The Reckoning

A hard lesson one old cowboy learned when he found out that there is more to life than one always sees.

Well now I be gitten old, an ma life ain’t been an easy one. Say Some it might a bin a down-right horror, but ya sees, I knows better. Ya, I were once a bad apple in me youth, and like all youngins I felt invincible. Then summit happened t’set me straight an I ain’t nary been the same since; though sum might say it weren't much for t'better either. I allers use t’carrys guns and prolly will til the days I die, but these days I carries mine "ace in the hole," doan wanna scare folks no more, ya sees, cuz now I carries mine fer entirely diff’rent reasons. I took some advise from an ole feller I met, an got meself sum special bullets. Back yonder, I were nuthin but a bully an a sorry-assed thief. Too wild t’work and twice as lazy. Ain’t nary gawn t' school neither. I allers thought it t’were only fer sissies, least ways that’s what my pa allas said, and he wuz one mean, tough, somabitch fer sure. Ma died not too long after birthin me, an me older brothers were long gone by the time I wuz knee high to a grasshopper. T’wernt much later I did the same. Like I says, pa wuz mean ... gawdawful mean. It were then I met up with a group of fellers who showed me another way. I ran wild with them for a good piece til ever'thang went s**t crazy.

I member it like t’were yesterday… It were late fall and the sun had set. I wuz alone then, cuz them boys started a bit o'trouble in town. Hank and his twin, Earl, wuz thrown into t’hoosegow after having summit of a difficulty with the sheriff, and Seth shinned t’hell out afore he joined ‘em. Then Roy, poor ole lunger that he were, got taken by the consumption - we all saws it comin - guess it were just his time, anyways, after that, Billy met a lonely California widow and made hisself scarce. There I were, all but sixteen an on me own. I were lucky enough ta escape the hullabaloo, but left town when I felt me welcome wuz wearin out. Truth is, I were skint, an gitten a fair mount desperate, when I sees this old geezer walkin down ta road after I been travellin fer a few hours. I wuz shoar ‘nuff ready to take anythang that old bugger had, sos I climbs off me scrub mare, and starts amblin t’ords him, all casual like. Dint look like he wuz carryin, but I never minded. I hadda coupla colts hangin on ma hips, sos I weren’t overly worried none; but I kept me eyes on him jest' ta same.

The wind wuz pickin up as the sun went down, an the old guy just stood there as I walked t'ord 'im... his faded duster flappin in the wind. He were watchin me, watchin 'im. As I neared, I heard ’im say, ”shoar is cold tonight my friend, winter’s comin early this year I fear, so let’s jus say our helloes an goodbyes quick-like and be on our ways. I best bes gitten home”.

Lazy-like, I drew me shiny black-eyed susan’s, aiming them two bad girls at his chest, an sneered, “empty yer pockets ole man.” The ole feller acted like he never heard a word I says, an jest kept right on a-talkin.

“There’s a fire back there, and some homemade rye“an I think ma woman made up some pie, and in truth son, you doan wanna die, so put yer guns away”.

Summit wuz feelin sorta off. A glimmer of unease was creepin, ant-like, up me spine. He dint seem a'tall put off, but I glared at 'im, as devil-eyed and bad-assed as kid with a couple of guns can muster, an tried ta stare 'im down.

“You doan talks much an that’s alright" he sez, "an me, I’m more of a lover, I doan like to fight, an I ain’t prepared to shed yer blood tonight, sos boy, you best be doin what I says."

He looked up then, his grizzled beard catching light from the moon, an I saws his shoulders start jerkin sum, and his hands curl and uncurl at his sides,
sorta claw-like. “That ole moon’s about as full as a moon can be, an now that damn ole curse is commin over me, an kid, it just ain’t wise for you ta stay...”

I glanced up too ... that Hunter moon were hanging in the sky like a big ole jack o'lantern afore it been cut. Then I looks back at the old man, and he sez, “sees that there cross high up on that hill? Well now, my boy rests there, all stiff an still, an it were me who put him there … when I had my fill... that ole moon just makes me crazy. Boy, I hopes there’s silver in them there guns, cuz yer gonna end up just like ma son, an ya wont's have a chance if ya trys ta run, sos its best youse jest leave afore thangs go foul….”

Behind the old bugger I saws that cross he wuz goin on about. It were silhouetted in the dark by the light of that big bloody lookin pocked moon; ‘bout made me shiver like some schoolgirl, but I sets me jaw an in a low mean voice I sez, “ empty yer pockets you crazy ole geezer, or I’ll fill yer useless hide full of lead.” Them mean minded words meant naught to him, and without breakin stride, he carried right on atalkin.

“Sees,” he said, “I feels real bad ‘bout what I did last month ma friend, an 'twas ma woman who cursed me to this bad end, but tonight you looks just like my poor son, Will - all hard-eyed with that same tough-assed scowl, sos if ya leaves right now I’ll lets ya go, but ya gotta be quick, cuz I feels the feelin grow... an if you wait too long...,“ then his words sounded more like a growl, “you’ll end up like my poor boy Will … dead from bein disemboweled”.

Me guns dropped to them holsters like they wuz put on on fire. An lord luv me, I ran faster then a six-legged rabbit; leapin on ta ma hoss like I had wings and wupped her poor ole hide with a frenzy I dint knowed I had. I din't dare look back as them hooves wuz kickin up clay, an I still gets the shivers - even to this day - when I hears me a wolf a- howling.

There’s more ta this world then most folks will ever know, but I thinks somehow I got saved that day, and sos, I decided ta make sumpin of meself, and since then I been playin pretty much straight. I guess in some snake-twisted way I should be thankful fer meetin that ole man ... still, I aint ever goin nowhere on no full moon, nohow, fer nobody, I reckon.

Reviews

[JayG]

You need to drastically tone down the dialect. Were this a live telling you'd use it to stay in character and add color. But on the page all the life you would inject into the narration by changing tempo, intensity, and emotion is gone. Have your computer read this aloud to hear what the reader gets.

Trying to use verbal storytelling techniques on the page doesn't work, I'm afraid, because this medium is so different from a live performance. In storytelling our performance matters every bit as much as what we say, because it carries most of the emotional freight of the story. But on the page every element of our performance—audible and visual—is missing, so another methodology is needed in its place.

That doesn't say you can't be a storyteller on the page, too, just that you need a different set of storytelling tricks—tricks you can find in the fiction-writing section of the library.

Pretty much everything changes because of the limitations our medium imposes. On stage we're alone, and have to play every role. And since we can't play the role of the one shooting and the one getting shot without looking silly, on stage we do a lot of overview explaining. And a lot of the excitement in the story is placed there by the excitement in our performance. But on the page we have as many actors as does a film. So there's no real reason for the narrator to be on stage. And remember, while we can tell the reader how a given character delivers a line, we can't tell them how we speak our lines, so everything the narrator says lacks emotion, which changes the narrator's job and methodology.

I'm sure you've noticed that the book version and the film version of any story is almost always quite different. That's because of the differing strengths and weaknesses of the mediums. Film, for example, takes us into the scene as an observer, where we see everything at once, in real-time, We absorb background ambiance as the action in the foreground takes place. The page can't do that because it lacks vision and hearing. And on the page everything must be spelled out, one thing at a time. That drastically limits what we can provide in a reasonable time. But, the page can take us someplace film can't: into the protagonist's head.

Unfortunately, it can only do that if you know the tricks of doing that. And since all professions are learned in addition to the book-report writing skills we're given in school, those tricks weren't even mentioned as existing when we were in school.

But as I said, there's no reason you can't pick them up, just like every successful writer. So dig in. Hit the library and devour a few books on fiction writing technique. and while you're there, or on Amazon, look for the names Dwight Swain, Jack Bickham, or Debra Dixon on the cover of a book on fiction writing technique.

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

[felioness]

Thanks for the review Jay. This particular piece was SUPPOSE to be written in western slang (or any other vernacular dialect for a writing assignment for which I scored well by the way. I hear where you are coming from but it was an exercise which is difficult to maintain throughout. Not how I usually write but an interesting perspective nonetheless.

[JayG]

I'm glad you got a good grade, but...you'll score well with a teacher who knows no more of the professional skills of writing fiction than anyone else who hasn't studied them because you're using the same techniques they would. But if teachers knew the techniques of writing fiction, being the most practiced of us, they would compose the majority of selling writers. And if they were teaching us what we need to know about writing professionally, most new writers would be nineteen.

The real question is how we score with the one you're trying to convince to offer you a publishing contract. Only their vote counts.

And self-publishing? If you can't sell a given story to the people who make their living by choosing work that will sell and pay their salary, who are you going to sell it to? Not their customers.

• Not how I usually write

Actually, aside from the use of dialect, it is. Your approach, like nearly everyone—myself included when I began—is to tell the reader a story in the way we're taught to in our schooldays. We report and explain, and try our best to tell it vividly, with evocative language and expressive word-pictures. But that's an outside-in approach that only works if the audience can hear and see your performance, as I've already noted.

And that approach suffers the problem that E. L. Doctorow so wisely noted with: “Good writing is supposed to evoke sensation in the reader. Not the fact that it’s raining, but the feeling of being rained upon.”

Instead of telling the reader that the protagonist eased down the cellar steps, with his level of fear rising, step-by-step. We want the READER'S level of fear to be rising. That's where the fun of reading fiction comes from—living the story in real-time, AS the protagonist. And to quote Papa Hemingway, “It’s none of their business that you have to learn how to write. Let them think you were born that way.”

Hope this helps

[felioness]

You should charge for your advice Jay, you might get rich.

[JayG]

I once did. I owned a manuscript critiquing service before I retired.