Mr. Fox and Other Feral Tales

by Norman Partridge

  So we're at an even $1,300 for your year's work. And no, I haven't forgotten about that novel you sold, or the twenty grand you'll be paid for it. But remember, your agent told you that you wouldn't get that money until the following year. Maybe it'll come in January... maybe it'll come later. Either way, it will come in installments—most publications break up novel advances into three payments, the first coming on acceptance, the second on acceptance of the completed (i.e. revised to your editor's specifications) manuscript, and the third on publication. So it's going to be awhile before you see any green on that front.[19]

  When you do get it, it won't amount to $20,000 anyway. Your agent will take 15%. And if you're smart you'll put a chunk away for the taxman, who will come for his cut whether you've saved it or not.

  And, no, I haven't forgotten that short story collection you sold to a small press, either. We can size up that deal using the same scenario as we did with your novel, only on a smaller scale. Figuring the averages, a hot newcomer can probably get a two or three grand advance for a collection. You're really doing well if you get more than that. Either way, you've got more work to do before you get all of that money. You'll actually have to write a few new stories for your collection, because most small publishers insist that a certain percentage of any single-author collection be comprised of original, unpublished material.

  So there's no novel money in your pocket this year, and nothing for the short story collection (though the publisher promises he'll send a first installment of $500 in January). But that's all okay. It's still been an amazing year for you. You're building a reputation. You're up for an award, and your fiction will be reprinted in The Year's Best Fantasy & Horror. You cracked a handful of tough short story markets. You sold your first novel. And you made thirteen-hundred bucks for your trouble.

  Or did you? Remember, you had a few expenses along the way. You went to the World Fantasy Convention. The membership cost you $125. You plane ticket was $343.[20] Your cut of the room you split with your message board buds was $186. And you did have something to eat while you were there, and you did hit the bar a couple of times. Out of pocket expenses on that front: figure $175 if you really economized.[21]

  Total that and you've got $829. Hack it off your $1,300, and you're left with $471. We'll keep it simple and lowbuck the other expenses you no doubt incurred while writing—the books and magazines you bought, the cost of office supplies and software or hardware for your computer, the postage tab for mailing your manuscripts, the subscription cost for a couple online newsletters. Let's say you spent $300 there, which cuts your total to $171.

  But let's not forget your significant other. Remember, you wanted to spoil him or her a little bit during the holidays. Well, $150 isn't exactly going to put you in the big spender's league, but at least your heart is in the right place. I figure anyone who puts up with a writer deserves at least that much.

  We're down to $21 and holding.

  Wait a sec—I forgot that bottle of fine champagne you uncorked when you found out you'd sold your first novel. Dom Perignon runs $75 a bottle. Or at least it did in 1987, when good ol' Annie Wilkes bought a bottle for her favorite writer, Paul Sheldon.

  Oh, well. We'll be generous and give you the '87 price. Consider that bottle of champagne a bargain. And congratulations. You've succeeded where most others have failed. Your writing dreams have come true.

  Oh, and by the way, you just ended a phenomenal year of writing success fifty-four bucks in the hole.

  For your sake, I hope you haven't quit your day job.

  And that's the point of this essay. That's why I helped you build that pretty little sandcastle. And that's why I just spent the last couple of pages kicking it down.

  I'm not trying to be cruel... just realistic. Of course, there's one little problem with that. Most writers—by their very nature—don't do realistic all that well. But you have to be realistic if you want to make it as a pro. You have to be honest with yourself about your relationships, your life, and your money. You have to be honest about your writing, too. When it comes to the work itself, you need to avoid any illusions you might have about your own particular brand of fiction. You have to learn to look at it squarely. You have to be able to judge what it can earn you out there in the marketplace, and what you might be willing to change about it if you want it to earn more.

  Myself, I've been both a full-time writer and a writer who also has what is commonly called a "joe job." Both approaches have upsides and downsides. Write full time and it's a pretty sure thing that you'll find yourself scrambling for a dollar when the bills come due. Even if you're successful, you probably won't be able to make ends meet by writing and selling your own original fiction alone. Most full-time writers need other projects to supplement their income. This means they take on work-for-hire projects; they write a lot of short stories for theme anthologies; maybe they even branch out into comic scripts, or editing work, or ghost-writing for celebrity authors who have never even read a novel, let alone written one.

  For most full-timers that kind of work is hard to avoid... almost as hard as dodging those bills I was talking about, or the inevitable trips to the grocery store, the dentist, and the auto mechanic that'll add more bills to the pile. But that's just the way the mop flops in the writing business, and the simple truth is that there are damn few full-time writers who make a career following their creative hearts into the office every day.[22]

  Oh, some writers get lucky. A few manage to snag the dream career— writing the novels they want to write, getting five or six figure advances for them, picking up other projects of interest as they have time—but that's by far the exception rather than the rule. And while some freelancers manage to make a decent living from work-for-hire projects, that kind of a career can be one long hustle. If you're built for that, more power to you. But it's my belief that writing stories other people want you to write instead of the stories you want to write can steal something essential from your fiction. Follow that path and you just might find yourself waking up one day to the not-so-fine realization that that your work isn't even yours anymore. Worst case scenario, you can lose the magic, and your writing can end up as just another joe job.

  When I was a full-timer, that's the way I came to view work-for-hire projects (and the time-devouring "pitches" for that kind of work in the form of synopses or outlines).[23] Oh, there were certainly projects I enjoyed doing in that regard, but those are the ones I really don't remember much. It's the ones that I didn't enjoy that stick in my mind (and my craw). A few of those blocked me up so badly that I didn't want to write at all. And when I did force myself to sit down and confront the blank page—well, I hated every minute of it. Doing that kind of work. I'm not exaggerating when I say that the idea of going into my office actually made me feel physically ill. Forget the word processor. I was more in the mood to face the porcelain megaphone.

  I knew that wasn't the way for me to go, and I figured I'd be better off flushing the whole idea of full-time writing if that was my frame of mind. I feared that if I followed that path I would lose the magic that had made my writing something special, and that was something I wasn't willing to give up. I didn't want to crash my creative machine into a brick wall.

  It was a simple decision, really, when I faced up to it. I didn't want my writing to become my joe job—so I went out and got one. I had ten years experience working in libraries, and when I decided to go shopping for a salaried position I ended up getting hired at the first place I applied. These days I'm an evening supervisor at a local college library. I'll tell you flat out—having a regular check is great. My monthly living expenses are covered. My credit cards are paid off. And the benefits are good, i.e. the health plan that cost me nearly five-hundred bucks a month as a freelancer now costs $67 (with exactly the same coverage).

  Most of the time, I work 4 p.m. - midnight, five nights a week. That still leaves me the daylight hours to write. Of course, I've still got a life to live, too. I've
got a wife I love. I've got friends I enjoy. And I've got errands to run, appointments to keep, and groceries to buy. With all that going on. I'd be lying if I told you that it was easy to make writing the focus it once was for me. Sometimes it's even difficult to make it a priority. There are plenty of days I wish I could give a writing project my full attention but can't. There are plenty of stories that I could have knocked out in a week as a full-timer that take me a month to write now. My productivity isn't anywhere near what it once was, or close to what I'd like it to be. That can be frustrating... and that's the main downside to having a joe job if you're a writer.

  On the plus side I've got more financial security and more creative freedom. That's great. On the minus I've got less time and (sometimes) less energy. That's not so great. Laying it out for you in the last few pages. I'm reminded of the way a writer friend summed it all up a few weeks ago in a telephone conversation about my future prospects: "Norm, the best thing you've got going for you is your job, and the worst thing you've got going for you is your job."

  For me, that says it pretty well. There's your joe job, Norm... just another double-edged sword in the writer's armory. But that's not the whole story. There are other benefits to my library gig that don't have anything to do with financial security, or health plans, or the control of my creative destiny. I'll tell you about one of them, and leave it at that.

  Most semesters I've got a crew of 10 - 15 students working for me. Few of them have read my stories and few of them ever will. That doesn't matter to me. The words I put on the page are important, but they're not the only way I define myself. I will say this: the students I hire tend to keep the job until they graduate. I've had very few students quit. For me, that says something.

  I get to know some of them better than others, and vice versa. I come to work when most of the staff is heading home for the night. After the first few hours, it's just me and a student running the show until we close up at 11:45. Some nights that makes for a pretty good hustle—it's a three- story library, and there's plenty of ground to cover. Other nights, things can be pretty slow. That gives us a chance to talk.

  One thing I like about working with young people: they still have their dreams. Life hasn't turned them upside down and shaken out their pockets yet. Sure, some of them have had a tough time growing up—I don't know anyone who doesn't think they haven't had it tough in one way or another. But there's a difference when your experience with tough occurred under your parents' roof and not under your own. You fly solo for the first time, you find a way to open yourself up to a dream or two no matter how tough you had it growing up.

  And that's a special ability. Most people lose it as they grow older. Like I said, life grabs hold of them and shakes out their pockets. They start out with a dream of being a bestselling writer, or a painter who'll rival Van Gogh, or an architect whose designs will change the face of the industry. And then life gets hold of them, and it turns out it doesn't come cheap. Bills pile up, and dreams don't pay for them. Pretty soon it seems that there's an eternal landlord knocking at their door. And, damn, those dreams just get pushed aside, because they have to answer the door and take care of business.

  And the way it turns out is that there's always someone knocking at the door. And they keep on answering it, and they keep on taking care of business, and pretty soon they forget all about their dreams.

  Odds are that happens. It happens to almost everyone.

  But it hasn't happened to the students who work for me. They're young. They haven't received a visit from that eternal landlord. Not yet. They haven't pushed their dreams aside. Instead, they're open to them, and it seems to me that the very act of being open can create opportunities. They take that summer internship working on an archaeological dig in Peru; they sign up for that screenwriting class, and they work two jobs so they can afford to fly to Sundance and see what the world of independent film is all about; they spend a semester in South Africa working with children who have AIDS. In short, they take chances to pursue their dreams. Those dreams push them in directions that aren't necessarily found on the safe and easy road.

  There's a lot to be said for that.

  In this essay I've told you to be realistic. I've told you to be smart. I hope you'll take that advice to heart. I meant every word of it.

  But don't forget to be open to your dreams.

  If you want to be a writer, that's a skill you'll definitely need to remember.

  SANDPRINT

  Ben Winslow couldn't understand how someone who didn't exist could have accumulated so much junk.

  Irene Benjamin's possessions were piled in little islands on the sea-blue carpet. Book awards, reviews, first editions, and yes —Ben forced a smile — even rejection slips.

  Ben chugged rum from a heavy tumbler. He thumbed through a stack of rejections, glancing at the coldly rational notes his wife had written on each. Irene had always handled the rejections, always protected his ego. And now, without Irene and Irene Benjamin, without both of them....

  "I'm lost," Ben whispered.

  Ben tossed the rejections into a cardboard box and finished his drink. Outside, waves surged against the beach. A muggy wind whipped through the doorway, rustling the paper islands. Kona wind, heavy with the perfume of the night, heavy with the threat of a storm.

  Ben leaned against the sliding-glass door and listened to the sea whisper over the sand. In California, wet sand was like concrete, the waves like thunderous slaps. But here in Hawaii the sand was soft, forgiving....

  Somewhere in the past, Irene Kaneholani had taught him about the sand. "Ben, this scene with the sailor and the ghost is great, but the description of Infinity Beach is all wrong," she had insisted. "The sand there isn't gray, like this gritty California stuff. It's golden, Ben, golden and soft."

  "Give me a break," he'd protested. "I'm a starving college student. I've never traveled, except via bad Elvis Presley movies. Why'd I let you pick Hawaii, anyway? I can't write about things I — "

  " — don't know." Irene giggled. "C'mon, Ben, that's why we're working together. Two heads are better than one. And when we hit the best-seller list with this little opus we'll quit Berkeley and move to Kauai. I've had my eye on the perfect spot for the ultimate beach house ever since I was a little girl. We'll have lots of golden children. I'll get fat, and before you know it you'll be a regular kamaaina...."

  Smiling, Ben had eyed the battered typewriter and shrugged.

  She'd kissed him then. "Okay. Now that I've lifted your big bad depression, you're gonna suffer for that Elvis Presley crack."

  Ben closed the glass door and thumbed the lock. The Elvis record she'd tortured him with so long ago sat on the turntable. How many times had he listened to it in the last month? Had he listened to anything else?

  Ben cued the needle onto worn vinyl. Elvis sang. “Night and you... and blue Hawaii…”

  Ben walked to the kitchen and poured himself another rum. The plastic bottle slipped from his fingers, bounced once, and rolled toward the living room, sloshing golden liquor over blue tile. Then the bottle reversed direction and returned to him.

  "Ghosts," he whispered.

  No. Not in the real world.

  In the real world, it's like this: if you build a house on stilts, in sand, there's simply no way that it will stay perfectly level, even if it's the ultimate beach house that you've been dreaming about since you were a kid. At least that's what Ben had told Irene. But Irene Kaneholani hadn't liked his explanation. She'd wanted Irene Benjamin's home to be perfect.

  "She's real, Ben. She's us."

  "Irene, you're getting weird about this. Irene Benjamin isn't real. She's just a publisher's gimmick, someone the editors invented to appeal to the romance fans."

  "No, Ben. She's much more than that."

  The idea seemed ridiculous to Ben, but he couldn't say that. He couldn't tell Irene that he was truly worried about her, about them. He couldn't say. When you put on those fancy suits, those silk blouses, I
wonder what happened to that college girl who used to live in one pair of jeans. These days you buy shoes so expensive that they'd make Imelda Marcos blush, and the salesgirls at Liberty House positively salivate when you visit the perfume counter. And when you put on those clothes and spray yourself with those scents, it’s like you're a different person, like you're not the girl I fell in love with anymore.

  No. He couldn't say that. He couldn't hurt her that way. So he tried to make light of it. "It's a con, honey. Irene Benjamin—psychic chronicler of ghostly romance. It's just a name that looks good on glossy book jackets." He grinned. "There's a reason they didn't put our names together and come up with Winslow Kaneholani, you know."

  Laughter. The last laughter heard in Irene Benjamin's house.

  Ben drank. It wasn't right that he wouldn't hear his wife's laughter anymore.

  “Night and you...night and you...and blue...."

  It wasn't fair.

  Drink in hand, Ben entered the bedroom. On the hibiscus-print spread were three boxes addressed to Irene's family on Maui. Mostly fancy clothes and perfumes, stuff Irene's sisters would want.

  Ben knifed open the middle box, telling himself, "Just one more look."

  He dug through a layer of silk blouses, past a bag filled with turquoise jewelry, and found a pancake-sized hunk of plaster stamped with a child's hand-print. Irene's Hawaiian name was printed underneath. AILINA.

  The plaster was cold. Ben traced the tiny lifeline, ran his fingers over the name.

  Irene, Ailina, and Irene. All of them gone.

  It wasn't fair.

  It had been a mistake. The moonlight swim. The Kona wind. The wave that took them away and never returned. The wave that left him behind.

  “Night and you...night and you...night and you...."

  Ben gripped the plaster hand-print. Ailina had been real, as real as Irene Kaneholani.