PERFORMANCE PIECE

by Janice Law

I made the happy discovery recently that I have a “performance piece.” Normally I don’t venture into such high flown territory, confining myself to novels, short stories, articles, these blogs, and the occasional splenetic letter to the editor. “Performance pieces” are for folks with artistic pretensions and deep thoughts about the nature of reality— or consumerism.

But a reading with a group of local poets and one genuine performance artist changed all that. They all went first and they were good. They emoted; they did clever things with their voices; a couple were amusing. I began to be concerned about the reception of a little story of premeditated mayhem.

But, fortunately, it is in the nature of the beast to crave entertainment, especially laughs. And poets, though they may occasionally stray into humor, are really more comfortable with the darker emotions and with subtle reflections on our essence that are not always compatible with library chairs.

As it turned out, the library audience was ready for something simple and sinister and my little story, “The Writing Workshop”, (AHMM Jan/Feb 2011) fit the bill. If I couldn’t say like Dickens that the audience was completely enthralled and emotionally steamrollered, I can say that they laughed in all the right places and brought the evening to a satisfactory conclusion. I realized that I had found a sure fire thing to read; my performance piece, in short.

For the benefit of others who are off on a reading tour or dragooned into entertaining the local writing group or library book club, let me give you a recipe for that useful item, the “performance piece”.

First, make it short. Chairs are hard; the refreshment table is tempting; it’s been a long day already. My story was just 10 pages, double spaced, Times New Roman pt 12 type. This can be managed even by an amateur reader. Retired from teaching 8 o’clocks to 35 or more drowsy college students, my voice is no longer the raise-the-dead instrument it once was, but ten pages can be managed without too many sips at the water bottle.

Second, make it funny, if at all possible. Sure noir is great and who doesn’t aspire to deep thoughts about the human condition? But as the clock ticks toward 9 p.m. or the even more dreaded mid-afternoon lull, the human condition is such that the audience wants a lighter touch.

Which doesn’t mean we have to jettison our favorite topic. Neither writers, nor, as it turns out, aspiring writers, are necessarily of good character. Such literary folk are quite content to contemplate the demise of hostile editors and anthologists and mystery magazine honchos. Had the story been longer, they would, I think, have accepted mortality among publishers as well.

Third, consider the dialogue. Too many voices tax the amateur in theatrical matters, and I for one lack all dramatic talent. Because it was in my favorite form, the slightly obsessive confessional monologue, “The Writing Workshop” kept the dialogue to a minimum— just as well since all the speaking characters were male.

The first person narrative lends itself to short pieces. The format keeps the focus on the protagonist, cuts out extraneous plot lines, and pretty much eliminates red herrings. Not so good, maybe, for armchair reading but easy for an audience to follow.

Of course, it wouldn’t be a performance piece if it didn’t have a certain amount of drama. This one unfolds from a writing class to the narrator’s reminiscences of his own first visit to a mystery writing workshop. It continues with the interesting ways that he put his learning to use, earning modest amounts of fame and fortune before coming unglued. The story concludes with the end of the writing class, whose prison location is thereby revealed. This trajectory is easy to follow even with the distractions that come with public spaces and the end of the day, and it makes for a happy reading.

I only have one problem now. I’d like another little performance piece. Something short, snappy, funny, and dramatic which doesn’t require an odd costume or strange voices. I keep looking through my notebooks and revisiting old stories but none seems quite right. Clearly performance pieces don’t grow on trees.

However, I can tell you that if you are to read for any group of writers or would be writers, you absolutely cannot go wrong dealing with the sorrows and humiliations of the writing life. And because revenge is sweet, plotlines removing arrogant editors and nepotistic anthologists will always gladden the audience’s hearts.

PRESSING MATTERS

by Leigh Lundin

Web pages of the British literary magazine Granta carry a comment I respect in this new age of eBooks:

"Granta also comes in multi-leaved rectangular objects made from finely pulped wood (no back-lighting or charging necessary)."

I’m also pretty sure it doesn’t run out of batteries. But take a peek at publishers that blaze their own trails.

Project Gutenberg

This week on the eve of International Literacy Day, one of the key figures in 21st century publishing died, Michael Stern Hart. Like me, you might not recognize Professor Hart’s name, but you know his literacy effort– Project Gutenberg.

Forty years ago, Hart created his first publication, the Declaration of Independence. Computers then were expensive mainframes and DARPA‘s ArpaNet was a long way from the internet we know today.

Making books freely available was only a dream then– or a vision. It took nearly two decades for Project Gutenberg to really take off when OCR (optical character recognition) became readily available on personal computers.

Today, volunteers from around the world add fifty manuscripts a week to their library. Project Gutenberg is one of the major sources for free eBooks for e-readers of every flavor.

Feedbooks

Another important digital library comes to us from Europe. Check out Feedbooks, the brainchild of French entrepreneurs Hadrien Gardeur, Loïc Roussel, and David Julien.

Facebooks makes available classics, some traditional published, and self-published books. The company claims three million downloads a month in the most popular digital formats, a very impressive figure.

Publication Studio

Contrarians move in the opposition direction from the herd. While many book companies embrace electronic publishing, the maverick Publication Studio hand-crafts books. Matthew Stadler, Patricia No, and their cadre of artists in at least seven US and Canadian cities have produced nearly a hundred works in little more than two years. They must be doing something right.

9/11/11

In recent days, much has come out about the efforts of a Minnesota FBI office that was convinced of a terror attack. Minneapolis agents weren’t the only ones concerned; Miami personnel were worried too, as described in Daniel Hopsicker’s book, Welcome to Terrorland. Yep, even the garish art can’t disguise that’s Florida on its cover.

I wondered what to say on this day, but my super friend Lela Carney wrote words for our classmates that beat anything I could say:

"I join you in appreciation (and) celebration of all that unites us in spite of our differences. Getting through the times ahead will take us all seeing the best in each other so we can pull together.

All best as we head into the 10th anniversary of 911 with heavy hearts and a renewed determination to honor our highest calling as Americans."

A STORY BY ANY OTHER NAME

by John M. Floyd

One of the few unpleasant things about writing fiction is that editors and publishers sometimes choose to change the title of an author’s short story or novel before publication. I’ve not met many authors who feel that the changed titles of their own stories are better than the original titles (I certainly don’t think mine were)—but those opinions don’t often matter a whole lot. Sometimes, in the case of a short story, the author isn’t even told that there’ll be a change, until after the fact.

Looking back over the seventeen years that I’ve been submitting stories to magazines and anthologies, I’ve found that about ten percent of my accepted stories have later had their titles changed by the editors. I’m not sure if that’s typical, but I do suspect that most short stories retain their original, untampered-with titles. And regardless of the odds, the possibility of a title change isn’t something I worry much about. Hey, if they’re willing to pay me for my story, they can do anything to it they want to.

Novels are a different matter. Unless a novelist is self-publishing, I’ve heard that he can almost expect to have his suggested title changed at some point in the pre-publication process. A funny thing happened recently, though. My friend Ben Douglas, who has published a number of mystery novels, told me that after having his first title changed, he didn’t put a lot of effort into selecting a title for the novel’s sequel. He decided to call it the first thing that occurred to him—Deadly Passions—because he knew the publisher would change it anyway. Instead, the publisher chose to go with Ben’s original title, and Deadly Passions it was, and is. Go figure.

Anyhow, here are a few well-known book titles that wound up being surgically altered. I’ve listed the original title first, followed by the final result:

Something That Happened – Of Mice and Men
Trimalchio in West Egg – The Great Gatsby
Fiesta – The Sun Also Rises
First Impressions – Pride and Prejudice
Sister Maggie – The Mill on the Floss
Strangers From Within – Lord of the Flies
Catch-18 – Catch-22
The Village Virus – Main Street
The Sea-Cook – Treasure Island
Tomorrow Is Another Day – Gone With the Wind
The Chronic Argonauts – The Time Machine
Stephen Hero – A Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man
Tenderness – Lady Chatterley’s Lover
Salinas Valley – East of Eden
Twilight – The Sound and the Fury
Come and Go – The Happy Hooker
The Tree and the Blossom – Peyton Place
Before This Anger – Roots
The Saddest Story – The Good Soldier
Elinor and Marianne – Sense and Sensibility
Mag’s Diversions – David Copperfield
Poker Night – A Streetcar Named Desire
The Last Man in Europe – 1984
Paul Morel – Sons and Lovers
Mute – The Heart is a Lonely Hunter
O Lost – Look Homeward, Angel
Kingdom by the Sea – Lolita
Mind and Iron – I, Robot
Cancer – Dreamcatcher
Return to the Wars – To Have and Have Not
Robotic Banana – A Clockwork Orange
All’s Well That Ends Well – War and Peace

(Note: In a few cases, what I’ve listed as the original title was just a “working” title used by the author, and sometimes I understand there were several titles considered by author and/or publisher before the final one was selected.)

By the way, here’s one way to feel better when the Powers That Be decide to change your well-thought-out title for your short story. (At least this is what I do.) Let them call the story whatever they like, and when the time comes to later submit that story someplace else, as a reprint, just submit the story to the new market under your original title. I’ve sold dozens of reprints that way, and the magazines that use them never seem to care a whit that those stories were called something different in their previous lives.

Getting back to my above list of novels, do you think all those changed titles sound better than the originals? If so, are they really better, or is it just that we’re already so familiar with the final titles? I think the same thing happens if you consider the producers’ or studios’ first choices for movie roles. Even if I squeeze my eyes shut and strain, I can’t see Frank Sinatra as Dirty Harry Callahan or Tom Selleck as Indiana Jones – but they were among the actors who were sought to play those characters, and who (thankfully) declined.

Maybe those final titles were meant to be. Let’s face it, Summer of the Shark just doesn’t blow my skirt up. But Jaws?

BUMbumBUMbumBUMbum . . .

AROUND THE BLOCK

by Steven Steinbock

Those who know me well know that I’m a longtime admirer of Lawrence Block and his writing. In the early 1980s I discovered his fiction column in Writer’s Digest, and kept a subscription to that journal until his column disappeared from its pages. I quickly began seeking out his novels, working my way through the books about Bernie Rhodenbarr, Matthew Scudder, and Evan Tanner. I reveled in the wry voice that seemed to pervade all his writing, and found—and continue to find—his novels a (mostly) guiltless pleasure.

Block is a writer’s writer. His columns (most of which have been reprinted in his various books for writers) are a healthy and humorous tonic for the writer’s soul. His approach to his own work is unapologetically mercenary without ever being crass. Most importantly for readers of Criminal Brief, he has long been an advocate and practitioner of the short story. His first fiction sale, if I’m remembering correctly, was to Manhunt, and since then has had more stories in EQMM, AHMM, and Playboy than most writers will ever hope to write.

My friend and Cyber-cousin Neal brought to my attention the latest entry in Block’s blog (see if you can say that phrase quickly five times in a row). In it, using the same cheeky didacticism that he often employed in his old Writer’s Digest columns, he explains to “Arnold” and the rest of his imaginary class about the fall and rise of the crime short story, about the role of electronic media in the new rise, and (in his unapologetic mercenary fashion) about his anecdotage in the process, complete with links to all of his e-published short stories currently available for download.

Even if you don’t download any of his short stories, Block’s column is a fun read and well worth your time. (And if you are tempted, which you probably will be, indulge yourself with “Keller in Dallas,” “Like a Thief in the Night,” “The Burglar who Smelled Smoke” or any of the other stories. If you’ve ever been annoyed by bad-tempered professional athletes, “Terrible Tommy Terhune” is a satisfying match point and is less than a dollar.)

E-BOOK UPDATE

I continue to have mixed feelings about my Kindle. It’s not the same as holding a book, and for me will never replace that tactile sensation. But as I said in a a column last month, the eBook hold certain practical advantages for the book critic. In preparing my latest column for EQMM (which will see light of day in the February 2012 issue), I found the Kindle to be a fast and convenient way to read a lot of books.

Unfortunately, most publishers haven’t joined the party. Very few Advance Readers Copies (ARCs) are available, and those that are have inconsistent formatting. Book publicists everywhere, I love getting your books. But you can save time and shelf space for me, and save money for your company, if you make electronic options available to book reviewers.

And while on the subject of eBooks . . . Yes, Arnold?

Sir, are you going to make one of your conceptual leaps?

I didn’t know I did anything of the sort, Arnold. But now that you mention it, I guess I’m taking you slightly around the Block to where we started. Larry Block has put a number of his nonfiction books for writers in electronic format through Kindle. I’ve immensely enjoyed The Liar’s Bible, which collects about three dozen of his Writer’s Digest columns from the 80s. (If you ever wanted to see what the Grandmaster looked like as a four year-old, or get a glimpse of him as a high school student, this is also your best chance, as the e-book includes a photo album). I’ve also enjoyed Afterthoughts, which collects afterwords and commentaries on several dozen novels and short stories. The latter half of that ninety-nine cent eBook provides a lot of background to his short fiction as well as to his more off-beat (and lurid) novels. Tell Larry I sent you.

SHORT, SHORTER, SHORTEST

by Deborah Elliott-Upton

The shortest story I’ve heard was the famous Hemingway’s six word story.

For sale. Baby shoes. Never worn.

There is speculation as to whether the account of the six word story is true or not. Supposedly, Hemingway bet a table of writers dining at the “famous round table” at the Algonquin that he could write an entire story in six words. No one believed his boast and each anted up $10 when Hemingway declared he’d match the pot if he couldn’t do it and he’d take the entire pot if he did accomplish the task. Hemingway scribbled six words on a napkin and passed it around. Everyone agreed the six words told a beginning, middle and end of a story. Papa then scooped up the pot.

The story may or may not be true. Either way, what an impact that extremely short story leaves on the reader.

At Confession

by Harvey Stanbrough 1

“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
“How long since your last confession?”
“Two years.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“I have wished death on a man.”
“You haven’t acted on your wish?”
“Not yet.”
“Who is the man?”
“He is cheating with my wife.”
The priest paled. “I forgive you.”
I shot him through the screen.

With the advent of flash fiction on the rise (a story of anywhere up to 1,000 words), writers have strived to write even tighter—making every word count double duty. When John Floyd and I (and five other writers) were working on the seven each 600-word shorts for Seven by Seven, I found the commission brought out a challenge I had yet to attempt. Can a mystery be told well in 600 words? Absolutely. Our book comprised 49, and I think each was worthy of the deadly sins they represented. Would I have liked to expand a bit on characterization and setting? Sure. But, as I’ve said, it was a challenge and I believe we all should be challenged in whatever our work and leisure activities happens to be. Life is too short to waste in boredom.

My fictional love has always been with the short story. Specifically, I enjoy the mystery short story best. Somewhere between flash fiction and the novella, the short story fills an important space in the fiction world. We are drawn into the mystery, allowed to delve into the character’s lives and see what motives may be hiding beneath the surface. We’re often drawn into a setting new to us whether it’s fictional or a real location. We’re fed a diet of clues, seasoned with red herring and sprinkled with a twist or two. All of this in a sparse amount of words.

The short story fits into our schedules of commutes, quick lunches at our desks or lazy weekend afternoons. They help us prepare for a good night’s rest—usually with a smugness that we guessed correctly at who did it and why. If we didn’t deduce the villain, we also smile; it’s nice to be surprised by a clever writer.

The best short stories are like Hemingway’s six word story: they won’t let us go with a single reading. Our minds rehash the events and details. The words that weren’t on the page, and yet conveyed by the writer to our subconscious make the story unforgettable.

1. Harvey Stanbrough can be reached at Harvey Stanbrough and also his magic realism website, Cantina Tales, which is hosted by his friend, Juan-Carlos Salazár, storyteller and keeper of the cantina in the fictional village of Agua Rocosa, that place on the horizon where reality folds into imagination. Visitors who subscribe to either website get a free book. [↩]

MY MUCH-PUBLISHED FRIEND

by Rob Lopresti

You might say I was cleaning out my files at Criminal Brief Headquarters when I found this scrap. The important thing to remember is that neither of the characters represent any real people. It is just a meditation on the writing life.

My much-published friend has a complaint. His latest book just received a bad review in a major newspaper and he wants to tell the world how unfair it was, and what an insensitive, incompetent idiot the reviewer was.

I nod sympathetically, all the while wondering what it would be like to get a review, good, bad, or indifferent, in a major publication.

My much-published friend is in a frenzy. Deadlines, deadlines, deadlines! His manuscripts are overdue, his book proposal isn’t ready, and he has proofs to read. It’s all too much!

I cluck-cluck and try to imagine how it would feel if someone other than me cared whether I wrote something today.

My much-published friend is cranky. He got a letter from a reader complaining about a mistake he had made in a recent novel. Apparently he confused a 44-caliber gun with a 45. The reader thinks public hari-kari would be an appropriate apology.

Oddly enough, I know all about this problem. The nitpickers find even little fish like me. But I also ponder the dozens of non-complaining emails my friend gets.

My much-published friend is having a terrible day. He is having problems with his editor, his agent, his audiobook publisher, and his publicist, all at once.

Which in our case we have not got.

My much-published friend is grumpy. He is complaining about fellow writers who are envious of his success.

Yeah, I tell him. I hate that.

Another thread from the web

This is the twenty-fourth and last installment in this occasional feature. I recently discovered dropbox.com which is a cool free tool for storing your files—and for automatically transferring them between your computers. Give it a look.

Melodie wrote me to tell me that she’s not able to make her deadline today (her reasons were good ones), and asked me to select a past column for our readers. This post first appeared on July 24, 2007, and is still one of my favorites.

—JLW

SUSPICIOUS MIND

by Melodie Johnson Howe

I was taking my usual walk up the hill ever alert for my nemesis, my villain, the woman in the Hummer, to come barreling down at me. But the lane is quiet. Even the horse and the mule in the field ignore me. I reach the apex and my Hummer lady is nowhere to be seen. She has begun to stick in my head. Why do I think of her as a villain? It’s not her car. I don’t really begrudge her the Hummer. I just don’t want her to kill me with it. Is it her face-lift? I should pluralize that. No. I have friends who have been lifted. Is it her bleach blonde hair? No. Though God did make me a blonde, I admit to a few highlights myself. Is it her relentless thinness? Well, I’m not thin. Never was, never will be. Is it the strained determination on her pinched face? Not really. Sadly I see that look on the face of most middle-aged women.

I make my way to the back of the San Ysidro ranch, a posh hotel for the rich and famous. Ty Warner (who made billions selling Beany Babies) bought and renovated it at a great expense. That’s why he has to charge twenty-two dollars for a burger. Sorry, Kobi burger. Is that a kind of meat or the name of a basketball player? In any event he has priced the restaurant out of the range of the locals who are lower on the money chain. Why don’t I make him the villain instead of my pathetic Hummer woman?

I stop. I think I see a movie star. Thin, I’m tired of writing that word. Some kind of tattoo on her shoulder. Long, long legs. Big, big sunglasses. Tiny, tiny boobs. She’s blonde too. Does the Hummer lady want to look like her? A fluttering entourage has appeared out of nowhere surrounding and protecting the young woman as they guide her to a cottage. Protecting her from whom? I’m the only one standing here and I don’t even know who she is. I think of my lady in the Hummer. She also needs protection. How has she become mine?

I cut though the garbage can area to a wood gate and open it. Now I’m in what I call The Sanctuary, a quirky wonderful non-denominational and multicultural retreat. I carefully edge my way down a steep dirt path to the paved narrow road. I stop dead in my tracks. My mouth drops open. In front of me are two women flanking a naked man draped in an Indian blanket.

Unlike my Hummer lady, these women are prim with a mid-west perm-and-set quality to them. The man has a gray beard. His wide flat bare feet look to big for his yogi lean body. His eyes appear glazed. His head lolls back. The women are dressed in suits. Skirt suits not pants. Their blouses tie primly at their necks. Are they twins? They smile sweetly at me. My mouth is still hanging open so I’m unable to smile back. They continue past me. I finally get my mouth closed.

What was that, I wonder, heading in the opposite direction of the trio. I bet the guy in the guy blanket is faking it. I bet he’s taking them for every penny they have. I bet—wait. Why am I turning this odd encounter into something sinister? Maybe he’s in a transcendental state and needed a walk. Do you need a stroll when you’re transcending? Why am I thinking he’s ripping them off? He was barefoot on a very rough road. The equivalent to walking over nails or hot coals. My eyes narrow skeptically. It’s only rough asphalt. He could take a few scrapes and bruises on his tootsies for a million. Or maybe the prim twins are taking him? For what? His blanket? I take a deep breath and stare out through the fog to where I think the ocean is. We are having June gloom at the end of July.

As I pick up my pace I begin to consider how I turn the world into something dark and foreboding. What a way to go through life. How neurotic. Then I remind myself that I am a writer. Being a writer absolves me from almost everything. P. D. James once said that when she was a child she thought that Humpty Dumpty didn’t fall off the wall, but was pushed. Of course he was. Unless it was suicide. I try to keep my eyes from narrowing again. It’s not a good look.

I do my loop around the sanctuary and head back down the hill to my house. I look over my shoulder for The Hummer. No sign of her. I wait for her to approach me from the front. But no. I haven’t seen her in awhile. Maybe she left her husband? Never. He’s got the money. Maybe he murdered her? No, I want her alive. Maybe she ran off with the naked yogi and the twins. Maybe they’re all eating twenty-two dollar Kobi burgers at a Lakers game. No not her. As I reach my front door I realize she has become my idea, my creation, and I miss her.