ANOTHER "TREASURE" FOUND

It's large - 31 1/2" X 25" - written (I think) on sheepskin vellum - and old - 1821. Do you know what it is? Find out at "Vicksburg's Treasures."

ALL FICTION IS BIOGRAPHY?

Sure. Ray Bradbury visited Mars before he wrote "The Martian Chronicles," didn't he? And L. Ron Hubbard certainly visited the year 3000 before writing "Battlefield Earth." No, human imagination and creativity enable anyone to write a few lines - or even volumes - about events or circumstances they could never have possibly encountered. I am certainly no expert on matters authorial, but when I first started writing short stories I wasn't sure if I could create anything of value (either for myself or others), so, not knowing upon what subject matter to write, I did that very thing - I imagined and created. Here's an example from the little book I published several years ago about a wannabe author and a spider who has been covertly "suckin' my blood:"

...Buford placed his pointed elbows on the desk for a last look before dealing the spider his fate, and in so doing bumped the hardback Hemingway novel, which, water stained and warped and perched precariously anyway, fell to the floor. "Great balls o’ fire!" Buford screamed as he hurled himself backwards in his swivel chair, for the angry and rejuvenated spider had leaped to the rim of its glass prison and now gloated with all eight Lugosi eyes! The novelist cringed in horror as the insect sprang deliberately from jar to desk and then atop the keyboard from which so many disposable manuscripts had emerged, leered at him, and arrogantly swaggered among the keys. The aspiring author cowered, covered his eyes for a moment, then almost bolted when the spider suddenly leaped high into the air and fell booty-first upon a key. The letter "T" appeared upon the screen. The spider squinted in Buford's direction as though daring him to interfere, then again leaped into the air and pounced upon another key. The letter "R" appeared beside the "T." In rapid succession the spider pounced upon the letters "U," "C," and "E." Buford goggled in disbelief at his monitor. "Truce!" he read. Truce? The spider is calling a truce?

The spider crouched, awaiting Buford's reaction. "I ain't believin’ this," Buford said slowly. "Spiders can't type."

            "Believe it, friend." The spider rapidly tailed the letters onto the screen. "Name's Pierre. You're Buford. Buford! My god! Did your mama not like you? Or what?"

But most writers of fiction apparently use many of their past experiences - and acquaintances - as subject matter for their tales, although most will disguise their memories by cleverly altering the details. I have to admit that many of the experiences encountered (or suffered) by Jack Smith in my latest novel, "How I Found a Remedy for Innocence," were based on events of my teen years. I was there when I wrote...

             ...Josey, Archie, Jerry, and I were having a round of burgers and fries one afternoon when Josey launched into a vivid description of the fine cuisine that was served in the fancy club on Boston Bay where he and his parents often dined. Above us, a thin sheet of sunlight that had sneaked through the window blinds illuminated the anxious fluttering of a lone fly that had apparently escaped an earlier tirade by Mama Mary. We three veterans took note of the crazed insect, and of Mary's instant mutation from cook to killer, and prepared ourselves as the fly staked claim to a portion of Josey's burger. Josey had turned to a tale of his ancestors' part in the Revolution when the ear‑piercing crack of Mary's long‑distance swatter ended his soliloquy. We watched eagerly as Josey gazed in wonder between hands poised to accentuate the significance of Massachusetts's role in American history, to a scene appalling to eyes virgin to the sight of strewn entrails and inanimate eyeballs. Hands yet poised over the remains, Josiah burped so loudly that the gurgle could be heard above the now‑resumed screeches‑and‑screams. We waited. We hoped he would be sick, there and then. We wondered, too, as Josey reeled slightly in his chair, if we would be so lucky as to witness the imposition of a permanent affliction on the Yankee. We all sighed with disappointment, though, as he slowly rose and left the cafe, never again to roam amongst the fertile growth that rooted in its slithery concrete floor. Our laughter afterwards could have been heard in Milldale...

And...

              ...At the sound of another oriental drum roll Sabrina raised and spread her knees, ankles entwined, and leaned backward to rest on one palm. With an eye on the crowd, she ran her tongue along the inside of her free hand, then, fingers glistening, used it to pluck a Ping-Pong ball from the bowl. She fondled it with her lips, kissed it, licked it until it was wet, all while eyeing the eager faces before her, winning groans from collective throats, and then, daintily, with two fingers and her thumb, placed the moist white ball amidst the thick, dark hair of her pelvis. In an instant, it was gone.

            "Wow!" Jerry said. "Just slurped it right up!"

            "Get ready!" Archie gibbered wildly.

            As the drum roll swelled, Sabrina again surveyed her audience, finally squinting and nodding slightly at a fan who stood far in the rear. She seemed to draw air into her plump belly, which extended even farther as she stretched, until it appeared taut and hard. Both palms now propped her lengthening body as she inhaled and concentrated on her objective. The drum roll intensified. A tense hush came over us all. Not another sound was heard. Her eyelids fluttered. Her round belly shuddered and went flat. There was a resounding hollow "thwop!" The missile was launched!

            "She CAN aim the thing!" I cried in amazement.

The process of writing the latter book was to me stimulating and even enlightening. I think most people can similarly benefit from writing of their past accomplishments, trials, and tribulations. Not only will they probably be surprised by the substance of their work, but the interest such can generate from others will delight them. Everybody has a story to tell, and many of them, besides being labors of love, share adventures that others can enjoy.

GARAGE SALE FIND: 1831 "THE SPY UNMASKED"

I've just come across a very interesting and rare antiquarian book that most people don't even know exists. It's an 1831 Second Edition of The spy unmasked, or, Memoirs of Enoch Crosby: alias Harvey Birch, the hero of Mr. Cooper's tale of the neutral ground: being an authentic account of the secret services which he rendered his country during the Revolutionary War (taken from his own lips, in short-hand) comprising many interesting facts and anecdotes, never before published. It was written by H. L. Barnum and published by A. B. Roff. According to Barnum, the work is the biography of Enoch Crosby, who was the actual person upon whom James Fenimore Cooper based his hero, Harvey Birch, in his famous novel, The Spy. Barnum interviewed Crosby several times in order to write his work. His first edition sold out immediately; the subject book was his reissue, the 1831 Second Edition. The book is available online.

Although the book is in only fair condition, having moisture damage and foxing, it is complete. Frankly, I love finding interesting old works like this one. You might keep an eye out at garage and estate sales for valuable old artifacts - you just never know what you might find.

WRITE TO KNOW YOURSELF

Did you know that by sitting before your keyboard and letting your thoughts and experiences and dreams flow onto the screen that you can experience one of the most enlightening periods of your life? I would not have believed it either, but it's true. When I began keeping a daily log of my activities some twenty-five years ago, and later attempted to write a biography, and still later a short story, I was amazed at what I learned about myself. It was a kind of psychoanalysis that uncovered repressed fears and conflicts.  I found, while logging early memories of my life, why, though I had always refused to admit it to myself, I had some pretty negative feelings about my mother. I analyzed my relationship with my father by putting our relationship in writing, and learned that although he finally drank himself to death when I was only sixteen, I was not to blame. I had always felt a certain amount of guilt for not paying more attention to his life style, or spending more of his last days with him, but I was in no way responsible for the heart attack that killed him. [I learned a lot more about my family and my own insecurities through EMDR (eye movement desensitization and reprocessing), but that's a story for another time.]

Try writing of some past experience that has troubled or exhilarated you. The quality and quantity of the words that you write will surprise you. If you want to take a look at some of my early (and hilarious) efforts at writing short stories, take a look here. There's not a serious word in the book, but merely my attempt to write some nutty science fiction.

A CHILD ABUSED BY HER FATHER

I've just finished writing the most difficult book that I have ever attempted. Through a series of interviews I became intimately acquainted with a lady (now in her sixties) who was repeatedly raped by her father from the time she was eight years old until her mother's divorce from the man when she was a teenager. One can not appreciate what children go through under such circumstances unless you've talked at length with a victim. Shame and humiliation become so bonded to the heart and soul of a child molested at such an early age that consequences after their maturity are inevitable. These are manifested by failed relationships, confrontations, and an irresistible hatred directed at real or imagined "enemies." Mind-altering drugs and periodic counseling may offer some relief, but the shame and hatred remain just beneath the veneer of the drug-induced haze. Here's how it started:

         My childhood nightmare began when I was in the second grade, while we were living in the duplex and in the process of buying a house. I don’t recall all the details that led up to what was the first of many abusive acts by my father, but I do remember that I had been outside and had come running back into the apartment. My father, in his usual drunken state, was reclining on a Naugahyde chair in our living room. My mother and the rest of the family were nowhere about. He had a grin on his face. “Come here, I want to show you something,” he called to me. As I approached him he unzipped his fly and stretched his penis vertically. He shook it at me. He had never done anything like this before, and I knew instinctively that it was wrong. I giggled, I guess from nervousness, and ran to my room. 

Later, he began taking his daughter for "rides:"

He began by telling me to come over and sit close to him. When I made no move to comply, he reached across the seat and dragged me to him. I curled into my fetal defense position, which made him mad enough that he spanked me and told me to straighten up. I refused.

“I want to show you something,” he said as he forced his hand into my crotch. I was wearing a dress with panties. His rough hands scratched the insides of my thighs. I fought to keep myself in a ball.

“Look at this,” he said after a minute.

He had unzipped his pants, and now held his penis erect with one hand as he coddled my crotch with the other. Now I knew I was sure enough in trouble. I struggled, determined to get away.

“Stop it!” he demanded, “or I’ll tear your little ass up!”

I didn’t care whether he spanked me or not. All I wanted was to get away from him.

“Touch it,” he said then. “Just rub it a little.”

“No!”

“Just a little bit.”

“No!”

He took his hand from his penis and with the other in my crotch whacked me on the rear. Hard. It hurt so much that I stopped fighting for a moment.

With one hand he wiggled his fingers in my crotch, with the other he began to masturbate. It was over in a few seconds. Creamy fluid shot from his penis and rolled down onto his pants. I lay huddled there beside him, scared, revolted, sickened, wanting to get away, to be anywhere, anywhere but here with him.

“Get over there,” he said after a minute as he pulled his hand from my crotch. “And don’t you tell nobody.”

He had no worry about that. I was so ashamed that I would die if anybody knew what had happened. I shrank into the far side of the seat and hoped it was all over. When we reached home I jumped out and ran. 

This is a depressing story, but one that must be read if one is to appreciate the horrors of child abuse. It's titled "Demons and Whispers; A Memoir of Abuse."