Let’s say your first short story was turned down ninety-three
times before a journal gave it a thumbs-up. And let’s say the other stories you
labored over, the ones you fine-tuned and brought back to your writers’ group
ad nauseam, were shown the door as well. Any normal person would think to try
another line of work. But who’s talking normal. We’re talking writer here. A
nutcase who stockpiled 74XL ink jet cartridges and reams of multipurpose office
paper, only to tear the flap of an envelope and find a “try us again” form
letter inside. What made me want to write when no one wanted to read my
writing? I’m a writer damn it! I can write!
Was I out to prove that The Little Engine That Could chugged
away inside me—The Little Engine that Could
Not stop writing. I write therefore I am?
Perhaps I was lonely and didn’t know it, longing for a
promise of closeness with imagined readers. Was real intimacy lacking in my
life? Could there have been something I couldn’t get from the people I knew in
the flesh, that I had to invent them? Or did I want to create worlds with
words? A wizard who could dream up characters and make things happen to
them—wonderful and terrible things that only I had the power to create?
They say write what you know, and maybe that’s where I went wrong.
What did I know about a mountain woman in a far-flung cabin
in the woods? The very thought of a roughhewn log gives me a full-body rash. Get
me some calamine lotion!
And that date-from-hell story. Last time I had a date I was eighteen, just me
and a boy, one on one, out for a movie and something to eat, back in the day before
mob-dating. What’s it called now? Oh, right, “hanging out.”
Maybe I should have
been getting out more instead of backsliding
decades for my stories and making up half-truths.
Take that Brooklyn story about the mother who was a
dressmaker. My mother was not a
dressmaker, though I think I got the details down: the pin cushion bracelet,
the mother on her knees taking up a customer’s hem. My father, in the needle
trade for over sixty five years—that must be where the sewing bit came from—proud
that my mother did not have to work
because he was such a good provider—would be horrified, rest his soul, to learn
that I’d given her a job of any kind.
And then there was the tale about the little girl whose
mother died—the it-took-ninety-three-tries-before-a-journal-picked-it-up story.
No wonder it took so long; my mother didn’t die when I was a little girl. And the mother’s friend who had varicose veins?—very close veins the child called it.
Cute, but it never happened. Plus it was my mother
who had those swollen, bluish, purpley veins bulging out her skin that I
couldn’t bear to look at, not her
friend.
Now I see now where I went wrong! I was writing make-believe
stories I didn’t believe in, inventing characters instead of writing what I knew! A built-in pattern of failure, if ever there
was one. But changes will be made! Attention will be paid! From now on I write only
the truth. I’ll not only name the name,
I’ll throw in place and time of day.
I’ll start with that juicy bit of gossip going around my
neighborhood that Selina down the block is getting it on with the UPS guy. And my
sister… it’s high time Mom knew Selena spiked her Ensure and got her to sign
over her house to Free a Felon dot org. My boss at my day job? He’s selling worthless
Florida swamp land to old folks in the Bronx. Where’s my whistle?
Ruin a marriage? Break a mother’s heart? Lose my job? What
the hey! It’s what I know.
Update: Rita Plush is happy to announce that though she did
use her imagination in writing her short stories they have been published in a
collection called Alterations (Penumbra
2013).
Visit www.ritaplush.com to learn more about Rita and her upcoming venues.
And you can get your very own copy of Alterations from Amazon US (ebook or paper), Amazon UK (ebook or paper, Barnes & Noble, or Smashwords.
2 comments:
I love your style and voice, Rita. Thanks for your entertaining post.
Great post on one of my pet author peeves! Writing what you know is a catchy motto, but the results can be a disaster, as you suggest, or just plain boring. I prefer using my imagination -- with touches of what I know.
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