Improving the Classics

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Good afternoon. You are all aware, I assume, that this blog is written and maintained by the author of such accomplished works as the horror novel This and its sequel These, as well as numerous monologues such as How Much is a Hero?, among many other works. If you’re not aware of that, well, I am. Knowing this as you do, your civilian mind might figure that this is plenty, that no mind could be so creative and perceptive of the world around him as to ever wish to – never mind be capable of doing so! – branch out yet further from this already full and foliose artistic tree. I excuse your ignorance, because what would you know of the creative life? But know this now: stagnation for one such as myself is akin to death. To avoid this, I am forever exploring new avenues, or “branches”, of the aforementioned tree, or “city”; I constantly plumb the depths, or “roots”, of my demiurgic well, or “tree”.

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With this in mind, I would like to now announce a new literary project. Although, to be honest, it’s not really “new”. You may be aware of a new genre, these “mash-ups”, I suppose you would call them, wherein a contemporary writer takes a classic piece of fiction and, while keeping said classic intact, adds new characters and narrative possibilities that result in, for instance, Pride and Prejudice and Zombies. Naturally, everyone has collectively agreed that this is a marvelous idea, and I am no different. In fact, I am so not different that I’ve been doing this for years, for positively ages, long before it became the going thing. My feverish pen has improved upon any number of classics, so that the world can now enjoy The Great Gatsby and Dragons, The Time Machine and Manticores, Imaginative Qualities of Actual Things and Ghouls, La Dispiration and Extraterrestrials, Frankenstein and Ghosts, The Best American Short Stories of the Century and Spiders, and so on. As you can see, my hands have hardly been idle! Granted, not all of these have been published, because I’ve learned that the original novel’s copyright having transferred to the public domain is essential, but rest assured that they’ve all been written and are simply awaiting that great day. Those works which I’ve transformed that are in the public domain are, I promise you, “making the rounds”.

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In the meantime, I’ve been hard at work on my next literary improvement, and just recently completed same. Once known by the fairly pedestrian title Moby-Dick or, The Whale, Herman Melville’s masterpiece of madness, obsession, and cosmic rage will soon be available as Moby-Dick or, The Whale and Wolfmen. Again, the idea here is to take the original text and present it in full, but interspersed throughout will be new material, written by me, which will provide new twists on favorite characters, such as the whale, and the guy who hunts the whale. But it's not all about looking at the characters through a newly-ground lens -- it's also about adding fresh occult subplots about hunting wolfmen. Moby-Dick is in need of a punch-up, is my point, some new juice, some zaz, which will bring young readers and modernize Melville's themes. Genre fiction, specifically wolfman fiction, has a tendency to upend our beliefs, to subvert what we think we know, to teach us truths we thought hidden. This never even occurred to Herman Melville, but, fortunately for him, it did to me.

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I suppose at this point some excerpts would be in order, to whet the appetite of my readers (or wet their appetites, if you will, because of the ocean). So let's begin at the beginning, and please note how seamlessly I'm able to incorporate my own work into Melville's.

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Call me Ishmael. Some years ago -- never mind how long precisely -- having little or no money in my purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of the world. Would there be wolfmen around? Probably so, because if there's one thing Dr. Von Armbruster taught me in Vienna when I was studying about wolfmen, is that those things are everywhere. It is a way I have of driving off the spleen (and now I'm talking about sailing again), and regulating the circulation. Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November in my soul; whenever I find myself involuntarily pausing before coffin warehouses, and bringing up the rear of every funeral I meet; and especially whenever my hypos get such an upper hand of me, that it requires a strong moral principle to prevent me from deliberately stepping into the street, and methodically knocking people's hats off -- then, I account it high time to get to sea as soon as I can. And any time I see a wolfman, I just kill it, because otherwise my status as the world's leading wolfman hunter would be in jeopardy. That's my main job -- killing wolfmen.

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You see? Seamless. Moby-Dick is known for being a very digressive novel -- a hundred pages can go by with no advance in the plot at all, while Melville dithers around talking about whaling law or colors or some such nonsense. This made the task of revamping this particular book especially challenging, but you know what? I was up for it. Take this section, for example, taken from the beginning of the chapter Melville titled "The Whiteness of the Whale", and which I have renamed "The Whiteness of the Whale and the Brownness of the Wolfman":

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Aside from those more obvious considerations touching Moby Dick, which could not but occasionally awaken in any man's soul some alarm, there was another thought, or rather vague, nameless horror concerning him, which at times by its intensity completely overpowered all the rest; and yet so mystical and well nigh ineffable was it, that I almost despair of putting it in a comprehensible form. It was the whiteness of the whale that above all things appalled me. But how can I hope to explain myself here; and yet, in some dim, random way, explain myself I must, else all these chapters might be naught.

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And that's to say nothing of the brownness of the wolfman! Any time I see one of those guys, and how brown they are, I just about pee myself. "Why brown?" I always think. It's just so creepy, and it makes me think about how mad I am at God sometimes. And Ahab -- don't even talk to him about the brownness of wolfmen. One time while we were eating dinner on board the ship the Pequod which we were sailing on so we could hunt Moby Dick the Whale, I said to him "Captain Ahab, this meat we're eating is brown, now that it's cooked. You know what that color makes me think of? Wolfmen." And Ahab jumped out of his seat and said "You shut up about wolfmen! Their brownness appals me! Even more than the whiteness of Moby Dick, which I'm starting to think isn't even the point of all this anymore! Whatever else I may be talking about, you can bet your last nickle that what's really up my nose is those damn wolfmen! Why, if we ever happen to come across a wolfman on this trip, I'll just about bust! The thing about those things is..." And so on. It made dinner really awkward, but it's not like he didn't have a point. But anyway, back to the whiteness of the whale. I think the deal there...

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No need to go on there -- I think you see how it works. I bet if you've read Moby-Dick before, right now you're probably casting your mind back to that first (and, let's face it, only) reading, trying to remember if there were any references to wolfmen that you just missed at the time. Well, there weren't, but after reading Moby-Dick, or The Whale and Wolfmen you'll realize there should have been!

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But all this is just talk. No one's going to buy this book hoping to find nothing more than talk about wolfmen -- people are going to want the real thing. Initially, Moby-Dick was a commercial disaster for Melville, and I think that's because he didn't realize that nobody wanted a philosophical, metaphorical wank-job -- they wanted another Jaws! That's probably what he told his agent he was writing, but that sure as shit isn't what he delivered. Well, boy, I'm not making that same mistake. As you can see...

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I have hinted that I would often jerk poor Queequeg from between the whale and the ship -- where he would occasionally fall, from the incessant rolling and swaying of both. But this was not the only jamming jeopardy he was exposed to. Unapalled by the massacre made upon them during the night, the sharks now freshly and more keenly allured by the before pent blood which began to flow from the carcase -- the rabid creatures swarmed round it like bees in a beehive.

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And right in among those sharks was Queequeg; who often pushed them aside with his floundering feet. A thing altogether incredible were it not that attracted by such prey as a dead whale, the otherwise miscellaneously carnivorous shark will seldom touch a man.

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But a wolfman will, and that's just what happened, because Balthasar, our wolfman stowaway who you may remember had been secretly terrorizing the crew even while he pretended to be all nice and not a wolfman whenever Ahab or Starbuck was around, jumped out of the boat and changed into a wolfman again and attacked Queequeg! So what Queequeg did is he jumped on one of the sharks and started to ride it, but then Balthasar jumped on another shark and started to ride it, and the two of them were going all over the ocean like that, fighting each other with their sharks. Luckily, Queequeg still had that mysterious gun that shot knives that Professor Ludwig gave him from before.

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And I'll stop there! To know what happens then, you'll have to buy the book! But listen: you guys know me. You know that this isn't about book sales. I take my writing very seriously, and I take my ability to make Moby-Dick better more seriously still. In the original book, the power of Ahab's rage at God, and his misplaced aggression towards the white whale is not lost on me. I certainly have no intention of taking that aspect of the book and "heaving it overboard". It's just that when I read Melville's words, I think, well, you know, wolfmen have that effect on me too, sometimes. And maybe wolfmen are just a better metaphor -- I think they are! So Ahab's thunderous end is not gone, it's just recontexturalized:

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"...Ho, ho! from all your furthest bounds, pour ye now in, ye bold billows of my whole foregone life, and top this one piled comber of my death! Towards thee I roll, thou all-destroying but unconquering whale (and don't think I've forgotten about you, Balthasar!); to the last I grapple with the two of you; from hell's heart I stab at first Moby Dick, and then with my other hand I stab at the wolfman; for hate's sake I spit my last breath at all white whales and all wolfmen, who, together, have made a mess of my life. Sink all coffins and all hearses to one common pool! and since neither can be mine, let me then tow to pieces, while still chasing you guys, though tied to thee both, thou damned whale, and thou damned wolfman especially! Thus, I give up the spear! Take that, Balthasar!"

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In stores soon.

A Guide to Writing Horror Fiction - Part Two

Before I teach you how to write dialogue, I have to make one change. In Part One of this guide, we settled on the name "Chip Macktin" for our teenage hero. I've been thinking about this, and I've decided that "Macktin" is a stupid name. Have any of you ever heard of that name before? That's not even real, is it? Anyway, I've been kicking around other options, and I thought about maybe "Chip McAfee". Are there two Cs in "McAfee"? Okay, how about "McGonigal"...oh, hell, that's too long. I'm not typing that shit out over and over again. Fuck it. His name's Chip Jones.

Step 3: Writing Dialogue

Dialogue is tricky. What you need to do is capture the blue-collar poetry of everyday human speech, while, at the same time, revealing character and advancing the story. Sounds easy, right? I'm being sarcastic, of course. Obviously, that sounds like a waking nightmare. But before you get too worked up and end up quitting on me, let me offer you a sample of dialogue from my novel The Coldness. The set-up, basically, is that our hero, Jake Struthers, is talking to Wendell Maples, the elderly caretaker of Blackgate Woods, the terrifying mansion Struthers has just inherited. Maples is greeting Jake for the first time.

"Good morning, Mr. Struthers," croaked Maples.

"Good morning, Mr. Maples," Struthers ejected, eyeing the old man with suspicion.

"How are you this morning?" Maples wondered. "I am fine."

"I'm also fine," Struthers agreed, squinting at the old man. "Is this my new home, Blackgate Woods?"

"Indeed it is, Mr. Struthers. Behold it!"

Struthers did. It was big and old and gloomy, with gargoyles and cobwebs on it.

"What kind of a crazy place is this to live in?" he queried. "I work in Manhattan, New York, in a big firm. How am I supposed to drive all the way over here every night when I'm done working? This is crazy!"

Mr. Maples chuckled all weird.

"Ha ha ha," he bellowed. "Your Uncle Luke did not seem to mind it so much! He lived here until he was 88 years old, you know, and enjoyed every day. And every night, as well. Especially...night!"

"My uncle, Luke Seepher, was a crazy old man! He was all rich from buying paintings and then selling them, and also from secret things which I don't even know about. He never lived fast, like I do. I live in Manhattan. I need the juice! I need that wild city feel! When I stop working every day, I go out to bars and clubs. I buy sixty dollar glasses of alcohol and dance to crunk music. Who needs this dusty old place? You should bury this house with my Uncle Luke!"

"Bury it?" Maples asked, his crazy bat-eyebrows going up on his head. "With your uncle?? But your uncle wasn't buried!"

"He wasn't??" Struthers gasped.

"No," Maples grinned. "His body is still right inside Blackgate Wood. In bed. As though he were only...sleeping!!!!!!"

And, scene. When you get a chance, go back and deconstruct that conversation, and take note of how many little character details I've subtly revealed about Jake Struthers: about where he works, what his daily routine is like, what his lifestyle is. Then notice how, with every word, Maples seems to be pushing against Jake, pushing against Jake's very existence! That is dialogue, my friends. And don't think that just because I wrote it that this somehow explains my high praise. Even if I hadn't written that, I'd still think it was fucking awesome.

Also, "Luke Seepher" is supposed to sound like "Lucifer". If you didn't catch that, but felt a chill run through your veins when you read the name, a chill you were unable to explain, well, there's your answer.

Step 4: Scaring the Reader

How does one scare a reader? A reader is basically a big tub of nothing, sitting in a chair with glued-together paper in his hands. You can hardly expect someone like that to have enough blood coursing through them or nerves in their body to feel a headache, let alone the icy clutch of existential dread. So how do you, the horror writer, break through that slab of numbness, into the reader's primitive core?

Easy! You make things jump out from behind other things. Take this scene from The Coldness:

Jake Struthers was on a couch in Blackgate Woods. It was night outside and he was bored. Where was that hot city action?? He didn't know. Wait, no, it was in Manhattan! Not in Blackgate Woods! It was cold in the room and he had a fire going in the fireplace. It crackled like fires in Hell. He stared at the fire, and thought about Hell. Did he believe in Hell?? That was a crazy notion, if ever there was one! But what if?

He got up and went over to the fireplace. The fire danced like demons from Hell. Wait a minute! Demons...Hell...this was crazy! THEN A GHOST JUMPED OUT FROM BEHIND THE COUCH!!!!!!!

Whoa, settle down their, champ! Did something...startle you? Heh heh.

Listen, the point is, scaring the reader is tricky, but if you have the right tools in your toolcase, and then you take out the right tools at the right time and then use them correctly, constructing a solid edifice of fear over which your gentle readers mayn't climb...then you are a horror writer. You will have joined the ranks of Eddie Poe, Steve King, Howie Lovecraft, Art Machen, Clivey Barker, Bobby Aickman, and even...Bill Shakespeare! Also, Chuck Dickens.

So please...take my hand. There's a doorway opening before us! I see no light shining from within, do you? How very strange. It seems more like...darkness is pouring forth. Let us find out what lies beyond. Hold tight! Who knows what terrors we may face!

Behold!!!

A Guide to Writing Horror Fiction - Part One

Whenever I tell someone that, among my many creative pursuits, I write horror fiction, the person who has just breathlessly received this knowledge invariably asks me the following question: "But how? I read horror fiction all the time, and I know I could never write it myself. I mean, vampires?? What the fuck? Who came up with that one? And can I have some of what they were smoking!? Ha ha ha!" I always share in the laughter, because it's a good joke, no matter how many times I've heard it. Vampires are pretty crazy.

After our laughter has subsided, however, I always gently take the person by the wrist, pull them close to me, and say: "You can write horror fiction! Anyone can do it! You only need to do three things: Believe in yourself, form a bond with the darkness in your soul, and follow my rules. Especially that last one. Did you know," I go on to say, "that one of my horror novels, The Coldness, contained a critical blurb on the front cover that read 'Bill R. out-John Sauls John Saul!'? So who better to teach you?" I then ask them to accompany me to my home, where our lessons will begin. This other person, who until that point always seemed terribly interested in what I had to say, will then suddenly act as though teaching them to write horror fiction was my idea, and will say, "Oh, no. No, why would I do that? I don't even know you. I've never even heard of you. The Coldness? Should I have heard of that?" I then say, yes, you should have heard of it, but it hasn't been published yet. "Then where'd the blurb come from?" they ask. Then I'm like, "Who are you, Michiko Kakutani?? Just come over to my house!" Then they say, "No! Let go of my wrist!" So I say, "Then who will teach you? Your mom??" Then he goes, "I will fucking punch your face, if you don't let me go." So I let him go, but not before adding, "You will never out-John Saul John Saul with that attitude. You probably think great horror fiction grows like mushrooms, and you can just put it on a pizza and call it day and sell a million copies. Horror fiction is not like mushrooms, I can assure you of that." "What?" the guy says. "I said that horror fiction and mushrooms are not analagous," I repeat, and he says, "No, I know that. I actually knew that before you told me. You know, I was just talking to you to be polite. The fact is that I don't care."

And then he leaves. Curiously, not one of those people with whom I've had such an encounter has ever published a successful horror story, let alone a novel. Or at least I assume that's the case, but to be honest I rarely, if ever, get their names, so who knows. But the point is that you don't want to be like those assholes, do you? You wouldn't even be reading this if you not only want to be a successful horror writer, but also believed that I was the correct person from whom to seek guidance. And guidance from me you shall have. Let us begin at the beginning.

Step 1: Thinking Up Ideas

The hardest thing about writing horror fiction is finding unique and scary ideas. Sometimes, it seems like it's all been done. Vampires? Been done. Zombies? Been done. Wolfmans? Been done. Your job as a fresh-faced, go-getting writer is to take an old idea and add a new twist to it, make it sing, make it happening, make it now. So how about a vampire rock star?? That's actually already been done, too, and more than once, but still, you're on the right track. Vampires have really been run into the ground (pun most toothsomely intended!), and outside of "vampires who investigate crimes on a moonbase" -- which is my thing, so hands off -- you'd do best to skip them entirely.

What I would recommend for you is to start with something more mysterious. Let's just spitball something here. Let's say your story takes place somewhere in the Midwest, some rural communty in Nebraska or something. Okay, now let's say that it's Halloween. And your teenage hero, Chip, has a tough family life, because his dad drinks all the time, and his mom got killed by a plane crash. Chip wants to go out trick-or-treating, just like a normal 17 year-old boy, and he's got his favorite costume, which is Dracula, because all teenagers thing Dracula is "cool beans", but his dad is all drunk, so instead of trick-or-treating, Chip has to go the local market store and buy his dad some alcohol medicine. Otherwise, he might die. So he's driving out to the market store, and an old homeless farmer jumps out into the road, and Chip runs right over him. Chip goes to him, and just before he dies, the farmer says, "In exactly one year you will all die!" Then the old man dies, and his body turns into thousands of ants which then fly away (Note: When you describe the ants flying away, be sure to put in something about them flying "into the night sky" or "into the night air". We're trying to set a mood, after all).

After that, I think you should be off an running.

Step 2: Creating Characters

I won't lie to you: this part is hard as balls. Fortunately for you, as you can see above, you're almost halfway there as far as Chip goes. You already know that Chip has a father who drinks nothing but alcohol, and that Chip wants to be Dracula for Halloween. If you flesh him out too much more than this, then you might be accused of "over-boiling the soup". But you still have to ask yourself: Who is Chip? Who does Chip want to be? What does Chip care about? What clothes does Chip wear?

You can get most of this out of the way in one paragraph, but remember, in horror fiction, as with all fiction, good writing is king. You have to be able to make your reader live your story, and see through the eyes of your characters, and the one tool you have is that wondrous and frightening old mistress we call Words. I just made up an old saying: "If you can't bring it, then you better not sing it." And that's exactly what I'm trying to tell you. Our language has all these words, just sitting there, waiting for you to use them, but you better choose them wisely. If you want to use the word "pentacle", but accidentally use "pendulum", then fuck you, because that's your problem, not mine.

So you're introducing Chip. Here's the wrong way to do that:

Chip loved school and wore nice clothes most times. He also like to watch TV and eat hot dogs, too. Do you know what kind of music he liked? Rock and roll! He loved to dance to it. His friends thought he was crazy! Another thing he liked was girls, but he was also sad because the one girl he liked was dating with the Football Quarterback. And remember from before that his dad drank booze.

Congratulations. You just made Chip a pussy. Now here's the right way to introduce him:

Chip hated school and his teachers. He wore jeans that matched his taste in rock and roll music. You would never catch him dancing though, because he thought it was for pussies, except if you danced, that was okay with him. Chip didn't judge people like everybody else in Nebraska. He liked girls but was sad because the one girl he liked, whose name was Tammy [Note: I gave the girl a name this time. You must always remember to name your characters], was in love with the Football Running Back [Note: I changed him to a running back. Making him a QB is too obvious, and you must always avoid cliche', or you should avoid it as often as it is practical to do so]. He liked to watch TV and eat hot dogs, too.

Voila. Clean, precise language, that nevertheless evokes for the reader a complete and living human being. Take the stage, Chip! The spotlight is ready for you!

Oh, shit, you should also give him a last name. Maybe "Mackey". Chip Mackey? Does that sound okay? Or "Macktin". Chip Macktin. Chip Macktin. That sounds pretty good. Chip Macktin.

All right, take the stage, Chip Macktin! The spotlight is ready for you!

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Next: Dialogue and How to Scare the Reader

The Greatest Film I've Never Made

Some time ago, I was reading an article -- well, I skimmed it, really, but the gist could not have been clearer -- about the writer Raymond Carver and the stormy relationship he had with his editor, Gordon Lish. Apparently, Carver had a particular vision about his stories: what they should be about, which words should be in them, and so on. In that sense, I suppose, he was a real ball-breaker, but what my cursory perusal of the article made abundantly clear was that Carver was a true artist who cared about his work, and "put in the hours", much as I do with my monologues. The problem was that his editor, Gordon Lish, believed that he knew better than Raymond Carver what the final stories should look like, and Lish, in fact, forced his own aesthetic viewpoint into Carver's work. So Carver would turn in a story -- let's do this hypothetically, and say that the story is about a fat drunk guy who gets fired from the meat factory, and on his way home from getting fired he sees a pelican eating some garbage -- and Lish would look at it and say, "No, Raymond, this story doesn't work. The guy shouldn't be fat, and instead of a pelican eating garbage, it should be a crocodile in a baby pool." And then he'd say, "Also, what's with all the words? You use way too many." So it was like that movie about the composer, where the child molester tells the guy from Animal House that he plays the piano too much. As a result, many critics and scholars now wonder who really wrote these stories that have Carver's name on them.
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I got so mad reading this article, because the artist is the one who calls the shots about his own art. You don't go up to a painter and say, "Don't paint a dragon, paint a tree. And lose the blue." If you came into my artist's studio spouting that noise, I'd tell you where you could go and stick it, Chester. The fact that Carver didn't, and lived a life of torment as a result, indicated to me that a really good movie could probably be made from this story. The film would be a biopic, which means you're halfway there, and it would give me the opportunity to explore the creative process in a creative piece. Buddy, did that get my juices flowing. So I wrote a script, which I called One More Thing, which is the title of one of the most disputed stories to come out of the Carver/Lish partnership. I even lined up my cast, at least mentally. I wanted Jeff Bridges to play Carver (or "Ray", as I've come to think of him -- I lived inside his heart for so long, after all); Laura Linney to play Tess, Ray's wife; John Malkovich to play Tobias Wolff, fellow writer and friend to Ray; and Frank Langella to play the diabolical Gordon Lish.

I shopped the script around, along with the cast list, and after a few weeks I started hearing things like "This is slander" and "Much of what you wrote here didn't happen" and "Gordon Lish is going to sue you until you die, and you'll have it coming" blah blah blah. Whatever, Status Quo! Keep making your status quo movies with your status quo budgets and your status quo actors and your status quo test screenings! I don't give a shit that Gordon Lish doesn't want me to tell the truth (the metaphorical nature of my take on the truth is irrelevant). So I decided I was going to make the movie myself, guerrilla-style, and I started off by trying to get Jeff Bridges' phone number. He wasn't listed, so I gave up.

What I'm left with is a script, a brilliant script, that explores the nature of art, addiction, love, and evil. It may go forever unfilmed, but that doesn't mean it shouldn't be enjoyed and loved by the discerning public. It turns out that a blog is not the ideal place to publish an entire 180-page script, but I can publish certain excerpts, carefully chosen to give you a sense of the story's rich texture. So, Dear Reader, take my hand, and let me lead you, once again, into the House of My Art...

We begin, as all such stories must begin, with Faust falling to the wiles of Mephistopheles...

(RAYMOND CARVER, TESS GALLAGHER, TOBIAS WOLFF, and GORDON LISH are at a cocktail party. CARVER and WOLFF are against a wall, away from the rest of party. CARVER is drinking seltzer.)

CARVER: I really hate these things.

WOLFF: It's as if all the posers within a hundred miles all congregate in one room to get blasted and act like they're the next Ernest Hemingway. Why do we let ourselves get roped into coming to these all the time?

CARVER: I don't know.

WOLFF: Okay, how did we end up at this one?

CARVER: Tonight is Gordon's night. He says it's for me, to sort of, I don't know, present me to the local literary community.

WOLFF: Let me tell you something, Ray: Gordon doesn't do anything for anybody other than Gordon.

CARVER: That's what Tess always tells me.

WOLFF: You should listen to Tess. Hey, how's the new story coming?

CARVER: Oh, I'm stuck. I don't know, you know, I have the husband just about to walk out on the wife, but I know that I have so much more to say beyond that, but I'm having trouble saying it. I'm having trouble...paring it down.

WOLFF: That's where you were last time I looked at it. Ray, you have to move forward with this. This could be your best story yet. You can't let it go!

CARVER: I'm not letting it go, Toby. I'm just...I'm just trying to find the ending.

(LISH and TESS are at the buffet table, loading up their plates. TESS seems to wish she were somewhere else.)

LISH: Good evening, darling! I almost didn't see you there. I'm so pleased you could make it!

TESS: Good evening, Gordon. I couldn't let Raymond come here by himself. That wouldn't be very wifely of me, would it?

LISH: Oh, Tess! Always the protector! Raymond is so lucky to have you.

TESS: That's interesting. I think you're lucky to have Raymond.

LISH: Oh? Well, I would hardly disagree with that. He's an extraordinary writer, and I feel more than just lucky to be his editor, I feel privileged. Still, I can't help but wonder what would compel you to say so.

RAYMOND: Because it's true.

LISH: (pause) Then we agree. How marvelous.

TESS: Would you excuse me, Gordon?

LISH: Of course...

(CARVER and WOLFF are still standing against the wall.)

WOLFF: If you need help with the story, Ray, you know that all you have to do is ask me.

CARVER: I know, Toby, but you know I don't work that way. If my name's gonna be on it, it's gotta be my words.

WOLFF: (laughing) Ray, I think you misunderstand how much I'm willing to help you! (pause) Say, I think that's old Dick Ford over there, talking to Tess! I haven't seen him in ages! I'm gonna go say hello. Want to come along?

CARVER: Naw, I'm gonna stay here. I'll catch up with ol' Dick before we leave.

WOLFF: Suit yourself.

(WOLFF departs. LISH approaches, carrying two tumblers full of whiskey.)

LISH: Raymond, my dear boy! You're behaving like a shy young child! Come out and join the populace!

CARVER: Gordon, you know this isn't my kind of scene. I mean, I really appreciate it, but--

LISH: Of course, I understand, Raymond. I don't want to force you into anything you neither enjoy or approve of.

CARVER: I didn't say I didn't approve...

LISH: Never mind, never mind. Here, I've brought you a drink.

CARVER: Oh, uh, thanks, Gordon, but no. I really shouldn't. You know I have a bit of a problem.

LISH: Oh, not a bit of it, my lad! Tonight is your night, after all! You should be allowed a little indulgence!

CARVER: If Tess saw me --

LISH: Then we won't let her see you. Come to my study, and we can enjoy our drinks in peace. Besides, it will give us a chance to discuss how you're coming along with your new story...

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It's probably here that I should break in and say, okay, no, I'm not aware of the existence of any evidence that Gordon Lish fed Carver's alcoholism. I made it up! Happy now, you legal vultures!? God, if Shakespeare were alive to see what you people were doing to me, he'd throw up on your shoes. On all of your shoes!
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(LISH enters his home. His WIFE is sitting in an easy chair, reading a book.)

LISH: Hello, my love.

MRS. LISH: Hello, dear. How was your day?

LISH: Oh, it went well enough, I suppose. I must say, I feel awfully tired.

MRS. LISH: Would you like to nap before supper?

LISH: No. No, in fact, I think I shall work on my book.

MRS. LISH: Oh, wonderful, dear! I'll be sure to keep things quiet around here.

LISH: Thank you. Just knock when supper is ready.

(LISH goes upstairs to his study. He sits down in front of his typewriter. For a moment, he is motionless. Then he begins typing. After a while, however, he angrily rips the paper from the typewriter, crumples it up, and throws it against the wall. He sits staring out the window for several moments.)

* * * *

.

I'd like to point out that nobody who turned my script down, and who told me that what I was doing was morally and ethically wrong, gave me an ounce of credit for the above scene. Who among you didn't feel your heart break for Lish when you discovered that his monstrous wickedness was driven by his own thwarted desire to write? Monsters are never self-made, you know. I bet Stalin found high school to be pretty rough-sledding, for instance. And yet everyone who read this script only focused on the "slander". Paddy Chayefsky wouldn't cross the street to piss on those guys even if they wanted him to!

.

* * * *

(RAYMOND CARVER is getting ready to leave his house. He has a bunch of papers under one arm. It's morning. TESS GALLAGHER enters the room just before he can leave.)

TESS: Are you going out? It's so early!

CARVER: Yeah, I'm going to see Gordon.

TESS: Oh...are you going to talk to him about your stories? (Pause) Because that's what they are, Ray. They're your stories.

CARVER: I know that. Don't you think I know that? But Gordon thinks he knows how to make them better.

TESS: What does Gordon know about anything? He's an editor! He's a pencil-pusher and a corporate toady. He's not an artist! His job is to stand in your way.

CARVER: Tess, I have to listen to him! How else am I going to get these stories published? How else can I get them out there, where they need to be, where people can read them??

TESS: But why do you want people to read them if they're not your stories?

CARVER: They're still mine...they're still my ideas.

TESS: An idea isn't a story! I'm tired of seeing you crumble, Ray! That's not the man I married! The man I married fights for his work, and he fights for art, and he fights for himself!

(Long pause)

CARVER: Maybe, Tessy. I'll try. Maybe you're right. Gordon's ideas...they're just... some of them just don't make any sense.

TESS: Then you have to stop him.

CARVER: Yeah. Yeah, I guess I do.

(CARVER turns, opens the door, and turns back to TESS.)

CARVER: Hey, Tess? One more thing...

TESS: What is it, baby?

CARVER: I love you.

* * * *

.

My work is pretty much always about love, and our need to find it, and things like that.

.

* * * *

(CARVER and LISH are at LISH's kitchen table. Mugs of coffee sit in front of each of them. In front of LISH there is also a half-empty pint of whiskey. It is late...)

LISH: Now, Raymond, do you see here, where I'm pointing? This passage, right here.

CARVER: I see it, Gordon, but I don't understand...

LISH: Raymond, please. Just listen for a moment. (Reading) "It was all simply too painful for her. This person, this man, this wretched being had swept through her life like an angry, drunken hurricane and destroyed her youth and happiness. It was time for her to make him pack away his clothes and leave. And while he was at it, she would make him pack away his love."

CARVER: I know my own words, Gordon. What I don't understand is what you're getting at. Are you telling me you don't like my writing?

LISH: Of course not, my dear boy. I am simply trying to be your editor. And I believe there is a better way to say this.

CARVER: How can there be a better way to say it? What I wrote is what Maxine is feeling. There's only one way to write that, and that's what I've done. I've let Maxine speak for herself.

LISH: Ah. Oh, Raymond. You are a romantic, aren't you?

CARVER: No. I'm a writer.

LISH: Don't take offense, Raymond. I meant it as a compliment. I find it all terribly charming.

CARVER: Has anyone ever told you that you're incredibly patronizing?

LISH: (pause) Yes, Raymond. As a matter of fact, they have. It is one of my many character flaws, and the one I'd most like to change. Allow me to apologize. Do you accept?

CARVER: (pause) Why don't you just give me some idea of how you think that passage can be improved?

LISH: Very well. Would you like another drink first?

CARVER: (long pause) Just a little.

LISH: (after pouring a healthy dose of whiskey into CARVER's mug) Now, before I give you my suggestions, I feel that I should explain to you how I've arrived at this idea. In Maxine, I believe you have created one of the great heroines of American literature. I truly believe that, Raymond. She is a strong and simple person, someone whose life has repeatedly disappointed her, but who hasn't let that grind her down. She is a woman who stands up to life, if you will. She fights life. And, damn it, Raymond, she is determined to win!

CARVER: (taking a drink) I'm...I'm gratified to here you say that, Gordon. That's who Maxine is to me, as well. You said that you think she is one of American literature's greatest heroines...I'm not prepared to accept that compliment. But in a way, when I was writing this story, I thought of Maxine as America. She has hopes, you know? Dreams. She was optimistic, once, just like the rest of us. But she's seen one bad thing after another, and she doesn't know if she wants to be optimistic anymore. But she wants to dream about it...

LISH: Yes, Raymond, yes! I entirely agree. But there's something else about Maxine, something I've already mentioned. She's simple, Raymond. Like America, she's simple. And I believe her thoughts and feelings should be expressed in a like manner. As you've written her here, in this passage, she's...she's complex. I mean, she is terribly thoughtful, Raymond. Wonderfully thoughtful, even. But is that appropriate?

CARVER: Well...I don't know. What did you have in mind?

LISH: (producing a sheet of paper) Here. Last night, I rewrote the passage we've been discussing.

CARVER: (reading) "He made his way into the bedroom and took one of her suitcases from the closet." (Long pause) Is...is this it?

LISH: Yes. Simple, to the point. And, if I may allow myself a boastful moment, beautiful.

CARVER: But it's not even about Maxine anymore. This says "he". This is about LD.

LISH: Well, yes. I thought perhaps seeing events from his point of view might be an interesting perspective.

CARVER: But the story is about Maxine!

LISH: Raymond, just think about it for a moment...

CARVER: And my words! Where are my words!? They're all gone! You've taken them all, and you've, you've...you've raped them!

LISH: Raymond, please...!

CARVER: You've raped them, Gordon. You've raped them and sent them away. You gave them five bucks to be quiet, and you sent them home!!!

(CARVER jumps up from his seat, knocking over the whiskey, which spills all over LISH's rewrite. LISH quickly grabs the page and begins to dab at it with a handkerchief.)

LISH: Perhaps you've had too much to drink.

CARVER: Have I? It's your whiskey!

LISH: I don't know what you mean...

CARVER: Just forget it, Gordon. Forget the whiskey. Where are my words? I want my words back!!

LISH: Your words, Raymond, are right here on the table, and you're welcome to them. Take them home with you. I will be quite happy to be rid of them.

CARVER: And what about the story?

LISH: What about it?

CARVER: What gets published, Gordon?? Whose story gets published?? Maxine's, or LD's??

LISH: (long pause) The story that will be published will be the correct one.

CARVER (pause) I see. And whose name will be on this correct story, Gordon?

LISH: Why, my dear boy, your name, of course. You're the author.

CARVER: If I'm the author, then why do I feel so much like the victim?

LISH: (getting all his papers in order) Because you're dramatic, Raymond. And because you can't see past the end of your own nose. These are failings common to your type.

CARVER: My type??

LISH: Yes. Now I'm going to have to ask you to leave. You've upset me to the point where I wonder if shall be able to get any sleep at all tonight, and I have an early morning tomorrow. I trust you'll be able to drive yourself home, even in your condition. Lord knows you've done it before.

CARVER: (long pause) This isn't over, Gordon.

LISH: That's where you're wrong, my dear boy. This is over...

CARVER: No, Gordon. No. Tess was right.

LISH: Oh, of course...the wife makes her presence known at last.

CARVER: These are my stories, Gordon! This is my life, my work. How can you have a say in me, in who I am!?

LISH: My dear boy, I'm doing it for the good of these stories, and you know that as well as I. The text is what is important.

CARVER: For the good of the stories, or for the good of your reputation? What is this really about?

LISH: I've told you, Raymond. This is about art.

CARVER: But it's my art! I wrote these stories! They have my name on them! I am Raymond Carver!

LISH: ...Are you sure?

* * * *

And thus do both men walk together into Hell... Either that's from Dante, or I just made it up myself, but either way I think you'll agree that this script is plumming the kinds of depths that Ray and Gandhi only wished they'd had the stones to plum. But these are the kinds of scripts getting rejected, ladies and gentlemen, and all lovers of the Purity of Art. The middle-of-the-roaders and the go-alongers win again, and we're left to face the cold night...alone.

I Have Been Interviewed

Dennis Cozzalio isn't the only esteemed blogger to have been interviewed recently. I, too, sat down not long ago with a journalist to tell my story -- and it's about damn time, but never mind -- of maturity and art and creation and wisdom. I was more than happy to do this, but the interviewer doesn't have a website, or a magazine, or a newsletter, and said that he just wanted to do this for the "hell of it". I said, okay, then can I put the interview up on my blog? As it's been three months and I haven't heard back, I'm going to take that as a "yes". So enjoy!

* * * * * *

How did you get started writing? How did you begin?

How did I begin…what an interesting question. Well, I’ll tell you how I began: I picked up a pen. And I put that pen to paper.

Why?

Why not? [Laughs] No, I’m only joking. I did it because of a mixture of things. Anger. Anger at the world and its governments. Also love for people. And also because some dreams deserve to be shared, and I believed that I dreamed such dreams. For instance, my first short story was about a robot who learned how to cry. When that image came to me, of a big metal robot with lightbulb eyes, and a, like a grate for a mouth, and from one of those lightbulb eyes there fell a single tear…well, what could I do? Keep it to myself? That would have been a criminal act.

A crime against art?

No, a literal crime. This would have been a legal issue, I believe. There is a law in the books against withholding beauty from mankind. I think that’s in there somewhere, but I’ll admit I haven’t studied law in ages! [Laughs]

Still, who would know? How could you have been caught?

I would have turned myself in.

I see. So did you ever publish that story? I confess that I’m not familiar with it. What was it called, by the way?

It was called O, And Daylight Does Break on This Metal Man, which is a line from a poem I’d written just a few hours previously. No, I never did publish it, but not from a lack of trying. I sent it off to Ploughshares and The New Yorker, and I never heard a thing. Also, at the time, I was convinced there was a short fiction magazine called Dragynfyre, and I sent it off to them, as well, but it turns out they didn’t exist. Maybe that was a band. Was that a band?

I don’t know.

Well, anyway. So the story didn’t get published, but do you know what I did?

What?

I persevered.

Moving on from your early years, I just wanted to ask you: over the past decade or so, your work has tackled a number of sensitive, topical issues, such as racism, modern imperialism, government misdeeds, war and poverty. Why do you stress the political in your work so strongly?

Because if not me, who? No one is talking about these issues. When I get on the internet every morning, do you know what sites I’m looking at? Youtube! Or celebrity gossip sites! Trash, in other words! Where’s the good, hard news, the investigative reporting? Where are the liberal bloggers trying to pull down the curtains to reveal that Oz is just another flying monkey? They simply don’t exist. So I had to step in, because as somebody once said, “Art is a cudgel.” And I am that cudgel.

You once said – not in an interview, but actually in a PS at the end of one of your stories – that your job as an artist is to ask questions. What did you mean by that?

Let me answer your question this way: as an artist, I wear many hats. I am a monologuist, and I am a horrorist, and, at my most political, I am an ambiguist. Because the important thing is not to answer questions, but to ask them. Especially if the question has never been asked before, which none of mine have been. Answering questions is easy, asking them is hard. Once a question is asked, you have something to answer. If the question has never been asked, what do you have? A black void of ignorance.

So if answering the questions is easy, do you have answers to the questions you’ve asked in your work?

No.

What are you working on now?

Well, I have several more monologues in the works. One is about an old minority man who is upset about health care. It’s called Poor Man, Heal Thyself. Then I have a new horror novel that I’m putting the finishing touches on, and I think this one is going to be particularly interesting. Imagine, if you’re able, a town out in the Midwest somewhere, that is being overrun by old demons from the past, and the reason there are demons is because of something the town elders once did, some black secret which has since been covered up by all the adults over the years. And guess who alone has the power to defeat these demons? Go on, guess.

I don’t know.

The children!

How is it that children are powerful enough to defeat these demons?

Because of innocence.

I see. Does the novel have a title?

Yes, it’s going to be called The Deading.

That’s magnificent.

Thank you.

As it Happens, I am a Horror Writer

Or "horrorist", which is what I prefer to be called. But however you choose to refer to me and my work, know this: I spend many hours each and every month plumbing the darkest corners of my soul to produce fictions which are a scream of terror at the world which has produced them. "Them" being the screams, which are being screamed at the world, which produced them. It's sort of a Moebius strip of blackness, like society.

My first two novels are finished (the second is the sequel -- or child -- of the first), and are awaiting publication. The only thing left to do is find someone who will publish them. In the meantime, allow me to wet your whistle (with blood, most likely) with the back-cover copy of each of the novels. It might seem odd to have back-cover copy for something that doesn't have a back-cover, so if that bothers you, you can look at them as free-verse advertisements for my work. Do what you want, I don't care.

Four brothers…happy kids who played Army and Indians when they were young in the peaceful town of Waterspring Falls . It was the 1960s when they were kids, so they listened to rock and roll music and protested wars when they got older. They were full of ideals!

Four brothers…each of them has a pretty good life now. One guy is Dale, and he owns a bunch of car selling businesses. Barry is one of those bankers who goes to New York and sells stock. Dominic is a chief of police who has a happy family and a wife and also might run for mayor because everyone likes him and wants him to. Harrison just sold a really funny TV show about a group of love-starved city friends to a TV station.

Four brothers…EACH OF THEM HAS A SECRET! Dale has psychic powers, Barry stole some money from where he worked, Dominic thinks that he’s probably gay, and Harrison knows who really committed all those murders of those kids from a long time ago…and it wasn’t the guy everybody thought did it at the time!

-

Four brothers…WHO DON’T EVEN KNOW THE WORST PART OF THE WHOLE THING! It is a secret that lives under Waterspring Falls (where they all came back to for a kind of reunion)…and it has been waiting…waiting for them! What will these four brothers do when they are attacked by…

THIS

by

Bill R.

* * * * * * * *

Dale Summerson has returned to Waterspring Falls . Probably about ten years ago his three brothers were all killed by an ancient monster they called ‘This’, because whenever they tried to call it by the name it actually had they all choked on horror. They defeated ‘This’, but at what cost?? Anyway, Dale has come home again, almost like it was for the first time ever, because he feels drawn to it. He hasn’t ever gotten over his brothers being killed, even though one of them was a murderer. Dale is still psychic, though, which is something.

But what is waiting for him in Waterspring Falls ?? Strange happenings plague him!

…there is a strange old preacher in town who keeps talking about how the world’s going to explode if people don’t watch out for their souls…

…he finds himself haunted by the ghost of one of his dead brothers (it’s the gay one)…

…townsfolk keep asking him things like “How is Beatrice doing?” Who the hell is Beatrice??...

…also, he’s almost positive there’s a little kid running around town whose eyes glow…

But that doesn’t even begin to cover it! Yes, ‘This’ was killed (they used fire), but so why does the ground still rumble? Why do people still hear that weird cricket-y type noise at night, which isn’t even crickets? And why do the citizens of Waterspring Falls keep disappearing??

What if ‘This’ wasn’t the only one? What if ‘This’ had babies? All of Waterspring Falls is in danger now, because what will they do if they are attacked by…

THESE

by

Bill R.

* * * * * * * *

Can you help but be a different human after reading these books? I wouldn't think so. Let me know how that goes, though, because I'm really curious.

Note: Anyone familiar with the work of the great Garth Marenghi may be tempted to believe I stole this idea from him. I did not. I wrote these a long time ago, before I'd ever heard of him. Anyway, while the basic format is the same, the style is pretty different. Judge for your ownselves if you don't believe me! More importantly, if you've never seen the TV show Garth Marenghi's Darkplace, do so at once. It's six episodes of pure genius.

My War with John Updike

Any artist worth a damn is going to make enemies. Being an artist who is worth several damns myself, I have, in turn, made several enemies. Most of these individuals have taken issue with me and my work on political or religious grounds. Knowing that people who dislike me for these reasons exist somewhere in the world and are currently speaking ill of me -- whispering about me in hypocritical hisses -- does not bother me in the least. Quite the reverse! As I may have mentioned before, I am an artist, and as such one of my responsibilities is to inform people when they are thinking incorrectly, and instruct them to adjust their beliefs and opinions accordingly. I don't ask for thanks -- I'm happy to do it, really -- and I don't expect everyone to appreciate my unique brand of acidic truth-telling. I'm comfortable weathering that particular storm.

However, over the years I have somehow managed to make another kind of enemy: that of the aesthetic variety. Or, at least, they claim their problems with me stem from an objective dislike of my art, but I have my suspicions that these specific bushes of vitriol have roots that run deeper, into their hearts and psyches. But that's neither here nor there. No, today I want to offer a rebuttal to the extraordinarily harsh -- but, of course, ultimately inconsequential -- words directed towards me and my life's creative work by a man who is generally regarded as one of America's "greatest" "writers", John Updike.

One year ago, I published a collection of my monologues. Currently and inexplicably out of print, the title of my collection was (is!) Speak Up! Speak Out!. In an especially brief review of the book published in The New Yorker, Updike said the title should be “Rampaging Tedium”. He also went on to say that “clearly, we are dealing here with a third-tier Eric Bogosian, as if a first-tier Eric Bogosian was somehow worth our time.” Okay, hold it right there, Psoriasis. I once wrote an appreciation of Eric Bogosian (I’m still looking for the right place to publish it) in which I said “Eric Bogosian is not just our country’s Dario Fo: he’s Dario Fo wrapped in the skin of Lenny Bruce and infused with the hot-wired, kick-ass, rage-filled savior-soul of Bill Hicks. He writes like a gutter-dwelling angel from Hell on meth!” If Updike doesn’t think someone like that is worth his time, then maybe he should go back to reading his precious Chris Bohjalian novels, or whatever the hell he reads.

Then, Updike pulls this card: “Mr. R.’s collection is a bewildering 23 pages long; the book costs an offensive fourteen dollars. That's nearly fifty cents a page.” First off, thanks for the algebra lesson, Dr. Math. Second, this is what Updike has been reduced to? Whining about how much books cost?? Whatever happened to the guy who wrote Rabbit Re-Do and The Vampires of Eastwidge? Those were pretty big books in their day, I thought. Plus, it’s not like he can’t afford it. Last I heard, Pulitzer winners rake in some pretty sweet coin.

Later, Updike blathers thusly: "Mr. R. seems to think that simplistic speech-making is the same thing as good writing. And by simplistic, I mean 'depressingly ignorant'. I have a hard time imagining even the most knee-jerk, closed-off college student would find much worth in what Mr. R. has to say in these pieces. That in itself might be forgivable, however, if the writing itself rose even an inch above worthless cliche', but it never does. He's happy to wallow in the endlessly worked-over sludge of the amateur polemicist." When I read that part, this is what I said: "Huh?" Literally, that's what I said. Since I'm sure you're just as confused as I was about what Updike thinks he's saying here, allow me to translate: "I'm too old! I don't understand! I'm on my way out!" Updike is terrified because he's part of the Old Guard, and us Young Guns (as I like to call artists of my generation and general thought-patterns) are coming up fast. He knows he's out of date, and that our Wave of Change is going to drown out his old-timey BS.

You see, there are two primary artistic media that are about to render all others irrelevant: monologues and YouTube. If I'd been able to, I never would have published my monologues, or even performed them at open mikes, or on street corners; I simply would have filmed (or, really, "videoed") them and put them right on YouTube. Unfortunately, I don't have a video camera. There are many reasons for this, but one of them is because, Mr. Updike, they cost a hell of a lot more than $14!

I won't lie to you: when I read his review, I was furious. I don't mind admitting this, because I am human, and I embrace my humanity. I also acted on this anger, a fact which also fails to shame me, by sending Updike an e-mail. The e-mail consisted of simply this:



I love emoticons, because they really represent, and speak to, the full range of human emotion. They certainly do a better job of it than Updike's dried-up old books. And the proof that my e-mail struck a nerve is that not only didn't he respond, he also changed his e-mail address. Game, set, match. Also, check-mate.

So, there you go. Updike's review was like a fly on the dinner table: mildly annoying until you smash it with a magazine. After that, it's on with your life. In short, I've moved on.

Have I Ever Mentioned that I'm a Brilliant Artist?

I am, I admit, very mysterious. The only thing that many of you, my Dear Readers, know about me is that, in the world of film and literature analysis and criticism, I have no equal. But I can't help imagining many, if not all of you, sitting at home, or at work, reading my humble little musings and thinking, "Who is this man?? Where did he come from?? Why have I been so blessed that I have his words in my world??"

The answer to your first question is that I am but a man. Extraordinary? Perhaps, but still simply a man. The answer to your second question is that I come from everywhere and nowhere. In a sense -- and this is important! -- I am "everyman". Or actually it should probably be "Everyman". I am like you! Or like Old Gus, who delivers your morning paper, or like Kim Sook, your Korean grocer, who always has a kind word and a wink for you! Or like Danny, the little boy who loves collecting bottle caps. I am all of them! And none of them... The answer to your third question is "I don't know, but thank you for the compliment."

It is not my intention today to reveal very much about myself, because I have my own life to lead, and I'd rather it not be cluttered up by strangers knocking on my door and asking if they can touch my shirt, or sending me letters, asking if I can send them a piece of my shirt, or whatever it is people like you do. You're like lampreys, every last one of you (no offense). However, I would like to open up one part of my life to you, Dear Readers, that has hitherto gone unreferenced on this "blog", and that part of my life has to do with one of my great creative passions. For I am a monologuist.

I can hear you asking, "You mean like Eric Bogosian??" Yes, but better. When my monologues are at their best, which is most of the time, they showcase my stunning ear for human speech in all its gritty, idiosyncratic poetry, as well as a complex understanding of social issues -- you might say that, as an artist, I've been cursed with a social conscience. You will not find easy stereotypes in my work, for I do not see the world, nor do I paint it, in black and white. No, I paint in shades of grey. And incidentally, when I say "paint", I mean "write monologues". Of course, writing monologues is only half of the creative process, and it is true that I also perform them on stage. I will perform them anywhere, really; you might even spy me opening the eyes of the world through my art on a street corner in your city! All I need, really, is my vast collection of wigs and character-appropriate costumes, as well as some kind of bucket, in which admirers are required to place money. And please note, if you see me performing, that I did say "required". My art is not about money, but come on. You don't steal cable TV, do you?

Today, I would like to offer to you the transcript of one of my finest monologues. It is called How Much is a Hero?, and our character is a gruff, hard-drinking fireman named Paddy Hoolihan, who is ending the night's shift at his favorite watering hole. While this is a monologue, Paddy's words are being spoken to a bartender. You'll just have to imagine that part. That's what art's all about, you know. But that's enough from me! Let's hear from ol' Paddy Hoolihan. I think you'll find him quite a character...

Hey there, Mickey! Yeah, that's right, you got it, it's me, ol' Paddy Hoolihan, just comin' in for a few drinks! What's that you say?...Naw, I won't start any trouble tonight! I'm just an old fireman, takin' a load off. People say I drink too much, but I don't think so, do you?...Haw haw! I'm keepin' you in business, did you say? Well, that's true enough, old friend! Haw haw! Give me a glass of whiskey, and also two beers. That's right, the regular! Boy, I sure do need it tonight, I don't mind tellin' you. Saw some shit tonight, my friend. That pre-school down on Abraham Lincoln Street went up like it was made out of fireworks. Yeah, that's right, the one on Abraham Lincoln Street . That's right, the one where all the African-American kids go, the ones from Abraham Lincoln Projects...I agree, Mickey, that name is ironic. All them kids...I tell you, it makes you not want to get up in the morning. One little kid ran out and he was on fire and he was holding his stuffed animal toy, and he was screaming "Why!?" After I put him out, all's I could say was, "I don't know, son. I don't know!" But you know, it got me to thinkin', seeing that little boy's stuffed animal toy. The other day, you see, I took my little nephew out toy shopping, and he was all crazy about buyin' that new toy, what do they call it? Oh, yeah, that's right, it's called the Action Hero Toy. Now, my little nephew, he's just a little kid, and he can't say the whole name, so he just calls it a "Hero". Also, he can't read numbers, which is important to my story. So we're in the toy store, and we get to these what do you call them's, oh yeah, the Action Hero Toys. So my nephew says to me, he says, "Uncle? How much is a 'Hero'?" Now, he was talkin' about the toy, you understand. But it got me to thinkin', how much is a hero? A real hero?...What's that you say? I've had too much to drink?? I've only had a glass of whiskey and two beers! Gimme another round, before I sock you one! So anyway, like I'm sayin', I thought, because of what my nephew said, "How much is a hero?" Why, I imagine to some people, a hero's cheap. You know, like politicians and corporations and whatnot. Those people, they see a hero, and they think, "Well, I can just get a picture of that brave fireman who saved that poor family and slap it on a t-shirt with the word 'Hero' on it, sell it for forty dollars, and I'll be rich in a year!" Heck, you could maybe even buy the t-shirts on "Hero dot com"! (pause for laugh). But heck, Mickey, forty dollars? For a hero? A hero's a guy who says that danger isn't enough to keep him from doing the right thing. He's a guy who thinks that maybe his neck's no more valuable than the next guy's. A guy who sees smoke, and smells fire, and he don't think about runnin' away from it. He thinks about runnin' to it, with nothin' but a bucket o' dirty water in his mitts. He's a guy who would say to Mr. Politician, "Stick your forty dollars, you ain't puttin' me on no t-shirt!" (there will probably be applause here. Pause until it ends) What's that, Mickey? Next round's on the house? Why, that's mighty good of you. But can I ask why you're being so nice all of a sudden?...Because you think I'm a hero??? Aw, that's just loony talk! I ain't no hero. I'm just a guy doin' his job. Doin' an honest job for honest pay. If that job means I gotta put my life on the line to save a bunch of kids, well, that's what they pay me for. Ain't that right?...Huh? Whuzzat? Well, sure, Mickey, of course I want my regular again! Why do you even gotta ask?...Huh? Because you changed the name?? Well, what are you gonna call it? I'm the only one who ever orders it, after all!...Whuzzat?? You...you're gonna call it...the Hero???

The End. And you're most welcome.