by
John McFetridge
Here is part two of my pilot for a proposed TV series, East Coast. For part one please go here.
Last week was the teaser, the little bit before the opening credits, and now we’re back from the commercial break with Act I. (Anyone remember those old Quinn Martin Productions like FBI that introduced each section by Act number?)
Moncton, New Brunswick
Sgt. Jerry Northup was standing in font of the dresser in his bedroom putting on his funeral tie. He’d worn it less than a month ago but that funeral was for the eighty-seven year old father of a friend, next door neighbour really, Ray, nice enough guy he barely knew. When Jerry and his wife bought the house in the sub-division five years ago, Jerry told Isobel it would be nice and anonymous, now that he was a detective and didn’t wear a uniform none of the neighbours would ever have to know he was a cop and she’d rolled her eyes at him and he’d said, what? But while they were unloading the truck Ray comes over with a beer in each hand and says, so, can you fix speeding tickets?
Now it was Henry Bergeron’s funeral and Isobel was coming out of the shower wrapped in a towel saying, “His blood alcohol was three times the limit,” and Jerry said he’d be shocked if it was any less than that.
She said, “Kovalchuck said he won’t put that in his report.”
“The least he can do after all those times Henry took care of him.”
Isobel said, “Will it make any difference if he puts it down as ‘Fell asleep while driving,’ as if anyone will think he was sober.”
“He was sober, he had a couple of beers, that’s all.”
“He had a bottle of scotch in his lap.”
Jerry pulled his tie tight, perfect knot, and said, hey, “We’re lucky he didn’t have a cheerleader in his lap.”
Isobel came over to the dresser wearing a nice black dress and looked at Jerry in the mirror and said, “He was a good guy wasn’t he,” and Jerry said, yeah, he was, “Taught me everything I know.”
“Honey, you passed him by years ago, you’ve been teaching him, carrying him. He was the boss in name only and now I guess you’ll really be the boss.”
That surprised him and he said, run the whole narcoics division, “Not at my rank, they’ll bring someone in from out of province,” and Isobel said, you sure, and Jerry said, yeah, “They’ll have to, unless they promote me,” and she stared right at him and he said, “Not gonna happen.”
She said she didn’t care one way or the other, but, “You deserve it,” and Jerry said, “What did Clint Eastwood say? Deserve’s got nothing to do with it,” and she said, “Now do we have to watch Unforgiven again,” and he said, “Have to?”
He was pulling on his suit jacket then, his funeral suit jacket, and Isobel said, “Did you at least get something at your big cross-border drunk,” and Jerry said, yeah, “Edwards got something from a DEA guy.”
“Tell her we can treat it anonymously at the clinic.”
“Nurse Isobel, thanks. Did I ever mention a guy, Mickey Goodwin, busted him selling pot in the playground?”
“He have an older sister Melody, I went to high school with her.”
“I think that’s his mother, was she pregnant then?”
“She dropped out, junior year, could’ve been.”
“Mickey’s trying to move up. We knew he was moving a little coke and some meth but we thought he was buying it from the bikers in Montreal.”
“And he’s not?”
“Well, he is, but here’s the thing, this DEA guy tells Edwards he’s seen little Mickey Goodwin down in Maine, buying from some guys they’re watching but he wasn’t buying enough to make it worthwhile for them to go after him.”
“So now you’re little information exchange is working and you can pick him up.”
“Better than that, we can threaten to tell the Saints in Montreal what he’s doing, scare the shit out of him, get him to work for us and go after bigger fish.”
Isobel looked at her husband and said, wow, “I don’t know if that’s clever or slimy,” and Jerry said, hey, “Always remember, we’re the good guys.”
And walking out of the bedroom Isobel said, “You’ll have to remind me once in a while.”
***
Portland, Maine
They watched the guy park his beat up minivan in the lot of the Union Station mall and Michaels took a picture of the license plate and said, “Canada’s Ocean Playground, that’s your boy all right,” and Dawson didn’t say anything, watching the guy walk away from the Dollar Store and out through the lot towards the street.
Michaels put the camera down and drove slow, a row over, saying, “This must be some hot cop, got you all the way out here on your day off,” watching the guy walk out to St. John Street and Dawson picked up the camera saying, “This is international relations, we’re talking about co-operating with law enforcement over the world’s longest unprotected border.”
Michaels said, sure we are, “I just hope this one’s not married,” and Dawson said, “I had no idea that chick was married,” and they both watched the guy cross St. John Street and go into Spot Shot Billiards, between a Thai restaurant and the Al-Amin Halaal Market and Dawson said, “Okay, that’s all we need.”
“You don’t want to get him coming out, you’ve got nothing? You can’t get a warrant with that, it’s not even enough to get a wire tap approved.”
“No, I don’t want to spook the local boys, we’re still looking at following them up the chain to Boston, this isn’t really for anything official.”
“Is it for something could come back and bite us in the ass?”
Dawson said, “Don’t you worry about it, you were never here,” and Michaels said, you got that right.
***
Moncton, New Brunswick
The Loose Moose was packed, every cop in the city, even the ones on duty, and a lot of their friends.
Alphonse Turcotte was standing on the little stage bythe karaoke machine with the microphone in his hand, saying, he was the boss, sure, “But he knew every single man and woman who worked for him, knew every one of them like a friend,” and people murmered agreement and nodded and Alphonse said, “because each and every one of you bailed him out of some kind of trouble,” and every body laughed.
Jerry and Isobel were sitting at a table by off to the side by themselves. It’d been a good funeral, but everybody was anxious to get here, the place where Henry spent so much time and where they could say what they really felt about him, how much they liked him, warts and all.
Alphonse was looking around the room saying, “Who wasn’t working an overnight, didn’t get a call from some woman, come and get your boss?”
Everybody laughed and Alphonse pointed at Jerry and said, “Remember Northup over there, drove around this whole province, an entire eight hour shift looking for the rest stop Henry called him from, some chick kicked him out of the car? Oh yeah, we all went through that shit with Henry.”
Oh yeah, everybody in the bar with their own memories.
“And the truth is,” Alphonse said, “we’ll never get that lucky again. The next boss we get will expect us to do some work,” and the place filled with people saying, no way, and, work, what’s that, and I’d like to see him try.
And Isobel looked at Jerry and said, “Are you going to be a tough boss,” and Jerry said, “I told you, I’m only going to be the boss until they send in someone else,” but he could see Isobel didn’t believe him and he wasn’t sure how she felt about that, maybe she wanted him to be a little more ambitious.
He said, anyway, “Come on, let’s hope not. Imagine if we both have to work overtime? All that pressure, the kids and everything. No, I like it where I am,” and she said, “Where you were, and there’s no going back.”
Jerry looked at her, thinking about it for the first time, that he might actually get the promotion and not knowing how he’d really feel about it. Could be good, but it would be a big change.
And then before he could say anything, Evelyn Edwards was at their table saying, “Sgt. Northup, Mrs. Northup,” and Isobel said, “Doesn’t everyone call you Jerry,” and he said, “See, I’ll never be a real boss.”
Then he looked at Edwards and she said, “So, um, yeah, I heard from Agent Dawson, the DEA guy, and I guess our guy’s on his way, he should be at the border in a few hours.”
“Then I guess you better get down there and meet him.”
“Me?”
“Yeah, you and Leonetti, go tell him.”
Edwards said, yes, sir and rushed off looking very happy about it and Isobel looked at Jerrry and said, “You’re going to like being the boss,” and he said, “I’m not going to be the boss.”
And they looked at each other and neither one was sure.
***
Calais, Maine – St. Stephen, New Brunswick Border Crossing
Leonetti was sitting behind the wheel of the unmarked car, an Impala of all things, watching a line of cars making their way across the Milltown International Bridge over the St. Croix river.
In the passenger seat Edwards was talking quietly on the phone, saying, “Bangor’s not half way, it’s not even halfway to the border and then I have to drive all the way from Moncton.”
The Impala was parked across the street from the customs offices in the parking lot of a Tim Hortons and, of course, Leonetti and Edwards were drining coffee and eating Timbits.
Leonetti said, “Is that him,” and Edwards looked up at the line of cars and then said into phone, “Dodge Caravan, sort of brown?” Then she looked at Leonetti and said, “Yeah, that’s him.”
“Looks like he’s getting into the longest line.”
Edwards was still one the phone with the DEA agent who’d put the GPS on the minivan in Portland, making her date to get together with him.
Leonetti said, “I wonder if he has a favourite customs agent these days,” and looked sideways at Edwards who was turned away from him now and cupping the phone by her ear, whispering, and he leaned close to her and said, “He’s got some money these days.”
She glanced at him and then whispered into the phone and then ended the call.
“Okay, here he comes, that was quick.”
Leonetti said, yeah, “We’ll look into the customs officer later,” and then followed Mickey Goodwin in his sort of brown Dodge Caravan through St. Stephens and onto Highway One towards Saint John and about fifteen minutes later pulled up beside him and Edwards showed him her badge.
Mickey pulled off on the shoulder of the two lane highway and said, “I wasn’t speeding,” and Edwards said, “I don’t care, pull into that motel right there,” and Mickey said, “What for,” and she said, “Just do it.”
Then she said to Leonetti, “What a moron,” and he said, “Who did you expect to be trying to pull an end run around the Saints, bringing dope into their territory.”
Forty-five minutes later Leonetti opened the door of room #7 and let Sgt. Northup in, saying, “Hey boss.”
Jerry looked at him sideways and then saw Edwards whisper into her phone an dend the call.
Mickey was sitting on the end of the bed watching TV and Jerry walked over saying, “Look at you, you’re all grown up,” and turned it off.
Mickey said, hey, “I was watching that,” and Jerry punched him in the face, knocking him off the bed, blood pouring out of his mouth. Then while Mickey was rolling around on the floor, Jerry walked to the bathroom and came back with a towel and dropped it on him.
Edwards hadn’t moved, sitting there with her mouth open, shocked, looking from Leonetti to Jerry and back.
Then Jerry said, “So, Mickey, on your way back from Portland with a kilo of coke you bought off a guy named Glen in a pool hall. Did you know he bought it off a guy named Hector in Malden, Massachusetts?”
Mickey was still on the floor, holding the blood-soaked towel to his face and Jerry kicked him in the stomach and said, “Well, did you?”
Mickey moved further away, a few inches anywhere, there wan’t much room in the motel room and Jerry said, “No you don’t know shit, do you. Maybe we should rip your van apart, that might be fun. You didn’t just leave the coke on the seat, did you?”
Mickey said, no, but he didn’t say where it was.
Jerry said, So, “We could pick you up for that,” and he looked at Edwards and said, “What would he get for that?”
“Posession with intent to traffic, looking at five to ten at least.”
“Ten years, wow, punk like you, Mickey, you’ll come out wearing a dress, thinking you are a chick you’ll have been screwed so many times. I wonder how long it’ll take you to like it?”
Mickey said, screw you, but his heart really wasn’t in it.
Jerry said, “Some of those guys, those lifers, they might knock your crooked teeth out, make it easier for you to go down on them,” and Mickey just sat on the floor, leaning back against the bed holding the towel to his face.
“Or, you know what,” Jerry said, looking at Edwards and Leonetti and then back at Mickey, “maybe we’ll wait till you drive back up to Montreal and buy another kilo there, bust you with that one.” Then Jerry looked at Edwards and said, “Would he get any more time for that one,” and she said, maybe, “If he still had them both.”
“Or, if we didn’t want to waste time on a trial, maybe we could just tell the guys in Montreal that they aren’t your only supplier. They don’t care about that, do they, they aren’t territorial, are they? They don’t think they’re exclusive, do they?”
Mickey said, “You got nothing, you got no proof,” and Jerry crouched low and looked him right in the eye and said, “Mickey, we’ve got video, we could put it on YouTube.”
“Screw you.”
“There’s no way out for you.”
“Screw you, I’ll do the five.”
“Yeah, it’ll feel like fifty, getting your ass pounded everyday. You get out, you won’t have anything, you’ll be broke, what’ll you do? No one’ll sell you anything, you tried to double-cross the Saints and you got caught way too easy.”
“So why don’t you just bust me?”
“Not good enough, you got yourself in too deep. There’s only one way out now.”
“What’s that?”
“Somebody bigger than you.”
Mickey looked around the room, saw Edwards and Leonetti looking at him like they felt sorry for him and he said, “No way.”
“We'll even front you a little money. Tell the boys in Montreal you can buy four, five kilos a month. Hell, you’ve been moving two, it’s not such a big stretch.”
“I’m not a rat.”
“You get a little higher up in the organization, you feed us enough info and you’ll walk. You might even get enough money to go out to Alberta, get yourself set up with a real job.”
Mickey looked interested, probably more about going to Alberta than a real job and Jerry said, “Or you could head out west and try dealing coke there, we don’t care.”
Mickey said, “No way, there’s no way,” and Jerry said, yeah there is, “It’s the only way.”
Then Jerry stood up and looked at Edwards and then Leonetti and said, “I don’t know, he’s probably too stupid to pull this off, let’s just let the boys in Montreal know what he’s doing, let them take care of him.”
Leonetti said, “Cheaper for us,” and Edwards said, “Would get rid of a dealer in our territory.”
Jerry looked at Mickey and said, “You think you could pull this off?”
“I set these guys up, you’re just going to screw it up anyway.”
“Then what do you care? You’re just going to try and double-cross us, aren’t you?”
Mickey said, no way, and Jerry started walking to towards the door, saying, “Oh yeah, this has success written all over it.” He stopped and looked back at the motel room, Leonetti and Edwards looking so young and eager and Mickey Goodwin sitting on the floor holding the bloody towel to his face and Jerry said, “Okay, set him up, you two are going to run him,” and walked out the door.
(Commercial break)
Wednesday, April 7, 2010
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
DSD Flash Challenge: Round Up
Okay, some great stories were posted today to tie into the DSD recession challenge.
This isn't an exhaustive list by any means, but check these guys out.
DSD Flash Challenge
By Jay Stringer
The Weddle already did a good job of introducing the challenge, and kicked it off with a great story. Click back to yesterday and read it, right now, okay?
Done?
Okay. Here's my story, and check back later in the day for others and for a round-up that gives links to other people taking part. If you've got one up on your blog, leave a link in the comments and we'll point people your way.
I think I'll return to this story over the next couple of weeks for a little 'behind the scenes' feature, showing the genesis, the original ending and the thought process behind the editing decisions. Might be fun.
The Perfect Crime
The thing about committing the perfect crime?
You need perfect criminals. And Dave just didn’t know any. Sure, he knew the guys who would try and sell him DVD’s and leather jackets down the pub on a Friday, but that didn’t seem to work.
Though, if you believed the ads at the cinema, those guys were funding terrorism.
But Dave had the perfect crime, or as close as he’d ever get, and he knew he wasn’t a criminal. Not really. He just needed some help, that’s all. Did that sound convincing? It should do, he’d practiced it enough.
It had come to him slowly. The idea itself was simple enough, but admitting that he wanted to do it was the hard part. He worked in the cashing office in the bookstore; it had been a cushy job, thirty-five hours a week, until people stopped buying books. Now he was lucky to get fifteen hours, with some really stupid shift patterns, and something needed to be done.
Just a break, one little moment when the world looked the other way. Not a lot to ask, right?
It went like this; Dave counted all the daily takings and noted it down on the spreadsheet. One of the managers or supervisors double counted it and then it was sealed in the Securitas bag for collection.
The Securitas guard would pick up twice a week and do a cash drop at the same time. Once on a Tuesday, once on a Friday. Here it got interesting. The guard would scan a barcode on the moneybag and place it in a sealed box. He didn’t count it- it wasn’t his job.
So, the way Dave saw it, who was to know if the contents of the bag changed in between the manager sealing it and the guard picking it up?
The bag would go into the central counting place, the bank, wherever, and at some point it would be opened and they’d know the money was gone. Everyone would still have done their job, nobody would get in trouble. What would happen?
Only one way to find out.
Again, perfect crime, perfect criminal, bloke down the pub.
There was Jelly, he seemed to know how things worked, but he was always looking for an angle. You couldn’t trust Jelly. And Bobby was fine, except when he got high. No, not bobby.
Just one answer. Like a bookshelf or a pot noodle, if in doubt do it yourself.
A simple plan. The best kind. Swap the bags out for new ones, weighted down with copper coins, twenty quid in one and two pence’s. Then head back out with the money, and head to a bar to meet up with friends and get loudly and publicly drunk. Even better, arrange to meet people from work. Best way to avoid suspicion, get drunk with the bastards. Sit there with the money, feeling good, feeling free.
Dave came up with an extra touch on the day, asking everyone at work if they’d seen his keys. Saying he couldn’t find them. That was going to be important.
So, eight PM. The store long closed. Dave sat in the cash office, in the dark, alone. The only sounds were the clock on the wall and the air conditioning above his head. These sounds, noises that he’d heard every day for years, suddenly seemed vitally important. They were the only thing to distract from the pounding of his heart or the blood in his ears.
He lifted the bags out of the safe and felt the weight.
Seven grand.
Seven grand.
Was it worth putting it all on the line for seven grand? There was a time when he’d have said it was more hassle than his job was worth. There was a time when he would have shut the safe again and walked away. But that time had gone.
Seven grand.
Fuck it.
He put the dummy bags into the safe, tucked the real ones into the pockets of his body warmer, which would be covered by his overcoat, and left the cash office. He didn’t stop and think as he locked the door. On the way out, he dropped his keys on the floor in the stockroom. Right where they’d be found, right where people would remember he must have dropped them, before saying he’d lost his keys. He didn’t offer up any prayers or apologies. He just moved. Fast.
Out into the rain that was starting, people laughing in the distance. The night starting for real, cigarette smoke on the air and the music blaring from the trendy bars. As he rounded the corner he saw two uniformed cops. They were stood either side of the alleyway he needed to walk down, within sight of his parked car.
They watched him as he approached. He smiled at them, closed his eyes and kept walking.
Breath.
Just this one break, please?
Monday, April 5, 2010
Hollow Pursuits
By Steve Weddle
Jay had the bright idea of running a flash challenge this week -- focusing on crime in the recession.
Seems like a great idea since the economy is poo, etc, etc.
Here's what Jay wrote earlier in the year ->
So this here is a DSD flash fiction challenge. And I’m giving you plenty of run up time on this; lets call the deadline Tuesday, April 6th. Just after we’ve all enjoyed the Easter weekend, that seems somehow fitting.
Let’s have your recession stories. The usual flash rules apply, length no more than 800-900 words (I’m looking at you, Weddle). Write about anything and everything, as long as it’s tied into the theme.
But then a funny thing happened on the way to the challenge. According to Scott's most recent post, the economy is fine. In fact, something like 93 million people lined up for the iPad this weekend. In case you're unfamiliar with the technology, you can use this box to read books. And for only $500. (Price of book not included.)
So I figured the whole bad economy flash thing was dead. Turns out, Jay still plans to go through with it. I guess he had the invitations sent and the contract with the caterer signed.
So here's my shot in this week's alleged-recession flash challenge. Enjoyz. And if you're in, link your entry up in the DSD comments tomorrow. Thanks for reading.
Hollow Pursuits
He was fifth in line at the store in Bethesda. Too far back for the newspaper and TV people to care. The “I Speak 1337” baseball cap and Spider Jerusalem hoodie might have been overkill, but he wanted to be sure he could fit in. And the hoodie was good for hiding what he needed in the big pocket. He took his flask out, had a swig of whiskey, took off his cap and set it aside.
Took his phone out of his pocket. Snapped some more pictures of people in line. Sent them to Jay.
He saw himself in the reflection of the storefront window. Hat-hair sweated down. Plastic, gas station sunglasses hiding his slimy, blurry eyes. Larry Sparrow looked tired. Like that bum he’d given his sandwich to a half-hour ago. His roommate Jay had wrapped him up an egg biscuit, but he’d grabbed a sausage one. One meant for one of the other guys. Since he’d given up meat, there really wasn’t much he could do about it, except be hungry.
A bright voice behind him. “So you’re here for this Jesus tablet, too?”
He turned to see a woman holding a voice recorder, pen behind her ear. Dirty blonde. Green-lensed sunglasses down on her nose. A nice smirky, smile saying maybe she was too good for this. Or thought she was.
He went into his spiel. “Very excited. This is really going to revolutionize everything.”
“What do you plan to use it for?”
Larry did the snorky little nose laugh he’d practiced. “What don’t I plan to use if for. Movies. Music. Reading. Email. It’s like the mother ship is calling me home.”
He wasn’t sure about that last line, but Jay had said throw it in when he could. Added to the act.
“Thanks,” she said. “Your name and where you’re from?”
He told her just like he’d told everyone. “Reginald Barclay. The third. From Endicott, Wisconsin.”
She popped her face back a little in surprise. “Long way from home?”
“Family,” he said, which seemed a good enough answer and hoping she didn’t hear his stomach growl.
“Oh, well OK. Thank you for your time,” she said, walking down the line. Then she stopped, turned back to him. “I hope you get your money’s worth.”
He sent a “thanks” her way and went back to taking pictures and sending them along. He took a shot of her, but clicked “Save” instead.
The store would open in another 30 minutes. His phone made the “Exterminate! Exterminate!” sound to let him know that Jay was sending him a message. He pulled out his phone, read the message, then called, thinking about the reporter he’d just talked to.
How her nose was a little crinkly. Little flecks of gold in her green eyes.
“How many more you gonna get?” Jay asked.
He agreed, then pulled his phone from his pocket and found her picture. As they walked to the sandwich shop, he clicked the “Delete” button.
Jay had the bright idea of running a flash challenge this week -- focusing on crime in the recession.
Seems like a great idea since the economy is poo, etc, etc.
Here's what Jay wrote earlier in the year ->
So this here is a DSD flash fiction challenge. And I’m giving you plenty of run up time on this; lets call the deadline Tuesday, April 6th. Just after we’ve all enjoyed the Easter weekend, that seems somehow fitting.
Let’s have your recession stories. The usual flash rules apply, length no more than 800-900 words (I’m looking at you, Weddle). Write about anything and everything, as long as it’s tied into the theme.
But then a funny thing happened on the way to the challenge. According to Scott's most recent post, the economy is fine. In fact, something like 93 million people lined up for the iPad this weekend. In case you're unfamiliar with the technology, you can use this box to read books. And for only $500. (Price of book not included.)
So I figured the whole bad economy flash thing was dead. Turns out, Jay still plans to go through with it. I guess he had the invitations sent and the contract with the caterer signed.
So here's my shot in this week's alleged-recession flash challenge. Enjoyz. And if you're in, link your entry up in the DSD comments tomorrow. Thanks for reading.
Hollow Pursuits
He was fifth in line at the store in Bethesda. Too far back for the newspaper and TV people to care. The “I Speak 1337” baseball cap and Spider Jerusalem hoodie might have been overkill, but he wanted to be sure he could fit in. And the hoodie was good for hiding what he needed in the big pocket. He took his flask out, had a swig of whiskey, took off his cap and set it aside.
Took his phone out of his pocket. Snapped some more pictures of people in line. Sent them to Jay.
He saw himself in the reflection of the storefront window. Hat-hair sweated down. Plastic, gas station sunglasses hiding his slimy, blurry eyes. Larry Sparrow looked tired. Like that bum he’d given his sandwich to a half-hour ago. His roommate Jay had wrapped him up an egg biscuit, but he’d grabbed a sausage one. One meant for one of the other guys. Since he’d given up meat, there really wasn’t much he could do about it, except be hungry.
A bright voice behind him. “So you’re here for this Jesus tablet, too?”
He turned to see a woman holding a voice recorder, pen behind her ear. Dirty blonde. Green-lensed sunglasses down on her nose. A nice smirky, smile saying maybe she was too good for this. Or thought she was.
He went into his spiel. “Very excited. This is really going to revolutionize everything.”
“What do you plan to use it for?”
Larry did the snorky little nose laugh he’d practiced. “What don’t I plan to use if for. Movies. Music. Reading. Email. It’s like the mother ship is calling me home.”
He wasn’t sure about that last line, but Jay had said throw it in when he could. Added to the act.
“Thanks,” she said. “Your name and where you’re from?”
He told her just like he’d told everyone. “Reginald Barclay. The third. From Endicott, Wisconsin.”
She popped her face back a little in surprise. “Long way from home?”
“Family,” he said, which seemed a good enough answer and hoping she didn’t hear his stomach growl.
“Oh, well OK. Thank you for your time,” she said, walking down the line. Then she stopped, turned back to him. “I hope you get your money’s worth.”
He sent a “thanks” her way and went back to taking pictures and sending them along. He took a shot of her, but clicked “Save” instead.
The store would open in another 30 minutes. His phone made the “Exterminate! Exterminate!” sound to let him know that Jay was sending him a message. He pulled out his phone, read the message, then called, thinking about the reporter he’d just talked to.
How her nose was a little crinkly. Little flecks of gold in her green eyes.
“How many more you gonna get?” Jay asked.
Larry thought about the past three years. The cons they’d pulled. The close calls they’d had. The fifty times in the last week he’d applied for real jobs.
“I’ve pretty much got everyone around here. The program working OK?”
“Yeah, man. Just like they said. Gotta love facial recognition.”
“Welcome to the future,” Larry said, looking around at the people in line. “And the team? Finding the addresses? Houses all cleared?”
“Yeah,” Jay laughed. “We were right. All these geeks in line for that tablet thing. Empty houses full of gadgets. Best idea you ever had.”
Larry was watching the reporter make her way down the line, talking to people and moving on.
“You OK with that?” Jay asked.
“What? Sorry. What was that?”
“Just head on out and give Terry the phone. He’ll get the rest of the stuff for later. He’s at the sandwich place on the corner.”
“Yeah, no problem. Couple minutes.”
Larry left his place, walked towards the back of the line. Pretended to talk on the phone, taking and sending pictures while he did. He saw the reporter on her phone. She was standing off to herself, holding the phone with one hand, running her other hand through her hair. She clicked off as Larry came up behind her.
“I’ve pretty much got everyone around here. The program working OK?”
“Yeah, man. Just like they said. Gotta love facial recognition.”
“Welcome to the future,” Larry said, looking around at the people in line. “And the team? Finding the addresses? Houses all cleared?”
“Yeah,” Jay laughed. “We were right. All these geeks in line for that tablet thing. Empty houses full of gadgets. Best idea you ever had.”
Larry was watching the reporter make her way down the line, talking to people and moving on.
“You OK with that?” Jay asked.
“What? Sorry. What was that?”
“Just head on out and give Terry the phone. He’ll get the rest of the stuff for later. He’s at the sandwich place on the corner.”
“Yeah, no problem. Couple minutes.”
Larry left his place, walked towards the back of the line. Pretended to talk on the phone, taking and sending pictures while he did. He saw the reporter on her phone. She was standing off to herself, holding the phone with one hand, running her other hand through her hair. She clicked off as Larry came up behind her.
When she turned, he was a couple of feet from her, trying to think of something to say.
“Story going to be OK,” he asked her.
“Just called it in,” she said. “At least it’s done.” She looked at him, then leaned around him to look at the front of the line. “You giving up your spot?”
“Yeah. Other stuff to do, you know. I’ll come back later.”
She smiled. “You want to get something eat? You look hungry.”
He laughed. His real laugh, this time. “I do, don’t I?”
“I saw what you did for that homeless man earlier.”
“Yeah.”
“Hard to find a nice guy these days.”
“I imagine it is.” He looked down the street. “You wanna get a sandwich over there?” He nodded to the store where Terry was waiting.
“Sure,” she said. “Can we get it to go? Walk with me to the park?”
“That sounds good.”
“It’s such a nice day out,” she said.
“Story going to be OK,” he asked her.
“Just called it in,” she said. “At least it’s done.” She looked at him, then leaned around him to look at the front of the line. “You giving up your spot?”
“Yeah. Other stuff to do, you know. I’ll come back later.”
She smiled. “You want to get something eat? You look hungry.”
He laughed. His real laugh, this time. “I do, don’t I?”
“I saw what you did for that homeless man earlier.”
“Yeah.”
“Hard to find a nice guy these days.”
“I imagine it is.” He looked down the street. “You wanna get a sandwich over there?” He nodded to the store where Terry was waiting.
“Sure,” she said. “Can we get it to go? Walk with me to the park?”
“That sounds good.”
“It’s such a nice day out,” she said.
He agreed, then pulled his phone from his pocket and found her picture. As they walked to the sandwich shop, he clicked the “Delete” button.
Sunday, April 4, 2010
No Such Thing as a Bad Dead Guy
Easter and Spring are both celebrations of renewal and resurrection, so I'd like to talk about death. Rather, I'd like to talk about the celebration of death in the form of obituaries.
I've chatted a few times here and other places recently that I've been feeling drained creatively. I haven't really wanted to write much and my reading has been dry as well. Then TV writer and former journalist David Mills died and I started reading about his life and work. I was familiar with him from his work on NYPD Blue and Homicide, but that was the extent of it. As I read the flurry of obituaries popping up after his death though, I found myself inspired by his work and his legacy. I've always been conscience of my writing legacy, write or wrong, and how I'll be remembered after I'm gone. So reading about what someone had accomplished during their life kind of kicked my as mentally and shook me out of my funk.
And if that wasn't good enough, Mills's cause of death was the same as RENT writer/composer Jonathan Larson so I went back and read up on his life and legacy which only served to further fuel my revitalization. So not only did I get this blog post out of the situation, I made some excellent progress on my Nero Wolfe contest short story, and also wrote a recession-based flash fiction story that I didn't think I'd have the mental focus to tackle.
This also has me itching to refill the rest of my tank. One of the reasons I think I've been lacking inspiration is because I haven;t been exposing myself to the things that used to feed my creativity. My writing has always been fueled by my reaction to other art. Before kids, before marriage, I used to watch movies, go to plays, go to dance recitals, look at paintings, and even dinosaur exhibits. All of it, and my reactions to it all, got socked away in my brain and mixed with the goo in my subconscious then trickled out in stories and novels for several years. But now I think I've tapped out that reserve and it's time to restock the cupboard.
So how do you all fill your tank? Even if you're not a writer, do you find it necessary in life to be exposed to art and culture?
I've chatted a few times here and other places recently that I've been feeling drained creatively. I haven't really wanted to write much and my reading has been dry as well. Then TV writer and former journalist David Mills died and I started reading about his life and work. I was familiar with him from his work on NYPD Blue and Homicide, but that was the extent of it. As I read the flurry of obituaries popping up after his death though, I found myself inspired by his work and his legacy. I've always been conscience of my writing legacy, write or wrong, and how I'll be remembered after I'm gone. So reading about what someone had accomplished during their life kind of kicked my as mentally and shook me out of my funk.
And if that wasn't good enough, Mills's cause of death was the same as RENT writer/composer Jonathan Larson so I went back and read up on his life and legacy which only served to further fuel my revitalization. So not only did I get this blog post out of the situation, I made some excellent progress on my Nero Wolfe contest short story, and also wrote a recession-based flash fiction story that I didn't think I'd have the mental focus to tackle.
This also has me itching to refill the rest of my tank. One of the reasons I think I've been lacking inspiration is because I haven;t been exposing myself to the things that used to feed my creativity. My writing has always been fueled by my reaction to other art. Before kids, before marriage, I used to watch movies, go to plays, go to dance recitals, look at paintings, and even dinosaur exhibits. All of it, and my reactions to it all, got socked away in my brain and mixed with the goo in my subconscious then trickled out in stories and novels for several years. But now I think I've tapped out that reserve and it's time to restock the cupboard.
So how do you all fill your tank? Even if you're not a writer, do you find it necessary in life to be exposed to art and culture?
Saturday, April 3, 2010
The iPad: Is it medium or is it the message?
by
Scott D. Parker
The iPad drops today. In case you haven’t heard, it’s the Savior of the Publishing Industry. Or so you’d be led to believe (and the publishers hope). The iPad’s e-reading capabilities are one of the top selling features of the machine as well as the new iBookstore. Marvel Comics has a comic-reading app I seriously want see. I could easily envision myself reading more comics using a device like this. The same for magazines. And, yes, I would pay for subscriptions.
For all the acolytes of the iPad, there are a number of doubters about the e-reading capabilities of the iPad. Stephen King, in his column for Entertainment Weekly, thinks that there’s a “not-thereness” to e-reading. Cory Doctorow doesn’t like the device too much, not for the e-reading aspect, but for the closed-shop nature of the iPad.
All of this chatter about e-reading and e-books and e-magazines and e-comics got me to thinking about something fundamental. Both Chris and Mike commented on it last week. Lots of people want the artifact, the proof of purchase, if you will, the proof that you’ve experienced the Whatever (i.e., the reading of a book; the watching of a movie; the hearing of music).
When you buy a book and read it, you have the proof, right there on the shelf. The more books you read, the more artifacts you have on your shelf. For many people, myself included, a home isn’t a home until I have bookshelves full of books.
In one way of looking at it, however, books are like the t-shirt you buy at a rock concert. When a rock show really thrilled me, I used to buy the t-shirt (the medium) and wear it the next day. Then, folks would see my t-shirt and ask about the show. I’d extol them with every guitar lick, brass line, and light trick (the message). The shirt (along with the ticket stub) was my artifact, my way of remembering the experience of the concert.
The internet in general, and blogging in particular, changes this equation and the medium. My “concert t-shirt” is my review of something I experienced. It’s a way for me to explain why I liked/disliked something. Likewise, when y’all read my stuff, we can get into a conversation and discover new ways to think about common things.
Blogs are not published (in a traditional sense). They are published in a new sense. They are posted with a time and date stamp. They’re out for everyone and anyone to read. They are digital, etherial, not there. I can’t autograph a particular post I wrote that you really liked. All you can do is tell me you liked it and why and then tell others. Coming up on Tuesday here at Do Some Damage, we have a flash fiction challenge. Those stories will be published but there will be no artifact for your bookshelf. And you’ll be reading them on your computer. There’s no way around it. I’ll guarantee you that you’ll read at least one story that’ll make your day.
Folks who frequent libraries don’t have artifacts either. I’m a library power user. Like some who commented on my main blog this week, I know the librarians’ names and they know mine. It’s wonderful. I can assuage my thirst for wide variety of tastes in music, movies, and books. I can try something before I decide to it. More than once, I’ve purchased something that I first read from the library.
But if the story you’ve experienced (by reading/watching/listening) is something special, having the artifact isn’t always required. Is it? I just finished reading China Mieville’s Perdido Street Station. It blew my mind. It’s going to go down as one of those pivotal books in my reading life. I don’t have the artifact. I checked out the book from the library and listened to most of it as an audio file. Yet, I still have the experience. It’s internal and special, only to me. I can share why I liked it so much but I don’t need the artifact to do that.
This is a ironic post, to be honest. Here I am, a yet-to-be-traditionally-published author, one who hopes you’ll buy my books in the future, talking about why physical artifacts are not really necessary. I don’t think they are. The story is the key. Who cares about the delivery device? I think the savvy author in this decade and this century needs to be fluent in different delivery methods. Up until the internet, books had cornered the delivery device market. Now, in the 2000s, the delivery devices are expanding and also fragmenting. We writers have to write a damn good story. Period. That’s the fundamental rule. It’s only later we’ll have to figure out how to get it to the eyes and ears of all our readers. Some readers will want the artifact. For them, there are books, a medium that will never die. Some won’t care. For them, e-reading or audiobooks are the way.
Despite what Marshall McLuhan says, the medium (i.e., the artifact) isn’t always the message. Sometimes, the message (i.e., the story) is the message.
But not today. Today, with the iPad, the medium *is* the message.
Scott D. Parker
The iPad drops today. In case you haven’t heard, it’s the Savior of the Publishing Industry. Or so you’d be led to believe (and the publishers hope). The iPad’s e-reading capabilities are one of the top selling features of the machine as well as the new iBookstore. Marvel Comics has a comic-reading app I seriously want see. I could easily envision myself reading more comics using a device like this. The same for magazines. And, yes, I would pay for subscriptions.
For all the acolytes of the iPad, there are a number of doubters about the e-reading capabilities of the iPad. Stephen King, in his column for Entertainment Weekly, thinks that there’s a “not-thereness” to e-reading. Cory Doctorow doesn’t like the device too much, not for the e-reading aspect, but for the closed-shop nature of the iPad.
All of this chatter about e-reading and e-books and e-magazines and e-comics got me to thinking about something fundamental. Both Chris and Mike commented on it last week. Lots of people want the artifact, the proof of purchase, if you will, the proof that you’ve experienced the Whatever (i.e., the reading of a book; the watching of a movie; the hearing of music).
When you buy a book and read it, you have the proof, right there on the shelf. The more books you read, the more artifacts you have on your shelf. For many people, myself included, a home isn’t a home until I have bookshelves full of books.
In one way of looking at it, however, books are like the t-shirt you buy at a rock concert. When a rock show really thrilled me, I used to buy the t-shirt (the medium) and wear it the next day. Then, folks would see my t-shirt and ask about the show. I’d extol them with every guitar lick, brass line, and light trick (the message). The shirt (along with the ticket stub) was my artifact, my way of remembering the experience of the concert.
The internet in general, and blogging in particular, changes this equation and the medium. My “concert t-shirt” is my review of something I experienced. It’s a way for me to explain why I liked/disliked something. Likewise, when y’all read my stuff, we can get into a conversation and discover new ways to think about common things.
Blogs are not published (in a traditional sense). They are published in a new sense. They are posted with a time and date stamp. They’re out for everyone and anyone to read. They are digital, etherial, not there. I can’t autograph a particular post I wrote that you really liked. All you can do is tell me you liked it and why and then tell others. Coming up on Tuesday here at Do Some Damage, we have a flash fiction challenge. Those stories will be published but there will be no artifact for your bookshelf. And you’ll be reading them on your computer. There’s no way around it. I’ll guarantee you that you’ll read at least one story that’ll make your day.
Folks who frequent libraries don’t have artifacts either. I’m a library power user. Like some who commented on my main blog this week, I know the librarians’ names and they know mine. It’s wonderful. I can assuage my thirst for wide variety of tastes in music, movies, and books. I can try something before I decide to it. More than once, I’ve purchased something that I first read from the library.
But if the story you’ve experienced (by reading/watching/listening) is something special, having the artifact isn’t always required. Is it? I just finished reading China Mieville’s Perdido Street Station. It blew my mind. It’s going to go down as one of those pivotal books in my reading life. I don’t have the artifact. I checked out the book from the library and listened to most of it as an audio file. Yet, I still have the experience. It’s internal and special, only to me. I can share why I liked it so much but I don’t need the artifact to do that.
This is a ironic post, to be honest. Here I am, a yet-to-be-traditionally-published author, one who hopes you’ll buy my books in the future, talking about why physical artifacts are not really necessary. I don’t think they are. The story is the key. Who cares about the delivery device? I think the savvy author in this decade and this century needs to be fluent in different delivery methods. Up until the internet, books had cornered the delivery device market. Now, in the 2000s, the delivery devices are expanding and also fragmenting. We writers have to write a damn good story. Period. That’s the fundamental rule. It’s only later we’ll have to figure out how to get it to the eyes and ears of all our readers. Some readers will want the artifact. For them, there are books, a medium that will never die. Some won’t care. For them, e-reading or audiobooks are the way.
Despite what Marshall McLuhan says, the medium (i.e., the artifact) isn’t always the message. Sometimes, the message (i.e., the story) is the message.
But not today. Today, with the iPad, the medium *is* the message.
Friday, April 2, 2010
Everyone's a Critic
By Russel D McLean
Those of you who don’t know, as well as writing short stories, when I started out in the crime fiction world, I also did a lot of reviews. I still do, although my style of reviewing is very particular and rather detailed, so I tend not to go as fast as I did in the days before my own deadlines.
But reviews are funny things. When I first started out, I was very kind. I swiftly realised that even when you try to be nice, you still get in trouble. Like the author who wrote what was probably one of the most clichéd and appalling serial killer books I ever read. Who I was very kind to in the review (this was when I was starting out) all things considered, but took me to task because I said that her serial killer was no Hannibal Lecter. “He’s not supposed to be – he’s Ted Bundy!” came the outraged reply along with a piece about how some reviewers just “don’t get it”. Just as well I never put in the parts about the clunky dialogue, the unbelievable sentence construction and the horrendously clichéd plot. From any angle, these were problems with the work, but back then I was too young and timid to acknowledge that I was probably right on these matters.
Actually, this experience taught me to be more honest in my reviews, to find an approach that felt natural for me and to hell with people’s egos.
I approached the idea from a slightly academic standpoint. What I was taught during my postgrad in philosophy about reviewing was this: try and understand what a work is trying to do, and then argue whether it is successful.
It’s a maxim that informs all my reviewing. I have my personal tastes, but what I try to do is remain objective. I try to figure out what the author was trying to do and work from there, give over my honest reaction as a reader who wanted to engage with the text, to lose themselves in the author’s world.
A successful approach?
I like to think so. Of course, sometimes it gets me in trouble. A few people pulled me aside for a review I once gave that said the author was a fine writer but came unstuck with a frankly unbelievable conclusion to what had been a very grounded tale up until the implausible third act. I said, “But I fully admitted in the review that the book was well written, and the characters developed, but this ending just felt so out of left field and unlikely that it left a slightly strange aftertaste; I didn't believe it because of the set up that preceeded.”. But, no, I was being critical. And this, for some folks any criticism is a no-no.*
The truth is that these days I will rarely review a book I hated. Just because there’s no point. I will criticise novels, of course. I know – especially after that early experience – that trying to be relentlessly positive isn’t my bag. And I think if you wear your heart on your sleeve, readers - and its for readers that reviewers review, not neccasarily the authors - react to that, and know when to take your word and when they'll probably disagree with you. I have been emailed by a few authors thanking me for an “honest appraisal” of their work, and its true; if there are faults, I will point them out, but I try to remain balanced while doing so. The worst thing a reviewer can do is be spiteful. Yes, you can say a book is bad, but only if you can come up with genuine reasons why. One of the trends I hate in certain revioewing circles is the self-congratulatory put-down that is intended to show the reviewer's wit rather than honestly appraise the novel.
A couple years back a reviewer friend of mine got into trouble for doing a semi-negative review of a book everyone loved. Some nasty things were said over the review which was – while I didn’t agree with it – a valid review. It was not nasty for the sake of it, and every time a negative point was made it was backed up with examples and readings of said examples. Again, I didn’t agree, but I could understand the other reviewer’s point of view. But then, maybe you have to be or have been a reviewer to understand that. I am amazed by how many reviewers, at least in my circles, email each other asking, "Am I being harsh?"
Here’s the thing; if we can’t, as writers, take professional - or even semi-professional - criticism, how the hell are we going to deal with those readers who don’t like our work? The ones who post those incredible one star reviews on Amazon? Who shout from the rooftops (and the blogs) their insane unformed opinions? Or even the professional reviewers who are genuinely unhinged?** God forbid, how will we deal with editors, as in the ones who do their job?
Criticism is a necessary part of the artistic process, of the continuing conversation between artist and observer, writer and reader. It is not always going to be pleasant. But it should be informed, civil and freed from the ego of the reviewer. I am, of course, talking ideals here, and even I probably don’t always meet them, but I try my best and that is all we ask of any reviewer. That they react honestly to a text.
And, hey, if you do get a few stinky reviews, laugh it up. Brad Meltzer's clearly got the hang of dealing with his critics:
*I review for at least one market who asks for positive reviews, but my arrangement there is that any book I can’t be positive about, I don’t review. Its simple as that. I won’t lie just to increase book sales. And in fact, I believe that lack of honesty in some reviews is what leads to jaded readers.
**Like a certain reviewer who has taken on 2 members of DSD and taken swipes at them in the most ill-informed and idiotic manner fuelled by genre prejudices and personal hang-ups.
Those of you who don’t know, as well as writing short stories, when I started out in the crime fiction world, I also did a lot of reviews. I still do, although my style of reviewing is very particular and rather detailed, so I tend not to go as fast as I did in the days before my own deadlines.
But reviews are funny things. When I first started out, I was very kind. I swiftly realised that even when you try to be nice, you still get in trouble. Like the author who wrote what was probably one of the most clichéd and appalling serial killer books I ever read. Who I was very kind to in the review (this was when I was starting out) all things considered, but took me to task because I said that her serial killer was no Hannibal Lecter. “He’s not supposed to be – he’s Ted Bundy!” came the outraged reply along with a piece about how some reviewers just “don’t get it”. Just as well I never put in the parts about the clunky dialogue, the unbelievable sentence construction and the horrendously clichéd plot. From any angle, these were problems with the work, but back then I was too young and timid to acknowledge that I was probably right on these matters.
Actually, this experience taught me to be more honest in my reviews, to find an approach that felt natural for me and to hell with people’s egos.
I approached the idea from a slightly academic standpoint. What I was taught during my postgrad in philosophy about reviewing was this: try and understand what a work is trying to do, and then argue whether it is successful.
It’s a maxim that informs all my reviewing. I have my personal tastes, but what I try to do is remain objective. I try to figure out what the author was trying to do and work from there, give over my honest reaction as a reader who wanted to engage with the text, to lose themselves in the author’s world.
A successful approach?
I like to think so. Of course, sometimes it gets me in trouble. A few people pulled me aside for a review I once gave that said the author was a fine writer but came unstuck with a frankly unbelievable conclusion to what had been a very grounded tale up until the implausible third act. I said, “But I fully admitted in the review that the book was well written, and the characters developed, but this ending just felt so out of left field and unlikely that it left a slightly strange aftertaste; I didn't believe it because of the set up that preceeded.”. But, no, I was being critical. And this, for some folks any criticism is a no-no.*
The truth is that these days I will rarely review a book I hated. Just because there’s no point. I will criticise novels, of course. I know – especially after that early experience – that trying to be relentlessly positive isn’t my bag. And I think if you wear your heart on your sleeve, readers - and its for readers that reviewers review, not neccasarily the authors - react to that, and know when to take your word and when they'll probably disagree with you. I have been emailed by a few authors thanking me for an “honest appraisal” of their work, and its true; if there are faults, I will point them out, but I try to remain balanced while doing so. The worst thing a reviewer can do is be spiteful. Yes, you can say a book is bad, but only if you can come up with genuine reasons why. One of the trends I hate in certain revioewing circles is the self-congratulatory put-down that is intended to show the reviewer's wit rather than honestly appraise the novel.
A couple years back a reviewer friend of mine got into trouble for doing a semi-negative review of a book everyone loved. Some nasty things were said over the review which was – while I didn’t agree with it – a valid review. It was not nasty for the sake of it, and every time a negative point was made it was backed up with examples and readings of said examples. Again, I didn’t agree, but I could understand the other reviewer’s point of view. But then, maybe you have to be or have been a reviewer to understand that. I am amazed by how many reviewers, at least in my circles, email each other asking, "Am I being harsh?"
Here’s the thing; if we can’t, as writers, take professional - or even semi-professional - criticism, how the hell are we going to deal with those readers who don’t like our work? The ones who post those incredible one star reviews on Amazon? Who shout from the rooftops (and the blogs) their insane unformed opinions? Or even the professional reviewers who are genuinely unhinged?** God forbid, how will we deal with editors, as in the ones who do their job?
Criticism is a necessary part of the artistic process, of the continuing conversation between artist and observer, writer and reader. It is not always going to be pleasant. But it should be informed, civil and freed from the ego of the reviewer. I am, of course, talking ideals here, and even I probably don’t always meet them, but I try my best and that is all we ask of any reviewer. That they react honestly to a text.
And, hey, if you do get a few stinky reviews, laugh it up. Brad Meltzer's clearly got the hang of dealing with his critics:
*I review for at least one market who asks for positive reviews, but my arrangement there is that any book I can’t be positive about, I don’t review. Its simple as that. I won’t lie just to increase book sales. And in fact, I believe that lack of honesty in some reviews is what leads to jaded readers.
**Like a certain reviewer who has taken on 2 members of DSD and taken swipes at them in the most ill-informed and idiotic manner fuelled by genre prejudices and personal hang-ups.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
Teachers
by Dave White
I have a theory.
From what I've seen written and heard said, people who are successful rarely remember the good teachers they've had. They remember the teachers who tried to "hold them back" or suggested they couldn't do something.
They remember the bad things. And they use that motivation to get to where they are now.
But in order to get where one is in life, you have to have good teachers. Someone has to help guide you through life, preparing you for what's coming, and teach you something you didn't know.
In my life, I'd say I had more good teachers than bad teachers. I learned a lot in school, and have been inspired and pushed to do something special by more than one. Even the bad teachers I had taught me something. They all helped turn me into a productive member of society.
I teach now. I'm trying to give back to the community as well.
And if there's one thing I know, it's this: Teachers are important.
They are not a group that can be walked over and stepped on, despite the fact people try. People in the private sector like to say we don't work hard or enough, and we're paid too much.
People in the private sector have no idea what we go through. School has changed, and most of us are not the teacher that you hated. We're the one that you've forgotten. The teacher you loved.
Most of us try to get to each and everyone of our students. Most of us try to get students motivated, get them to look at life a new way.
We are not in it for the paycheck.
That's not to say we don't deserve a paycheck. Because we do. We helped make you what you are now. There should be a price tag on that.
Cops help. They should make more money.
Fire Fighters help. They should make more money.
Teachers influence and inspire.
I know the economy is rough right now. I know this is a bad times to be asking for this. But when the economy turns and people in the private sector start collecting bonuses again and making money hand over fist...they'll still believe cops, firefighters, and teachers are paid too much.
There are people who are bad at every job. There are bad teachers, cops, firefighters. Bad writers. Bad governors. Bad businessmen. Bad athletes.
But the majority of people try hard, work hard, and earn their money.
So, I'm sorry if this isn't specifically crime fiction related today. But I have to say, without teachers, I wouldn't be a crime fiction writer.
Without teachers, I wouldn't know what to do.
Teachers are not a blight on society. They are not the dredge of society. They should be honored for what they do.
I hope you pepper the comments section with memories of your favorite teachers.
I have a theory.
From what I've seen written and heard said, people who are successful rarely remember the good teachers they've had. They remember the teachers who tried to "hold them back" or suggested they couldn't do something.
They remember the bad things. And they use that motivation to get to where they are now.
But in order to get where one is in life, you have to have good teachers. Someone has to help guide you through life, preparing you for what's coming, and teach you something you didn't know.
In my life, I'd say I had more good teachers than bad teachers. I learned a lot in school, and have been inspired and pushed to do something special by more than one. Even the bad teachers I had taught me something. They all helped turn me into a productive member of society.
I teach now. I'm trying to give back to the community as well.
And if there's one thing I know, it's this: Teachers are important.
They are not a group that can be walked over and stepped on, despite the fact people try. People in the private sector like to say we don't work hard or enough, and we're paid too much.
People in the private sector have no idea what we go through. School has changed, and most of us are not the teacher that you hated. We're the one that you've forgotten. The teacher you loved.
Most of us try to get to each and everyone of our students. Most of us try to get students motivated, get them to look at life a new way.
We are not in it for the paycheck.
That's not to say we don't deserve a paycheck. Because we do. We helped make you what you are now. There should be a price tag on that.
Cops help. They should make more money.
Fire Fighters help. They should make more money.
Teachers influence and inspire.
I know the economy is rough right now. I know this is a bad times to be asking for this. But when the economy turns and people in the private sector start collecting bonuses again and making money hand over fist...they'll still believe cops, firefighters, and teachers are paid too much.
There are people who are bad at every job. There are bad teachers, cops, firefighters. Bad writers. Bad governors. Bad businessmen. Bad athletes.
But the majority of people try hard, work hard, and earn their money.
So, I'm sorry if this isn't specifically crime fiction related today. But I have to say, without teachers, I wouldn't be a crime fiction writer.
Without teachers, I wouldn't know what to do.
Teachers are not a blight on society. They are not the dredge of society. They should be honored for what they do.
I hope you pepper the comments section with memories of your favorite teachers.
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