He he… How he’d love being spoken about in the same sentence as Hemingway and Fitzgerrald!
Thank you. Glad you had fun with it. x
Short Story / Moonshine (Analysis)
MOONSHINE
Summer in Cardiff and it’s hot. Too hot. And here I am, a best-selling author rushing to a meeting with my agent and I’m late already… And my agent, Felicity, is not the kind of lady you keep waiting in a bar. Believe me.
The moment I step through the door the cool interior forces a sigh like I’ve just entered heaven. I allow my eyes to adjust and glance around.
Felicity is sat at the bar on a tall stool like she’s stranded. A barman’s cleaning glasses, talking to a small group at the far end, but the rest of the bar echoes on emptiness. Felicity hates sitting at the bar so I know she wants something. In fact, I remind myself, Felicity wouldn’t normally be seen dead in a pub so she must really want something.
I peck at the cheek she has lifted to the Arctic breeze humming from the air-conditioning and grunt “hi” whilst looking intently at the tall glass of freshly squeezed orange juice standing untouched in front of her. The glass is frosty and a crushed iceberg waters the deep orange to half way. It looks good, and I tell myself to have one and remain sober, but, somehow, the word “Guinness” pops from my mouth the moment the barman nods in my direction.
Felicity narrows her eyes and twists her mouth in accusation. I ignore the look and offer a feeble “sorry I’m late.”
She’s an attractive woman in her own way. A no-messing face etched on strong character rather than carved in classic beauty. She’s power-dressed to the hilt, so I hesitate to mouth sexy, but she does have a potent feminine sensuality. I like that. Early on in our professional relationship there was a moment when our mutual like spilled over to intimacy, but… well… Anyway, the mutual like persists and we’re still pally even though I’m a bit of an embarrassment to her professional sensibilities because my material is at the pop end of the market. She has more literary authors on her books, but even lumped together they don’t earn her as much income as my pulp, so I’m tolerated.
“Rathbones want to sign you for six more books,” she opens bluntly. “They’ve offered six and a half mil, but I’m going to hold out for eight, seven at the very minimum.”
“I don’t want to tie my hands to deadlines, you know that,” I pooh-pooh pompously, knowing that will be the requirement at that figure. I’m already a millionaire who’s lost count, so financial seduction is a toothless ploy. A Cardiff boy with principles, that’s me!
Felicity sniffs. She wants her fifteen percent and is annoyed at my depriving her of a grotesquely fat cheque.
“How about that wildlife project you’re sponsoring? Bet it could use the money,” she gently jabs.
I laugh loudly. The Guinness has been placed on a mat in front of me. I swallow half in two gulps. Coffee coloured froth forms a moustache. Felicity cocks an eye and takes a napkin from her bag and dabs at my mouth.
“Thanks,” I grin. “Look, I admit it’s tempting -” I force my tone deeper, more business like “- but it’s a promise I made to myself. They’ll want those six novels in six years, meaning I’ll have to rush write. Hate that. Whatever you and the literati cronies think, I take my stories seriously. They’re my babies. Forcing their development to meet some editor’s deadline will result in their achieving less than their potential. Neither of us want that…?”
She sips her orange then rattles the ice in thought. Her gifted sense of diplomacy searching a way to tiptoe around my objection.
“They’ll agree to stretch deadlines… Surely there’s six more books in you where Jason Cole puts the world to rights?” A patronising twitch tweaks the corner of her mouth itching to take hold and provoke me more boldly, but she keeps tight control. I can almost see fifteen percent hauling back the reins.
“So now you’re eager that I write Jason Cole stories? That’s a new one!”
She meets my eyes and the condescending flicker is shunted by oscar-winning sincerity. “Your readers love him. He’s good genre.”
“Thanks a bunch.”
“Oh, come on, don’t sulk. I know you’re capable of…well, deeper stuff,” she soothes. “I’ve read your short stories…”
My stomach is tightening. Increasingly I feel an argument coming on. “So get the short stories published!”
She takes another sip of orange and pinches the bridge of her prominent nose. “You know I’d happily traipse them around the publishing houses, but it would have to be under a pseudonym. You’ve established a massive readership for your thrillers under your real name”
“Yeah! Right! Roger Winger the comic book hack!”
Felicity touches my shoulder and beams a placating smile. “Let’s not fight over this again. We can’t force the industry to play by your rules. The marketing machine is too powerful to resist. You’re an established author with a readership demanding certain criteria. You are a massive success because the system works, so don’t expect the industry to feel sorry for you. All I’m saying is that we can publish different styles, but we have to do it under a different name. From Roger Winger readers expect… well, a particular genre. Deal with it…”
“Genre! I hate that word!” Spittle showers her. “Sorry,” is a terse and insincere apology. She wipes a hand over her eye and flicks it as if she’s dripping. I sigh and meet her eyes, seeking out the bond that binds us as pals rather than professionals. I see it’s reflected back and relax. “I am sorry,” I insist with genuine feeling.
“Genre is only a word,” Felicity smiles. “You writers are just too sensitive…” Her eyes are openly laughing; a mocking call to arms. I know the look; I would rant and she would pacify me with logic. The truth is it’s the core of our excellent working relationship. Maybe I should have grabbed her when I’d had the chance? … She had never married – career came first. I had married, divorced and been taken to the cleaners.
I open with a passive statement. “There’s nothing wrong with the word, I don’t have a problem with the word, it’s the way your posh-frock, literati mates utter it with such contempt that gets up my-!”
“-Now then…” She twitches her nose in gentle warning. “There’s no need to disparage my professional colleagues,” she smiles, brushing my long hair over my ears and away from my face before continuing, “Literature’s a writer’s unique, often experimental voice. Genre, on the other hand, defines an established storyline, plot structure, that demands certain criteria. It’s only used in reference to a particular type of story.”
“Bull!” I explode. “The word’s used to pigeonhole works perceived inferior; stuff from writer’s like me.”
“Come on! I’ve just admitted that you can write literature, it’s just not evident in your novels.”
“The fantasy versus reality argument? In my view it’s potential reality V slice of life, imagination versus real life experience-”
“-Okay,” Felicity halts. “I’ve heard it already. You finish by explaining how Einstein used his imagination to conclude that E=MC^2. Or you’ll spout your classical and Eminem argument again, or maybe today’s the day you repeat the opera verses jazz line…” She sighed tiredly. “I admitted you had a point before! Too many times! I will go on to argue that there’s intelligence at work in literature that simply is not evident in genre and I’ll insist that an original, literary voice cannot be tethered to a set criteria… You agreed with me last time?”
“No I didn’t,” I protest, but weakly. Okay, so I didn’t need the hassle that day. I slump in my tall bar stool and guzzle the remaining half of the Guinness. The barman notes the drained contents and winks that he has another ready. I thirstily accept the liquid-coal-on-a-snowy-day and hand over the ransom.
“Cheers, Rog,” he says, using my first name like we’re buddies from way back. Do I know all Cardiff bar staff? Or is it that they know me? Strange. When you’re a recognised face, these things get confused.
“Explain more intelligent to me again,” I propose to Felicity, my tone pleasant with a merest trace of acid. “Just to re-acquaint myself with your educated perspective.”
She rests her chin in her bridged hands for a second. “Well composed original prose, an inspired and inspirational voice, deeply considered philosophical ideas… you know, work that feeds our knowledge, that teaches us something… Do I really have to go on?”
I allow my lips to belie the faintest smile. “All loaded with bags of similes and metaphors, yeah? So you’re saying that, let’s say, Clancy and Grisham write less than intelligent stories or tell their stories less than intelligently?”
“No they’re good storytellers. I read them myself when I read for pleasure-“
“-Ah!” I interrupt. “The suggestion here is that your main literary diet is less than pleasurable?”
“Don’t twist my words,” Felicity grimaced, but she knew I had her on the ropes. “I derive a great deal of pleasure from reading well written prose, you know that.”
“But when you feel like a good story you pick up Clancy or Grisham?”
“Or you,” she smiles, biting her bottom lip and widening her eyes innocently.
“You’re a hypocrite,” I accuse too bluntly and immediately feel guilty. She is, after all, a pal.
“No I’m not.” Her voice sounds unperturbed, but she shrugs on her oblique, professional facade, which I read as evidence I have hit a nerve. “Unfortunately I’ve read all the last century’s great literary novelists like Lawrence, Hemingway and Wolfe etcetera…”
“Okay,” I add enthusiastically. “All great storytellers, granted. Every writer aspires to their genius, but some of us prefer to inject pace; pace demands dynamic images and language and definitely less prose. It’s not that we don’t like or can’t write prose, there’s just no room for it in a thriller unless one needs to slow pace, and I for one enjoy writing a thriller. I like developing a concept into a plot. I like the energy of each scene having to have purpose rather than allowing a character to ramble on about some self-indulgent philosophy. My characters have a job to do and they get on and do it.”
“That’s fine then. You’re good at it, stick to it. But if you want your work viewed seriously, get away from the he-man-hero. Write a book where the lead character is a professor who solves some universal crisis?”
I begrudgingly mutter a “maybe”, but am unconvinced. I want to push this…
“Edgar Rice Burroughs wrote ‘Tarzan’,” I mutter disconsolately. “A fictional he-man turned legend. Great character… Forget the films, the stories are a provocative study of one man’s evolution resulting in a profound misanthropy. Now it’s pigeonholed ‘boys’ adventure’! What a waste! The basic concept alone challenges most adults! Then we have Ian Fleming’s ‘Bond’, a character that’s entertained generations!”
“Great escapism. I agree.” Felicity pursed her lips. “But don’t ask me to take them seriously.”
“Why not! They inspire individual’s to aspire! The two characters are virtual icons!”
“Yes but-“
“-But nothing! What makes a great writer? The prose or the story?”
“Come on,” Felicity soothed with a chuckle. “You telling me that Fleming was a great writer? It’s the films that have made ‘Bond’ the icon. Same with ‘Tarzan’”
“My point is, it’s the story that’s all-important. ‘Bond’ wouldn’t be ‘Bond’ in anything less than a great story! You have to be one damn good writer to communicate a story to a mass audience; both Fleming and Burroughs achieved that by creating character’s that were able to leave the writer’s page and really come alive in their own right for a huge audience… Yeah, the “literary”-” I waggle two fingers above each ear in sarcastic punctuation, “-greats all have distinct, crystal clear voices, but it’s their own voice! We “genre” -“ again I waggle the sarcastic fingers with a sneer, “-writers create, and I punctuate the word create, characters, and if a character we’ve created, again note the punctuation, becomes larger than life in the public consciousness, then that is serious talent, baby!” I know she hates being referred to as ‘baby’. “Name a Hemingway character off the top of your head? Or a Wolfe character…?”
Felicity remained silent and sipped her orange. I was on a roll.
“I’m not saying that the bigger the audience the better the writer, but I do say the bigger the audience the better the storyteller, and the foundation of fiction is good storytelling. So why are writers communicating to wide popular audiences made to feel like third rate comic book hacks? Look at Clancy and Grisham? Pooh-poohed as irrelevant writers, yet their only crime is telling a good story.”
“Yes, but publishing also has to be about good writing first and foremost.”
“I’m published, so by your definition I suppose that must mean I’m a good writer?”
“Of course,” she openly laughs. “My home in Kensington is due to the fact that you’re a damn good writer.”
“Yet you also agree with your colleagues when my work is condemned as irrelevant genre?”
“No I don’t. I argue that inside every book you’ve written there is a moral significance desperate to get out.” Her laughter at her own joke sings like china bells. I’m forced to smile. It is genuinely funny. She is in full flow now and loving every minute. “But I explain that you are happy reaching a less educated – I mean, more popular audience,” she finished, almost stumbling on the faux pas.
I wasn’t about to let it ride. “There we have it! The snob factor!”
“Not at all. Literary taste is like wine, we all prefer different vintages.” She utters the sentence with blatant snobby delight and pats her own back in punctuation.
“Yeah! Right! But when you want to get pissed, you dive into something with more zap, like a good Clancy, Grisham or…?” Reference to my own work is lost in my own laughter.
“That’s it!” She erupts in exultant joy. “You guys write the moonshine!”
“Yeah! To satisfy your prohibitionist lust!” I finish the second Guinness quickly. The next is already sliding along the bar. Having a known commercial, pulp fiction face has its merits.
“So do we accept seven to eight mil?” She asks, her whole demeanour one of total innocence.
I’m on my third Guinness and looking forward to the fourth. “Okay, go for it,” I sigh. “I’ll write another six books that you and your mates can laugh at. Then I’m off to buy an island in a remote corner of the Indian Ocean and write literature to make your fucking toes curl.”
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andersda reviewed Version 1 -
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Dexus reviewed Version 1 -
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Clever and satirical! For the last half I envisioned my past; a night socializing with friends at Denny’s, and the group in the next bench over is playing the “superhero vs. superhero – who would win?” game. Also, I can see this scene in reality with writers and agents, or even lawyers and district attourneys.
Most people think a “hypocrite” is someone who says one thing and does another or has the “do as I say not as I do” mentality. I looked it up one day, and that is not entirely true. A hypocrite is actually someone who projects an image they are not, someone who pretends to be something for approval. I might have misinterpreted the definition, but you could look it up in case you plan on using the word in future pieces.
“She utters the sentence with blatant snobby delight and pats her own back in punctuation.” – I love this line! :)
In the beginning you write “Felicity is sat at the bar…” and that just reads akward to me. Perhaps it’s part of a style I’m not yet aware of?
“I’m a bit of an embarrassment to her professional sensibilities because my material is at the pop end of the market. She has more literary authors on her books, but even lumped together they don’t earn her as much income as my pulp, so I’m tolerated.” – is a little confusing at first, until you reach their later conversation about her reading interests.
The author “pays the ransom” for his 2nd beer, but then accepts a 3rd and looks forward to a 4th?
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martykate reviewed Version 1 -
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The best part of this story was the bantering back and forth between agent and author between what constitutes great writing and what doesn’t. What I really enjoyed was the moments of truth when both admit that telling a good story, no matter what the style or content was essentially what was important—or at least that is my impression. The fact that the agent admits to picking up, say, a Grisham novel for entertainment, despite the fact that she is better educated than that. Still she enjoys the “guiltly pleasure”.
The way the two were able to argue and debate without becoming hostile was indicated to me the good relationship between author and agent. Even though, in the end, she manages to gently bully him into committing to six more books that he obviously does not want to write--even an author sells his soul for money--shows a mutual respect between the two that resonates through the story.
And we even have our typical alcohol-guzzling writer here. I would have been so disappointed if he’d had orange juice too. After all, where would we be without our Hemmingways and F. Scott FitzGeralds’s?
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revisionist reviewed Version 1 -
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I really enjoyed this piece – something that debates how literature is viewed today. It’s interesting to read an author unafraid to discuss what most authors fear – their popular appeal and the staying power of what they write. The words are well-chosen, diverse (excellent vocabulary) and wonderful descriptors. I felt as if I was seated a few stools away, spying on their conversation.
Is there more?
meltonbooks reviewed Version 1 -
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fun story. i enjoyed it.
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