Gaiman, Neil Gaiman -- A Review

The problem with a new book by an author I particularly like, is that I expect it to be like the other books by that author. Even when I know it’s going to be different. Neil Gaiman’s Trigger Warning is very different from the other Gaiman books I’ve read.

It’s a collection of short fiction, and I’ve only read his novels. Already I’m in unfamiliar territory. But with Neil Gaiman it’s always unfamiliar territory. He writes fairy tales and myths for grownups. If you haven’t read him before, let me recommend Stardust, then Good Omens (which he did with Terry Pratchett,) and American Gods. Each is very different from the other, but they all do the same good things. They take you on exciting journeys, provide you with interesting companions, and never, ever do the expected.

He’s also written numerous children’s books including Coraline, which I love, and The Day I Swapped My Dad for Two Goldfish, which I gave to my youngest grandchild Silas. The Ocean at the End of the Lane was for oldest Martha. And a copy of Stardust for the middle grandchild John Riley. All three were signed by Mr. Gaiman last February. That book-signing was certainly memorable – all properly documented in a blog post. See Neil Gaiman Book Signing.

Trigger Warning starts out with a lengthy introduction which I skipped after only the tiniest taste. I’m a cut-to-the-chase kind of woman. What he thinks, what inspires him, where each story was first published or aired (in the case of the Doctor Who episodes) these are of interest to many, but I’m here for the stories.

The first two stories just didn’t do it for me. I was on the verge of disappointment. But the third? The third was the Neil Gaiman I love. “The Thing about Cassandra” is a story about a very commonplace happening in a man’s past. Or was it commonplace? Did it happen? It’s that little zone in your mind, the thinnest of lines between reality and memory that we all have. And I was hooked.

The next Gaiman book on my to-read list is Ocean at the End of the Lane. Maybe I can borrow it from my granddaughter.

Friends! -- flash fiction

Meredith Johnson Davis George came home Friday night after being on travel for a week. He didn’t
              say a word. Just went into his office and closed the door. I made a good dinner and
              poured him a glass of his favorite wine. He drank the wine but didn’t even taste the steak.
              It’s been two days. He won’t talk to me. He hardly even looks at me. I don’t think I can
              stand much more of this.

      Mark Danforth, Lillian Jones, and 14 others like this.

Ruby Collins Just remember BFF. It’s him, not you.

Bess Davis He did me the same way before we were divorced. About the time he met you.

Keith-Sarah Johnson Okay, sis. What did you do?

Gwen Black I told you. They’re all alike. Call me. I’ll give you the name of my attorney. I’ve used                him every time and he’s good.

Marybeth Grogan George is a good man. Give him another chance. You’re in my prayers.

Leland Laughton You cudda pikkd me.

David Zosk, DDS As your friend and George’s dentist, let me assure you he is not having an affair.

                 And he’s not leaving you. I am restricted by HIPPA from saying anything specific. But
                 I am seeing him tomorrow and he should be back to his normal self tomorrow evening.
                 I recommend a soft diet for a few days.

An Educator

My parents were natural educators. I didn’t know that until I got to watch them in action with my children. When John and Grace were still arm babies, my dad would carry them around his place showing them trees and plants and animals, both domesticated and wild. I doubt they remember learning which is a box elder. Or not to touch poison ivy. Or that goats don’t like the rain. As far as they know, they’ve always known.

My mother helped teach them to read, first because she read. Then because there was comfort reading side-by-side with her. She taught them the joy of watching young ones grow and learn. Baby goats, baby chickens, baby flowers and vegetables.

“Plants?” you ask.

“Yes. Plants,” I say. The yellow rose, climbing on a trellis. The peach tree, espaliered against the barn’s north wall. The strange little bonsai lemon tree.

I guess the plants were more trained than educated, since they did not learn how to grow. Learning does require a certain amount of choice and the plants had none.

So maybe the babies were not learning, either. Since they were too young to choose. Have I written myself into a thought quagmire? Make an assertion then in the next few paragraphs prove myself wrong?

Where was I?

Ah, yes. An Educator.

We all learn in different ways. As an anarchist by nature, I don’t take well to training. Rules turn me to rebellion. Maybe that’s why English suits me so well.

“But English is full of rules,” you might say. “I before E. No double negatives. Do not end a sentence with a preposition. Et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.”

And you would be absolutely right. But the joy in English – and rules, in general – is that they are so easily broken.

The way I learn best is to be given a question rather than an answer.

Now you know why I rail at postulates in geometry and self-improvement and how-to books in the library.

So what have I done to learn how to write creative nonfiction? I bought how-to books. There are so many. You can make a steadier living writing how-to-write books than you can by writing. Kind of like a lawyer getting steadier checks if he’s elected judge.

There are probably how-to books out there that could educate even me. The ones I got are not them. These, instead, make me want to go back to fiction and stay there.

Then I found Touchstone Anthology of Contemporary Creative Nonfiction, edited by Lex Williford and Michael Martone. This is not a how-to. It’s a they-did. It has creative nonfiction from David Sedaris and Amy Tan and Barbara Kingsolver and so many others. The stories remind me of Bailey White and Baxter Black. And my friend Daniel Alexander (who writes fiction so real I know those folks.)

Their creative nonfiction is not journalism. It is not vignettes about famous people. It’s not memoir too much about themselves. It’s about regular people they know. Characters they love, maybe not like you love your children, or your spouse, or your favorite teacher. But characters you’ve run across in your own real life whom you remember. Maybe with a touch of anger, or a tear, or a laugh.

They were someone you learned something from because they made you ask yourself a question about you. They were an educator.

Discovery, Despair, Dead, Done.

“Good morning,” my husband said.

“Creative Nonfiction has to be true,” I replied.

He put down his reader and looked at me in that patient-I’m-gonna-point-out-the-painfully-obvious way he has and he said, “That’s why they call it nonfiction.”

Epiphanies before coffee are not pleasant.

Let me explain. My daughter Grace, who is a talented writer, is taking a creative writing course at a local college. She writes “literary.” She’s good at it. She wants to be awarded a Pulitzer one day. And to be honest, there’s a good chance she will be.

Ah, to be “honest.” There’s the rub.

I’ve been telling stories my whole life. Some of them, I’ve been telling so long I think they’re true.

I have only ever considered writing nonfiction during moments of greed. Nonfiction sells better. Or during the rare psychotic break, when delusions of grandeur tell me I can write the definitive biography of Dr. Angie Debo.

Grace believes I can write anything she wants me to and right now she is studying creative nonfiction and is enthralled with it. She’s grown up with my stories and loves them. (She’s a good daughter.)

Last Friday I wrote a favorite story from my childhood. It was good. It was better than good, it was grand! It would be accepted on the first submission. Readers would await my next nonfiction story with bated breath. There would be a book, a collection of my recollections.

Then serious questions arose. Should I use real names? If I do, will I be accosted at the local Walmart by an angry relative? Or sued by an angry relative of someone in the story?

I ordered books. They came yesterday, only a week after I wrote the story. Lee Gutkind’s You Can't Make This Stuff Up has an index of words so I cut right to the chase, page 37. “If a person is identifiable . . . you are not shielded from litigation.” Even if you change the name.

Then comes a section he heads “Libel, Defamation, and Writing About the Dead.” I’m saved. I’m the only one in the story still alive.

But – there’s always a but isn’t there – he goes on to say “be honest, accurate, and ever so careful.” He uses words like “fact check” and “ethical” and “legal” and “moral.” He tells frightening stories about journalists and novelists, and biographers who were “caught.”

Okay. My dad’s still alive and he knew all these people in my creative nonfiction. So I asked him, “Do you remember So-and-so?”

He did.

“Was he the local Such-and-so?”

Daddy laughed. “No. He was the depot agent for the railroad.”

Discovery. Despair. That piece of creative nonfiction is Dead. And I’m Done.

But wait. It’s a good story. It’s just not true. I can Deal with that.

Character Building -- An Essay

While I went about my daily business after posting yesterday’s “Briers and Brambles,” I couldn’t get the character out of my mind.

I often write flash fiction to practice some aspect of writing – world building, dialog, scene setting. Rather like an artist does studies of hands or ears or faces.

Yesterday was an exercise in tension building. At least that was the intent. As it turns out, there was the beginning of a character in that piece. A character that I think I’m going to like. At first I thought she’d make a great protagonist for a detective novel. Maybe a whole series of novels. Do I sound like a writer or what?

She was alive in today’s world. But I don’t write in today’s world. I write sci-fi/murder mysteries. I built my world in Murder on Ceres. It’s fully populated with characters I find interesting and satisfying. Dead and Gone is my next novel, currently a work in progress, as they say. It has the same characters in the same world. I didn’t need another character. There’s a new antagonist, but considering what happened to the antagonist in Murder on Ceres, that’s to be expected. 

So I put this woman out of mind. After all, I had important real world activities to perform – dishes to wash, appointments to schedule, an expired auto license plate to renew.

But she wouldn’t go away. So I'm giving her a chance to adjust to my world. She’ll have to move to the Denver Region and to the future where civilization is centered in shiny metal cylinders orbiting Mars. Can she give up her attachment to the Colt 45 Automatic, Model 1911? She’s just old fashioned. But is she too old fashioned?

Any new character sends me back to the basics I learned from William Bernhardt. He writes thrillers and other things. Most importantly for me, he teaches and he’s written The Red Sneaker Writers Book Series. And more particularly, Creating Character: Bringing Your Story to Life. (Available from Amazon. Click here.)

Its Appendix A: Character Detail Sheet is a revelatory exercise. I’ve learned that my new character was born on Earth; her name is Madeleine Denise – a name she hates; she’s generally brown like most people on Earth at this time; she doesn’t suffer fools; and she’s a damn good cop.

Look out Joe and Rafe and Terren. There’s a new character on the block.

Briers and Brambles -- Flash Fiction

Brilliant veins of light slashed across the sky drowning her night vision. A double crack of thunder and the smell of ozone told her it hit close. She closed her eyes to recover sight. She pressed her back against the glass and steel wall, a mail drop box the only thing between her and the empty street. She held her gun tight against her right leg.

Wind whipped rain washed across the street. It blew under the bill of her cap, cold on her face.

Had he gone underground? That’s what she’d do. Only one access point for him to watch. He’d see her, if she followed. And she had to follow. The subway went wherever he wanted to go. She’d never stop him.

Another flash of light and deafening crack of thunder, but she was ready. Head down slightly, her Yankees cap shading her eyes enough. Gran was wrong about Yankees. Sometimes they did do some good.

Someone moved west from the subway entrance, staying close to the building. Was that him? She couldn’t tell. Too much rain.

Gran was wrong about rain, too. She always said, “You should take it and be glad for it, ‘cause come August it’ll stop.”

The man crossed to her side of the street. Too big. It wasn’t him. He tried to look everywhere at once. That was good. That meant he hadn’t seen her. She didn’t move. Stillness made her invisible.

More movement going east from the subway. That was him. She was sure of it. But who was the big guy?

She couldn’t hide in the shadows and let that little son of a bitch get away.

Gran was right about life and her.

She felt the hard steel in her right hand and tensed, ready to run. Big guy or no big guy. Rain or no rain.

“Life’s full of briers and brambles, Sugar Pie. But you’re no balloon.”

Again?

Again?

“Again?” I ask as the telephone rings and I step out of the shower. Sure enough. It’s a number I don’t recognize. The robotic voice urgently informs me that my car’s extended warranty has expired. Really? It’s only twelve years old. Disconnect.

“Again?” I ask as the dog stands gazing expectantly at the back door. But I just sat down. Can I ignore her for a moment? Can she wait for that moment? What are the possible consequences to my sitting a little longer? “You are such a good dog. Get off the porch.”

“Again?” And this one’s from a collection agency. I have telephoned. I have written sending photocopies that prove I do not owe them $10.46. I know it’s not much money, but I don’t owe it. They think eventually I’ll just pay it to get them off my back. A collection agency for $10.46? How much are they spending to try to collect $10.46? “Dear Sir,” I write. “Enclosed, please find photocopies of Explanations of Benefits showing that I do not owe $10.46 for these services.”

“Again?” But it was 80 degrees yesterday. It’s supposed to be in the 70’s today. And they say snow tomorrow night and Friday morning. “Wherefore art thou, Spring?”

“You look like you could use a hug,” he says.

“Yes, please.”

“You smell good,” he says.

“Again? Please.” I ask while he still holds me.