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My Name Is A.N.
Archy
Chapter Five
continued of a novel by
by Claude Hall
The news didn't exactly
excite me.
"Sit down and have a glass of wine," I suggested.
"Watch the show. It's quite magnificent. Should be
over in a few minutes...just as soon as they realize
they're doing absolutely no damage whatsoever."
"Fido is gone," he said. He stared at me just as if
I'd taken the vone.
"Surely, the vone has merely wandered off for a
moment."
"Not a chance," Doober said. "Someone had been
there."
"In Siberia? I seriously doubt that the forces of
Buchenwald would be appreciated in Siberia."
"They've taken my vone," he insisted. "From my place
in the village down there." He pointed at the village
down below.
"Oh. That's different," I said. "But still not a
great deal for concern."
"Well, I'm definitely concerned!"
"Yes. I can tell."
"You've got to do something," my beautiful wife
Barbara told me.
"Well, I suppose so." I handed her my wine glass.
After emptying it, of course. "But I do believe that
vone can take care of himself."
"This is earth," she said. "Not the planet Vone."
"That vone can handle himself on Earth just as well as
on Vone. Better, maybe. In fact, I think I'm already
beginning to feel sorry for whoever took him."
Doober looked at me just as if I'd suddenly lost a
great majority of my marbles. Isn't that how you put
it?
"Find him, dear," Barbara said. She said it softly.
But from the tone of her voice, it was more like an
order. Every time she uses that tone of voice, it's
an order. And after several years of marriage, I have
learned not to disobey. She has evidently trained me
well.
"I thought you lived in Siberia," I said to Doober.
"Well, I do have a place there. But Siberia is pretty
chilly a great deal of the year. The village of
Soller down there is a whole lot nicer, believe me.
So, I hangout on Mallorca most of the time."
"Can't blame you for that," I said. "Are you sure
Fido didn't just stray off...go sightseeing or
something?"
"I'm sure. He was definitely kidnapped," Doober said.
"I can see that you're quite concerned," I told him.
"However, let me reiterate: There is very little to
fear at this particular time. I insist that you calm
down, sit down, and down a glass of wine."
Doober appeared very doubtful.
"What you're telling me," he said, "is that there's
nothing you can do."
"No. I didn't say anything like that," I protested.
"And I assure you that we will find your Fido. My
wife Barbara should be able to tell you that."
She closed her eyes for a moment.
"My husband is right," she said.
"But this is not something which we should rush into.
This search mission."
"Why?" Doober demanded. He was very suspicious.
"You were obviously on vone. You perhaps observed the
vone culture. Can you reflect for me what you saw?"
"Circular towers. Gardens with gigantic very leafy
plants something like spinach."
"How do you perceive those towers were constructed.
Who do you think planted and or cultivated those
gardens?"
"I don't know."
"My beautiful wife there senses things. In olden
days, she would have been called a witch. And maybe
even today. She is a perfect example of a species in
progress, I would think. Just perhaps, of course.
Because she also loses her car keys and has trouble
finding them. So there's a minor contradiction of
sorts. However, I think she's somewhat indicative of
the fact that species grow or the culture terminates."
"Greek to me," Doober said.
"Ah! You simply don't have any idea of what Darwin
was talking about, do you?"
"I'm pretty good with things. Even puzzles. Lousy
with philosophy. Worse regarding the natural
sciences."
"Your species evolved more or less in the pattern in
which it did because of legs, because of the opposable
thumb. Some species out yonder did not develop in
that particular fashion. The one thing in common for
higher-evolved species, however, is the mind. Without
the mind, cows. Pigs. Beetles. Some sense of death.
No sense of progress. Strife and overcome. Or
competition and winning. The Vone had no thumb. Not
even a hand. But they could think. Therefore, they
were required by nature to develop other methodologies
for handling strife. Succeeding. You can perhaps
extrapolate from there."
"E S P?"
"In a fashion. The mind. The greater the
development, the higher the pecking order in his
particular social order. Fido is a rather
high-ranking official on his planet. Need I say
more?"
"Her planet," Doober said.
"Whups! Well, regardless, I would suspect that
whoever kidnapped your friend may be in serious
trouble about now."
"Do you mean you aren't going to help Doober?" my
beautiful wife demanded.
She was just in the point of rising from her wicker
chair to confront me. I raised a hand in attempt, if
not to placate her, at least slow her down.
"In a moment, dear," I said. "Right now is not an
appropriate time, if those noises I hear are any
indication."
She paused to listen. There were a lot of noises
erupting from the village below. I could hear people
shouting--maybe even screaming--the sound of
automobile horns, a few gunshots, a siren.
Barbara glared at me, sighed, returned to her
comfortable chair.
"You might as well sit down," she told Doober.
"I...."
"Sit!" she ordered. "My husband will find your pet
vone in due time."
"Actually, I think she will be finding me," I said.
However, it didn't turn out that way at all. A few
minutes later, several officials of the village came
up the dirt road in a borrowed Jeep and asked Doober
to go with them in hope he might retrieve a strange
"rabbit" that was running amok. Someone had informed
them that it was the pet of the odd youth in the long
hair and the baggy pants.
Doober looked at me and I assured him that it was
perfectly okay and he would be safe and poured myself
another glass of the wine, which was quite good and
there were few things better in life, I decided, than
sitting on that particular plaza sipping wine while
the sun prepared to plunge into the distant ocean
amidst some clouds. I mean, it was a spectacular
sunset.
"I think I'm enjoying the position of president of Got
Game," I told my beautiful wife.
"You would," she said.
Just then, Doober returned in the Jeep. He was
driving. The vone was in the seat beside him and
seemed be enjoying herself rather immensely.
"They loaned me the Jeep," Doober said. "In fact,
they insisted. However, I got the feeling they were
merely afraid to ride with us."
"Vones can have that affect on people sometimes," I
said.
He climbed out of the Jeep and picked up Fido in his
arms.
"I think they had an earthquake or something like that
down there. A building had collapse. Some American
soldiers were sprawled against the side of the
building. They seemed to be unconscious. One of them
had a broken leg, though. And I think a couple had
broken arms. Big mess."
"Yes, an earthquake would explain something like
that," I agreed. "But I can see that her royal
highness Fido wasn't hurt."
"No. Sure glad about that," said Doober. "She sure
was lucky."
My beautiful wife Barbara smiled at me.
"I hope you're having fun, smarty pants" she said.
"Yes. Quite a lot of fun, in fact," I told her. "But
I seriously doubt the possibility of intelligent
trousers."
"You would," she said.
We received a report later, I don't know from whom,
that a special forces unit had, indeed, captured Fido.
They were actually seeking Doober at the time and
took the vone "just for the hell of it." They had no
idea who or what the vone was. They evidently thought
Fido was merely a pet rabbit. And, naturally, not one
of the men and women in the special forces unit
understood the vone language. When Fido had demanded
her release, they paid no attention to the sign
language. She had become irritated after a while and
threw something, just as an earth woman might do. In
fact, soon many things were flying about the room and
soldiers were dodging what they could and getting
lambasted with what they couldn't. Several walls fell
during the melee. And that's when people began
running for cover, including various citizens of the
village of Soller.
Like Doober, there were many who blamed everything
that happened on an earthquake, even though the
effects were felt only within a small parameter
outside the building occupied by the special forces
unit from America. The same unit, it was learned,
that had invaded the villa somewhat previously. After
all, rabbits were such timid, helpless creatures.
"Good disguise, Fido," I told the vone.
She, too, thought it was quite a humorous situation.
Where is the vone at this minute? On Vone, I suspect.
She had a touch of homesickness. After all, Doober
was an adventure, but he wasn't home, so to speak.
So, Doober took her back and suffered through all of
the protocol to become ambassador. You would have
been amazed at the change in that young guy once he
was decked out in the proper attire, cumber bun and
all. Top hat, too. But he only put on the hat once
we assured him that he didn't have to wear it except
at formal occasions. Same for the costume. He
preferred his old faded jeans and Grateful Dead
teeshirt.
No, Doober hasn't returned yet. Is he recruiting vone
for war? That's rather an absurd question. Don't
know if you realize that or not. The vone are not
much prone to combat. Prone! Humor! However, just
so you'll be aware, I expect Doober and her royal
highness back from their trip virtually any day. It
seems that the vone have a legend about migrating to
vone from a planet further toward the center of the
galaxy and they went off in Big Lizzie on an
exploratory mission. Be funny, wouldn't it, if they
find a home planet? But I doubt it. There are so
very many planets out there quite capable of
sustaining life and most of them have life to sustain.
Races you wouldn't believe! The octopus derivative.
Now there's an interesting species for you. Good
people. Well, good octapeople, perhaps. Love their
sense of humor and they have a tendency to laugh at
just about everything. Maybe that's because
everything is funny to them. Humor is all a matter of
perspective anyway, I suppose.
Why is my wife Barbara traveling in South America?
Did I say that she went to South America? Oh, yes, I
suppose I did say that. Well, she didn't intent to
stay long so I would surmise that she could be now in
Australia. Maybe even China. Recruiting? For what?
Mostly, she is on a public relations mission to
explore mutual project possibilities. These have
nothing to do with war. Yes, I know that some people
died before she left. Was that because of actual
combat? Maybe even friendly fire as it's called. I
don't know of anyone in Got Game who carries a weapon
of any kind. The laser stuff of Dr. Bullware? Mostly
scientific apparatus, I assure you.
You don't believe me?
Well, that's another problem.
Yes, I will be more than happy to elucidate regarding
the terrible situation that happened in Pismo Beach,
California.
Chapter Six
In retrospect, everything hinges on what I now refer
to as the Pismo Beach Protest. It wasn't actually a
protest, of course. Frankly, I don't even know what
it was.
We decided to have a party. Several graduate
students, my wife and I, and, yes, we invited others.
Dr. Huetter, for example.
Was Dr. Huetter there? I do not know. Several
hundred people turned up, you know. Because all of
this time, Got Game was growing rather rapidly. I
don't know how the word spread. From student to
student, I suppose. But people kept coming up,
introducing themselves to me. A few professors, all
involved in science projects of one kind and another,
came with their disciples...the graduate assistants
working with them on those particular projects. I
found one project quite fascinating. The basic
theory, of course, I'd heard before. Many times,
perhaps. That theory is that god, if there is a god,
put everything here. A naturalistic approach. Are
you aware that the common aspirin originally came from
the willow tree. Your grandfathers, generations ago,
chewed on willow bark when they had a headache.
Amazing, but the technique or modus operandi still
works.
Not a silly theory, my good fellow. Although, of
course, good is not the proper term I should use, I
suppose. How about the term: my old fellow? Yes,
that's a little better. And I wouldn't laugh at the
willow tree, were I you. Good, decent tree.
Anyway, I once heard a four-year-old tike tell his
worried father that he shouldn't worry. That he would
make it through to the other side. And I thought at
the time what an amazing concept. That life is, in
effect, an obstacle course, the soul purpose of which
is to get through it. Training, don't you see?
No, I suppose that idea doesn't appeal to you much.
Are you a Baptist?
Well, doesn't matter.
Anyway, this particular scientific approach by Dr.
Gene Stratton Porter was that if there's a problem you
could solve it with things at hand. For example, if
you have a headache, chew on a piece of willow. He
was searching for a cure for cancer by this
methodology.
Yes, his chances for discovering a cure were rather
limited. But it's the search that really counts. The
pursuit of knowledge! Penicillin came from bread
mold. The idea is that you never know what you might
find along the path of research. Because penicillin
saved countless lives and the derivatives of that
wonderful discovery are saving lives this very day.
First phase in the Porter project is to catalog every
known folk medicine used in every major culture on
earth.
Yes, it will take a while. But remember, we have
access to every major computer system in the world.
Literally. And we have access to a wide bevy of
graduate assistants.
Funds? No, we did not, to the best of my knowledge,
keep any of the gold from Ft. Knox. Why should we?
We literally have access to every known vault of money
and or jewels in the world.
Anyway, Got Game had grown at the time and....
How large? I do not know. A few hundred perhaps.
It's still growing, you know. And more rapidly now.
But we were a rather loose group. Not much in common.
Many universities are cemented into an entity by the
most trivial of things. Football, for example.
That's what a football team means at a university such
as The University of Texas, Mississippi University,
the University of Southern California. Basketball,
too. Duke, for instance. Without a Duke basketball
team, knowledge of the existence of that particular
university would be greatly reduced, I assure you.
Got Game had no football team and, frankly, football
wouldn't have been appropriate for the particular
endeavor.
To bind this group of quite different people into a
unit, my beautiful wife Barbara and I decided to have
a party. Specifically, a beach party. And what
better place than Pismo Beach? It's a nice little
village on the California coast about halfway between
San Francisco and Los Angeles. Out of the way,
actually. Love the clam chowder at the Splash. Food
and chips at the Pierside Restaurant can be very
pleasant because you can see the ocean from the
outdoor tables.
The news about the party was quite well accepted. By
everyone except Dr. Huetter. I had begun to take it
for granted that Dr. Huetter could be considered your
perfect example of a killjoy. Little did I know, huh?
How could I possibly have been aware--even
predicted--that more than three thousand youths would
show up.
An estimated seventeen thousand? Come now. The
people who came up with that figure must have been
involved in counting the votes during that election
farce. Yes, the initial election that showed
Buchenwald winning. I have it on absolutely
impeccable authority that he didn't not win anything.
Stole would be a more appropriate term.
However, be that as it may, an awful lot of young
people came to the party. How they found out about it
and why they came, I do not know. Must have thought
another Woodstock was being conducted by Artie Ripp
and Artie Kornfeld.
No, they are not a part of Got Game. Artie is a music
producer. Artie Kornfeld. Never heard of us.
Probably doesn't want to. As for Mr. Ripp, about the
only thing Mr. Ripp would have in common with us is
more than likely a high level of creativity. People
involved in music usually are quite creative.
Yes, I heard some music at the party. People with
acoustic guitars. Scattered. Impromptu. Folk music
to the extent that the music had depth, soul, and
meaning. Woodie Guthrie personified. I believe I
even heard somewhere in the distance the song "We
Shall Overcome."
However, mostly the people were there to eat, drink,
and make merry. Be merry. Have fun.
Doober and the vone were showing off. Usual stuff. I
could not believe that a royal figure of the planet
Vone would lower herself to entertain a couple of
children. That's what they were. About seven or
eight years old. Where they'd come from, I have no
idea. I guess they were from the area. Perhaps the
children of some families staying at one of the nearby
hotels.
Someone had built a bonfire. I hope they'd had the
foresight to obtain permission from local authorities.
Maybe the local authorities didn't mind. Anyway,
after dark there was more singing around the fire.
Food everywhere at little stands. Free. Mostly fish
and chips. Steamers. Beer at other little stands.
Most graduate students are in their early twenties.
The beer was okay in that regards. No violation of
law.
The night was pleasant. Marine layer off shore just
waiting to pounced on us. Thus, it was damp and
slightly cool. But you could hangout around the
bonfire and stay warm. Some people wore jackets.
Sweaters. Moon hung over the ocean. Moonlight
rippled on the slight swells that lapped against the
beach at low tide. Pete, Dr. Huetter's graduate
assistant, came over and we offered him a small dab of
our blanket on which to sit and he thanked us with a
toast of his bottle of beer, lifted in a salute.
"Surprised to see you here," Barbara said.
"I gave up waiting for him to get back," Pete said.
"I remember your first name," I told him, "but no one
has ever properly introduced us. I'm...."
"I know who you are," Pete said. "As for me, I'm the
misplaced scholar, Pete Rabinowitz."
"Ah, yes," I said. "I can see that. But at least
you're not misplaced at the moment, Pete. You are
most definitely welcome to share our blanket."
"Some party," Pete said, looking around at the
shifting mass of people. Some passed us, heading I
don't know where, others came from a different
direction and took their place. It was like a sea of
people, their faces brightened briefly by the light of
the bonfire, them moving away into the dark once
again. Not the total dark, because of the moonlight.
It was all magical. That's how I would describe it.
"I hope you're enjoying yourself," I said.
"Not really. Dr. Huetter told me that I couldn't
come."
"I wonder why," I said. This was not just idle
conversation. I was puzzled. It's true that certain
professors did exercise unredeeming control of the
graduate assistants under them. As if, in fact, to
make them pay for the privilege of earning a doctorate
degree somewhere down the road. This "road" varied in
length, of course. Quite long, quite bitter in many
cases. But I've always thought unnecessarily so.
"There's going to be hell to pay when he finds out I
came anyway."
"He won't find out from us," I told Pete. "Drink your
beer. Go find a girl. Seems to be plenty out there.
I've never seen this many people gathered together
except maybe at a football game. Where did they all
come from?"
"I heard that half of Fresno State is here," Pete
said. "Word of a party spreads as fast as the news of
a high wave among the surfing crowd. Phone. The
Internet. Just like Mount Everest. They come because
the party is there."
"Interesting psychology," I said. "Mountains."
But Barbara's face had grown rather pensive.
"Too many," said my beautiful wife. "Too many people.
Something is bound to go wrong."
"People having fun? What could go wrong?" I asked.
And later I wished I hadn't asked that particular
question. Because, in retrospect, word about the
party had spread much too far.
I seriously doubt, however, that anything would have
gone wrong if the soldiers hadn't showed up. And the
tanks. And the helicopter gunships. I did not
recognize the noise at first. I heard the cries,
naturally, the wounded, long before I heard the
slaughter that was taking place in the distance down
the beach. I learned later that the soldiers had
begun firing randomly at those scattered on the sand.
How many were killed in that fashion, we never
learned. Then tanks roared from the south end of the
beach. Then helicopter gunships. It was horrible!
(continued next week)
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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March 13, 2006
Commentary
by
Claude Hall
Would someone kindly tell me what radio station this is...and
the people? I keep thinking Atlanta. WSB? I was there once. But
that's not Elmo Ellis at left. Might be the program director,
but I can't recall his name at the moment. The DJ? I remember my
visit fairly well otherwise. Especially an old restaurant in a
modern high rise office building. Even the floor of the
restaurant had been moved. Walls. Tables. Chairs. Decorations. I
sort of gathered that it was a "members only" place. Don't
recall if the food was any good or not. But I do remember
enjoying myself. Because of the radio guys that took me there.
Great people. Couldn't beat Elmo Ellis, general manager of WSB
at the time. Great man! The only mistake Elmo ever made, in my
opinion, was when he retired Bob Van Camp, the morning
personality who'd been on the air for at least three generations
of listeners. How do you replace a man like that? You can't, of
course. Elmo tried with a series of "stars." Nothing really
worked. Well, the station survived, but I've always thought it
was a lesser station afterwards. I've always thought that when
someone like a William B. Williams or a Bob Van Camp retires,
you hold radio on-air parties in their honor for at least six
months to a year. In other words, make it a gradual thing so
they feel like they're being honored, as they actually are, and
the listeners think they're being honored...meanwhile moving in
as good a replacement as you can hire. Slowly. First as guest,
then as co-host, then as host with the old legend, such as Bob
Van Camp was, as guest...slowly fading him out of the scene. I
remember talking with Bob once or twice. He was the organ player
at a local movie house for many years. Would you believe that!
As soon as I
finished listening to John Hancock's
interview of Jack Gale on WBT, Charlotte, I emailed
Hancock that I thought the interview was great. It
was. Some of the names mentioned: Buddy Dean, Robert
E. Lee, Pogo Pogg, Stan Kaplan and Sis, and Long John
Silver. Gale said that Long John Silver now operates
a couple of steakhouses in Greensboro and another town
in that area. Always regretted that I never met Long
John Silver, so far as I know. I used to hear
stories. Cute stories. Hancock had a lot of callers,
all of whom remembered Jack Gale when he did the
morning show on WAYS. Hancock's email address is
hancock@WBT.com. Say hi.
PATRIOTISM
A word sometimes runs astray of reality, thus loses
meaning.
What real patriot here among all patriots?
You shed blood, are you more patriotic than I?
I who have stood in line of fire for a cause less
noble?
But at least a cause someone then thought was right.
How noble can a cause really be? Who decides?
No measuring scale handy, valid, pure, sure
To rank my cause against those who would save
Trees, seals, dolphins, birds, endangered species
When truth be said, am I not also endangered?
He calls himself a patriot, he who whips a pen to slay
Sending enemy uncounted against bullet's fray
And those who would be kind and just as well
When all's said and done, nothing's achieved
Naught changed, naught gained, naught hailed
Maimed and dead, grave bound, none grieved
And standing still, wimp smiling, enormous greed
What profit, money dripped with blood? What value?
What war be proud? What war be kind?
Shall we leave children a world less than mine?
- c. hall, March 2, 2006
OTHER MATTERS
Heard from Diane Kirkland, a former Billboard
colleague. She's on a cruise. Emailed me from a ship
anchored at St. Thomas. She'd met someone who knew a
Don or Ken "something" Burns in the music business.
Wanted to know if I knew him. The only Burns I could
remember was George Burns, I told her.a very famous
programming consultant. Last I heard of George he'd
gone by to see Kent Burkhart in Florida. Months ago.
Probably on his way to a cruise ship.
John Hall,
johnalexhall@gmail.com: "Enjoyed this
week's entry. The poem was great and I hope that you
don't mind, but I posted it on the political thread on
the Neil Innes Message Board. Most of the people are
like-minded about their feelings toward Bush, though
there are a couple of conservative posters. As for
airchecks, I recently listened to a double CD of Joey
Reynolds when he was on KMPC from 1980 with guests
Hudson & Landry. A lot of fun."
As I sit here, listening to a Mexican tune sung by
Linda Ronstadt, I think: God, but I love music! I
wonder if I'll be able to listen to "Graceland" by
Willie Nelson or "Red Beans" by Marcia Ball in Heaven.
Assuming, of course, I get there. How about "Forever
Young" by Kitty Wells. I have almost 300 songs on
this laptop. Going to be tough to leave behind "If I
Had Possession Over Jordan" by Eric Clapton. Or "High
Water (for Charlie Patton)" by Bob Dylan. How about
"Jambalaya" by Van Morrison with Linda Gail Lewis?
A few years ago I came up with a great idea for a
book. I'll never write it. Too many books that I
want to write lined up ahead of this particular idea.
The title is "Questions of God." I had the questions
listed. I was going to ask these questions of a bunch
of people who the general public might know.
Questions such as "What kind of cereal does God eat
for breakfast?" "Does He like to watch football?"
"What flavor of ice cream does He like?" "What does
God really think of Marilyn Monroe?" "Does God go to
movies and eat popcorn?" You get the idea. What a
best seller! Basically, the idea was to obtain
serious philosophical replies to rather dumb religious
questions from such as Max McCombs, Marshall McLuhan,
Leslie Fiedler, poet Bill Heyen, an old basketball
buddy. McLuhan and Fiedler are gone now. And I'll be
gone, too, long before I get this project even
started. I leave the book idea to you.
Occasionally, an idea or a mood will attack me and
I'll write it down. Here's a start of what could be
an interesting story:
The Man Who Was in the Dark
If you had dined on raw flying things most of your
life, you would not know what do with a medium-well
ribeye steak at Binion's Ranch on the top floor of the
legendary downtown Las Vegas casino.
It was night. In the distance was a ribbon of small
lights moving slowly north. When he asked one of they
across the table, they said:
"Cars. Eye fifteen."
That meant nothing to troglodyte three. That was
what they called him. Tee for short. He had learned
to accept the name or designation or whatever it was.
He had never had a designation before. Now and then,
because he had learned to count in the past few days,
he wondered what had happened to number one and number
two. But no one had yet volunteered the information
and Tee did not yet feel it appropriate to ask.
These were merely feelings. He could not put many
things yet into words.
The they across the table pointed out the window and
down and said:
"Freemont Experience."
He did not know what that meant either.
They-and he did not know who they actually were-had
brought him to the restaurant for his seventh venture
into the outside world because the restaurant was
dimly lit. He'd heard they discussing this at length
because of his eyes.
His first venture had consisted of being allowed to
step outside of the building, which resembled a cave
in many ways, and watch some people who looked just
like they passing back and forth on a street. He was
not told the location of the street nor why he had to
watch the they for a brief period. Then he was
quickly ushered back inside the building into a room
lit only by a small red glow that came from a curious
device on the ceiling and someone began explaining
once again what clothes were and why he had to wear
clothes.
This had happened days ago. How many days, he didn't
quite know. But he knew what days were now. He could
appreciate the concept of cause and effect, i.e.,
time. But he still had trouble with the concept of
clothes. If it was cold, yes. Perhaps. But this
place, for example, was neither hot nor cold.
Instead of writing the above story, however, after I
finish rewriting "Brady," on which I'm working now, I
may write about some military experiences that
happened in Europe. Never felt really qualified to
write about all that stuff over there until just
recently.
Writing, however, is a funny game. If you're writing
fact, i.e., a news story or an article, there are
forms to follow. The news story writes itself in the
inverted pyramid form. An article follows a different
form, but a form nonetheless. Fiction, too, can
follow a form. However, I decided that I was going to
write for fun after I retired. From the gut, so to
speak. Form by instinct. During my early years on
Billboard in New York, I wrote a novel and a good
friend named Bill Mason, author of probably more than
three dozen published books, was kind enough to read
my first novel when he and his wife Rigmor came to
visit one evening at our apartment in Riverside. He
said, "Well, you've got a novel here." And I thought:
Oh, hell! Henry Miller was right. What one wants is
passion, fire for fire! So, I knew I had to start all
over. And I did, but first I began studying the art
as well as the craft of writing a novel. I would read
a book, read all of the criticism on which I could get
my hands (you'd be amazed about the articles and books
of criticism available, especially on someone such as
Hemingway (Carlos Baker) and Dostoevski. But, hell, I
went deep into Kafka, Flaubert, Steinbeck, etc., etc.
Yes, even Gertrude Stein. Then I would read the book
again. "Madame Bovery," "Red and Black," "Crime and
Punishment," etc. Three years later, I began
rewriting that particular novel, which is now more
than 300,000 words and finished, I would think, except
for a few segments that could stand touching up. I'm
fairly proud of that particular novel. But, no, no
one will probably read it. Not my wife Barbara or my
sons. Maybe when I'm gone. If anyone bothers to look
on this laptop. I'm certainly not going to ask Bill
Mason to read it. Hell, I could never rewrite that
whole novel again! And he might say, if he read it,
"Well, you've got a novel here." I simply could not
survive that kind of praise again.
When I was teaching journalism and public relations at
the State University of New York at Brockport, I also
developed a course on magazine writing. Those
handouts I gave to students in the course were highly
prized. Just a few months ago, an ex-student now
working with the State of New York in Albany emailed
me wanting a couple of the handouts. More than 15
years after taking the course! But really the class
was about just writing. Quality writing. I
guaranteed that at least one student in the class
would sell an article. Each time I taught the class.
And a student always sold something and one semester
two students sold articles. One day, me and my big
mouth, I mentioned that writing a novel was fairly
simple. It could be done in an hour a day.
Hey, those students were bright! They took me up on
it. That's how I started a novel titled "The Girl Who
Looked Like Marilyn." It actually took me four or
five months to write, as I recall, and so it was
finished during the summer after the course ended.
Lots of research involved! Meanwhile, an old
basketball buddy, poet Bill Heyen, was teaching a
fiction writing course that I wanted to take, and did.
And in that course, I started a second novel with the
same character. I finished that novel during a
summer, too. It's called "The Rattlesnake Who Loved
Elvis." Copies of what you'd written for Bill's
course were handed out to other students so you could
get their feedback; one lady asked if she could keep
that particular chapter and if I would autograph it
for her. Talk about suddenly getting a big head!
I've subsequently written another novel with the same
"hero." It's called "Howard Hughes Is Alive and Well
and Living in the San Fernando Valley."
I've featured a few of the novels I've written on this
website and have been appreciative of the comments
about them. "My Name Is A.N. Archy" is, of course,
highly political. Probably a bit difficult to get
into because the "form" is all psychological in
nature. "Xtreme" was a murder mystery set in the
music business. "Murder at the Busted Bird Café" was
a murder mystery set in Los Angeles radio. "Down on
the Corner of Earth" was a science fiction novel. I
may soon have some good news about "Huecos," a western
that I featured recently on this website. There are a
few novels which you will never see, in all
probability, on this website. The 300,000-word novel,
for example. And I have a couple of novels that I
still feel might get published. Quien sabe?
Writing is, indeed, a funny game.
e-mail claude@claudehallonline.com
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