UNKNOWN TO ONE

How do we cope when We know for certain we have it all, then lose it in a matter of seconds, only to once again realize, we still have it, and so much more?

I had achieved success. 

After decades of perseverance, hard work, commitment, striving to present myself as the most suitable role model out there, I ascended to the threshold of immortality. Humanity would deny one of my exceptional brilliance no more. A veritable lifetime spent in this maddening pursuit to be held in astonishment by the common man. This was me. Now was my moment to shine and be recognized. 

I could lead the disenfranchised masses to a better life, a better understanding, a better solution. This was our moment, and I shall take them there. No more would we be downtrodden, persecuted by a cruel world. The young  had someone to look up to, to let them know they could reach for the stars too, as I had done. And succeeded. 

It was a journey of my lifetime, from when I was young, working to get to this moment. There were others in my field who aspired as well, but they remained empty-handed, unrecognized, so close, but departing once more, with nothing to show for their work. 

But my name would forever be associated with the sensation I had seen it deserve. I heard the thunderous applause and the flash of the dazzling lights all around me. They were seeing me. I sought to give them a smile, one of my best smiles that always adorned the magazines and celebrity websites, but I found a material, a fabric, keeping me from doing so. 

I wanted to open my eyes, look upon the vast throng of the gathered masses and welcome their adoration, but again, I was blindfolded. Was I kidnapped? I sought to turn my head and still felt the fabric that had me restrained. I have been kidnapped and held for ransom, I deduced. 

I turned my head more and could make out the faint light of the interior room. I wasn't kidnapped. I continued to turn my face to see there was no crowd gathered. Not now, but they had been once. I continued turning, then sought to focus forward to see possibly a celebration party. No, it wasn't that either. My head throbbed with unbearable misery, so I gradually came to the conclusion the after-party was over with as well. I inhaled and the rushing air made my head pound even more. I made my way upright and stared forward. The rather uncomfortable fabric was the throw pillow on the couch.

I wasn't one for excessive drinking. I was certain I had a few glasses of Champaigne. I focused my eyes more to see a quiet, empty room. I recognized it as my own living quarters. I partly looked around to see where everyone might be. No one was with me. 

Then I looked forward to the coffee table before me. Light fixtures that were on in the room seemed to make the bauble resting on the table sparkle, but I looked at it and saw only the tragedy it had brought forth. The tangible representation of all that work. All the work I had put into my career, to truly excel at what I was doing. 

"M-m-mindelle," I managed weakly, but no one appeared. Where was everyone? 

How could I ponder such a thing? I knew where everyone was, or more like, where they didn't want to be. That's where they were. I thought for sure Mindelle would be here with me. She had been there last night. She heard all that was spoken. I closed my eyes and bowed my head upon the remembrance. Laughter, I was the total center of attention, then what was said. I slid my face into my hands and rested my elbows on my knees. I sat like this for a moment and sniffed. Then slowly I parted my fingers to look at the gaudy statuette once more on the coffee table. This was to be the crown I would bear for my people. Well, not so much on top of my head, but my staff. My sceptre. I choked a bit, covered my eyes once more with my hands and felt the rage building within me. I leaned back and looked up to the ceiling. I opened my mouth and brought forth a scream of such anger. I was so loud, my headache sought to pound even more, but I wouldn't permit it to stop me. I would overtake the weakness again with my energy as I had always done, and now more than ever, I would resort to my usual goal. 

I was still screaming. I stopped finally to gasp for air and allowed my body to slump into the plush cushioning. 

No one appeared. No servant, no Mindelle, no kids. I guess that was Mindelle knowing me and that it would be best to not have anyone say anything to me. No comment would meet with my approval. Even avoiding discussion of the events of the night before would be a good guess for a trigger. The headache of exhaustion slapped at the sides of my head, over and over. 

Last night? It had all just happened last night? Not even 24 hours yet. I sought to figure out how I felt about everything, what I wanted to say, but I knew I had disappointed so many people. So many people. 

I reached for the remote and aimed it at the television. Did I want to do this? Did I want to hear what was being said? Did I really think I wanted to hear all the summaries and opinions that were formed by last night's events? 

Maybe there were those who understood the pressure I was under, that I am only human and I do make mistakes. Maybe my actions showed that we are all capable of such indiscretions. I flicked the button and allowed my hand to fall to the couch. Gradually the screen lit up and the first image I saw was an elderly person, crying fitfully. He was upset. The audio was muted so I heard nothing he was saying, just the image of his sorrow, shaking his head to and fro. I didn't recognize him. Obviously he was disapproving of me. I knew this. Some small figure of a fellow African-American man wanting to make a name for himself, by taking down the titan I had become. He was wanting to elevate himself, no doubt, by speaking against me. I stared at him a bit more, then changed to another channel.

The next station was rerunning last night's events, showing me again, showing Mindelle. 

And there was Lanitra. I closed my eyes, knowing what was coming up. I didn't want to see it. I breathed heavily through my nostrils. I was saturated with perspiration, misery bringing tears to my eyes. I wanted to show everyone a better way. Slowly I opened my eyes. I winced when the moment occurred on the tv. Why did I turn it on? I didn't need to hear any conclusions made. I hated my actions more than anyone else. More than Mindelle. More than Lanitra. 

And on the coffee table, between the television screen and myself, stood the gleaming statuette, bright and desired. So very desired. I brought my foot beneath the table and sent everything upon it soaring through the air. I then gave the nearest table leg a kick to shove everything further. I wanted that figurine to break without exerting the least effort it was worth. I wanted it to shatter and have no value. It thumped across the plush carpet. After shoving the table further and dropping my foot to the floor, I pressed my chin to chest and began quietly weeping. Air and moisture snorted from my mouth and nose as more tears struggled to escape my closed eyes. I spat down my shirt with sobs, then raised my chin to inhale with a rasp and fueled further wails. When I could endure the sound of my unhappiness no longer, I sent drool from my mouth, moisture from my nose. Once more I raised my head to see once again on the tv, there was Lanitra in that sparkling pink dress, on the stage. Then the morning news persons offered their perspectives. 

I changed the channel, and there was Lanitra again. The pink dress. My eyes stung from the hot dampness all over my face. 

I was wanting to punish myself. I wanted to hurt, but I didn't dare turn up the volume. I let my own throbbing skull tell me what they were saying. Trying to think of the words they were saying just made my brain hurt more. I hated them for making me so miserable and I hated myself for giving them the ammunition. 

Lanitra. In the pink dress. 

I gazed upon the floor, basically looking at the upside-down table, but not really seeing it, and remembered the words. The harmful, hurtful words spoken. No matter how I tried, I couldn't hear the voice saying those words, those horrible, unpopular words, but my memory could place every word in order spoken, even the ugly ones. The deserved ugly ones. I felt my teeth clench as the words played out once more, spoken, spoken, spoken. The words all jumbled together. 

"So . . . . do . . . . . you . . . . really . . .. believe. . . . " 

Then I heard Lanitra give that slight chuckle. In that pink dress. On the stage. 

"BELIEVE . . SO . . .REALLY . . DO . . ." 

The words tore into each other, making no sense. I then realized my memory was doing this so I wouldn't hear the slander from which I would never escape. I jumbled over the words in my mind once more. 

I tossed my eyes up to the tv. 

He was on there again. That heavy-set man, elderly fellow in glasses. A spokesperson for the American Society of Victims, I thought. He wept more, rubbed at his eyes under his glasses. This was my award. Not the recognition I had anticipated receiving last night, the moment in history, but this public persecution by the masses who followed this man's words. It should have been my words this nation's youth heralded. They should be waiting to hear what I had to say about accomplishment, not this dreary nobody touting his hurt feelings. 

Then the tv screen once more showed Lanitra. On the stage. In that sparkling pink dress. 

Where was Mindelle? I looked at the sunlight shining brightly as the day progressed forward.

"Malcolm!" I called out. My legs hurt. I needed something to drink. "Malcolm!" 

It didn't take much to deduce Mindelle had dismissed him for the day. Poor fella. I slapped at the remote to turn off the tv, then had to hit at it again. Wretched machine. Go off. The screen darkened. The room was still. I struggled to get up, to try to get something to drink, but I couldn't manage. I was damaged. I was hating who I was. I had wanted to lift up others to feel better about themselves. So many young people, wanting someone they could admire. They could look up to. And I destroyed it all. 

Lanitra. On the stage. 

"BELIEVE . . . . YOU . . . . REALLY . . . . DO!" 

I wanted to just surrender to the pain in my head. The agony racing all throughout my body.  

I staggered to the counter and poured the liquid into a glass. I gulped it down, wondering and hoping it was alcoholic, but it was water. I didn't care. I just felt dehydrated. I coughed on the last couple of gulps then turned back to the couch. Just as I sat and the plush cushion moved with my body, the phone was suddenly visible beneath the cushion that held me as a baby earlier. 

I  picked up the phone and checked for calls. The few I recognized, I just couldn't bear hearing from them right now. I wanted to know why I did what I did, but no one else could tell me. Not even Lanitra. Why would Lanitra call me? 

We practically started in the business at the same time, Lanitra and I. We advanced. We made our names. We achieved our stardom, she her way and I mine. I gave my all to the business, soaring for years as a major worldwide celebrity. I could endorse a vacation resort and have the entire season sold out, or I could walk away from a night club and result in its closing down. 

And Lanitra? She was advancing her own separate way. She did tv specials, internet specials, set up a blog, then had that one bizarre novelty song. Was there nothing Lanitra couldn't do? 

I held the phone, then decided to gaze at the headlines. Start scrolling. I knew it was risky, but I decided to get it done. I began. 

There was one. 

TIDE CRIED AS LANITRA BEAT'CHA! 

I stared at the silly pun in the heading and moved on to the next article. 

LANITRA LEE AND SAM TIDE IN HORRIBLE EXCHANGE AT CEREMONY; AMERICA STUNNED! 

i scrolled one more. 

SAM TIDE UNDER DOCTOR'S SUPERVISION!  

I looked around. 

"Where's the doctor?" I said out loud. I scrolled down one more, now becoming amused. 

SAM TIDE SEDATED! 

i actually chuckled at that one. I gave a swift scroll to see if anything else turned up. Anything that might catch my eye, but really, nothing did. I ventured back to the phone and clicked on a name. I listened to a couple of hums, then a recording. I took a deep breath to leave a message. 

"Uh," I rasped, then cleared my throat. "Excuse me, uh, my throat is dry. Uh, Odin. I know you didn't care for what happened last night. I'm . . . I'm sorry. I just lost my cool. I'm sure you watched what all happened. I . . . I wish I could take it back. I didn't mean . . . . ."

"BELIEVE . . . . . YOU . . . . ARE . . . . A . . . . HOW . . . . . THEY . . . . ARE!" 

I inhaled quickly to drive out the words. 

"Odin, please, please, son. Give me a call. I know how you feel about the way people are treated and you probably feel I should have behaved better, and I should have. I know that, son. Last night just meant so much to me and I lost it. I've probably ruined my . . . . my career." 

Like Odin cares about that right now. Still thinking of yourself, dad, he would say. 

"Son, I'm sorry for what happened. If . . . if you hear from your mother, let me know. I haven't seen her this morning, . . . so if you see her, . . . this is your dad, son. I'm sorry," I trailed off in tears at the end as I sent the message and turned off the phone. Now to just wait for him to call back, if he did. 

I wanted my son to be so strong. So capable. Unhindered by anything the world threw at him, and I showed him how destructive I could be. What a fool I became, on national tv, all over the web. Everyone heard me. 

I held the phone to see if by chance Odin returned my call. The phone sat silent. 

I decided to check some more headlines and scrolled some more. 

Award show fashions, Hollywood's disruption. Can Sam Tide recover? Then I scrolled a bit more and there was that face. That fat man. In glasses. Distraught. I guess he was giving scores of interviews to whoever would listen about how I had damaged him as a human being, how he was suffering personally from post traumatic stress disorder from what I had said. Surely he contacted his lawyer intending to sue me, probably Lanitra, the televised show, probably all of Hollywood.  I looked at him with utter contempt, as those who prey on every incident a public figure brings forth. Anything to get money. I gave the screen a nudge to reveal a partial headline beneath his image. 

FATHER DEVASTATED OVER DEATH OF . . . .

My expression changed. Who was this? He must have had a child I offended who committed suicide. I had deduced every headline, every article would be about me and Lanitra, but this was something else. I scrolled the words up some more. 

FATHER DEVASTATED OVER DEATH OF TWIN GIRLS IN HIT-AND-RUN

Who was this? When was this? This man, Rodney Rogers, had his young twin daughters, Dakedra and Shakedra, killed when they were at the park and were struck, along with two other kids, who are in stable condition.

I looked up. This was why I had seen this man crying since I came to. I reached for the remote and clicked it on. Slowly the image came forth and as it cleared, I read the caption beneath the person shown. Some tabloid reporter. I changed the channel. There was Lanitra again. I stayed on this channel and looked down to the phone again and scrolled upward. 

"Outrage over the deaths of the two girls, many feeling it was an accident that shouldn't have happened. Law enforcement have the driver in custody." 

Slowly I turned back to the tv screen. There he was again, his cheeks covered in tears. I turned up the volume to hear what he had to say. 

". . . . my girls," he sobbed. "Why'd this happen to them? My babies." 

I looked at this man to see when the tragedy occurred. People were outraged, something to do with the young driver. But when did it happen?

Three days ago. 

Two days before last night's award broadcast. As I was absorbed in what Odin and Mindelle and anyone else might be thinking about what I did at the presentation, here was this man, totally unaware of anything I said or did in front of a worldwide audience. 

How could he be at all concerned with what I had done as compared to what he was going through? 

"Oh, Lord," he cried loudly, "they was my babies, . . . " 

I turned the tv off. I stared at the dark screen and realized my horrible words from last night were gone within my head. All I heard now was 'they were my babies!'

What had just happened? All the anger and rage and hate I had shown everyone last night, I and I alone, toward Lanitra, was suddenly all gone. Or at best, slowly dissipating. 

I stood and remained upright. 

I leaned over to straighten up the coffee table, picked up a few of the items that had fallen off of it, then seized up the statuette. 

"Look at you, you silly thing," I said to myself. "You are nothing but an object of selfish foolishness to me. How could I value you? How could I hold you in regard? As I hold you now?" 

What was his name again? Robert Rogers? Robert Rogers. I wondered how I could contact him, speak with him. Would I be allowed, noting our statuses in life? I surely could do it. After all, I was nothing now. With that thought, I began to smile.  

The phone was still on. It began to buzz. I sat down again and picked it up. I couldn't believe it. 

It was a tabloid reporter, calling me direct. I wondered how he got through past my operator service, but at the moment, that didn't matter. 

"Hello?" I said quietly. 

"Hello, is Sam Tide there?"

"Speaking." 

"Mr. Tide? Sam Tide? The performer from last night, . . . " 

"Who won the award then behaved like a deranged jackass, yes." 

"Mr. uh, . . " the man stammered. He seemed unsure it was me. I guess I was supposed to be avoiding his call, avoiding everyone, which I had been. Before. 

"I was wanting to know how Sam Tide is doing this morning." 

"I'm doing fine," I responded. 

"Now, uh, sir," he stated, "I'm sure Sam must be simply ready to slit his wrists over his behavior last night." 

"No. I'm fine." 

"I find that hard to believe. I've seen some headlines saying he has been placed under a doctor's care." 

He doesn't believe this is me. 

"No, I saw that article, too, but I didn't read it."

"Sir, . . . " 

"You know that stuff is just clickbait anyway. I guess I should have seen what it said." 

Silence. 

"Uh, sir, when Mr. Tide is able, I would welcome giving him an opportunity to explain the events of last night to his satisfaction, if at all possible."

"Oh," I started, "I told you I acted like a jackass. Isn't that something? For everybody to see." 

Silence again, then he came back a bit annoyed. 

"When Sam Tide is able to try to explain his side of last night's events, could you ask him to dial me at this number." 

He did not believe it was me. He hung up, so likewise, I switched the phone off. I all but smiled to myself. I still held the statue in ;my other hand. The phone rang again. I started to answer it, then saw it was video chat. I hit it and went straight to the connection. There was a grey-haired little man with a pointed nose who looked at me, somewhat startled. 

"Mr. Tide!" he proclaimed in absolute shock. 

"Yes?" 

A few other people joined in behind him and he started shoving them back. 

"Mr. Tide, ah, . . . Tide. I write for Epic blog. How are you this morning after last night?" 

"I'm fine, thank you." 

"Are you medicated?" 

"No, I just woke up. My throat was parched, but I just had a glass of water." 

"Are you still hung over from last night then? You should be careful trying to drown those sorrows after, . . ." 

"After I behaved like an a*s last night, yes, I know, but I'm not drunk." 

"Mr. Tide, . . .  is Mindelle there? Could we see her?" 

"Here's my award from last night!" I said with a smile. "Isn't it pretty?" 

The guy actually jumped when I showed him the statuette. It just confirmed who I was. 

At that moment, Mindelle came in, softly, quietly, not knowing how I would be. Once she heard the light banter over the phone, she ventured closer. 

"Sam Tide, you were horrible last night," the reporter began. 

"Yea, I was," I responded. I knew I was being recorded. 

"Sam, you were a terrible person," he was all but scowling as he said these words as quietly as possible. 

"I should be run out of the business, shouldn't I?"  I said with a smile. 

The interviewer looked befuddled. He wanted me to break. Break or defend myself, if possible. 

"How do you live with yourself?" he came back. 

"What? Since last night? I'll have to let you know. Can I call you later and we do a catch-up and let you know how I live with myself?"

It was then I saw Mindelle. She looked at me quietly, almost puzzled by my demeanor. Not what she was expecting. I smiled and gave her a wink. 

"Hey, baby," I said, knowing the image was being recorded of just me. 

"I don't really live with myself to tell the truth. I got Mindelle here with me. Mindelle, you want to come sit next to me and talk with this guy from Epic? Come here and sit with me and let him see how nice you look this morning."       

Reviews

[JayG]

You’re talking to a reader who you've given no context. So for you it makes perfect sense. For the reader?

Look at the opening as a reader, or an agent must. They arrive with no idea of who we are, where we are in time and space, or, what's going on. So unless you provide it, they have only words in a row, meaning unknown:

• I had achieved success.

So we open with someone we know nothing about claiming they had success at something not defined. For all we know they managed to tie their shoe. Or, it could be Brutus talking about murdering Ceasar. It literally could be anything, so the line tells the reader nothing useful. And since there can be no second first-impression, were this a submission to an agent or publisher, here is where the rejection would come. And, I say that as someone who owned a manuscript critiquing service, not as personal opinion.

• After decades of perseverance, hard work, commitment, striving to present myself as the most suitable role model out there, I ascended to the threshold of immortality.

We still don’t know who we are, where we are in time and space, or what’s going on that made this unknown person say this. Of more importance, you've given the reader no reason to care, or want to know more.

This is NOT the opening of a story, it’s a lecture. We aren’t on the scene and no one but the narrator is on stage. And, opening a story with an info-dump as is done here is also a guaranteed rejection.

• Humanity would deny one of my exceptional brilliance no more.

Think about it: How many people are looking for a story that opens with a braggart crowing about how great he is, without the smallest justification in the reader's mind? In this, the first paragraph is 177 words long, and at the end we know not the smallest thing about what’s going on, who we are, and where we are. But, we’re well down on the second page of a standard manuscript page.

• I heard the thunderous applause and the flash of the dazzling lights all around me.

So this person heard the lights? It’s not what you mean, but it is what you told the reader. Did you edit this before posting? You need to be more careful.

After more than 1000 words, which is four full standard manuscript pages we STILL have no idea of who we are, what this person’s profession is, where they are, and why, or ANYTHING meaningful to the reader. We don't even know their gender. In fact, we're on the ninth page before we learn that. Instead, this unknown blathers on, and on, and on, about things for whch you’ve given the reader no context. So words we have, and for you, who know the situation and the story they make perfect sense. In fact, they would make sense to the people in the story. But what about those you wrote it for? Shouldn’t they know?

You're missing a critical point: the purpose of fiction. As E. L. Doctorow pointed out so well: “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.” See if you can find a place in this story where you do that.

Yes, we learned a skill called writing in school. But it was nonfiction-writing, the kind employers need—the kind used to write reports and essays. We learned none of the skills of the profession we call, Fiction-Writing. In fact, they offer degree programs in Commercial Fiction-Writing. And you have to figure that at least part of what’s taught is necessary. Right?

So…you’re working hard on your stories. But like pretty much all of us, began the task with only the skills of nonfiction, which talks ABOUT things, in overview and summation, when the reader expects you to make them feel as if they’re living the story as-the-protagonist, and in real-time, moment-by-moment.

So, it’s not a matter of talent, or how well you write. It’s that you’re using a set of tools that are not right for the job, because no one ever mentioned that they weren’t.

The answer? The library’s fiction-writing section is filled with books on technique, for the beginner and the pro. Personally? I’d suggest starting with Dwight Swain’s, Techniques of the Selling Writer, which recently came out of copyright protection. It's the best I've found, to date, at imparting and clarifying the "nuts-and-bolts" issues of creating a scene that will sing to the reader. The address of an archive site where you can read or download it free is just below. Copy/paste the address into the URL window of any Internet page and hit Return to get there.

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

Not good news, I know, after all the work of writing those stories. But you have a LOT of company, because we all leave our school years not realizing that we are exactly as ready to write fiction as to pilot a commercial airliner.

So read a few chapters of a book on the skills the pros take for granted. If you are meant to write you’ll find it like going backstage at the theater for the first time, and filled with, “But that’s so obvious. How did I not see it for myself?”

Sorry for having hit you over the head with a 2x4, but since you won't address a problem you don't see as being one, I thought you'd want to know.

Hang in there, and keep on writing.

Jay Greenstein
https://jaygreenstein.wordpress.com/category/the-craft-of-writing/the-grumpy-old-writing-coach/