I’M HEARING VOICES

by John M. Floyd

Writing, I am often reminded, is a lonely pastime. Those of us crazy enough to do it often spend hours cubbyholed and isolated, scribbling down all the weird things we see happening in our minds. The truth is, though, unless you’re fortunate enough to get your creations published no one but you will ever know about them. Except maybe your spouse, who is sometimes kind enough to assure you that your writing is brilliant. (Be alert, however, for eye rolls or casual suggestions that you should also consider golf, or gardening.)

And even if you are lucky enough to see your ramblings in print, chances are that you’ll never hear much feedback from your readers, unless maybe your name begins with Stephen and ends with King. But that’s okay. You will have had fun writing the stories — and cashing the checks the magazines sent you when they bought them.

And, believe it or not, once in a blue moon . . .

Close Encounters of the Preferred Kind

Now and then you actually will hear something back from your reading public, and if it’s positive, that is truly a good reason for an aspiring writer to rejoice.

I, as you might imagine, haven’t had many experiences like that, because my name is probably recognizable only to my family and a few creditors. Recently, though, two things happened to me that I suppose I could refer to as “fan contact.” It can’t be called fan mail, because in one case it was a phone call, and I’m probably stretching things a bit if I even use the word “fan.” But it was definitely contact, and both occurrences helped to brighten my outlook.

A Voice from the South

The most recent instance was when a lady named Teresa phoned me a few weeks ago from somewhere in the Carolinas. She told me she had grown up in north central Mississippi, and had seen my latest mystery story in Woman’s World, in which I had mentioned some small towns and highways and landmarks that she remembered from her childhood. Teresa said she immediately knew that whoever wrote that must have once lived in that area. After mulling it over awhile, she took note of my byline at the bottom of the story and phoned her mother (who still lives near our old stomping grounds) and asked her if she knew any Floyds living anywhere close by. Her mother said no, she didn’t, but that she’d dig up some local phone directories and investigate.

Teresa’s curiosity was apparently inherited. Her mother, undaunted after checking names in several nearby towns and coming up with zip, finally spotted my mother’s listing, just across the river in a neighboring county. She called Mom, and Mom told her yes, her son does sometimes write fiction for Woman’s World. Then my mother gave Teresa’s mother my phone number, her mother passed it along to Teresa, and Teresa called me. She and I wound up talking for an hour, and had a great time comparing memories of growing up in that corner of the world. She even told me she’d been enjoying my little series stories in WW for several years. The end result: I acquired a new friend as well as an ego boost.

A Voice from the North

The other encounter happened several months ago. A fellow from Canada named Steve, who had purchased my first book of short stories some time back, e-mailed me with a piece of good news. He said that while he and a young lady were in a Toronto bookstore the night before, on a first date, he noticed my name on the cover of an issue of The Strand Magazine. He told her, “I know that guy.” (We had swapped several e-mails shortly after he bought my book.) She didn’t believe him. He said, “No, I really do know him — he lives in Mississippi.” She still didn’t believe him.

Later, when they’d stopped by his apartment on their way to dinner, he said he showed her his copy of my book, which I had personalized for him. Now, I’m not at all sure why the young lady was impressed, but apparently she was impressed. The point of all this — the good news Steve wanted to pass along to me — is that he said, in his note to me, “Because of you, I now have another date with her tomorrow night.” I couldn’t hear his tone of voice, for obvious reasons, but I could tell he was delighted with this turn of events. I wrote him back that I was pleased to find I’d done something helpful for someone, even if I hadn’t known at the time that I’d done it.

The Sounds of Silence

Again, hearing from readers like this is worth mentioning only because it’s rare, at least for me. When you submit and sell short fiction it sometimes feels as if you’re dropping it down a well, and the only voices you’ll hear afterward are those in your head, dictating more stories for you to write down.

Don’t get me wrong — I’m not complaining. I’m glad those folks who speak to me in my head are still talking.

I couldn’t stop writing their stories even if I tried.