I’ve sent along my latest story. It’s a bit more violent than I had planned, but I think the ending makes it work. Let me know what you think, as I value your advice.
All right, I’ll talk to you again later. Keep writing!
Mace
***
Vanessa awoke gradually, rolling over and reaching out an arm for Rich. His side of the bed was empty. Empty and cold. In the darkness, her eyes sought out the digital alarm clock on the dresser. It was past midnight. She had come to bed before ten, leaving Rich in the computer room. For the fifth night in a row, he had promised to follow her to bed shortly, but she’d fallen asleep alone. Again.
With a grunt of irritation, she kicked the covers aside and swung her legs out of bed. The uncarpeted floor was cold against her bare feet, and she rummaged around under the bed until she came out with her slippers. Navigating the dark room like a blind person, she stumbled out into the hall and headed for the computer room at the opposite end. The door was closed, which was unusual, but light seeped out from underneath.
Ness tried to remain calm, but this was getting ridiculous. She knew that Richard liked to write, and she supported that—hell, she’d bought extra copies of all the little rinky-dink magazines that published his stories over the years and sent them to her parents in Ohio—but this was starting to border on obsession. Even when they’d first met in college, when Richard had boasted dreams of being the next Stephen King, dreams that had been considerably downsized since then, he had never been this compulsive about his writing. It was silly, but she felt neglected, as if he were having an affair with his fictional characters. And it could all be traced back to when he’d started corresponding with that damn Mace Hunter.
Vanessa opened the door without knocking, but Richard didn’t even notice. He was stooped over the computer, his face too close to the glowing screen, his fingers flying across the keys like tap-dancing spiders. For a fleeting moment she wondered if he was looking up internet porn, but she could clearly see the screen and the word processing program was opened and half-filled with text. In a weird way, she’d almost prefer to discover him wanking off to dirty pictures online. At least that would be something she could understand.
“Richard,” she said, her voice not penetrating her husband’s trance at all. “Rich!” she said more loudly.
Rich jerked and let out a startled squeak, looking around with a guilty expression that quickly turned into anger. “Damn it, Ness, what are you doing in my office?”
“Your office? Excuse me, but last I checked this was our computer room, a computer we share and which I paid half of.”
The anger remained on Richard’s face for another few seconds, but it faded in the heat of Ness’s own anger. “I’m sorry,” he said with a weary sigh, raking a hand over his face. “It’s just, you know, a man needs a place to work. Some place all his own where he can have a little privacy and solitude.”
“Like Superman’s Fortress of Solitude, you mean?” Vanessa asked, smiling, using the joke as a peace offering.
Rich’s lopsided smile, the one she had fallen in love with, surfaced. “Yeah, something like that. What are you doing up so late?”
“I could certainly ask you the same question. These late nights are beginning to become a habit. If you’re not careful, I’m going to get used to having that big old bed all to myself.”
“God, I hope not,” Rich said, holding out a hand to his wife. When she took it, he pulled her into his lap and kissed her. “I’m sorry if you’re feeling lonely, but I’m on a hot streak lately. I think I’m finally ready to start that novel I’ve been talking about for the past year and a half.”
“Is that what you’re working on now?” Vanessa asked, glancing at the computer.
“Oh, uh, no. This is actually for the paper.”
“For the Gazette? Why are you working on this stuff so late?”
“Gus needs these three obits first thing in the morning so he can get them ready for the Wednesday edition.”
Ness glanced back at the computer screen then frowned at her husband. “I thought you were going to finish up those obituaries this afternoon while I was working the Phelner’s open house.”
“I was, but . . . ”
“But what?”
“Well, I got this email from Mace—”
“Here we go again with Mace.”
“—and he sent me a new story of his, and it was so good that it kind of got me inspired. I started on another new story, which will make it the third one I’ve written this week, and time sort of got away from me and I didn’t get to the obits.”
“Rich,” Vanessa said, bolting out of his lap and pacing around the room. “What is the matter with you?”
“Nothing’s the matter with me, Ness. I simply decided to spend the afternoon working, that’s all.”
“No, Rich, that’s the point. You weren’t working. You were writing your little stories instead of working.”
“My writing is my work,” Richard said, his mouth set in a hard line. “I know you don’t understand that—”
“Your writing doesn’t put food on the table, Richard. Your job at the Gazette does. Do you want to get fired?”
“No one’s going to get fired, quit being such a goddamn drama queen,” Richard growled. “The obits aren’t due ‘til the morning, and they’ll be done by then.”
“And you’ll have to stay up all night to get them finished. You know I’m taking tomorrow off, and I hoped we could spend some time together. Instead, you’ll be sleeping the day away. I feel like we’re becoming strangers, Rich. I never get to see you anymore.”
“You see me all the time.”
“I see you, but we don’t interact. You’re always planted in front of that computer.”
Richard breathed deeply through his nostrils, the air pushing out in a loud gust. “I’m sorry if it upsets you that I’ve gotten back in touch with the writer in me. I was stupid enough to hope that you would be happy that I was finally excited about my work again. And even though you don’t see it, my writing is my work. The job at the paper is just what I do to make ends meet while I try to get my writing career off the ground.”
“Your writing career?” Ness laughed cruelly. She felt herself on the verge of saying things she knew she’d regret later, but she was past the point of censoring herself. “How much money have you made off your writing in the past year, Rich? A couple hundred dollars? Yeah, some career.”
“It would be all about the money with you, wouldn’t it? A woman with no passion. A woman who picked her career simply for the financial rewards. You don’t understand the passion I feel for my—”
“Great, here we go again with this talk about passion. Come on, Richard, you’re a writer; certainly you can come up with another word. Want me to get you a thesaurus?”
Richard’s face turned a deep shade of red, almost purple. Then Rich’s face crumpled, sagging as if it were melting wax, and he buried his face in his hands and started to cry. Not discreet weeping, either, but big snotty sobs.
Vanessa’s anger evaporated instantly. Shame took its place. She’d never seen Richard cry before, not even at his father’s funeral. She knelt next to her husband, her hand hovering above his shoulder, wanting to touch him but not sure if she should.
“I’m so sorry, Richard,” she said softly, tears of her own spilling down her cheeks. “I didn’t mean to get so upset. Please forgive me.”
Richard looked up at his wife, and in that moment he seemed like a child, lost in a busy shopping mall and crying for his mother. “I don’t mean to make you feel like I’m neglecting you, Ness. Really, I don’t. I forgot how good writing could make me feel, how much I needed it. I was slowly dying without it.”
“I know, I know, honey. It’s okay. I realize now how much this means to you.”
“It means the world to me, Ness,” Richard said, grabbing Vanessa’s hands with a frightening desperation. “I need this. I haven’t been myself withou
t it. And I want to share it with you, I do. If you’ll bear with me for a bit, allow me to find my rhythm, it will all work itself out. I promise.”
“Okay, Rich, I believe you. Are you okay?”
“Yeah,” Richard said with a sputtering, embarrassed laugh. “Sorry for the outburst. I’m tired, but I really have to finish this before the morning.”
“What if I go make a pot of coffee?”
“That would be great, babe. Thanks.”
Vanessa kissed Rich, wiping a few stray tears from his face, and left the room to go make the coffee. Halfway down the stairs, she heard the computer room door shut and latch. Seeing Richard in such a state had scared her and she vowed to try to be more sympathetic toward him. But something nagged at the back of her mind. Richard had said that he needed this newly reawakened infatuation with writing. That he hadn’t been himself without it. She couldn’t help but wonder, if he hadn’t been himself without it, who had she been married to for the past fourteen years?
***
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Big blow up
Hey Mace, I really loved the story you sent me yesterday. It is the kind of fiction that exhilarates me while at the same time eating me up with envy. I only wish I could create something as impressive. Your use of language is astounding, and I continue to be amazed by your talent at creating settings so real that I can see them in every detail. I feel so many of my stories take place in a generic void, but you create a sense of place that is vivid and believable. If you can’t find a home for this story, then there is no hope for the rest of us.
I started a new story after reading yours. It’s kind of a nasty little horror piece called, ‘The Thorn House.’ Reminds me of the type of stuff I used to write in college. Lately all I’ve been doing are those slice-of-life vignettes, but I have missed the horror genre. I can thank you for returning me to my first love. I was feeling pretty good today, until . . .
Well, Ness and I had a huge fight. She said some pretty hurtful things, but I probably wasn’t too kind myself. She seems to resent my writing, which I find baffling. She treats it as a hobby or a past-time; she doesn’t understand that it’s a necessity for me, as much as breathing or eating. I’ve tried to explain it until I’m blue in the face, and I don’t have the energy anymore. We made up, smoothed things over, but I feel like there is this gulf opening between us. Writing is my greatest joy in life, I hate that it is causing problems in my marriage. I’m hoping that things will get better as she sees how much happier I am now that I’ve rediscovered my passion for the craft. It seems impossible that I’ve never asked, but are you married? If so, is she supportive of your writing?
By the way, I submitted ‘And This Too Shall Pass’ to the publication you suggested. I’m eager to hear back. Thanks to your suggestions and recommendations, I feel good about that piece, and I think it stands a good chance at acceptance. Normally, I wouldn’t submit to a magazine as prestigious as Dark Corner of the Mind; I mean, they publish big-named authors who’ve sold millions of books; what would they want with a story from a nobody like me? But you’ve really helped boost my confidence, so why not give it a shot? Well, I’m exhausted. I stayed up quite late writing obits, so I’m going to take a nap. Ness wants to go see a movie tonight, and I don’t want to disappoint her.
Rich
TO: [email protected]
FROM: [email protected]
SUBJECT: Single and carefree
Hey Rich, sorry to hear about your row with your wife. I was married once, but I ended it a while back. She didn’t understand me at all, wanted me to give up writing and do something that made more money. A real bitch, my ex was. Still is, I’m sure, but I no longer have to put up with it. It’s hard living with someone who doesn’t understand you. The way I see it, writing is too important to me to spend my life with someone who couldn’t appreciate how vital it is. If she didn’t love my writing, then she didn’t love me because there is no separation between my art and the man I am.
I think you stand a good shot at getting ‘And This Too Shall Pass’ accepted. Dark Corner of the Mind was the first publication to give me a substantial paycheck a few years back. I’m still not where I want to be, but I know that if I persevere, I will find the success I know I deserve. And so will you, you have to stick to your guns and WORK WORK WORK! Don’t let anything—or anyone—stand in your way. If you ever need anyone to talk to, I’m here for you. I will always have an understanding shoulder to lean on and I’ll give you the straight dope, as they say.
Don’t forget about that novel. The longer you put it off, the harder it will be to start. The idea sounds like a winner. You have at least one person here who wants to read it. I know life gets busy and shit comes up, but you know what I say. FUCK IT! The story comes first, everything else is secondary. Keep me posted on ‘And This Too Shall Pass,’ and I’ll be in touch.
Mace
***
The email from Dark Corner of the Mind came at two in the afternoon, as Richard was about to start doing his work for the Gazette. An early afternoon rain pattered against the office windows in a reluctant rhythm. Richard saw the message sitting in his inbox, docile and benign, and felt his stomach drop and his heart speed up.
Setting aside his cold beer—it was early for a beer, but hell, it was past five somewhere—Richard opened the message. It was from Brian Chance, editor. The email was brief and to the point. The part of it that really struck Richard was the line: We would be very pleased to publish your story, ‘And This Too Shall Pass,’ in our upcoming winter issue. Below that line were a few pleasantries and some suggested revisions. Minor revisions.
Richard beamed. He felt light-headed and giddy, the twenty-eight year old Richard who had sold his first short story. He’d picked that acceptance up at the post office and walked in a daze all the way home. Back then he had been elated by his first sale, even if it was for nothing more than a publishing credit and two contributor’s copies.
This sale meant even more. It was a foot in the proverbial door. Dark Corner of the Mind paid professional rates. Doing a rough calculation, Richard estimated he would be paid somewhere in the neighborhood of seven hundred dollars for this story.
“Holy shit,” he said aloud.
He read the email for a third time. Grinning, he pushed away from his desk and stood. The office, lined with bookcases, suddenly seemed too small. Richard wanted to dance. He left the room, carrying his beer with him. Beer isn’t enough. No, this needs something really fucking great. He put the beer in the fridge and grabbed a bottle of single-malt scotch from the cabinet. Pouring a drink, he did a quick shuffle-step in front of the sink.
“I’ve made it!” he said. “I’ve finally fucking made it!”
He returned to his office. Sure, he might be getting ahead of himself—one professional sale didn’t really constitute making it, but what the hell? He earned the right to be happy. Sitting down at his desk, he glanced at the phone. He should call Ness. She would be as happy.
He reached for the receiver, but paused. Yes, Ness would be happy, but she wouldn’t feel the same sense of unreal ecstasy. That was something only a kindred spirit could understand.
Mace.
Richard opened his mail program. He would tell Ness, as soon as he had written to Mace to share the great news.
He took a hard swallow of his drink and laughed. Then, fingers flying, he sent Mace an email to share the news.
***
Ness arrived home early, surprised to find Richard in his office with the music blaring.
He had his feet up on his desk, the keyboard in his lap. There was a bottle of scotch on the desk near his elbow. When he saw her, he smiled.
“Ness, babe, guess what?”
She nodded at the scotch. “It’s New Year’s and I forgot?”
Richard jumped to his feet. “Nope!” He took Ness in his arms and swung her around. She laughed, though somewhat reluct
antly. “That’s a celebratory drink.”
“I really prefer champagne,” she said. “But thanks! You got my email?”
Richard’s smile faltered. “Email?”
“Sure,” Ness said. “I sent you a ‘Big News’ message this afternoon. I thought that’s what this was about.”
“Uh, no,” Richard admitted. “I haven’t checked my email in the past few hours. I was kind of . . . ” He paused, seeing the expression on Ness’s face. “Why, what is your big news?”
Now it was her turn to smile. “Well,” she said, setting her briefcase aside and removing the dark blazer she had worn to the office that morning. “I finally did it! I sold the DeBurgh house!”
Richard was very familiar with the DeBurgh house. To Ness and himself it was known as ‘The Pit’ simply because it sucked in every realtor’s time. No one had been able to move it. It was too big, too gaudy and too expensive. No one wanted it. Until now.
“That’s terrific,” Richard said.
“It’s almost twenty thousand dollars terrific,” Ness said.
“That’s your commission?”
Ness nodded. “Give or take.”
“That is a reason to celebrate.”
“It is,” Ness agreed, “but you have something else. What is it?”
There was an overstuffed reading chair in the corner of the office. Sitting in it, Richard took a sip of his scotch. He had poured a few drinks during the afternoon and felt almost drunk. It kept the smile on his face almost constantly.
“Just a story sale,” he said. “To Dark Corner of the Mind.”
Flowers in a Dumpster Page 19
