Texas Size Secret (Based on true events)

A restless teenage boy loses his way. Unbeknownst to him, many concerned townspeople put a plan together to get him back on course.

 Oct. 29, 1959, Thursday - Texas Size Secret

By the time that Dr. Ben Thompson entered Hill Company, he had only one thing on his mind. He wanted an ice cold drink.  Paul Hill kept a solid supply of soda pops in a rusty old refrigerator that was housed in the garage.  There was a creaky wooden door separating the (window unit) air conditioned office and the brutally overheated, stuffy garage.  If one lived through the high level of heat while walking to the far end of the garage in order to get to the refrigerator, well, then, that individual could help himself or herself to a cold refreshment. The garage area was barren except for the refrigerator, a box fan and a round wooden table with several mis-matched chairs. This space was used for unofficial political meetings whenever Mr. Hill saw fit to hold meetings. Well, this area was also an excellent place for poker games. 

Dr. Thompson did not even bother to say hello to his best friend.  The tired veterinarian simply shuffled through the office carrying a scruffy looking cat. He  was  quickly  positioned  in  front  of  the  rusty  ice  box  so  fondly called,  The Oasis. And there it was. The basic  of basics. A glass bottle with those eight white letters written  over a red stripe with a few  happy numbers thrown in.  A lovely Dr Pepper drink ! He used the bottle opener that was attached by two loose screws that protruded from the wall. After one sip, he believed that life could go again. He hardly noticed Gerald Anderson talking to Paul the first time that he walked through the office. But now, he could focus better.  He saw that Gerald looked sad.  And Paul looked agitated.  In his frustration, Paul turned to the veterinarian.  “Ben, listen to this, “ Paul said as he looked first at the doctor and then at the cat.  “My sister is stirring up trouble, “ Paul said loudly.  Then he mumbled to himself and said,  “Of course, it is her job to do so. “ 

Paul’s sister, Pauline Martin,  just happened to be his twin.  And she just happened to work for Hill County.  And Hill County just happened to be named after George Washington Hill.  And that man just happened to be the great-grandfather of the twins. And even though her office was geographically fifty yards from Paul’s office, the twin’s lives were a world apart.  And even though they had shared their mother’s womb 49 years ago,  Paul and Pauline were completely opposite.  It was as if destiny put the adult twins in the wrong buildings.  Paul owned a one story unassuming building at 58 N. Elm street.  He was a real estate man.  The town and county courthouse was Pauline’s workplace.  The courthouse was a three  story building that entailed stately, intricate lines,  markings and carvings. The trees and flowers surrounding the courthouse were tended to once a week.  The whole package was a photographer’s dream.  Pauline was a quiet person.  She liked staying in the background. Paul was someone that everyone noticed.  One might guess that he was the one that went in and out of the majestic  courthouse   all  day  long. However, a courthouse usually conjures  up thoughts of abiding by the law.  In that respect,   Pauline was in the right building.  She believed in rules, regulations and guidelines.  She was a wonderful employee for the welfare department. 

Paul began to explain to Dr.  Thompson that Gerald’s son was the center of the trouble that had started three weeks ago. Gerald’s son, Michael loved horses; so much so that he owned a horse of his own.  You see,  Michael Anderson was a country boy with a passion for riding.  He was already a champion rodeo rider in the local circuit.  He had so much love for riding that he decided to skip school here and there to go out to the stables on the edge of town and ride his horse.  Well,  here and there started adding up. The school had called the boy’s  home many times to alert the mother. Both the mother and the father  had taken charge of the situation but the boy would not cooperate.  The timeline of warnings had run  out and the school was forced to notify the county welfare office about Michael’s truancy.   Paul went on with his explanation as if he were absolutely furious.  “My sister has notified Gerald that his son has been truant from school to a severe extent.  If it continues, Gerald will be held responsible.  Gerald could even do jail time for this !”  Paul barked. The distraught father turned to the doctor and said,  “I really don’t see my son changing his ways.  Sometimes kids don’t understand how serious  some  things are until it’s all over with.” 

The three men looked at each other.  Gerald was teary-eyed by now as he said,  “Here it is late October and Mike has butchered up the first half of the fall semester.  I’m scared that he won’t even have enough senior course work  to graduate in May at the rate he’s going.”  

Paul finally said,  “I’m thinking.”  Gerald stared straight ahead while Dr. Thompson sat down and tilted his chair backwards until the top, back edge of the chair touched the wall.  The feline seemed to be the only creature in the office that was not worried about truancy, jail time or graduation. The unkempt cat closed his eyes and purred to himself. 

After about five minutes,  Paul began to speak.  “Well, now look.  Your boy is 17 years old,” he said with a Texas twang.  “He is restless. That’s no crime. And he is awfully good at rodeo riding. It’s obvious that he is building a nice future for himself because he has won plenty of rodeo competitions. Both Gerald and Dr. Thompson nodded their heads in agreement.  “Well, hell,” said Paul.  “I’ll take care of my sister.  If she pays you a visit again, just be polite and let her say what she needs to say.  I’ll fix things.  Let your boy keep being a boy.  I’ll fix things.  It’ll take a few days  but I’ll put things in motion so that everyone feels good again.” 

Gerald and Dr. Thompson knew that if Paul Hill said he would fix things, he would do just that. Although Gerald still looked worried,  he also looked relieved.  Paul hopped up out of his mahogany  chair   and went through the back door.  Gerald stood up and even though he was tall, at this time,  he looked small and defeated.  When Paul returned, he had  a  Dr Pepper in his hand.  “Here,” he said, as he handed it to Gerald.  “It’s hot out there.  Take this. Give me a week.  I’ll fix this whole mess.”  The advisor put his hand on the weary father’s shoulder and gave a kind squeeze.  As Paul walked Gerald to the front door,  Paul winked and said,  “Give me a week.” 

And in one week, sure enough,  the situation did get   better. What words could really  describe how and/or why it happened ? Leverage,  influence,  favors owed or a determined spirit that would not take  “no” for an answer.  The changes that occurred in  Michael’s life had tap marks on them  from  Paul  Hill’s dazzling   but forceful magic wand.  

 Michael was surprised when the school counselor insisted that the boy agree to a schedule change and accept a school job assignment.  This assignment would replace Mike’s study hall slot. ( His new schedule would kick  into place on Friday Nov. 6th) Additional coursework credit would be given if Mike agreed to the task.  He would attend his morning classes as usual.  But then at 11:05, he was to report to the school office.  He was to personally help the principal deliver important papers, packages and books to  a variety of classrooms. The principal’s suggestion to Michael  was music to any bored student’s ears.  The principal said, “Now these kinds of deliveries usually do not take too long at all, so if we finish early, you can go ahead and take your lunch break early.  In other words, if  you want to leave campus ahead of schedule, well, that would be just fine. It is typical that the deliveries are finished right around 11:30.” ( You see,  there was a  school wide lunch break from 12:00 to 1:00 every day. Students could be on campus or off campus. )  The wheels in Mike’s head started turning. The deliveries ended on the north end of the building.  The bike rack was at the north end of the building.  He could leave via his bike and jet over to the horse stables around 11:30. He would have tons of time to spend with his horse.  He could get back to school just in time for his 1:00 class. It would be almost the same as when he was skipping classes. Michael mumbled to himself,  “Why did my bad luck turn around and get good?” 

Another happy change occurred for  Mike. It was with his  history class.  The teacher had made the announcement that the material on the Industrial Age had  run itself out. So it would be necessary to jump into a different kind of history for the remainder of the semester.  The history teacher,  Mr. Richards, had made the choice to pick up with the subject of  the Texas Rangers with an emphasis on their horses. 

And there was a third change that made Mike’s life easier.  The history teacher had changed his roll call procedure just a bit.  Instead of the usual starting direction from  top to bottom,  Mr. Richards was now starting at the bottom of the list  when calling roll.  He was starting with the letter Zz.  This was probably the first time in Mike Anderson’s  school life that he was not called first.  What a relief !  Doug Zandt’s name was called first every day in history class.  Each day, the  teacher made his way slowly through the list of names.  On a consistent basis,  one could hear the running sound  of penny loafers coming down the hall right at 1:00.  Then there was always the sliding sound of those penny loafers on the classroom floor near the doorway. As the teacher called out,  “Anderson, Michael.  Are you here ?”   Mike, who was always out of breath but who  was  officially  in  the  doorway  of  the  classroom,   would  struggle  to answer, “Here sir !”  Although   Mike was tired  each day at 1:00, he was enthusiastic about attending history class.  He had confided in the teacher that he would never want to miss out on getting information on the Texas Rangers and their horses.  

Mike turned into one of the happiest teenagers living in Hillsboro.  He couldn’t believe how easy his life had become.  He was not arguing with his parents any longer about attending school or completing homework assignments.  All of those tensions seemed to have gone away for some unknown reason.  Mike noticed that many important men  liked to stop Mike on the sidewalk and ask him questions about his rodeo riding.  He liked the sudden attention he was getting. And then there was Mrs. Martin.  It was always a pleasure to see her but there was one odd  thing  about  WHERE  he was seeing her.  Lately,  she was in the wrong place.   Everyone knew that she worked at the courthouse, which was two blocks away.  She was always  standing on the corner of  Elm Street and Church Street  every  single day around 11:30. Well, not every single day.  Just Monday through Friday. And   lately, the mayor was in the wrong place, too.   He  was often out on the sidewalk area of Abbott Street and Smith  Street around 12:55 as Mike was making his last push to get back to school from the stables.  The mayor always shouted out to Mike and said,  “There you are ! Hillsboro’s  favorite rodeo rider.”  As nice as that was to get some happy attention from the leader of the town,  Mike thought it was odd that the mayor was constantly  standing at 200 N. Abbott Street. After all,  that was the location of  St. Mary’s Episcopal Church.  The mayor did not belong there. Everyone knew he was a baptist !   “Well,  maybe the mayor is  holding meetings there,” Mike would   mumble to himself. 

  Mike did not spend too much time thinking about those sudden and odd changes.  Michael felt like the adults in the town noticed him and liked him.  What a pleasant  thing !   He always thought that kids noticed kids and adults noticed adults.  When  did the adults  start  noticing him ? If he had  not been so busy with all his tasks,  he would have begun to question why he was getting positive attention out of the blue.  He probably would have brought it up to a few of the adults that he was close to. But he was just too busy to really investigate if any of these changes meant anything in his world. “Who knows why I am getting noticed lately.   I just know it feels very good to be on people’s good side,”  he would mumble to himself. 

If Mike HAD  gotten un-busy enough to investigate, he would have asked why the adults around him had a  new and improved attitude toward him.  He might have asked someone why his life   suddenly started  feeling  smooth and easy.  He might have tried to have someone explain why  a person can suddenly become very, very lucky.  If it  had been allowed for open discussion, any number of people could have responded,  “ I can tell  you why !” 

 Michael’s history teacher could have told him. Or his school  principal or the vice principal.  Certainly,  the school secretary or the school counselor could have told him.  The school board president or any 11 of the school board members could have told him.  It could have been the school superintendent who could have provided  information. There was always the police chief and his five police officers that had all the details.  Mike’s mom or dad could have told him. The mayor knew, along with the horse stable manager. Sheriff Miller and his deputy knew.  And certainly,  Pauline Martin, the social worker knew.  And let’s not forget that Mr. Paul Hill knew every detail of the whole well orchestrated plan.  

If it had been up for discussion,  Mike would have been given an explanation.  But Mr. Hill made sure that it was to be a  well-kept secret .  He had insisted on a code of silence.  Mr. Hill had told the other adults involved that he wanted Mike to be left with a feeling,  not a complicated spider web of thoughts. This would be the ending point of Mike’s childhood and he should not  look back at  his childhood and  be disturbed by memories of adults and their lectures, explanations and solutions. 

When Paul Hill  initially had his meeting in the garage area of his office behind closed doors with all 31 people, he said,  “A FEELING  that things worked out will  be far better to have than of  THOUGHTS  of how a  truancy mess got worked out.  Feelings will benefit this boy more than thoughts, in this case. Most adults are haunted by embarrassing memories of something from childhood.  I would like to protect Michael from being haunted in his later years. No one likes to bump into ghosts deep in the night.   Who are we to cloud up the memories of his youth with the truth !  I know everyone here can understand that Michael is  in a battle of temptation vs. obligation.  And I am pretty sure that everyone here can  understand why we do not need to fill this boy up with explanations of how wonderful and effective our rescue plan was. As he steps into his future,  I do not want him to look back into the past and see us as having been  the cavalry !  Michael should be left with a feeling of goodness or luck or freedom.  Or maybe he will be left with having memorized    the feeling  of  the soft wind  on his face as he was riding his bike to and from the horse stables. Or maybe he will have  memorized  the sweet feeling  of    Rusty’s  breath on  his neck as he groomed  Rusty, the horse,   each day when he was having stable time instead of school cafeteria  time. Better to have that memory than a memory of the townspeople breathing down his neck !   We really do not know what Mike will be left with once this school year ends.  But sure as hell,  he should not be left with  negative thoughts of adults who rallied around his problem and put a plan together to save him from his own laziness.  No child wants to be left with that.  Let’s make sure he walks away from his last school year on a positive note. We must keep  this whole thing a secret .”  Paul stared  at each person in the room.  Then he demonstrated what he expected everyone to do when he put his hand in the air.   “If you agree with me,  put your hand in the air,” he said with the tone of a military man.

Michael enjoyed the next few months at Hillsboro High School.  He graduated at the end of May with unremarkable  grades. He was not  swept away by academics.  If he did not care about the subject matter, he simply let that information dissipate.  He did, however, take some important book knowledge  with him when he left high school.  He carried  with him only  information that he valued.  But he also carried something else. And he would carry that  “something else”  for the rest of his life.  And yes,  it would be a feeling.  But there was more to it than just a feeling. It was an invisible layer of feelings that pressed on the teenager.   But Mike would never be able to acknowledge, first and foremost,  the  basic feeling.  So he certainly would never be able to acknowledge the second layer of the feeling.   He would never be able to acknowledge that that basic feeling went right through him  and turned itself into much more than a feeling.   

The first  feeling was truly classified as  a  physical  feeling;   a feeling  that takes place  inside the body like when a person   smells cinnamon, for example.   And  the feeling was even  an obvious emotion type   feeling  like  when someone thinks of  a glass of lemonade on a hot day. It was a feeling alright but it had  turned  sideways. In Michael’s world, that  (physical and emotional)  feeling had become  a sensation. So the sensation was a second layer of a feeling. 

 And as powerful as that sensation  was, Mike would never be able to pinpoint it.  It would never be in the forefront of Mike’s mind.   And that very sensation that  Mike carried with him was a mystery to those around him  because he never talked about it. But it would not have surprised anyone IF he had gotten clear headed enough to have expressed himself.  Different people  could have explained why that  sensation  meant something to him. Still, those people would have labeled it as  “just  a reaction type feeling.”  Those people were older and wiser. Yes, for them,  they would have referred to it as a feeling. Just one feeling. No layers. Just one feeling.  And someone could have easily said, “So that is the feeling that you have been left with.”   

  Without him really comprehending it,  the autumn air moved Mike in a  profound way.   For him,  the autumn air was not just a chilly temperature.  It was not just  a sign that  the seasons were changing.  It was something that he could not detect, exactly.   He just knew that the tingling cool air of autumn made him feel hopeful.  Each year, right after Halloween,  Mike had a feeling within every ounce of his being. There was some silent message that came to him each November.  The message or the feeling was that  life could get hectic and busy without turning  burdensome. The month of November was always a happy time for him. Even Thanksgiving became his favorite holiday.  Yet, he would never tap into the fact that autumn air was the starting point that pulled him into feeling powerful.   With  each season of autumn,  the feeling of goodness and power  was reinforced. 

Mike got consumed by horse riding and rodeo competitions. He got picked up by a sponsor out of Ft. Worth. He lived in a boarding house with other young riders. The autumn season was the main time that  he and  his fellow riders  practiced with their horses. Mike’s specialty had become barrel racing. He and his horse, Rusty,  were unusually fast !  When people would  ask Mike how practice was going, he always said that he felt good. Without him understanding what was really happening to him, the autumn air was working its spiritual  magic on the young cowboy.  The autumn air  gave Mike the feeling that winning was possible.  He was always optimistic in the fall. He would  never know how much the seasonal air perpetrated  itself inside his world.  The November  air somehow  told  Mike   that life was manageable. 
And strangely  enough,  it was in the months of November and December that  horse riding practice  was at its most tedious. (Most competitions started in  February and ended in  August.)  The autumn was a critical time for any cowboy on someone’s payroll.  It was more than common to see  trainers and sponsors yelling at their cowboys.  And it was common to see nervous  cowboys mumble and grumble  about the criticism thrown at them. Mike was often on the receiving end of criticism.  He got nervous, just like everyone else.   But he did not get discouraged.  During those hard practices,  he took deep breaths. He knew that deep breaths were helpful, for him.  He knew that the chilly  air felt  good,  to  him. He knew that the tasks at hand were manageable. He had no way of explaining to himself why he was confident during practice while other cowboys felt beaten down. Why was Mike full of reassurance during that specific  time ?  Why was the autumn such a carefree time for him ? 

  Paul Hill would never know that the feeling that Mike had been left with was a childlike and innocent bliss  that had been permanently woven  into the  autumn air.  And Mike would never know that  inside the autumn air,  there had been a multitude of decent people who had bent some very important rules just to rescue him when he was restless, lost and defiant.  But they had not just rescued him.  They had also gathered  up and forever  preserved and handed him a   feeling.  And what a feeling it was;  a  mixture of  freedom, happiness and  protection wrapped into one feeling  that  would forever float and  be the touch and the smell  of  the autumn  air of Central Texas. There would be plenty of times in Michael’s life when he would feel burdened and imprisoned but the autumn would not be one of those times. The autumn would forever be a season or specific time when he felt whole and in an idyllic emotional place.    Ironically enough, it would forever be a touch (of air) that allowed him to be untouched by the world.

 

 If it had been allowed;  if there had been permission to discuss it and if Michael had been  more in  tune  with the psychology of both  life and emotions, he would have  asked someone. And someone  in his hometown  could have told him. Someone could have told him  that  the autumn air  was reminding him of a gift,  an answer,  a solution, a plan.  It had been a guaranteed rescue plan to anchor one of their own from drifting off course.   If it had been up for discussion, Michael would have finally understood  the peculiar  sensation that moved him as the autumn leaves were falling.   But  it was a secret.   And   what   a   beautiful   secret  it was; all  in order  to fix  a young man’s life as the autumn air was stirring in Hillsboro in  1959.

Reviews

[JayG]

• I am a school teacher who grew up in Texas.

And that pretty well defines your most pressing problem as a writer of fiction: You're using the writing skills you teach. Why that's a problem isn't obvious, and you’ll not see it, but it can be summed up, well, by E. L. Doctorow: “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”

Simply put, instead of making the reader feel the rain, you’re giving the weather report. And because it is a problem, and cureable, I thought you'd want to know. So to that end, look at the opening of this story:

• By the time that Dr. Ben Thompson entered Hill Company, he had only one thing on his mind. He wanted an ice cold drink.

This isn’t action. Ben isn’t going into the building. You, someone neither on the scene nor in the story, are reporting it as a dispassionate external observer. And that continues, as if you’re writing a report on Ben and the situation he lives in. Informative? Yes, but does it involve the reader? As presented, we plow though 224 words, and are on page two of a standard manuscript submission before he decides on which brand of soda to drink. And what have we learned?

1. A veterinarian, who lives in an unknown location, entered an unknown place referred to as, “Hill Company—function unknown.
2. Someone unknown called Paul Hill, presumably the one the company is named for, keeps carbonated drinks in a hot garage.
3. Paul’s garage is empty, but for a “rusty” refrigerator, a table, and “mismatched chairs.

Who cares? That’s detail, not story. In a full page of manuscript all that happens is that someone we don’t know takes a soda? This is a report, not a story. You’re telling the reader what CAN be seen, not what Ben is actively paying attention to. And in fiction, anything he’s ignoring is irrelevant because it’s HIS story, not a tour of the garage.

Look at it from a fiction-reader’s perspective. We enter the story not knowing where and when we are, who we are, and what’s going on. So react to it as a reader must:

“By the time?” That implies that Ben is engaged in something that takes time. Riding? Driving? Hiking? No way to know. We could be in the year 1930 0r 3021. So, without context for why and how he’s traveling, and his objective, this is meaningless, as it’s read,

When you say, “he had only one thing on his mind.” You imply a need so great that it drives out all else. Quenching his thirst would seem so, but is it important enough to dive out all other desires—like getting out of the sun? And why is the temperature of the drink that critical? If nothing else, it implies that he wants an alcoholic drink—as in "Pour me a cold one." So when his great desire turns out to be only a generic carbonated drink, the reader can only conclude that in some way this is critical to the story. But it’s trivia.

Here’s the deal: you’re transcribing yourself talking TO the reader. But verbal storytelling is a performance art. There are no other actors, and no visual aids, so the storyteller's PERFORMANCE substitutes for the missing actors. But...the reader gets none of the body-language, audible and visual expression and motion clues that come with screen and stage. Nor do they get the storyteller’s performance—what I call the dance of the storyteller—which must substitute for the actors and provide the emotional component of your tale.

Only you know the emotion, the gestures, the expressions, and more, that you'd place into your performance. And because you do, as YOU read, every line points to images, emotion, and intent, ready and waiting in your mind. Only you begin reading with full context, plus intent for how the words are to be taken.

For what the reader will “hear,” have the computer’s Narrator program read it to you. And keep in mind as you do, that the program factors in a given sentence’s punctuation when deciding how to inflect the words. The reader sees the punctuation only after the line is read. So if the reader is missing context…

Universally, we fall into what I call, The Great Misunderstanding. All through school we practice a skill our teachers call writing, primarily, via assignments to create reports and essays. So, when we graduate we make the reasonable assumption that the word ‘writing” that’s part of the profession, Fiction-Writing, points to that skill. But does it? Universities offer degrees in Commercial Fiction Writing. Surely at least some of what’s taught there is necessary.

Go back to the goal of nonfiction, which is the only set of writing techniques we’re given—the only one you teach. It’s to inform the reader concisely and accurately, to prepare them for the needs of employment, where the ability to write papers, reports, and letters matters. The techniques are fact-based and author-centric. You, the narrator, alone on stage, and of necessity, dispassionately, report and inform. That’s useful if you’re writing a history, but lousy if your goal is to make the reader feel the rain, and useless in making the protagonist seem to be the reader’s avatar, as they read. Use the techniques we’re given in school for fiction and for your reader, every line points to images, emotion, and intent, ready and waiting in *YOUR* mind. And with you not there to clarify. all they can do is take the meaning the words suggest, based on THEIR background.

Fiction, with its goal of providing an emotional experience, has a methodology that’s emotion-based and character-centric. It places the reader INTO the story, AS the protagonist.

We lose sight of the fact that the reader learns of every action and item the protagonist will react to BEFORE they read of that reaction, and so, will react, themselves. And because that's true, the key is to calibrate the reader’s perception of the scene to the protagonist’s needs and resources, so that reader will react to what they read as-the-protagonist. But to do that requires an entirely different approach to writing from those of nonfiction.

Did your teachers, for example, define the role of the short-term scene-goal? If not, will you make use of it? Did they explain why a scene on the page ends in disaster for the scene’s protagonist, and why that must be? In fact, did they even explain why, and how a scene on the page differs from that of stage and screen presentation? If not, how can you write a scene the reader will react to as one?

See the problem? As Mark Twain put it: “It ain’t what you don’t know that gets you into trouble. It’s what you know for sure that just ain’t so.”

The solution is obvious: add the skills the pros take for granted to those you now own. And for that the library’s fiction-writing section (not the school’s though) is a great resource.

To help, the best book I know of on the basics of creating scenes that will sing to the reader, and weaving them into a satisfying whole, has come out of copyright protection, and is available on archive sites. One such is listed below. Copy/paste it into the URL window at the top of any internet page, and hit Return to read or download a copy. It’s the book that got me my first publishing contract. Maybe it can do the same for you. And for what it may be worth, most of the articles in my WordPress writing blog are based on the teaching in that book.

https://archive.org/details/TechniquesOfTheSellingWriterCUsersvenkatmGoogleDrive4FilmMakingBsc_ChennaiFilmSchoolPractice_Others

So grab a copy and dig in. And while you do, hang in there, and keep on writing.

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

[Delmar Cooper]

This is a monolithic story with dialogue that could break it into reader size pieces carefully tucked away into big blocks of paragraphs. Dialogue almost always shows the reader something the writer wants to tell the reader. White space is free. Why not use it? As it stands the writer is sharing his thoughts about what the characters are thinking and experiencing. Let the singers sing and the dancers dance. That's why you created them, or at least that why a reader thinks they exist.