Traveling Strange Paths

“Ahh..., Charles,” I said.

Mr. Dodgson (aka Lewis Carroll) shot me an inscrutable stare, as though I didn’t understand him. “Yes?”

“What do you mean, begin at the beginning?”

He shook his head and let out a large sigh. It must have been audible for a hundred yards down the tunnel in either direction, as it reverberated off the dank walls. “Pick a spot, any spot in time, or an event if you’d rather. It doesn’t matter. That’s where you begin.”

He grabbed my attention, just as his white rabbit had when I read about him during my childhood, and with Alice followed him into an adventure. “So I just start?”

A smile spread across his face. “That’s the idea.”

“And I go till I reach the end?”

“That’s what I said, wasn’t it?”

I nodded, afraid to open my mouth and stick my foot in it again.

“Think about it,” he said. “It was a particularly long journey to reach the end of the tale for Herman Melville.”

Moby Dick came to mind. That took awhile to read. “Yes, it was.”

“I hear today, up in the publishing world that shorter is better, so I’d try to take your protagonist down a relatively short journey.”

“How do I know if I’ve chosen the right road for my story?”

That wry smile of his spread up from his mouth and into his eyes again. “If you don’t know where you’re going, any road will get you there.”

Until next time, that’s it from The Storyman

Writing is Simple

Hmmm, I thought. That’s not quite me. Although the advice to read good literature, in particular Samuel Clemmons, struck me as sound, the last bit from Mr. Hemingway raked across my psyche. Was it in the vein of never let them see you sweat, or pretend to be a con? Move on, I told myself.

I bid good-by to Mr. Hemingway and his cats and set off at a brisk pace through the passageway until I came to two tunnels, one branching off the other. What was the advice Emily Dickinson gave me weeks before? Bear to the left to find other writers. Yes, that was it. Left was right. It seemed, however, this route led downhill on a steep slant. I could turn back, or take the other path, but where would that get me? No more writers to visit. No more secrets from the masters. Nothing to do but go further into the maze in my quest.

The steep part soon leveled out and began a meandering curve to the right. After walking for half an hour in the dim glow of the passageway I saw a bright light glowing from the wall. I wondered who I’d find. I quickened my pace until I stood before the opening in amazement.

The gentleman sat in a leather chair, eyes nearly closed. He wore a black suit with a waistcoat. His wavy dark brown hair was slightly out of place and longer than I expected. The expression on his face was serene with the corners of his mouth hinting at a smile.

I didn’t want to disturb him, but I couldn’t help myself. Chances like this didn’t come often. I cleared my throat. “Excuse me Mr. Dodgson.”

He roused himself, smiled and said, “Most people don’t call me than anymore.”

“Would you prefer I call you Mr. Carroll?”

“If you’re going to use the Dodgson, then you should use Charles as well. Now, who might you be?

Are you lost, or do you need some other kind of help?”

I introduced myself and said, “I’m a writer and I’ve already met all sorts of other interesting writers in this rabbit hole. I’m asking them questions to help me with my writing.”

“You’re sure you don’t want to know about my inventions?”

“I would, but let’s tackle writing first. Tell me how you write a story. For instance, how did you write Alice in Wonderland?”

“Very simple,” he said. Begin at the beginning and go on till you come to the end; then stop.”

Here’s the link to my web page: http://www.bobwhite4stories.com .
Until next time, that’s it from The Storyman ….

The Writer's Secret

“Huckleberry Finn?” I said. “Are you serious, Mr. Hemmingway?’
He chuckled. “I said it years ago. Mark Twain’s writing hasn’t changed since then. At least not that I’m aware.”
“It’s been awhile since I’ve read about Tom and Huck.”
“All the better to read it again. The man was a master at spinning a web of lies. That is what fiction is, you know. Clemens’s words have the power to leap off the page, grab you by the throat, and ensnare your mind. They won’t let you escape their trap.”
I closed my eyes a moment and remembered the first time I’d read the story. Just a kid in grade school. Hemmingway was right. Mark Twain had mesmerized me with the tale. “So,” I said, “What do I do? I’m not that good of a storyteller.”
“You don’t have to be. I’m not.”
“You’re not?”
“Good God, no.” He laughed again, lightly. “I’ve had to work at it all my life. And it’s hard work, too.”
“I thought you were a natural.”
“Not many of those. And I’m not one of them.”
“You could have fooled me.”
“You and a lot of others.” He cocked his head sideways and smiled a mischevious smile. His eyes glistened. “It’s none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way.”
Here’s the link to my web page: http://www.bobwhite4stories.com .
Until next time, that’s it from The Storyman ….

The Best Damn Book

I walked down the tunnel, musing on what Mr. Parker had said. I had plots and stories churning through my mind. Some finished. A couple completed and polished to what I considered perfection. Where to send them? Which to send? There were so many choices. I wondered. Should I revisit the best and try to make them better? Or would that merely screw up a perfectly good story?
A brighter light ahead drew me to a man sitting at a desk in a small alcove niched into the side of the wall. He had a round, almost boxy face and sported a well trimmed white beard. The ancient lamp on his table cast a pool of light on sheets of paper. I wondered. Short story? Novel? Something inspired by his travels?
“Hello,” I said.
He looked up. “Ah. A traveler.”
“More like a searcher and a writer. At least of sorts.”
“You either are, or you aren’t. Do the stories scream to get out?”
“To the point it sometimes drives my wife nuts.”
“Mine too. All four of them. Well... except the last one. She understood.” He looked at me askance. “So you have stories?”
“Trying to decide if they’re good, Mr. Hemingway.”
“Try reading some good ones. Compare yours. How do they hold up?”
“I’ve read yours. At least most of them.”
“Don’t read mine. Read someone really good.”
That surprised me. “Yours aren’t good enough? I sort of liked them. Your novella, The Old Man and the Sea seemed to be well done.”
His eyes bored into me. “No. I mean read the best damn book you can lay your hands on.”
“Which is?”
“All modern American literature comes from one book...” he paused.
“And that would be?”
“Huckleberry Finn.”

Here’s the link to my web page: http://www.bobwhite4stories.com .
Until next time, that’s it from The Storyman ….

Writers Write

“So,” I said, “You sit down and write, but you don’t know what’s going to come.”
“Five pages a day,” he said.
Pearl looked up at him, put her paw on his leg, and whined.
He patted her on the head. “Be patient, girl. We’ll take a walk in a few minutes.”
“I don’t want to intrude on Pearl’s time, but just five pages?”
“Sometimes it takes me five hours.”
“You’re kidding?”
“Look at me. Would I kid you?”
Robert B. Parker did not look like the kidding kind, except in the eyes. “Probably,” I said.
“At least you’re honest. What else do you want to know?”
“You’re not going to string me along.”
“Come on. You have to figure that out for yourself.”
“All right. Wide open here.”
He grinned. “Ahhh. A free range. I might shoot you.”
“I don’t think so. I’m not one of the bad guys. Not even Spenser or Hawk would shoot me.” I paused. “At least on purpose.”
“Enough. What do you want to know?”
“Some advice for a writer. Any advice.”
The amusement in his gaze vanished. He said, “If you want to write, write it. That's the first rule. And send it in, and send it in to someone who can publish it or get it published. Don't send it to me. Don't show it to your spouse, or your significant other, or your parents, or somebody. They're not going to publish it.”
“Thanks,” I said. “I’ll do that.”

Here’s the link to my web page: http://www.bobwhite4stories.com .
Until next time, that’s it from The Storyman ….

Meeting the Mystery Master

I trudged on through the dank cavern. The tunnel led up a gradual slope now. Emily had pointed me this direction and I’d met one writer. Not what I expected and my brief conversation with John, had been a bit cryptic. Although he’d given me something to think about, there’d been no advice on which path to follow. I wanted to talk with another writer. Let me revise that. Many more writers.
If I gleaned a bit of knowledge from each one, it could serve as a decent education in my learning of word craft.
A brighter light ahead encouraged me to increase my pace. In a small alcove I found him sitting in a burgundy leather club chair. Over recent years I’d read many of his books. He appeared much like the pictures on the jackets of his many books, sans coat. His hair still mostly brown and cut short, a rounded face of serious mein. At his side sat a black dog.
“Hello,” I said. May I have a moment of your time?”
“Why not? No more deadlines from my publisher now.”
“I’m curious.”
“Yes.”
“Is that Pearl?”
“None other. And who might you be?”
I introduced myself and although I wanted to tell him how much I enjoyed, and learned from, what he wrote, I restrained myself. Too mawkish, I thought. “I’m looking for a little advice from writers.”
“And you picked me?”
“You were the first I’ve found since I left Mr. Steinbeck.”
He grinned. “A bit formal, there.”
“Respectful,” I said.
“So, I suppose when you leave here you’ll refer to me as Mr. Parker?”
I nodded.
“What advice do you want?”
“Tell me how you begin a story,” I said.
He rubbed his chin for a moment and gave me a squinty stare. “I have reached the point where I know that as long as I sit down to write, the ideas will come. What they will be I don’t know.”
Here’s the link to my web page: http://www.bobwhite4stories.com .
Until next time, that’s it from The Storyman ….

What in the heck am I doing?

My mind filled with images of rabbits running helter-skelter. My lack of a sufficient muse wasn’t for lack of ideas. I had more than a dozen. My problem revolved around the task of managing them. Damn rabbits. It felt like herding cats. I looked back to Mr. Steinbeck. “Could I trouble you with another question?”
“If you must.” He set his pen aside. Resignation, or was it irritation, clouded his features.
“I don’t think...”
“You don’t think? How can you possibly write?” He sounded so much like Doc on Cannery Row.
“That’s not what I meant. I’m not sure if I know how to handle the rabbits. They fly all over my mind.”
“Flying rabbits, huh? It’s not easy. Imagination and writing takes discipline. Focus on one idea. See where it goes. Watch it blossom into characters and a plot as they interact with each other.”
“That sounds like a lot of work.”
“It is. It is.” The lamp on his table began to flicker and he stopped to adjust the wick. The faint smell of burnt kerosene wafted in the air as he turned it too high. “Sorry about that. Let’s see where was I? I spend an hour or two every day dreaming while I’m awake. Then it’s pen to paper.”
That sounded a lot like what I did. Maybe I needed a little more discipline to stick to one story, one plot, one central character. “I think...”
“Ah now you’ve switched to thinking. That’s an improvement.” A grin creased his face.
“Yes. I think I need to narrow my focus. You’ve helped. Thanks.” I turned to go.
“One last thought,” he said, “the profession of book writing makes horse racing seem like a solid, stable business.” Then he laughed.
Here’s the link to my web page: http://www.bobwhite4stories.com .
Until next time, that’s it from The Storyman ….