My voice skips across water

My writing ego has had a bit of a spanking this week, so I've been thinking about who I am and what I do.

When I began, I wanted to write literary fiction. It is mostly what I read for many years. I was a bit of a book snob for a while, and would not read a book that wasn't at least 50 years old. I spent my time with Willa Cather and Somerset Maugham and Victor Hugo and Miguel Cervantes and so forth.

My first book attempted prose. Not just a story with characters, told by words. Beautiful phrasing, layers of thematic glory, a novel that would embed itself in each reader's soul and remain.

It lays on my external hard drive, where I use it for spare parts.

Slowly, painfully, I realized that I am not a literary writer. I have the words. The ones I don't have, I enjoy finding. Story is something that can find me, along with the cast. I'm not afraid of doing the work.

But I have no voice for literary tomes. The voices I have read are serious, perhaps to the point of depression. The words are not only beautiful, they are heavy with the weight of meaning. We laugh about "what the author really meant when they describe the curtains" but it's true. Even if I'm reading for enjoyment, the theme's undercurrent seems to pull me in with each word.

By contrast, my voice is light. It is a woman's soft laugh, a whispering wind too mild to blow the leaves back, pretty fireworks that light and sparkle and disappear into the darkness. To quote a friend of mine, I write "popcorn for the brain."

I put aside literary fiction to write mystery, which was my second favorite, thanks to Sherlock Holmes (fortunately, there were other old books in my library). After four novels, I can say that mystery suits me. I can tell a casual tale about some quirky folks who get into hot water. I know how to get them out of that hot water, too. My love for logic leads me to create interesting puzzles. And I still work hard to find the right word for the occasion.

When I was young and in choir, I was in the alto section. Being an alto meant I never sang the melody, only the harmony. Perhaps that is where I'm supposed to be as an author. Writing the harmonies.

At the end of the day, I'm happy to be telling stories and proud to be doing the work. Still, someday I should like to be able to weight my voice with enough importance to tell a tale that a reader cannot shake from their heart.

Hope full

I can't write the blues.

When I was young, I read and enjoyed literary fiction. When I began writing, I dreamed of creating the Next Great American Novel. I pictured a tome about people and their lives and what it all means. The problem is, most of these stories come to either a bad or at best, a neutral end.

I need all's well to end well.

I've written one tale that did not contain my humor. Even now when I read it, I'm not even certain I recognize my own voice. Yet I know I wrote it. I won an online contest with it. It's called Quarter Life.

* * * * *

Whoever said deserts were hot had never been to Vegas in February. Reuben shrank into his borrowed jacket, away from the morning chill. As he did, something shiny caught his attention.

He reached down to the curb, his cold, stiff fingers trying to grasp the object. Stuck to the pavement, it seemed to be glued by the flotsam and jetsam of Las Vegas, layers of dirt and grease and human bondage. His fingernails dug at the hard edge until he pried the silvery coin loose from the concrete.

A quarter, one of the new ones. Reuben flipped it over and saw horses, running from the sunrise. Nevada, the Silver State, it said.

Staccato music from the casino beckoned him frantically, urgently, atonally. He had just left Buffalo Bill's, having kissed his last dollar good-bye. From experience he knew he couldn't wander, penniless, through the slot machines. The employees knew him too well; they had asked him to leave.

He had spotted Carl, the night manager, walking through the poker slots. Reuben knew Carl, knew the way he'd start a friendly conversation that would end with, "Want me to call the shelter, Buddy?" As he headed toward the door, Reuben saw a windbreaker draped on a chair.

"This place owes me," he had mumbled to himself, and casually picked up the jacket as he exited.

A car horn blasted his eardrums as tires kicked up gutter water onto his stained chinos. The taxi woke Reuben from his trance, a dark-skinned driver herding him away from the well-dressed, well-drunk customers with a yell. Reuben waved his hand angrily and yelled something in return, unintelligible even to him.

He stared back down at the quarter. Three years ago, he'd come here with ten thousand dollars and a plan to turn it into more. With Vegas' help, he was going to buy back his house, buy back his family, buy back his life. Vegas was supposed to save him.

It only took a week to break him.

"How you doing tonight?" Carl asked, laying his hand on Reuben's shoulder. "You need a ride to the shelter, buddy?"

Reuben turned and stared through him. He used to be able to talk to people, but he just couldn't see anyone's face anymore.

"How about I give you a voucher for breakfast?" Carl reached into his pocket. "You look like you could use a hot meal."

Reuben continued to stare. "I got a quarter." His words drifted at the manager.

"That's great, buddy. You put that in your pocket, and I'll get you some breakfast."

"I got a quarter." The sentence became a prayer.

Carl sighed. "Okay, buddy. Let's go pick a machine for you."

"I got a quarter," Reuben repeated, following the manager back into the casino. A Nevada quarter, he thought. It was karma. It was fate.

 

This time it would be different.

* * * * *

Sad, yes? And yet I find some weird hope in it, in that Reuben believes this might be the magic coin sent to save him.

If I wrote fantasy, I might make this coin truly magic and take Reuben on a journey to redeem himself.

This is why I'll never write that great novel.