Frank T. Wydra
I’m sitting outside, hunched over my keyboard. Cold. Lonely. Like most writers. And Joe opens this door. Dave, beckons with a tattooed arm. Sully, trampolining on skis, bounces, as if trying to see over their heads. So, I get up and mosey over, peek into this place. Hard to tell exactly where or what it is since it’s mainly unplugged, and Dave says, “Want in?” Through the door I see a gaggle of others. Some have horror on their face. Other’s look like dark fantasy come alive. Weird folk. They’re dancing, laughing, having fun, swaying to the thump of an inky tune wafting from the woofers. I shrug and say, “Why not.”
Me, I write crime stuff. Mystery, thrillers, easy reads. “The, uh, stuff dreams are made of.” Dashiell’s words, not mine. He lifted them from Shaky Will. That kind of crime. A Tempest. Now that I’m over the threshold, looking around, I feel like the only straight guy in a gay bar. Different. But still sharing a central something.
Then the music stops. All faces turn toward me, the newcomer. What is it I hear in the distance? Is it a bell? Tolling? For whom? For me? House lights dim. A single Klieg light blinds. With the beam in my eyes it is hard to see who is in here–out there. Is it just those of us who write these columns, or are there others who stand beyond them, some real, some ghosts? Yes, in the distance I can see John Donne standing next to Hemingway. They are waiting. For what? And how long will they wait? And, do I care? Metaphysical question. Yes, I guess so, else, why am I here? Yet, I know this is it, not just Warhol’s fabled fifteen minutes but a day a month. The 13th. Scary.
What shall I say during this Shakespearean moment? Shall I strut? Shall I fret? Shall I fall back on the tired formula of who, what, when, where, and why? A small voice inside, often and easily ignored, says “Don’t be cute.” Easy for the small voice, but the question lingers. The tiger must be fed, the piper paid; the taxman cometh.
So you know, my consciousness does not stream, it piddles, more like a drop rung from cactus than the spring melt in the Rockies. For me, this question of subject is a Sahara, a Gobi, a Sonora.
I stand naked on this page. An ugly sight. But then I hear Emerson’s echo, “There is no object so foul that intense light will not make it beautiful.” Is it true? Well, the Klieg is shining. And those I can make out in the shadows do not seem to be shielding their eyes behind their hands. Yet, a few words to cover my ample paunch would bring comfort, if not to those who surround, then to me. So I go back to my old friends who, what, when, where, and why, deciding to take the path more traveled. This time, this first time, I will talk about who. Technically whom.
I have this thing about knowing the audience. Whom do I write this for? For whom do I write this? I write this for whom. You get the pix.
One choice is to scribble for the other professional liars in this cabal. An odd, but sophisticated group. Some are not of this world. But why should they care what I have to say? They have been there, done that. Still, there is safety in numbers. Other hand, why should I care if they care? But I do. Nonetheless, I sense they are not the who. Their hoots confirm the notion. This circle surrounding the Klieg pulses, then chants, “Who? Who? Who?” One voice, “Who’s yo’ daddy?” Another, “Arrogant bastard.” Another, “Who’s on first?” Me, thinking, “Fools errand, lecturing these storytellers.” The horror-mongers have formed a Congo line and are snaking, kicking, now one foot, then the other. Laughing, making obscene noises, conjuring other-worldly magic and mayhem. Tough audience.
In the distance, a rumbly murmur tinged with disdain. Someone pulls a plug and the Klieg fades to black. Still unanswered, “Who is the audience?” A candle flickers in the dark beyond the storytellers, then another. More. Until it is a halo. A voice in the distance, “Pick me.” Another, another, another, until the murmurs meld to a mantra of “Me! Me! Me!” Stuck in the black hole of the candle’s core I hear fresh shouts from the Congo line. “Suck up. Panderer. Sell-out.” It is not always comforting to be accepted by peers.
One hand on the shoulder of a blind man, I move toward the nadir of this cave, descending into the abyss that is my ego and climb onto a pedestal. Above, a coliseum of heads look down. A raven prances on my shoulder cawing, “Nevermore, nevermore.” Another noir falcon, this one Maltese, perches on its plinth. Must be a blackbird nest in the rafters. Or, since there’s that bell, maybe bats.
Candles sputter. Klieg still out. Pure ebony. Until a spark deep within my paunch catches tinder. An onlooker, a talking head from above, shouts, “Is that a soul, or what?” I think, “It’s hot,” this flame from within. Will it consume, warm, illuminate? I have no clue. Turns out, neither do I care. It is my flame. I am my audience. I am the who. Having asked, “For whom the pen toils?” I answer, “It toils for me.”
I shout, “Hey, out there. Storytellers. Readers. Writers-in-waiting. Accidental tourists. Take what you will from that light. Your bushel full diminishes me not.” And., truth, there are so many seeking satisfaction, all fingering the Holy Braille. No one can satisfy all. So, I content myself with satisfying only one. Small audience. And easy.
So much for the whom. Now I need deal only with what, when, where, and why. And I’m no longer outside, cold, alone.
It is nice to be among friends.
Well, if not friends, comrades.
Well, if not comrades, fellow travelers.
Well, if not fellow travelers, like-minded souls.
But can we be sure we even have souls? Let alone, minds. Can we? It’s a puzzle. Ah, well, that is what mysteries are all about. And mystery writers. It’s a thrill. Gotcha. Shield your eyes. Count to a hundred.
wydra@msn.com
7.13.06
16 Comments, Comment or Ping
David Niall Wilson
Welcome, Frank, and, to be frank, I enjoyed that quite a lot. Among many chuckles and thoughts you finally turned on the lightbulb over my head on an old conundrum. A friend and fellow inkslinger, Lawrence Watt-Evans, once penned his own law of writing. The law stated “There is no idea so bad that a sufficiently talented writer cannot make it work.” The Corrollary, of course, is that there is no idea so good a writer with a sufficient lack of talent can’t screw it up.
Perch that Maltese Falson next to The Raven, and let’s get on with the show…
DNW
Jul 13th, 2006
Sully
Man, you just dolled out perfectly saleable prose to a free column…which makes you a true pro and indeed well-matched to this forum (ask Rick Steinberg). Very nice, Frank. These essays are evolving into a unique and well-ranged exposure of the writer’s consciousness, method, inspiration, despair, triumph and practical experience. It is invaluable to people setting out on the long, lonely trek to being writers and increasingly to ourselves as a community. Writer. Generic writer. Not really bounded by any tight definition of modes, genres. Because none of us are bounded by an inflexible definition. Yeah, we aspire to the adrenaline side of categories, often labeled darker stuff, but within the content of marketing we go our individual ways, resonating any and all emotions and life experiences that we can, reflecting a full spectrum of emotions and tones. Our business is being as unique and creative as we can be. You fit that mold precisely by not fitting any particular mold precisely. Knowing you as I do, I very much look forward to your always worthy voice adding momentum at Storytellers. Thanks for the scintillating ride this morning.
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)
Jul 13th, 2006
jim
WHAT will you write about August 13? I mean, August 13 you’ll write about WHAT, right?
Enjoyable!
I agree with Sully; you’re selling it for less than it’s worth.
And for Goodness’ Sake, Uncle Frank, put some more Words on; you’re bound to catch a Rough Draft.
–jim
Jul 13th, 2006
John Skipp
That, my new friend, was a party-anna-half.
And when you lit up like that?
DAMN!
Keep ‘em comin’, Frank! That was some wild, skillful, multi-dimensional shit. For a terrestrial crime guy, you sure know your way around phantasmagoria.
And did I mention the word “hilarious”?
Yer pal from the conga line,
Skipp
Jul 13th, 2006
Rick Steinberg
I most heartily agree with Sully!
A STONE PRO!!
Welcome Frank T.!!!
Who’s out there listening/reading?
Doesn’t matter . . . with words like these you’re going to draw a crowd.
And if there’s anything to this Cosmic Broadcast business I’ve been readng about lately, it’s going to include Dashiel, Chandler, Fred Allen, and Stoker as well.
Bram might have been a little dark from time to time, but he LOVED a good party.
And you just threw one.
Jul 13th, 2006
Janet Berliner
Welcome, Frank. What an entrance you made. I second Sully and Richard.
How about we all meet at my house for SU Con? Glitter Gulch will welcome us and you can all stay at my place–if you’re willing to spoon. We’ll feed you and show you the underbelly of Vegas. — Janet.
Jul 13th, 2006
John B. Rosenman
Hey, Frank, knock off the part about you being the only straight guy in the room, ‘kay? I’ve heard rumors that Sully and Dave are both straight, and we don’t want to misrepresent them. Seriously, I enjoyed your loose, stream of consciousness poetic prose. Loved your Emerson quote. And man, if you write crime and thrillers, etc., you should be right at home here. We not only embrace diversity, we love it up.
I am my audience. I like that. One school of thought is that if you’re practical and want to get ahead, you should study a particular audience to death, and pander to it. But if you don’t write what you like, and start first with that, you’re missing something.
A very hardy welcome!
Jul 13th, 2006
Sully
Straight Sully here. Straight as six o’clock, John. It’s not true that I talk to my T-sax out of loneliness. It’s the other way around. Saxual intercourse.
David, he’s only 5:59 (owns a rabbit).
– Sully (Thomas Sullivan)
Jul 13th, 2006
David Niall Wilson
AND a turtle. I have both sides of the proverbial race…
D
Jul 13th, 2006
Frank Wydra
I know Sully, and he’s as straight as a mountain stream. And I thought we were getting paid for this. Am I wrong?
What I’m trying to figure is which part of Dave’s comment I should take. Was the subject that bad or was it me. No percentage in trying to fool you guys.
Skipp, I wondered who it was pinching me in the Conga line. Nice to know it was you.
Rick, Janet, keep pushing that party idea. I’ll book a ticket on a blackbird. Better yet, on Dave’s turtle.
Frank
Jul 13th, 2006
David Niall Wilson
Neither side of the LW-E law was aimed at your post, Frank…you just provided me with the Emerson quote that birthed it. I knew he’d stolen it from somewhere, but it wasn’t until you mentioned it in your post that I remembered where I’d seen it before…
Sorry for the confusion (and the mis-spelled Falcon)
Jul 13th, 2006
Weston
‘So you know, my consciousness does not stream, it piddles, more like a drop rung from cactus than the spring melt in the Rockies. For me, this question of subject is a Sahara, a Gobi, a Sonora’
I love this! Such wonderful imagery. I’d say that mine spurts rather than piddles, but then it would become too biological.
Jul 14th, 2006
Teresa
Hey Frank!
I’m you’re audience. I don’t write but I think alot about how much I’d like to write. Then someone writes something so cool I wonder, who am I to aspire to belong to such an elite crowd of word mages…
Please write more.
Terry
Jul 14th, 2006
Rick Steinberg
Terry, who do you have to be to write?
Just write. Be you, write you.
It’ll be okay, I promise.
Jul 14th, 2006
Frank Wydra
Terry, Rick is on point. The only way to get to be a writer is to write, write, write. Some of your stuff will be lousy, Revise it. some of your stuff will be great. Cherish it. But you will not have the opportunity to do either unless you write, write, write.
Besides, it’s good for the soul.
Frank
Jul 14th, 2006
Sheri
The salt collecting energy as it passes my nose, and down to my chapped lips. I am overwhelmed with pride. Each day another lessoned learned.
… it’s a good start, anxious to see where it goes!
Jul 18th, 2006
Reply to “Ready or not, here I come.”