality of this futuristic yarn a little bit more to make the characters and their actions credible. It was almost as if I had paid myself to be a story doctor and I was delivering the diagnosis and the prescription in one sitting. In two days, I pruned and revised the story, gave it a new title (the old one I realized, was hackneyed and had been used before), and took it to my writers’ group for input. I’m sure they’re gonna love it.

And there you go, boys and girls. Revising your story is simple. Just put it away for a minimum of twenty years and take it out again when you can barely remember it. Success is virtually guaranteed.

Only . . . I have the feeling that a few party poopers among you will be less sanguine about the idea. You’ll say it’s not practical or that you’ve got an urgent deadline to meet, and that your editor simply can’t wait until 2032 to receive the manuscript. “I have to live in the real world,” you’ll grouse. “I need a more pragmatic solution to my problem.”

Hmm. Perhaps I should have stated that my quarter-century sleep concerning the story may suit Rip Van Winkle writers and can be productive in rare instances, such as when you put a story away for a long time and basically forget it. In the more common, everyday world, different measures are usually needed.

What are these measures? Below I list and discuss some of them and their respective merits. Please note that the list is incomplete and based on my personal opinion. Still, there is no doubt that some of these approaches are better than others.

1. Books, articles, etc. about writing. Writers’ magazines such as The Writer and Writer’s Digest routinely publish articles and interviews exploring every imaginable aspect of writing – point of view, theme, dialogue, story format, the submission process involving editors and agents, etc. In general, while this is a sizeable niche of the publishing industry, and can teach us a great deal about writing, it tends to be of limited practical value in improving our writing because it is not sufficiently interactive. In my opinion, books and articles are most helpful when the authors try to involve the reader, whether it be by exercises or story revisions which are used as illustrations of how the editing process works. At the end of Stephen King’s On Writing, for example, he presents a story, “The Hotel Story,” which he characterizes as “completely raw . . . it’s the story undressed, standing up in nothing but its socks and undershorts.” He follows it with a heavily edited version of the story and closes with a discussion of changes and the reasons for them. Beginning and more experienced writers can read this section and learn a great deal which they can apply to their own fiction.

2. Courses in creative writing. If the courses are good, they can be better than the best “How to” book on writing. Of course, most creative writing courses do involve “How to” books and articles. What’s crucial here is a good creative writing teacher, one who can make astute observations on the stories submitted and help the student to improve. As for students, often, to quote Wordsworth, their critiques are “somewhere between a hindrance and a help.” I’ve taught quite a few creative writing courses and have heard many students say, “I like it,” and leave it at that. They have no insights and no constructive criticism because they have little critical experience. Still, a course with a good teacher and moderately competent student readers can help a writer see his work with a fresh eye and a discerning nose for suspicious scents.

3. A variation on # 2 is the correspondence course, often carried out through the mail or more often these days conducted through e-mail or online. The writer/student sends writing exercises to the teacher and gets comments back. I have no experience with this process, but clearly, as with standard courses, a good teacher can be invaluable to the developing writer. If other students are involved, the benefits could be increased, because the writers will receive more than just one viewpoint on their work.

4. Best of all is a good writers’ group. I discussed this subject earlier in my February blog, “Writers’ Groups from Hell,” which will be republished in Vision: A Resource for Writers. In that article, I basically said that a group of six to eight intelligent readers/writers who meet regularly every two or three weeks and provide diverse critiques on stories/chapters is a great way for the writer to view his story in a new, constructive way. If one reader misses a flaw or possibility, another reader may pick up on it. Thus the story I mentioned earlier which I revised after nearly twenty-five years and took to the group (they DID like it but felt it could be improved), will be even better because of the input I received. One reader suggested that I change the mother’s baby from a girl to a boy. She’s the only one who made that suggestion, and it opens up horrifying possibilities that should significantly enhance the tale’s impact.

5. The writer reviews and revises his own work. Nice if he can do it. The problem, as I said before, is that the writer is the person who wrote it in the first place and it may be difficult to evaluate the work critically and objectively because it’s so familiar. Still, there are useful techniques and tricks. After you’ve read the story or novel from beginning to end, spot-check random parts of it. I believe Janet Berliner said that she sometimes reads characters’ dialogue aloud to herself to see if it’s natural and effective. Flaws and weaknesses that may not be obvious on paper or your monitor may sound like nails dragged across a blackboard when read aloud. Something I like to do is skip around in a story, silently reading a few lines or paragraphs here and there. This is especially effective because my guard’s down, I’m not in a rigid, I’m-going-to-read-the-whole-damned-thing-one-more-time-from-beginning-to-end mode. In this relaxed state, I often notice problems my more systematic method missed.

6. Cut words, trim and prune. This is basically a variation on #5. Years ago, an editor said she’d accept my story if I cut it from 10,000 to 8,000 words. That’s 2,000 words or 20% of the story. I didn’t see how I could do it, but the editor’s requirement compelled me to look at the story in a way I hadn’t before, to be really critical about the amount of verbiage I used. The result: I trimmed 2,100 words and thoroughly enjoyed the process. Every time I cut a word, I thought, ”
Aha, I’ve just made the story even better and tighter!” Ask yourself if you really need all those adverbs and “he saids,” “she saids.” In general, you might assume that every story or chapter you write is at least ten percent overweight, and dedicate yourself to finding the lean, mean fighting machine beneath the bloated exterior.

That’s about it. There are other methods you can use to see your fiction from a fresh perspective. Go through your story and search for inconsistencies and implausibilities, logical goofs. Some may be obvious, others more subtle. How could Jack shoot those bad guys? He left his sixgun back at the ranch. How could Jenny have a happy marriage and sex life when she was sexually abused by her uncle when she was a child? Don’t you at least have to account for that? If you’ve got the time, put that mystery or romance away for a few weeks or months, perhaps change to another writing project and then come back to it when you feel you’ve acquired a little distance and objectivity. Show the story to a friend with a critical bent who won’t just tell you that your piece of dreck is a masterpiece. Be suspicious of such friends, for they do you no favor. Above all, keep writing and always be prepared to change your story or direction when you find a way to do it better.

by John B. Rosenman

In our writer’s group, we have a woman writing a chicklit novel. Basically it’s about four or five career girls/women scheming and conniving to meet Mr. Right, variously called “Mr. Success,” “Mr. Wallet,” “Mr. Hunk.” Their goals are clearly defined, pragmatic, predatory, and ruled by self-interest. After all, some of them are past thirty and their biological clocks are ticking. A girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do. Getting a man, preferably a rich, successful, handsome man isn’t everything, however. A couple of the main characters want to cling to that man’s coattails to get promoted and climb the corporate ladder. Still, landing a winner is the main thing, as indicated by the novel’s title, which I will leave to your imagination.

This is the first novel of this kind that I’ve read, and it’s been an eye-opening experience for me. Besides the efficient man-hunting plot, the writer (I’ll call her Laverne) is superb at describing cosmetics, furnishings, and the various bric-a-brac of these women’s daily existence. When I go to a party or enter a dining room, I rarely notice what the place settings are or what people are wearing. But Laverne is great at describing silverware and tablecloths, bathroom fixtures and shower jets, 900 different types of flowers and Dior Toffee eye shadow. I wouldn’t know peach highlighter from Mango Shine lipstick at gunpoint, but Laverne excels in such areas.

Now, I’m not putting Laverne down. Really. She is a highly competent writer, and the women, while often single-minded and mercenary, are brilliantly characterized and sometimes sympathetic. Laverne’s novel is professionally crafted, and I have little doubt that she will be able to sell it for significant bucks – something, by the way, which I find it hard to do.

So what’s my problem? Simply that in the last thirty pages of the novel’s first draft, events, in my opinion, took a wrong direction. After three hundred plus pages of Grey’s Anatomy, i.e., relationship problems, star-crossed lovers, SEX, financial problems, family problems, SEX, etc., everything resolved itself in a HAPPY ENDING. Okay, perhaps not everything, but enough to trouble me. Couples ironed out their problems and got together. A case of possible breast cancer turned out to be benign. And most of the career girls who were fired, fell on their feet with new jobs.

Most of the folks in my writer’s group liked the ending, whereas I saw it as implausible and as ruining the novel. I mean, life just doesn’t work out that way. Occasionally, one or two things will fall into place, but everybody can’t ride off into the sunset to the swell of violins, can they?

Or maybe they can.

Astute and insightful reader and/or writer, this is the main question I am submitting to you: IF READERS OF A PARTICULAR GENRE OR TYPE OF NOVEL EXPECT OR WANT SOMETHING, DOES THAT MAKE IT GOOD? I’ve always assumed that if there are 16 billion ways to write a short story or a novel, then only one of those 16 billion is the absolute best, and all the others are to be avoided, but perhaps I’m wrong. Whether in romantic novels or romantic movies, if folks want a happy ending, isn’t that the best way to end it?

By implication, questions might be asked about other areas. For example is the quality of an “extreme” horror novel directly proportional to the amount of gore, vomit, violence and dismemberment it contains? The higher the body count there is, the better?

I know that this is an old subject that many of you are familiar with, and in various guises, it’s often been discussed on this site. What makes it especially relevant to writers is that highly formulaic writing is often required in the marketplace. When it comes to Happy Endings, I can understand it – up to a point. When we read that thriller or suspense novel, that romance or western, usually we don’t want futility. We don’t want to see the good guys stomped into a giant blot of gore on the horizon. In general such writing is not commercially successful, though there are exceptions. But a Happy Face for all or nearly all of the main (and some minor) characters runs the risk of being a cheat, no matter how superficially satisfying it might be.

Last July, I wrote an essay for this site titled, “Editors are Irrational (And Publishers, Agents Too) ( . . . Mainly for Newer Writers)”. The premise was that many of editors’/publishers’ requirements for stories and novels are based on “a highly subjective sniff test of personal preference” and often are “unreasonable,” “too quirky and idiosyncratic.” It can get to the point where a story can be rejected if a character wears a plaid shirt or appears to be gay. What I am talking about here, in this essay, is a broader, industry-wide set of requirements and expectations, what is sometimes called a “slant.” While all of the contributors to the Storytellers Unplugged site are aware of this concept (they have to be, in order to get published), I suspect that many of us occasionally rail and grumble about the unreasonable strictures and requirements we face.

So, to the beginning writer, I urge you to do your homework. Whatever area you are writing in, whether SF, Romance, Horror, Western, or what have you, read a lot within it and find out what you can and cannot do. That way, if you do decide to break a rule or two, you can at least do it intelligently and with purpose. Learn the do’s and don’ts, the taboos and traditional tropes. Otherwise, you may face many years knocking on doors which no one opens.

Speaking of doors, I hope I’ve nudged one of my own ajar. I invite writers to share unreasonable, creatively stultifying rules that they’ve faced. Maybe it’s not the requisite Happy Ending or Excessive Sex/Gore/Violence, but something else, such as Tom Monteleone complaining years ago that horror publishers required skeletons or monsters on covers. Whatever the case, it’s made you feel that you were lowering and betraying the quality of your work by adhering to a stupid rule you didn’t believe in. Perhaps you were told that rule was good, that it was established long ago by wiser heads than yours, but deep in your gut, you remained unconvinced.

C’mon, let’s hear your stories. I bet you’ll feel better getting them off your chest. And that in itself would be a happy ending.

by John B. Rosenman

On April 30, Dave Wilson wrote a great essay, “There are stories all around us . . . welcome to my world.” In it, he says, “I’m always a bit bemused when confronted by people who can’t figure out what to write.” He adds, “If I could just write down all of the ideas and inspirations that hit me in a single year, allotting them a single sentence apiece, I’d have a novel.” He concludes that “There are stories all around us . . . welcome to my world.”

In the Comments section afterward, I asked Dave, “If ideas are all around us, why do some writers have writer’s block?” He said that he thinks that writer’s block has “nothing to do with writing” and that “It is always external,” meaning some external problem or pursuit gets in the way of writing, like Dave’s successful quest of an AA degree. Other external problems might include excessive responsibilities at work, poor health, family issues, and the like.

With due respect to Dave, I don’t think this is always the case. I believe that sometimes writer’s block IS about writing. We are not, after all, machines. Sometimes our bodies, minds, and imaginations work better than at other times. Theodore Sturgeon, for example, a great SF writer, sometimes had writer’s block for years. Yet another great writer, Mike Resnick, not only told me in a 1995 interview that he always “writes quickly and easily,” but has trouble understanding why writer’s block should be a problem. Hey, just apply your backside to your chair and write!

Well, often he’s right. When my muse is silent and I’m faced with a literary drought, I’ve sometimes summoned creative rain (sorry about that metaphor!) just by sitting down and not getting up till I’ve produced five hundred or a thousand words of SOMETHING. Maybe it’s good, maybe it’s bad, but at least I have SOMETHING. And sometimes, to my surprise, it has turned out to be pretty good. So on occasion, hard work, sweat, and dogged determination can carry the day, or at least get you started again.

I think Beth Massey put her finger on one of the causes of writer’s block when she wrote, “writer’s block isn’t trouble with ideas, it comes when fleshing out some details of an idea. Suddenly it might not seem as lovely or scary or important as it did an idea, or I sometimes fear losing something in the translation.” In other words, you have the part but not the whole. You have the general concept but not the step-by-step details of the plot and narrative. In this situation, a writer can often start a story but struggles to take it anywhere meaningful because he or she doesn’t feel it fully.

Okay, that’s about all I have to say about the causes and origins of writer’s block. Hopefully, I haven’t misinterpreted what either Dave or Beth meant. I think that writer’s block is a serious problem that is both external and internal, rooted in the world of our personal lives, and in the failure of our imagination.

What I like best about Dave’s essay are the examples he gives of ideas that are all around us, sometimes in the news. For example, he writes, “A man in Germany, upon beginning divorce proceedings, drove to the country house he and his wife shared, cut it in half with a chain saw, and carted his half back to his brother’s yard on a forklift.” By golly, it does seem that you should be able to get a dandy tale out of that tidbit, doesn’t it? Reminds me of King Solomon’s tongue-in-cheek decision concerning two women claiming to be the mother of a child that the kid be cut in two by a sword in order to accommodate both of them.

I have one suggestion of my own when it comes to writer’s block. Pick up a newspaper and scan two different stories or items. That way you may get a true serendipity, disparate, unrelated parts that might unexpectedly fit together into an imaginative tale you couldn’t have reached by conventional means. For example, I just picked up today’s (May 6) Virginian-Pilot and see two news stories on page A3. The first refers to “Spider-Man 3″ and announces, “‘Spidey’ snares box-office record.” Just below it is a story on Don Imus, et. al, whose headline trumpets, “Even after the Imus incident, just about anything goes for radio’s biggest mouths.” Merely glancing at the articles, I had an idea for rude and obnoxious Spiders who invade Earth, insulting humans of every race, religion, you name it. Kind of like MARTIANS GO HOME, only with a contemporary flavor. Gay men and lesbians, women and Muslims . . . the politically incorrect Arachnids respect nobody. And let’s see . . . they refuse to go home until we put up an insult artist of our own to match them in a contest that is as grand as it is tasteless and demeaning. Perhaps Don Rickles or Howard Stern. Whoever it is, homo sapiens have to choose a champion who can play the dozens and engage masterfully in coarse, sexually explicit banter, particularly descriptions of anal and oral sex. Of course, if the Spiders are naturally incestuous, calling one a mother ****** might lack, uh, bite.

Too extreme or childish? Well, give it a try. If you’re a victim of writer’s block and inclined to be conservative, perhaps you’ll be more successful using the business or obituary section.

by John B. Rosenman

I’ve got a confession to make. A painful one.

I’ve become addicted, folks. I’m a junkie, and I need a fix.

Lately, I’ve needed that fix more and more. No, it’s not a needle in a pumped vein I need, and my addiction, despite a hearty habit, does not involve sex or thick burgers at Hardee’s. As far as I know, the particular monkey on my back lacks a name.

Okay, here it goes. I’ve kept you in suspense long enough. I’ve become addicted to . . . boxed sets.

I’m talking TV series here, the kind you can buy in thrift shops, discount video stores, and on e-bay. To mention a few, there’s The Twilight Zone (both old and new), The Outer Limits (both old and new), West Wing, Smallville, Lost, The Pretender, The Ray Bradbury Theater, 24, Carnivale, Lois and Clark, House, Medium, Masters of Horror, Tales from the Crypt . . . and the list goes on.

So many shows and so little time, especially since I work hard during the day and don’t have time to pop that DVD in until 11 at night or so. Yes, I need that fix more and more, but usually I resist the craving until it’s time to hit the bourbon.

I suppose I should have seen this coming. When I was a kid, I loved 50’s SF and Horror movies. Them!, War of the Worlds, The Thing, The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms . . . I must have a couple of thousand movies in the house, oldie goldies and “creepy crawlies” as my wife likes to call them, not to mention Hitchcock, other suspense flicks, mainstream movie classics, and just about anything else you can imagine. While the leap to DVD TV series may be just the logical next step, it’s acquiring the compulsive, demented quality of the career collector who wants to own EVERYTHING, especially every genre movie or TV series ever made.

Addiction, they come in all kinds.

Lately, I noticed that I could buy the first season of The X-Files in pristine condition at a local Cash Converters for $30. Never mind that I was never a rabid fan of the show. It’s a cult classic, for Gawd’s sake. Still, you have to pick your spots, right? I mean, you can’t own everything, especially when your bedroom already resembles a cluttered Blockbuster’s.

Okay, enough preamble. Here’s my main point: Many of these series are remarkably good examples of writing and story-telling, and we can learn a lot from them. And even those that are seriously flawed are interesting in their own right. In general, TV series can be divided into two categories. One is the anthology series, where the episodes are basically self-contained, non-sequential. While they usually share a theme or gimmick (e.g., The Twilight Zone, Tales from the Crypt), they don’t tell or emphasize an ongoing story. In the second category (Lost, 24, etc.) they do tell such a story, and often use suspenseful cliffhangers to keep you watching.

Tonight, I’m going to talk about three series of the second category: Smallville, 24, and Carnivale. Please note that I reserve the right to revisit this subject in the future.

1. Smallville, 2001-. I’ve always liked Superman, partly because he’s a nice guy fighting for Truth, Justice, and the American way” and also because he has a painful, frustrating secret that keeps him – or Clark Kent – from scoring with Lois. Then again, I grew up with EC comics and dig people with super powers. And, if they are also potential saviors of the human race who can rescue us from a demonic, dastardly threat, all the better. This particular show has a lot that’s good going for it, beginning with a really rousing theme song (“Save Me”) and near-perfect actors playing the roles of Clark Kent, Clark’s adoptive parents, Lex Luthor and his father, Lionel. Plus there are neat villains and the gals ain’t bad either. Basically, the show centers on the archetypal contest between Good vs. Evil, especially as it involves Clark and Lex/Lionel. Lex, who struggles with a sinister dark side, is complex and especially fascinating. We sense he could go either way, but knowing his comic-book origins, we can guess which direction the scales will tip.

Still, it is the episodes in which Christopher Reeve appears that stand out the most in my mind. Reeve, arguably the best Superman ever, plays the role of Dr. Virgil Swann, a scientist who knows Clark’s secret, and serves as a wise mentor who can help Clark overcome his own demons and Show Him The Way, his sacred destiny. The episodes in which Reeve appears shine and elevate the series artistically. Sadly, though, Reeve died, allowing cheesy tendencies in the show to dominate.

The greatest flaw in the series is what even some fans call “a Freak of the Week” pattern, thanks usually to Kryptonite exposure. In episode after episode, someone challenges Clark for ascendancy or otherwise complicates his life. To consider just a few of the females, there’s one with the power of erotic pheromone persuasion; another who sucks the age out of people to keep herself young; a gal who gives people horrible hallucinations with a mere kiss. Hmm, I once knew a girl like that. Even sweet Lana is not exempt, having her body possessed by a 17th century witch. The trouble is, special powers are supposed to be special. When everyone (including a dog) has them, they lose their punch and dramatic power. Often, Clark becomes merely ordinary, especially when his powers are stripped away and given to someone else. Sometimes gimmicks work; unfortunately, at times, these almost sink the show.

But hey, that may be just my personal opinion. To tell the truth, I’ve had a problem with the X-Men for the same reason. Then again, “a freak a week” is faithful to the comic book. Still, I think this show could have been much better if its writers (notice that word!) had exercised more restraint.

2. 24, 2001-. Yes, it’s true. 24 is as good as folks and its awards say it is. If you ever wanted to learn about fast-action plotting, about throwing endless, seemingly insuperable obstacles in the hero’s path, just watch this show. Yep, once again Jack Bauer will not only save America’s ass, but he will do it even after the enemy stops his heart and he dies. And you thought Superman had special powers! Perhaps the most amazing thing, the guy never seems to have time to grab a sandwich or even take a dump.

I’ve heard of people who buy the boxed sets and stay up 24 hours straight just to watch them. On top of the non-stop action, there’s good characterization and good guy-secret villains who will fool you. If you tune into this show, be sure to check your blood pressure frequently. I take medication and the last time I checked, I had the blood pressure of a 14-year-old girl. Still, this show is . . . intense. You may want to break it up with Gilligan’s Island and Leave It to Beaver.

Does this show have any flaws? Hmm, perhaps a slight problem with credibility. I’m in the middle of the third season, and Jack once again manages to turn the tables by getting the drop on a guard. Somehow, he always seems to do that. But then, if you accept the baloney in James Bond and Mission: Impossible movies, you should have no trouble swallowing this. Get yourself a big bag of chips or popcorn and dig in.

3. Carnivale, 2003-2005. I have saved Carnivale for last, because it may be the best series I’ve ever seen. Like Smallville and 24, it portrays the battle between Good and Evil, Right and Wrong. Here, though, the battle is richer and deeper because it avoids the comic-book action schlock that mars Smallville and perhaps even 24. But it’s more than that. This series, which “follows a traveling carnivale as it wends its way across the Dust Bowl” during the Great Depression (official site), resembles an intricate, richly suggesti
ve Symbolist poem. A crooked tree is not just a crooked tree, it’s a demonic parody of the Christian cross. A deck of cards (probably the show’s central symbol), is not just a deck of cards, but the battlefield on which the final battle of Armageddon will be fought. Or maybe it’s something else.

And the texture – have I said that it’s rich, intricate, and murky? Imagine a complex tapestry where the figure in the carpet interacts with other figures, all of them building up to something hugely significant. Watching it, I feel I can experience it over and over and not exhaust its allusiveness, never quite plumb its depths. As for the characters, they don’t exactly come out of Central Casting. In addition to sideshow freaks, we have other quirky characters, some deeply mysterious, such as Henry Scudder, the hero’s father. All these characters are fresh and different, and they dance sexually and otherwise to the music’s slow, haunting beat.

Have I intrigued you enough to watch it? I hope so. The sad part is that only two twelve-episode seasons of this already cult series were completed, leaving everything unresolved. At this point, I’ve seen seventeen episodes. I’m saving the last seven like they’re glasses of the world’s rarest, most exquisite wine. 24 may be gulped non-stop because it’s mass entertainment. However good, it doesn’t compare to this atmospheric masterpiece which must be savored, ideally in a boxed set without commercial interruptions.

Okay, that’s enough for now. Yesterday, I saw that the complete set of the late 60’s series The Prisoner is available at Cool Stuff for under $60. Great deal, huh? I’m off to buy it – that is, if some other addict hasn’t beaten my time.

Wish me well.