Doppelganger

This piece was written in my senior year of college. The inspiration for the characters and setting were derived from my roommate, an exchange student from the Netherlands and my Horror literature class. Of the three levels of horror (more on that in a later post), I believe this falls into the middle level: The Grotesque.

Doppelganger

My dreams start to wear off before I am fully awake, leaving a growing pain just outside the boundaries of comprehension. My body refuses to move, a familiar result of the sleep-paralysis which has recently plagued me. The growing—no! It is better to say intumescing—discomfort which creeps ever closer to my fragmentary awareness prevents me from returning to my fevered sleeping.

A rising fear of the piercing ache in my chest brings my faculties into focus, though my appendages remain beyond my control. For several moments I struggle to move, to simply open my eyes. I can feel the muscles in my limbs as they twitch in response to frantic commands.

Exhaustion forces me to cease my exertions for a moment and in the brief pause, I hear something close by, above me. Thwock thwock thwock, it sounds, akin to shoes being pulled from a thick muck. Panic overtakes me and I try to scream, achieving merely a soft whimper for my effort. Thwock thwock thwock, the noise continues. The adrenaline coursing through my veins at last gives me strength to open my eyes.

The streetlamp outside shines through the curtains layered in front of my sister’s apartment window, leaving amber slits of light to cut across the sofa I am laying on. Lifting my head is difficult, but I am able to peer through unfocused eyes at the source of my terror. Perhaps sensing its scrutiny, the pain in my chest subsides immediately. A shadow passing in front of my eyes blocks the light behind it before fleeing; I am sure that I was not alone.

My sister Iris opens the door to her bedroom in a floor-length robe which covers her swollen stomach, rubbing fatigue from her eyes. “Peter?”

She stares at me for a moment, still half-asleep. I open my mouth to call out for her, but my throat is too dry and cracked to form words.

Waddling carefully through the gloom, Iris comes and sits on the couch with me. “What’s going on?” she asks in Dutch. I run a shaking hand over my face, trying to rub the exhaustion from my eyes. Despite my condition, I cannot help but notice that she still has the accent our parents gifted to us when we were children. “…What’s going on?” she repeats, lighting the oil lamp on the adjoining table.

Blinded, I throw one arm over my eyes while using the other to make the motion of writing in the air with a pencil. Iris nods, pulling one from the desk beside my improvised bed and a piece of paper as well. Handing both to me , she reaches into her drawer once more and withdraws a small roll of thick white paper and a match. My pencil freezes in place, my eyes locked on the cigarette. Iris catches me watching her and hands them both to me without a word. Smiling in gratitude, I light the match, placing it against the cigarette. Thank God.

(Thanks), I scribble first, holding the paper up for Iris to read as I finish each small sentence. (Can’t talk-Throat hurts-What happened?)

“That’s what I’m asking you.” My sister replies, never one to beat her gums.

(Was someone else here just now?)

Iris’ brow furrows. “No. I heard you screaming and came out here to check on you.”

(Needed this), I write, holding out the ciggy, already close to half gone. (Bad night)

I quickly jot down a summation of what had happened to me earlier in the night. (I thought someone was in the room-Eating me)

Iris reads my hurried notation and laughs. “You’re just smoking too much of this stuff.” She pulls the ciggy butt from my mouth, holding it high. “A friend of Rob’s makes these,” she says. “He dips them in opium for an extra kick.”

(These aren’t yours?) I inwardly cringe at the thought of smoking that Polock’s ciggy’s. She saves me the effort of writing my feelings about her husband.

“Robert told me I could give you my share while I’m pregnant. Besides, you need them more than either of us does.”

(?)

“Remember when we were children? You used to scream in your sleep when you couldn’t move. I always thought it was really funny, because you’d go back and forth between Dutch and English calling for help.” She coughs politely to smother her small laugh. I nod my head—a little uncomfortable—and she continues. “You told me a few months back that it was still happening, so I thought they would help.”

(No, but thanks anyway) I stand up slowly, working the cold stiffness from my joints. Iris watches me as I move into the kitchen and begin to prepare coffee.

“Peter, Robert wanted me to ask….”

Her tone sets me back. I sigh, rubbing my temples before passing Iris another note over the half-wall that divides the room. (Don’t worry-Be gone today)

“That wasn’t what I was going to say.” Iris tries to stand again, but I move to her side and press down on her shoulder, keeping her in place. Jabbing a thumb into my chest, I pull out two cups and pour us both a drink from the coffee pot. Iris takes hers with a quick “Thanks,” though I tense up when she says it in—of course—Dutch.

“I saw that,” Iris jumps in. “What’s wrong?”

I sit beside her and sip on my coffee before giving an answer. “Can’t get hired,” I croak, coughing out the last word.

Iris drinks and sets her cup down on the table. “I wish you’d stop saying that. You graduated two months ago. You graduated. The first Gijspers to do that.”

I choke on my coffee, barely managing to sputter out the word, “Goodling.”

“Not this again. Look, I don’t care what was written at Ellis, Mother and Father always said our names were Gijspers.” My sister’s retort is automatic, her lip curling at my birth name.

“Actually, you’re a Teague now.” Not the greatest rebuttal ever, but it will suffice.

My sister surprises me by giving ground. “Look, it’s four in the morning and I want to get back to sleep.” Iris stands and draws out two more cigarettes and matches. “Take these and come back if you need more.” She tosses them in my lap before returning to her bedroom and closing the door, leaving me speechless.

The barren labyrinthine alleyways between the brick buildings that comprise the slums of New York City are as comforting to me as they are haunting. I make my way through them without looking up once, my frayed greatcoat tightly wrapped around my body. Another cigarette is in my mouth, fortifying me against the late October chill.

“Gjispers,” I hear a wispy voice call behind me. Expecting to find my sister calling to me from her apartment, I turn to face only an empty corridor of trash and gloom.

Pain begins to build, spreading from my mouth down into my chest. My teeth ache, and feel as if they are being pulled from my gums. I clamp down on my inner cheek to hold them in place. A brief spasm forces me to clench my entire body. A coppery taste fills my mouth and I spit out the chunk of skin that I’ve just bitten off.

Staggering against a wall for support, I gasp and fall when my fingers trace lines in the brick as easily as if it were made from mud. Standing slowly, a fit of desperate rage overtakes me and I fling myself at the wall, tearing away great chunks of wet soppy clay. Thwock thwock thwock. The noise drives me deeper into my frenzy. Thwock thwock thwock.

At last I stop, collapsing to my knees in exhaustion. Looking up to see my work, I find that the wall is as solid and complete as ever, with only wet smears criss-crossing its surface. Raising my hands in front of my face, I see that they are raw and bleeding. The nails have broken off down to the cuticles on most. A sob pushes its way up my aching throat, getting stuck halfway. I choke and cough for several seconds before at last retching onto a pile of refuse. My throat burns as tears of exertion trickle down my face.

“Gjispers.” That voice again, only this time it’s much closer. I look over my shoulder and see a queer figure standing several few feet away. In my delirium, distinguishing particular features in the poor lighting is difficult. Despite the cold, I begin to sweat profusely as the wraith draws nearer. Thwock thwock thwock.

“Can-ahem-can I help you?”

I begin to feel myself falling apart again. The creature grows taller until it looms before me, stretching out a single hand to my face. I take off, heading for my tenement building, running as fast as I can to get away from this phantom pursuer. Thwock thwock thwock. I pass by several homeless men and women—strays I might have known as a child—who look on sullenly as I push myself to run faster.

I feel the creature drawing closer though I have no clue where it is. I pause in my flight without thinking, finding that I am standing before a much older tenement than is common, even for such a disregarded area. My key fumbles in the lock for several seconds before the door parts to grant me entry.

Inside it is malodorous and dank, reminiscent of wet cloth and mold. Bits of wood and porcelain litter the floor around the stairs. Taking the steps two at a time, I sprint to the third floor and down the hall to my room. A nagging tickle at the back of my brain tells me I should pay more attention. Why? Looking around, I can see nothing of interest, merely scraps of life left in the hallway by other occupants.

“Look closer,” I hear, tickling the back of my mind. How did it find me? I can feel its presence from the electricity jumping in the hairs on the back of my neck. A quick survey shows that there are no other exits except back the way I came.

Unusually, the door to my cramped room is open, exposing an inky shade which fills the portal. The chain lock is quickly latched once I am inside. Aside from the single peculiarity of my open door, nothing else is amiss. My books are still where I stacked them when I first moved into this building almost a month ago. Twain’s The Mysterious Stranger rests atop the literary pillar which stretches from the floor to just below the cupboard holding my few plates, bowls and eating utensils.

My first act is to draw back the curtains, letting more light into the room. I almost turn away before I realize that someone in the street below is watching me. I stare at the figure, half-cloaked in the embrace of night and feel the sweat which drenches me turn cold as I stand transfixed. Long moments pass in silence and I finally drop the blinds again.

On the wall over my unlit lamp I can see my prized possessions. On the right is a portrait of my family taken the day my sister turned five. On the left is a framed diploma which reads:

Miskatonic University of Journalism

Be it known that Peter F. Goodling, having this day completed the full course of instruction prescribed by this college and sustained a satisfactory examination thereon, we therefore confer upon him the degree of Bachelor of English Studies.

In testimony whereof we the President and Secretary have hereunto set our hands and affixed the seal of this college this thirteenth day of June in the year of our Lord one thousand nine hundred and seventeen.

Magna Cum Laude

George Morrison, President

Robert Schultz, Secretary

In the glass pane shielding my diploma, I can make out the features of my face, hollow and worn. My dark eyes are sunken into my face, while the grease shines in my blonde hair, which has turned as yellow as my fingernails.

The pain in my chest returns, doubling me over. My arm whips out to grab at the wall, but I succeed only in pulling the plaques from the wall. The snapping crack of the glass echoes in my ears for a moment after it has fallen. The stabbing agony disappears immediately. Reaching down, I carefully pick up my reward for six years of sacrifice and sleepless nights, noting how the expensive wooden frame and glass pane is broken beyond repair.

Withdrawing the prize of my education from the pile of wooden splinters and glass shards, I gently place the diploma on my pillow and leave the picture of my family on the floor.

Retreating deeper into my room, I begin scrabbling in my coat pocket for one of Iris’ hand-rolled ciggy’s to calm my nerves. It falls to the floor, the victim of fumbling fingers. A cold dread washes over me , halting my frantic search.

“Pick up the picture, Peter.” The same rasping voice as before, but how?

The effort of raising my head nearly causes me to faint. Standing above me is my tormenter, a greater darkness against the inky backdrop.

Under the creature’s supervision, I feel around with cracked and bleeding hands for something, anything. A sharp pain prods at the tip of one finger; a bit of broken glass from a portrait. Lighting my last match, I find my self staring into the happy eyes of a family of four. A date written in the bottom corner marks it as taken at the turn of the century.

Memories flood back then, of a childhood in the slums. Running through the alleyways with immigrants from all over Europe. A father and mother who maintained their national pride even after leaving their homeland stand out as images flash through my mind. How does this creature know of my family?

More recent memories come to the forefront of my mind. The dead-end interviews with universities and newspapers that strung me along until I finally got the hint that I was not wanted. The daggers in the eyes of possible employers as they judged me a lesser human for my heritage. Then, the previous day, sitting in my room and holding my diploma, clutching it to my chest and trying to fight off a sense of panic and failure.

I put the match up to the impassive phantom’s face and find myself staring into a ghastly reflection. The same greasy blonde hair, the same gaunt and pale build. The only difference is in the eyes. Where two brown orbs should stare back at me, there are empty holes that do not bleed.

It had spoken to me in Dutch.

“Welcome home,” it whispers. I stumble away, but the doppelganger is faster, clutching me by the wrist with one hand and pulling me back to my feet. The match flickers and dies. I feel a final sharp pain behind my eyes.

Iris opens the door again, wearing the same robe I’d seen her in only a few hours ago. She takes a long hard look at me, her eyes showing a hint of apprehension. “Are you okay?”

I smile. “Goed, bedankt.”

Deep Roots

With this poem, my focus was on the journey a poem can take. My belief is that the rising-falling tension personalizes the poem more than if I had kept to a colder narrative.

Deep Roots

Burrowing through the dirt under my father’s oak tree,

a pink worm slithers, grasping and squeezing its way

through the deep roots, which reach like dark fingers

under the earth, bent knuckles with cracked joints strained

from holding tight to the ground.

This is the only tree my father ever planted when he left Ohio

at twenty-one. He brought the seed in a small Ziploc bag

all by itself.

Carrying the acorn chrysalis four hundred miles south.

Burying it behind his Virginia home with a rusted mattock,

he fought for the acorn to grow, crushing squirrels and birds

into the ground when they came too close;

still using that mattock.

Forty rings are in the pulpy trunk,

and now a worm is under his tree,

greasing the wet wood with its body

as it moves deeper, to the core.

Alastor’s Opus

This was a catharsis piece for me and a self-challenge. I wanted to see just how detailed I could make a story with only a single paragraph to work in. Feel free to comment and tell me what you think.

Alastor’s Opus

Patrick crept meticulously up the twisting steps, listening for creaks in the antique wood as he maneuvered through the darkness toward his wife’s bedroom. The adjustment of his eyes to the opaque gloom was unnecessary; he knew the flesh and bones of his own house as intimately as he knew every soft curve of the warm body that had slept beside him in his bed for the last eight years. Making his way from the top of the steps through the bedroom, Patrick stood over his wife, looking down on the woman, remembering how he’d proposed to her that long-ago day at the carnival, when the Ferris wheel was at its zenith and he had joked from one wobbly knee that if she did not accept his ring, then he would throw himself from the box into a chthonic embrace (though he said so in far more crude terms). A cold certainty wrapped itself around Patrick’s stomach as his gaze turned to the younger man asleep beside his wife, his arms holding her tightly against his chest, each loud snore causing Patrick to flinch with disgust. Patrick could just make out the silhouette of the handgun as he pulled it from his coat pocket, flicked the safety off and put it to the thief’s temple. Patrick felt as if he were falling when he pulled the trigger.

Must Go On

With this play, I attempted to incorporate meta-fiction into the storyline. Finding a suitable McGuffin for how and why such a story would believably occur was more difficult than I initially anticipated. If you have any recommendations, please feel free to leave a comment.

Must Go On

The house lights remain on as DONALD, a man in his fifties, walks onto an empty stage.

DONALD

Excuse me ladies and gentlemen, but I’m afraid I have some bad news. Tonight’s performance of Hamlet will not be shown. I’m sorry, but the entire production is being shut down. You will, of course, receive a full refund for your ticket purchase before you leave.

Pause.

DONALD

I’d like to personally thank everyone who came out tonight. You know…when I opened Riley’s in nineteen sixty-two, I had no idea that the next thirty-five years of my life would be spent within these walls. I can still remember the first play I produced. It was Arthur Miller’s “All My Sons.” The first night Riley’s was open, there wasn’t an empty seat in the house. It’s sad the way things change. Anyway, I just wanted to say that I’m glad the theatre hasn’t entirely been forgotten yet.

DONALD begins to walk off-stage, but is stopped by two middle-aged men—BRANDON and TRENT—in medieval attire.

BRANDON

We’ve been looking for you Don, what’s going on? The play doesn’t start for another ten minutes.

DONALD

Sorry fellas. You can go home.

TRENT

Why?

DONALD

I had to pull the show. Riley’s is closing after tonight.

TRENT

Huh? But I thought we’d been drawing a bigger crowd lately.

BRANDON

Yeah, mmhmm.

DONALD

We have. Problem is, it was too little too late. I used all my savings to pay for the last several shows. I’ve got nothing left but Riley’s; if I don’t sell her, the bank’s gonna take her from me anyway. I haven’t been able to pay any of the bills in over a week.

BRANDON

What about all the other actors, and the props, hmm?

DONALD

My Gertrude and Hamlet called in half an hour ago to quit on me. After that there was no point trying. The rest I sent home as they got here and moved the last prop offstage a few minutes ago. Keep the costumes you’re wearing if you want, but I’m pawning the rest.

TRENT

Jesus. I’m sorry Don. We would never have let you do that if we’d known you were paying out of pocket. Is there anything we can do?

DONALD

I won’t ask you to pay for more shows. I’ve barely been able to pay you as it is. And there’s no guarantee that we can keep this many people coming night after night. The movies have been stealing our patrons for years.

BRANDON

Looks like we’ve got a few in the audience right now, mmhmm. Wow, this is the biggest crowd I’ve seen since The American Dream in seventy-five. I can’t believe you told them to go home without even showing a skit.

TRENT

That’s why I love you Brandon. Don, go tell them to stay in their seats.

DONALD

Why?

TRENT

Because with this many people, you could make a real profit from tonight alone, and maybe we can keep Riley’s open. Right?

DONALD

Even if we did put on something worthwhile, I still have a lot of bills to pay to keep the place open.

TRENT

Don, you don’t have to pay any of the actors now.

DONALD

But-

BRANDON

It’s all right. That includes us, at least for tonight. (TRENT gasps.) Especially after you spent every dime you had for this place, mmhmm.

DONALD

But-

TRENT

(Forced) It’s okay…really.

DONALD

Let me finish. But, how are we going to perform Hamlet with just the three of us?

TRENT

Three of us? You’re going to act?

DONALD

What the hell, right? Besides, I know a lot of the lines from rehearsals.

DONALD returns to center-stage.

DONALD

(To the audience.) Before you all go home, I’d like to ask: Even if it’s not exactly Hamlet as you might remember it, would you still be willing to watch a performance by the three of us?

(Pause for audience response.)

DONALD

Thank you all very much.

BRANDON

Okay, then. Now that that’s settled, how are we gonna do this, hmm?

TRENT

Come here, Don.

DONALD approaches TRENT and BRANDON, and all three go into a closed huddle for several moments. Every light in the house shuts off, leaving the stage and the audience in total darkness. BRANDON, DONALD and TRENT break their huddle.

TRENT

(Calling to the lighting booth.) Walter! What are you doing? We’re about to perform!

The lights come back up.

TRENT

Thank you Walter. Sorry everyone. He’s a little jumpy.

The lights dim to half strength

TRENT

But still a great guy!

The lights return to full-strength.

BRANDON

I’m sorry. I just don’t know if we should try this, nuh-uh.

TRENT

What’s the problem?

BRANDON

We had to play Rosencrantz and Gildenstern because I always flub my lines and you end up saving the scene when I do, mmhmm.

TRENT

Yeah, but I don’t mind so much. I’ve played almost every lead in every play since Riley’s opened. I thought it would be interesting to see what the show’s like from the side, you know?

BRANDON

(To himself.) Thy, thee, thou. I can never remember what anyone’s saying. It all gets muddled in my head, mmhmm.

DONALD

We can work around that. We can make it a more modern Hamlet and just say what the lines mean. How’s that for you?

BRANDON

I guess that could work.

TRENT

(Excited) I have an idea. Since there’s only three of us, why don’t we pick a few scenes without too many characters and show a—well, I guess you’d call it a Hamlet highlight reel.

BRANDON

That’s not going to work. And guys, I think the audience is getting impatient, mmhmm.

DONALD approaches center-stage.

DONALD

Apologies everyone. I promise if you give us just another minute or two, that no matter what, we’ll begin performing.

DONALD approaches BRANDON and TRENT

DONALD

Okay, we need to hurry here. Trent, you and Brandon go set up offstage. Pick a scene and just go with it. If you have to, ad-lib.

TRENT

You want me to ad-lib Hamlet?

DONALD

Paraphrase if you have to. Now go! Go! Go! (Calling to the lighting booth.) Walter, drop the house lights!

BRANDON and TRENT rush off-stage as the house lights darken. After a moment, TRENT rushes on again.

TRENT

My queen! I—Hamlet’s coming. I must hide.

TRENT gets off the stage and hides amongst the audience. Close to the ground, TRENT sneaks a pair of flashlights—hidden beneath an audience member’s chair—into deep pockets in his outfit. BRANDON enters.

BRANDON

Mom, what’s wrong, hmm?

DONALD

(Assuming a feminine poise.) Hamlet, thou hast thy father much offended.

BRANDON

Mom, you killed Dad.

DONALD

(Improvising.) N-No I didn’t.

BRANDON

Yes you did!

DONALD

Hamlet-

BRANDON

No! You killed Dad and I want him back, mmhmm! I want Dad! I want Dad!

BRANDON immediately looks out into the crowd

BRANDON

Claudius! Die, mmhmm!

BRANDON rushes into the crowd and mimics stabbing TRENT repeatedly.

BRANDON

Polonius? Aww, crap.

DONALD

(Desperately) Next scene! Next scene!

BRANDON and TRENT return to the stage.

TRENT

To the duel!

BRANDON

To the duel, mmhmm!

DONALD positions himself center-stage, while BRANDON and TRENT flank him on his left and right, respectively. TRENT nods for BRANDON to start the scene.

BRANDON

Give me…give me…(Ecstatic) Give me your pardon, sir: I’ve-

The stage lights shut off, again leaving the entire theatre in darkness.

BRANDON

WALTER! Why!? Why would you do that?

The lights remain off.

DONALD

Walter?

TRENT

The light in the booth’s out to. I don’t think this one was Walter.

BRANDON

(Furious) I don’t care. We’re finishing this scene. I finally got a line right. (To the audience.) Everyone! Stay in your seats for just a minute longer! (To DONALD) Laertes, forgive me.

DONALD

No.

BRANDON

Then let’s fight.

TRENT

Hold on! I can go grab some flashlights from backstage.

DONALD

(To himself) When these lights come back up, if there are still two people in the audience I’ll be surprised.

BRANDON

I think they’re enjoying it. I hope they are.

TRENT pulls out both flashlights and turns them on before handing them off to BRANDON and DONALD.

TRENT

You two go ahead. I’ll do the sound effects. Bang. Clang. Swish.

DONALD

Thanks. Now, Hamlet, die by my blade.

BRANDON

Ouch! Damn you. Take this!

TRENT

Bang! Bangbang, clang-swish.

DONALD

I’m sorry Hamlet. And so I die.

DONALD can be heard falling to the stage.

BRANDON

Now that he’s dead, I can kill the king. Die!

TRENT

That’d be me. Stab! Ugh!

BRANDON

I am avenged. The rest is silence.

Self-Portrait

As an assignment, my professor requested a self-assessment of myself as a writer. In essence, I was asked to define myself by my craft, by my own perceived placement among my peers, and my viability on the marketplace.

Although my peers have stated that my strongest genre by far is that of Creative Non-Fiction, I consider myself to be a cross-trained writer, skilled in the genres of Fiction, Poetry, Screenplays and Playwriting in addition to the aforementioned CNF. Upon entering the program, I understood that in order to strengthen my writing as a whole, I needed to cannibalize specific skill-sets from each genre. From fiction, I learned how to bend and mold a narrative, while balancing scene and summary to achieve my desired sense of pacing and emotional investment on the part of the reader. From playwriting and screenwriting, I learned to control and vary character voices. From poetry, I learned to make each word and space serve a function on the page. Creative Non-Fiction, meanwhile, has afforded me the courage to jump into a story without looking and to trust that whatever I find beneath the surface, I don’t need to fear it.

I consider my writing style to have a scathing wit, which connects with the deeper underlying emotions in my stories. In short, I find myself closely approximated with the narrative styles to Neil Gaiman or even Yann Martel. While I aim to have at least one novel sharing shelf-space with such literary greats, I feel that my work is constantly growing and evolving; in my mind, I picture myself as an athlete preparing for an important event, shaving milliseconds off my mile time, or adding just a few more pounds to my weight-training regimen.

On the market, I have a long way to go. Only in the last few weeks have I begun submitting to literary journals; up until now, I feared the quality of my work was sub-par for publication. I am prepared to face the possibility that my work will not elevate me to the level of Tolkien, Palahniuk or Fleming. For me, however, writing is about achieving immortality through the written word, having my voice heard by generations. Hopefully, I’ll be able to make a living at the same time.

The Preferred Medium of Purchase

Several days ago, my Business and the Creative Writer class and I were able to contact Bob Gray—an exceptionally gifted bookseller who works for Northshire Books in Vermont—for an interview. My initial impression was of a polite, soft-spoken person with a lot of appreciation for his work. The interview itself opened pleasantly, with introductions all around He spoke of his time at Bennington as a student, teaching at his local community college and writing for Shelf Awareness and Fresh Eyes Now. As the interview continued and Mr. Gray dug deeper into his years of experience and knowledge to answer our questions, he quickly became more relaxed and elaborate in his responses (As a side note, I cannot stress just how impressively understanding of bookselling and the literature market in general Mr. Gray was. Student’s questions continued, delving into matters such as Promotional Marketing and Sales advice for publishers. A strong proponent of reading groups, Mr. Gray discussed methods by which to market books to a mass-audience as an independent bookseller. For authors, he recommended the passion to always love writing enough to keep doing it and the patience to keep submitting works, even if rejections are received. Furthermore, authors are expected and required to self-promote in whatever way possible, and to do public readings in stores whenever possible.

Speaking of independent bookstores as a whole, Mr. Gray mentioned his belief that the ability to adapt to a changing, growing market, determined whether some stores survived and thrived or became defunct.

Mr. Gray was keen to point out upon being asked about title selection at an independent bookstore, that well-marketed new releases are available for purchase on the first available street date, debunking the myth that independents are merely storage units for remaindered books. Instead, independent bookstores can “save your book from becoming an orphan.” However, Mr. Gray quickly amended that sometimes, the right connection with an editor can push a book a long way; inversely, an editor at lunch could mean the difference between publication and recycling.

By the end of the interview, Mr. Gray had spent almost two hours answering questions and not even his voice sounded tired. To be fair, early in the interview he mentioned his experience with phone conversations, jokingly estimating that he made a quarter of a million calls each month. Shell-shocked and numb from all the knowledge we had just been privy to, Mr. Gray departed with one final piece of advice: During interviews, ask the questions you’re sure people would really want to know the answer to and hold onto your open honesty if you become the interviewee. Indeed, I will and I shall, sir.

Interviewing Bob Gray: A More Personal Approach to Bookselling

Several days ago, my “Business and the Creative Writer” class and I were able to contact Bob Gray—an exceptionally gifted bookseller who works for Northshire Books in Vermont—for an interview. My initial impression of the man was of a polite, soft-spoken person with a lot of appreciation for his work. The interview itself opened pleasantly, with introductions all around He spoke of his time at Bennington as a student, teaching at his local community college and writing for Shelf Awareness and Fresh Eyes Now. As the interview continued and Mr. Gray dug deeper into his years of experience and knowledge to answer our questions, he quickly became more relaxed and elaborate in his responses (As a side note, I cannot stress just how impressively understanding of bookselling and the literature market in general Mr. Gray was.

Student’s questions continued, delving into matters such as Promotional Marketing and Sales advice for publishers. A strong proponent of reading groups, Mr. Gray discussed methods by which to market books to a mass-audience as an independent bookseller. For authors, he recommended the passion to always love writing enough to keep doing it and the patience to keep submitting works, even if rejections are received. Furthermore, authors are expected and required to self-promote in whatever way possible, and to do public readings in stores whenever possible.

Speaking of independent bookstores as a whole, Mr. Gray mentioned his belief that the ability to adapt to a changing, growing market, determined whether some stores survived and thrived or became defunct.

Mr. Gray was keen to point out upon being asked about title selection at an independent bookstore, that well-marketed new releases are available for purchase on the first available street date, debunking the myth that independents are merely storage units for remaindered books. Instead, independent bookstores can “save your book from becoming an orphan.” However, Mr. Gray quickly amended that sometimes, the right connection with an editor can push a book a long way; inversely, an editor at lunch could mean the difference between publication and recycling.

By the end of the interview, Mr. Gray had spent almost two hours answering questions and not even his voice sounded tired. To be fair, early in the interview he mentioned his experience with phone conversations, jokingly estimating that he made a quarter of a million calls each month. Shell-shocked and numb from all the knowledge we had just been privy to, Mr. Gray departed with one final piece of advice: During interviews, ask the questions you’re sure people would really want to know the answer to and hold onto your open honesty if you become the interviewee. Indeed, I will and I shall, sir.

Easy Bake Ebooks: A Recipe for Mediocrity?

In February of 2007, I attended a convention in Roanoke, Virginia called Shivacon. Amidst the multitude of role-players and artists was a small market for readers and writers. On the second day of the convention, a series of Q&A panels were held, where mid-list authors spoke of their work in the market and answered their peers’ curiosities. One of the authors on this panel was a fairly prolific author of ebooks, publications which were not printed on paper, but bought and shared over the internet.

When I first understood what an ebook was, I must admit to a fairly sizeable amount of trepidation regarding possible reprecussions to the writer’s craft. While my ambition is to be a thoroughly published and respected author, it is my personal opinion that ebooks–and,  by extension, online publications in general–make publication too easy.

Although I had heard that finding a website offering free ebooks was incredibly difficult,—most require a charge, either for the eReader itself, or for each individual ebook—my first attempt at looking into this emerging market managed to spare my wallet. At www.free-ebooks.net, I encountered a virtual omnibus of titles, all grouped according to one of forty-four genres, such as “General Non-fiction, or “Fitness.”  The webpage itself was mercifully devoid of pop-ups, although a good deal of page space was devoted to self-help advertisement links (to be fair, most of those were in relation to ebooks).  Each category was prominently displayed in a vertical arrangement along one side of the page, which made the overall aesthetic functional and accessible. Remembering the author who had spoken about his ebook at Shivacon, I chose to read up on science fiction. My spark of enthusiastic hope dwindled to a faint ember when I saw the selection available to be read. Only a handful of titles were displayed on each page, with the majority being in the PDF format. Selecting one, I was forced to halt in my endeavor long enough to register with the site and to download an eReader. In all, the process was simple and efficient, taking less than five minutes from start to finish. Back on track, I attempted to download my selected story and was successful. As the story was retrieved, a process which took moments, I noted the majority of the rest of the page was an eBay banner. The book was entitled “Erewhon,” by Samuel Butler and saved itself to my desktop. Opening the eReader without a pre-selected book was reminiscent of looking at the itunes main window, with a similar blue-gray color scheme and window arrangement. The thematic format changed upon opening the story, switching to a teal background, with a white cover-page at its center. Clicking the title of the story jumped me to the next page(could have used a transition effect), a chapter listing for the book. The formatting of the page was once again accessible, with links to pages spread across the top of the page, between two arrow markers that would allow readers to move through the ebook more naturally. The story itself was decently written, although somewhat thick in terms of pacing and word choice.

The site reminded me of the internet when it was just becoming commercially popular in the early nineties. There’s a lot of potential that can be tapped, but ebooks needs a few more years of development to settle into the niche they have carved out. A more advanced search engine within the sites would help to avoid spamming selections, requiring readers to search through entire genres and hope for a good pick. Also, perhaps, a public ratings system could be implemented, similar to the one in place on goodreads.com.

My overall opinion of ebooks is that, while they are good practice for someone looking to enter the publishing realm, the downside is that there are far more titles necessary to sift through in order to find a quality book. This issue is exacerbated by the length of time a reader must invest in opening and examining the actual text. In a bookstore, such a process would take half a minute. On a more personal note, I must side with purists, who feel that the physical qualities of a book add something to the read. For example, old paper of just the right quality often has a scent like good pipe-tobacco. When reading “The Lord of the Rings,” this quality actually served to heighten my investment in the story. Perhaps one day, ebooks will be the literary bandwagon society rides, but for at least a few more years, I think I’ll hold to the old ways.

In Memoriam

This is a piece dedicated to my grandfather, who passed away in April of 2007. I started writing it immediately after learning he had died; I hoped to put my sadness into the work. Let me know what you think.

Mercy

He peers at me through an unkempt beard.

Grandpa, why is your brain shrinking?

John, Alzheimer’s is eating it all up.

Is that why you don’t know my name now?

I’m afraid so. Soon, I won’t know my own.

Grandpa, please die.

I’m working on it.

I sit with him to watch television for an hour.

His eyes spill tears, but I can’t hold his hand.

Grandpa, where did Grandma go?

Don, she went to heaven without me.

Is that why you cry so much now?

I’m afraid so. Soon, I’ll be with her.

Grandpa, please die.

I’m working on it.

I leave the room to spare his pride.

He tries to stand, but his body refuses.

Grandpa, why do your hands shake?

Connor, Parkinson’s is eating me all up.

Is that why you always fall down now?

I’m afraid so. Soon, I won’t get up.

Grandpa, please die.

I’m working on it.

He needs me to help him into his chair three times that day.

He nibbles a banana, his meal for the day.

Grandpa, why do you hardly eat?

Andrew, I’m just not hungry anymore.

Is that why you’re so thin now?

I’m afraid so. Soon I won’t need to eat.

Grandpa, please die.

I’m working on it.

I hold my tongue as he slowly starves himself.

It’s late in the day, and Grandpa’s still sleeping.

Grandpa, why won’t you wake up?

Grandpa?

I hold my mother as she cries on my shoulder.

Grandpa, I miss you already.

(For Ollie)

Paint

This piece was my first attempt at flash fiction. My intent was to craft a complete story arc, with fully realized characters and plot, in only six sentences.

Paint

I’m going to do it again. Tonight, I’ll pick a canvas to make a reality of my latest vision, “Forest Elder”. My last work—my first true work—was a Romantic piece titled “From the Sea” and had critical flaws, yes…but I’m learning. To be fair, until then, I’d only practiced on smaller canvases and was unprepared for just how difficult it was to manage so much red acrylic. Since then, I’ve learned to be patient with my strokes and which palettes and brushes to use under different lighting. Hmm…there’s a blonde in the café across the street that looks promising.