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 ….

Creating the Muse

Before I took leave of Miss Dickinson, I asked if she knew what direction I should go to find more writers. She pointed to the right and told me she thought I should take the next tunnel branching left. Buoyed with directions, and hope, or at least a semblance of it, I continued my journey through the warrens of the rabbit hole. Deeper and deeper I wound through the dank cavern.
I saw him bent over an old wooden table before he noticed me. I cleared my throat. "Pardon me..."
He looked up, fountain pen still in hand. “Don't get many visitors down this direction. In a way that's good. Gives me solitude and time to write.”
I studied his face. Angular. A broad brow, made more so by a receding hairline. Warm eyes that saw more than he let on, and a strong mouth that revealed something between a faint smile and serious wisdom. I recognized this man. “I hope my interruption doesn't annoy you unduly.”
“No. No. I need to take a break. I've been going at it for nearly six hours, now.” He laid the pen aside. “It seems you know me, so you have me at a somewhat of a disadvantage.”
I introduced myself, told him I was a writer of sorts, and said, “Could I ask you a question, Mr. Steinbeck?”
“Of course.” The discernment that played about his mouth turned into a wry smile. “Ask away. Like some of my characters I can't promise a completely honest answer.”
“I have a few tales churning around in my head. Sometimes they don’t flow onto the paper. You've written a lot.”
He nodded.
“I wonder if you could tell me where, or how, you get your stories? What do you do to foster the muse?”
“Easy,” he said. “Ideas are like rabbits. You get a couple and learn how to handle them, and pretty soon you have a dozen.”
“Thank you,” I said. “I'll have to work on that.”
For a few different ideas, look on my web page: http://www.bobwhite4stories.com . Until next time, that’s it from The Storyman ….

Hope

I inched my way along the rabbit tunnel. Somehow there was always enough light to see and I never knew where it came from. It was my emotional state that caused my slow progress, and as a result I kept my eyes down. So I almost missed seeing the next person in my venture. She had perched herself up above eye level in a small alcove. She was dressed in a white, high necked dress. Her large brown eyes peered at me as though they could read my secrets. Her full mouth appeared to be holding back a smile.
“Hello,” I said. “Who are you?”
“Come now. You don’t know, Mr. Storyman? I’m surprised, a student of literature…” She let the words trail off.
I shook my head.
“Emily,” she said as her lips twitched up for an instant.
Ah yes. I knew her. “I’m glad to meet you Miss Dickinson,” I said. “I admire your work.”
“Thank you. I must say you look… I’m not sure… frightened, unsure. You need confidence. A bit of verve to bolster your attitude.”
Her eyes had seen inside. “And you’re going to give that to me?”
“Hardly. You must invigorate yourself. Just remember that hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul— sings the tunes without the words— and never stops at all.”
I wondered. Was there more? Hope, huh? I guess that’s it. Better than insecurity to bedevil my psyche. If there’s anything else, or even if there’s not, you’ll find it on my web page at: http://www.bobwhite4stories.com . Until next time that’s it from the Storyman.