Encouragement Can Come From Anywhere

     Regular Gentle Readers know that I write fiction as well as the tirades that appear here. I do so for several reasons:

• I’ve been a lover of good stories well told since I was very young;
• I appreciate the power of stories to convey important truths;
• Mine are stories that most storytellers would never tell;
• I have some skill with the English language;
• And above all, it’s fun.

     For those reasons, I think of myself as a storyteller rather than a writer. The story is what matters: not the style in which it’s told, nor the images and devices used to illuminate it, nor the inclinations and proclivities of the author. The storyteller must serve the story, not the other way around. A writer who seeks to glamorize himself at the expense of the story is beneath (my) contempt.

     At this time I’ve completed nineteen novels and over a hundred short stories. A twentieth novel is approaching completion. It was badly stalled, for a while. It took some unexpected events to get it moving again. Or perhaps that should have been “to get me moving again.”

     Just as with a priest, a storyteller can have a crisis of faith, especially if his sales are poor. “Why do I spend my free time on this? What’s the point if so few people are interested in it? Am I really any good at it?” One who has elected to tell stories that other storytellers spurn is unusually vulnerable to such a crisis.

     Science fiction writer John C. Wright has penned an unusually illuminating piece about such crises. I recommend it to everyone; you don’t have to be a writer to benefit from it. He notes that one of the all-time great, hugely seminal pieces of fiction, David Lindsay’s magnificent A Voyage To Arcturus, sold fewer than 600 copies when it was published. As Lindsay died in poverty, alone and forgotten, the sense of tragedy is hard to avert.

     My stories are not popular. While I’m unlikely to die in poverty, I might be forgotten. All the love and labor that have gone into my tales could be wasted. My awareness of those things is a millstone around my storyteller’s neck. Now and then it drags me to the ground, and I stop writing.

     But I mentioned unexpected events above, didn’t I? Mostly, they’re emails from readers: people who’ve been affected by one of my books and were moved to let me know. That’s valuable reinforcement. I doubt that any writer, however prodigious his sales, could do entirely without it. Money fills the oil tank; it doesn’t warm the soul.

     Now and then another kind of unexpected event arises: an in-the-flesh encounter with a reader who’s loved one or more of my books. That’s like a shot of adrenalin. However, it’s only happened twice. One of those readers has passed away; the other continues to devour my pabulum as I produce it.

     Last but most powerful of all is an encounter with another storyteller through one of his stories. That’s happened a few times, though such contacts must be treated delicately. Henri de Toulouse-Lautrec has warned us: “The man is always less than the work.” A fair number of great writers have been persons I’d cross the street to avoid.

     The heart of the thing is that precious sense that someone else has understood. If it’s another storyteller, the emotional lift is beyond description. It once propelled me to write a whole novel I hadn’t even contemplated writing: Shadow of a Sword. If you liked that book, thank Martin McPhillips, author of my all-time-favorite thriller Corpse in Armor. It was he who convinced me that I should write it.

---

     I’m droning on like this because of a story I read just the day before yesterday. You probably haven’t heard of it, much less read it. It belongs in the category of romantic fiction, subcategory “harem fiction.” In that regard, it’s moderately unrealistic: very few women would agree to share a man with other women, at least in America today. (Yes, it does happen, but how often, really?) But it’s beautifully told in every respect. Even the several sex scenes, though explicit, are relatively tasteful.

     Here is the snippet that perked me up. (I hope the author will forgive me for such a long citation.)

     Dave let out a slow breath as he read the final line, his voice trailing off into the stillness of the shop.
     That’s it. He closed the book gently, almost reverently, and looked up. For a moment, no one moved or spoke—and then came the sound of hands clapping. First one, then another, and soon a warm, genuine applause filled the room. He smiled, the tension slipping from his shoulders, replaced by a strange flutter of disbelief.
     He stood, cleared his throat lightly. “Thank you,” he said, voice steadier now. “Thanks for listening. I hope I didn’t put anyone to sleep—or if I did, I hope it was a good nap.”
     His joke landed well, and a few warm chuckles followed.
     Chloe stepped forward with a practiced ease, her tone bright and inviting. “Dave has generously offered to take a few questions. Please raise your hand—and let’s keep it spoiler-free, if you can. That includes you, Carol.”
     That got a real laugh, especially from a woman in the front row who raised both hands in mock surrender.
     A woman in her forties near the second row leaned forward. “Do you write your love scenes first, or do you save them for when you’re in the right mood?”
     That brought a wave of laughter, and Dave chuckled along, scratching the back of his neck. “Uh… usually I save them. I need momentum to get there. But sometimes…” He glanced at Zoe and Chloe, “...sometimes the mood finds you.”
     More laughter.
     A young man in a knit beanie asked, “What inspired Kael’s character? He feels so real.”
     “That’s… hard to answer,” Dave said honestly. “Part of him is who I wish I’d been at twenty-five. Braver. More open. But also, I think he’s a mix of people I’ve known. Observed. Maybe even lost.”
     Someone else asked about the setting. Then came a question about the title and whether Book Two was on the way. Dave answered them all, surprised to find himself enjoying the back-and-forth. The crowd was kind, curious, engaged. He felt like he was part of something—for once not just a man behind a screen.
     Until he saw the raised hand at the back.
     The tall man standing at the back wall. Arms crossed. Face unreadable.
     Dave’s stomach tightened.
     Zoe had warned him, telling him to ignore that guy. But there he was—hand in the air, like he was waiting to deliver a lecture. Everything about him felt… out of place. His stiff posture, the slightly too-loud tweed jacket, and the vaguely amused look on his face like he was grading a freshman essay in his head. Dave gave a reluctant nod. “Uh, yes, you had a question?”
     The man’s voice was smooth, polished. Too polished.
     “Yes,” he said, adjusting his stance as though about to address a classroom. “I was curious about your use of metaphor in Woven for the Flame. Specifically in the fire-as-intimacy motif. Have you considered how it might fall into archetypal cliché? I’m thinking particularly of its overuse in late modernist literature. There’s a danger, wouldn’t you say, in conflating elemental imagery with emotional stakes?”
     The room fell into a hushed pause. Dave blinked.
     Was that… even a question? It sounded more like the opening statement of a lecture. For a fleeting moment, he felt oddly flattered—someone was treating his book like it was worthy of academic scrutiny, as if it belonged on a syllabus next to the classics. But the feeling didn’t last. The man wasn’t asking to understand. He was performing. Showing off his own knowledge, not seeking anyone else’s insight. A display, not a dialogue.
     He opened his mouth, unsure of where to start.
     Zoe stepped forward before Dave could answer. Her voice was calm, but firm. “Thank you for the observation, Dr. Miller,” she said evenly, her gaze steady. “But this isn’t a grad seminar. We’re not here to dissect literature like it’s a corpse on the table. We’re here to celebrate a story that’s moved a lot of people—including us.”
     She gave a small smile, polite but with a definite edge. “Tonight’s about connection, not deconstruction.”
     Murmurs of agreement rippled through the audience. Someone near the front clapped, and a few more followed.
     Dave stared at her.
     Dr. Miller.
     Ben.
     The name hit him like a slap.
     So that’s him.
     He saw it now—the smug academic aura, the passive-aggressive tone. The way he said “motif” like it came with a bonus vocabulary test.
     Dave felt his pulse quicken. A different kind of fire rose in his chest—defensive, protective. Not just of his work, but of Zoe. Ben was the one she’d almost married?
     He wasn’t just a professor. He was that kind of professor. The kind who believed books only mattered if you could tear them apart and map the entrails on a whiteboard. The kind who couldn’t help but dominate the room, intellectualize the joy out of art, and make others feel small in the process.
     For a brief moment, Dave regretted being there. Naturally, Ben would be laughing at him. He was indeed laughing. Ben was a professor with a literature PhD, whereas Dave was merely an amateur writer. He felt the urge to dismiss Ben's comment, particularly since Zoe had already addressed it on his behalf. Still, ignoring it would be cowardly. He felt obligated to stand up for himself and Zoe.
     Dave forced a polite smile and spoke calmly despite his inner turmoil. “I appreciate the perspective. I’d be happy to talk literary theory another time, but I’m not sure the rest of the room signed up for that.”
     A ripple of laughter passed through the crowd—this time louder, with a hint of relief.
     Ben offered a slight, condescending nod, as if he’d proven a point. Then he folded his arms again and said nothing more.
     Dave exhaled slowly.
     He had survived it. They had survived it.

     The citation is from Book Cafe Sisters, by Kohen King. In some ways, it’s just a specimen of erotica, but for me the passage above stands out. Protagonist Dave is a self-published writer doing a reading at an indie bookshop. The shop’s owners, Chloe and Zoe, are Dave’s “harem.” Stuffed-shirt Ben, a professor of literature, was once engaged to Zoe.

     I don’t have a harem. I haven’t been asked to do a reading from one of my novels at an indie bookstore, though there’s a prospect of such in the foreseeable future. But as a self-published writer who experiences frequent lapses of confidence and the will to continue, the above was a reminder.

     First and foremost, the storyteller must entertain. He’s not there to please “critics,” or professors of literature, or prize juries, or the producers and promoters of that contemporary abomination “message fiction.” He must write to please the reader. The reader seeks entertainment, diversion, and perhaps something to fantasize about in his private moments. The storyteller can only deliver those things by serving the story: that is, by telling it as it deserves to be told, without albatrossing it with irrelevancies or stylistic arabesques.

     Being reminded of those truths by another storyteller, through that man’s own creation, was a greatly refreshing experience.

---

     Just yesterday, I did something I’d never before contemplated. I went to Book and Mortar, an indie bookstore near me. I sought the manager – a delightful young lady named Krista – and asked her if she had any interest in carrying the works of a local, self-published writer. Krista surprised me by showing me to a bookcase filled entirely with the works of local writers: all self-published. So I gifted her three of my novels in paperback, which are now on that store’s shelves. At home, I set to work on Dreams of Days Forsaken once again.

     It probably won’t come to anything. I’m unlikely to contend with Nelson DeMille for the title of Long Island’s Best Loved Writer. But the lift I got from the above passage in Book Cafe Sisters made it irresistible. Besides, who knows what the future will bring?