Fiction Friday (2 days early)

A FATHER ERASED (PROLOGUE)

The noonday glint of the glass doors across the street caught Howard’s attention for the hundredth time. This time though, he looked up. It was the little boy. And he was alone.

Two blocks later Howard caught up to him, but only after the boy had stopped by the curb. “Hello?” Howard said.

There was no response.

“Hello?” he tried again. The child still did not talk. Howard guessed he was eight. “Are you okay?” If the boy was in any pain, Howard could not tell. It seemed he was in a trance. Then at once he jerked to attention, released the brakes, and rolled on.

This time Howard followed at a distance. Once again, the boy stopped. Howard thought about giving up. But he’d come too far and he felt like he knew the child personally. He had watched him struggle almost daily as the boy entered the medical building. His emotional investment in the child was too great for him to turn back now without understanding his plight. At length his persistence was rewarded as the child wheeled himself into the driveway, then up the slight ramp in through the front door of a small dirty white block house.

Not knowing what he’d say, Howard stepped to the door and knocked.

After another attempt there was a voice. It was a woman’s, perhaps elderly. “Yes?” The door opened to reveal a pleated face, grooves the size of a large map size view of the Rocky Mountains. The woman’s head held a cap, ridiculously pretending to cover her lack of hair. The sight would have been comical if it had not been so pathetic. A threadbare gown barely hid the rest of her wan figure. The woman backed up and turned, leaving the door fully open. “Please come in.”

Howard stepped inside.

“I’m Myra, please sit down.”

That name sounds familiar, Howard thought.

“I knew you would come.”

Howard opened his mouth but made no sound.

The woman had prepared for this moment. “You don’t remember me.” Her tone was unaffected, straightforward. A pause. Myra could see that light was dawning.

Howard dropped his chin and lowered his head. To himself he mouthed, “Myra Stevens.” He did not look up. The implication of the boy’s identity surfaced at once. Myra Stevens was the grandmother of his ex-wife. Myra was his son’s maternal great grandmother. And Michael, his son, was in the next room.

Myra’s voice brought him back. “You can sleep here tonight. There’s much to discuss in the morning. We have little time. Can I get anything for you?"

Howard shook his head, but said, “How did you know I would come?”

“We’ll talk in the morning. Let me show you where you’ll sleep.”

The alarm rang and morning came, but Howard didn’t wake up. He’d never slept. So used to passing each night beneath a starry ceiling, he couldn’t well sleep below a man-made one, much less the same one under which his own son had slept.

“Michael made coffee,” said the old woman from where she lay on the sofa in the living room. She seemed to have not moved an inch from last night.

Howard sat at the far end of the couch.

“Shall we begin?” said Myra. “There’s much to discuss and not much time.”

“What is wrong with Michael?” Howard interjected.

“What will happen to Michael when I’m gone is of far greater concern to me,” Myra said. “I am all he has and when I’m gone he will have only you.”

Howard blinked hard. It was awhile before he could open his eyes. They’d become too sensitive, as if the light in the room was too bright despite the fact that very little sunlight shone through to the living room.

“James Digby, my lawyer, will be coming later so I can sign over the house and other necessaries to you, all of which will be kept in a trust for Michael until he’s of age. As Michael already belongs to you, there’s no problem of custody. His mother is gone, besides. As I said, you are all he has. You’ll also need a job. His social security won’t suffice. Digby can help you there. Michael also knows you’re his father.”

Howard’s face went blank. “What?”

The old woman paused. “I should have known this would be a problem,” she mumbled. To Howard she said, “Alright look, here’s the deal. In a matter of weeks, I will be dead. Cancer, see?” She removed her cap and pointed to her hairless head. “Now my grandson, Michael, he will have no one to care for him. Do you understand?” She spoke even slower than before. “You will have everything you need. I haven’t much to give, but I have enough. It will be yours and Michael’s. Do you know what you're being offered?”

Howard remained seated but said nothing. His eyes glazed over and the room blurred. His mind swam against a current of thoughts. At first he kept pace. But soon after, his mind began to drown in its delirium like water in a whirlpool.

“Howard. Howard?” Myra spoke.

He had waited so long for this day to come. Now, just like that, what he had wanted most in life had just been offered to him.

“Say something.” the sick old woman pleaded.

Silence.

Then Howard stood and walked to the front door. He opened then closed it behind him.


(Any and all comments or criticisms gratefully received and appreciated)

What Are You Good At?

Recently I finished a great book. It's one which I had read over a decade ago and it made quite a difference in my way of viewing the world. The book is called Soar With Your Strengths. I highly recommend it. The basic premise is that one should focus on one's strengths and stop trying to overcome one's weaknesses. If you are at all like me, you tend to focus on what you do wrong, what you just can't quite get right.

To indulge in some generalization here, I believe people generally fall into one of two categories. People tend either toward pride (hubris) or discouragement. They either think too highly of themselves or too lowly. I tend toward the latter. A big part of the reason, I believe, is that I still focus too much on fixing the parts of me that are weak. Even as I'm writing this I'm doubting myself thinking, what good thing do I have to say about this topic--especially when I am far from mastering it? These thoughts are so insidious, so entrapping, that it makes me want to quit writing. It is so easy to just give in or give up. But to do so would just prove my point (but not in a good way)--that to focus on my weakness is futile. So, I'll not do that.

So instead...here is something I'm good at. I am good at empathizing. I am good at imagining things. I am good at writing dialogue. I love writing dialogue. I love being inside the minds of more than one of my characters at the same time while they are interacting, communicating. I can get high on this sort of creation.

I want you draw this picture in your mind: picture an image of a boy (we'll call him Timmy) who is staring out the window in his school classroom. Timmy is looking at the dead leaves blowing around in circles by the wind, fascinated by how the wind works. Then he sees another class playing kickball outside during recess. His mind gets carried away as he imagines that he is the one at the plate. As the ball rolls toward him he runs slowly at first, then faster as he thrusts his leg hard and the ball jumps off his foot high into the air over the head of every boy and girl in the outfield. The ball is still being chased as he jumps on home plate to score the winning run. His teammates are giving him high fives and the cute girl he likes smiles at him.

"Timmy? Earth calling Timmy." Timmy's classmates crack up at his expense as the teacher then says, "Timmy, you must have the worst attention span of any kid I've ever taught."

Maybe countless are the times this has happened to a boy or girl who, not only did not have the worst attention span--even if they did, so what--but who had a gift for imagination who will now think of it as a curse.

Though this is part of growing up--stuff happens--as adults we have the ability to choose what we focus on. Though it's unfortunate not all teachers are able to recognize hidden talent when they see it, it is fortunate that we--every one of us--can choose to focus on the things that we are good at and spend more time doing them.

What are you good at? What talents do you have and how can you put them to use to help yourself and others?

Are you original?

"There is no new thing under the sun." So says Ecclesiastes 1:9. Nothing is original. Yet we strive as writers to be original. I know I do. Do you?

The eminent critic Howard Bloom said that Shakespeare invented the human, which is another way of saying that there can be nothing new said about what it means to be human. Yet for some reason, we still write. Why?

Do you seek to be original in your creations? Or do you simply create without a care in the world?

April Showers Bring May Construction...

I've been reading a bit lately about blogs/Twitter, etc, and how to understand where one's market is. As a result, this blog will be undergoing some changes. Up until now I've tried to keep my focus on writing about writing. I've come to realize though that when I get around to publishing my novel I want to already have an audience. And to build the proper audience for the type of fiction I write I need to alter the content of my posts.

This means a couple things: I'm going to be experimenting with the content I write here, changing it around from time to time. I may also ask for input as to what you, as my audience, would like from me.

Here's what I know: my fiction will fall into the contemporary/literary fiction genre. To be a bit more specific, if you like a good human interest tale, this is where I fit in. Maybe Richard Paul Evans with more depth and (hopefully) better prose. More like Frank Conroy or Ernest J. Gaines, I suppose. Run a parental alienation theme through it and you have my first novel, tentatively entitled, A Father Erased.

Anyway, I just wanted to inform you, dear reader, of my aim and intentions with this blog and hope you come along and enjoy the ride. As always, thanks for reading.

I Am Thankful

I haven't been feeling so well the last few days. I've lost a great majority of my writing time. I've been feeling guilty over silly things. I've been staying up too late to then feel like a good caretaker for my daughter the following morning. I feel like a selfish SOB who doesn't spend enough quality time with my daughter when I would give anything--or so I say--to spend time with my other two children who I am virtually estranged from.

I want to be a better father, husband, writer, person. I want to be healthier--hence a significant diet change as of a couple days ago. All these things I want. I measure myself against such high ideals that I know I'll never attain them. If I could only relax...and be thankful for a few blessings in my life.

I do have them. I've been blessed to be able to stay at home and take care of my daughter.

I've been blessed with many good friends--especially in the past year. Friends have never come easy for me. I fit the standard loner mold. But I've been blessed to have married well the second time around to one who has shown me much of friendship. I am thankful today for the friend who invited me and my daughter to go play with her children at a small indoor park. It was nice to get out of the house, to talk with a friend, and to let my daughter play with her friends.

I am also thankful that I have a home, a family, money, food, clothing. So many are less fortunate and do not have the luxuries I do. I have been blessed with much and am thankful and acknowledge the source wherefrom all blessings flow.

As a writer I tend to feel it is my personal duty to suffer and to despair. But I wonder, does it really have to be that way? If I can create a character who chooses victory over hell's fury, then why can't I choose the same for myself?

Three Cheers For The Inauthentic Voice

I raise a toast to the "inauthentic voice." (Sound of glasses clanging.) What? You've never heard of inauthentic voice? Well neither have I, actually. However, I have heard the masses shouting about "finding one's authentic voice" for so long I figure its polar opposite must exist somewhere. But since I haven't had luck finding it elsewhere I figured I'd give it voice (pun intended) myself. I've therefore come up with a couple reasons to support finding an inauthentic voice. Here they are:

• Finding an inauthentic voice is easy. Who likes to work hard when one can choose to work easily? You've heard of fake it til you make it, right? Or, act as if? Same thing. It's all about pretending. Who needs authenticity when you can pretend all you want? That's what we writers are doing anyway, right?
• It's also original. I know, who'd have thought? But really, what writer do you know who advocates for finding an inauthentic voice? Or, put another way, what writer out there advocates finding one's authentic voice? Right. Exactly. Only every writer who has an opinion. Do you think Mark Twain, between pulls on his stinky stogie, twirled his wire-brush hair and thought, 'Gee, if I could just get in touch with my authentic voice this damn Huck might actually make something of himself? Methinks not. Now, you may be thinking, "but Twain is authentic." Not so fast. The fact is that the characters and narrators of Twain's novels are authentic, while Mark Twain the author, about whom much is known, still remains largely enigmatic.

My point is that many of us have been sold a bill of goods with all of this authentic voice b.s. We're taking this stuff way too seriously. Perhaps instead of planting our feet firmly in the soil of sincerity we need to step back from the mirror and cloak ourselves in a little more reality.

Put Me There!

Chances are I don't want to read your book. Chances are it's not up to my reading standards. Why should I read your book when I could read something better? Just to be nice? Fat chance! Even if your book is free I'll probably not read it. Why? Because there's probably a better book to read. Unless, of course, yours is one of those rare gems.

Which it probably isn't. Because chances are, you have not put me there.

Where is there? Where the action is.

The action is in the active voice. Active voice invites the reader along for the ride. Consider the opening sentences from my WIP (work-in-progress):

The noonday glint of the glass doors across the street caught Howard’s attention for the hundredth time. This time though, he looked up.

Aren't you at least a little curious about what will happen next?

If you aren't, I haven't done my job. And if as an author, you're not putting me right there with your people, allowing me to empathize with them--to walk the streets they walk and hold hands with the people they hold hands with--I'm going to go elsewhere looking for other characters worth spending more time with.