Sue Grafton - U Is For Undertow

With Destiny, he was dazzled, a novice whose enthusiasm matched hers. Despite her claims about the open relationship, she had with Creed, there was no question of their meeting at the Unruhs’, where Creed and Shawn popped in and out of the school bus. In the main house, Deborah was a constant presence. Rain had playdates, swimming lessons, and gymnastics. Cars were always coming and going; kids being picked up, kids being dropped off. Their only choice was for her to come to his place as often as she could manage it. For transportation, she borrowed the Unruhs’ Buick.

While Walker was away on vacation, Jon maintained a strict neutrality when he was in the company of Creed and Destiny, making sure no hint of their altered relationship emerged. Destiny, by nature, would have played the situation for high drama. She enjoyed creating conflict, and what better instance of it than two men vying for the same woman, especially if it was her. It was the substance of myth. Competition between them would endow her with status. She was the prize for which they would battle until one or the other was felled. Jon was having none of it. He had no respect for Creed, but he didn’t see why he should suffer humiliation to satisfy Destiny’s love of histrionics.

Waiting for her at his place, he felt suspended, counting the minutes. He woke early, lingering in bed, remembering what they’d done, fantasizing what they’d do next. He never knew when she’d arrive or whether she’d make it at all. He had no idea what excuses she gave for her absences and he didn’t care to ask. Without warning, she’d knock on the door at the bottom of the stairs. At the top there was a second door, and by the time he opened it, she’d be taking the stairs two at a time. She’d fling herself at him, laughing and out of breath. They’d hole up in his room, making love at a frantic pace, all noise and sweat. She taught him about pleasure and excess, all the appetites of the flesh. Between bouts of sex they’d share a joint. His studio was a haze of weed and cigarette smoke. At intervals they’d trail down the stairs, often naked, and wander into the main house, where they raided Lionel’s wine cellar, working their way through his high-end Chardonnay. Dope made them hungry and they devoured everything in sight, most of it junk since Jon didn’t have the money to buy much else. Doughnuts, chips, candy bars, cookies, peanut butter and crackers-their makeshift feasts as intense as the sex.

In order to make time for the long runs he loved, he dragged himself out of bed at 8:00. His weight lifting was halfhearted and many days he skipped. He saw Destiny on random afternoons and after she left, he’d nap, forage for dinner, and then sit down at his desk, which he usually reached by 9:00. He worked into the wee hours, shorting himself on sleep. There was no other way around it. The dope, fatigue, and alcohol took their toll, fogging his brain and breaking up his concentration. This was a problem when Friday rolled around and Mr. Snow was expecting his work. The second week, his deadline came up on him before he knew it, and he was forced to pull an all-nighter, writing feverishly until the sky turned light.

He’d come up with a cool idea about a kid who ran with a pack of wild dogs; this in the Deep South- Georgia, Alabama, someplace like that. He pictured the kid living under the porch of a ramshackle shotgun house, feasting on scraps. Jon could smell the dirt and the animal scent of the boy. He wrote about the hot summer nights when the wind was still and the dogs howled from afar, calling to the kid. He didn’t have a clue where he was going with the story, but he made a good start, fifteen double-spaced pages.

He handed in what he’d done, and sat, as he always did, feigning nonchalance while he waited for Mr. Snow’s response. This time he read several of the pages twice and then flipped through the whole of it, frowning.

Jon said, “You don’t like it.”

“It’s not that. I don’t know what to say. I mean, there’s nothing really wrong here. The prose is serviceable. You lean toward the melodramatic, but it doesn’t play because the setup is manufactured. You think the setting is stark, but it comes off as syrupy instead. Do you know anything about the South? Have you ever even been there?”

“I was using my imagination. Isn’t that the point?”

“But why this? You’re talking about five or six dogs and I can’t tell one from the other. Okay, one has yellow eyes and another one has a rough coat. You’re giving me characteristics, not characters. Even if you write about dogs you have to differentiate. That’s where conflict comes from. Then you have this kid with no personality at all, which is a tough proposition given the situation you’ve put him in. Where’s Jon Corso in this? As far as I know, what you describe here bears no relation to your life or your problems or your hopes or your dreams. Wait, maybe I should ask this first. Have you ever run with a pack of dogs?”

“Not recently,” he said, trying to be flip. The criticism stung. Mr. Snow was blunt and he didn’t pull his punches. Jon felt himself shrink, but Mr. Snow wasn’t done.

“You’re writing out of your head. There’s no heart. You understand what I’m saying? This is verbiage, empty sentences. Blah, blah, blah doesn’t mean anything to you and it sure as shit doesn’t mean anything to me.”

“Is there a way to fix it?”

“Sure. Here’s a quick fix. Toss it out and start somewhere else. You keep your reader at arm’s length when you should be writing from your gut. That’s the point of fiction, the connection between reader and writer. This is crap. You manage to make it look like a story, but you’re just going through the motions. I want to see the world as you see it. Otherwise, a monkey could sit down and bang this stuff out.”

“Well, that’s bullshit. You said I could write anything I want and then you tear it apart.”

Mr. Snow hung his head. “Okay. Good point. My fault. Let’s skip the issue of content and talk about process. You’re hiding. You’re not giving me anything of you. You’re waving your hands, hoping to distract the reader from noticing how much you withhold. You have to make yourself visible. You have to open up and feel. Mad, sad, glad, bad. Take your pick. I’m not saying you have to write your autobiography, but your life and your experiences are the wellspring. You want to write, you have to tell me how the world looks from your perspective. You have to absorb and deconstruct reality and then reassemble it from the inside out.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Haven’t you ever hated anyone? Haven’t you ever been out of your mind with jealousy or fear? Your little doggie dies and you can hardly get to your room fast enough before you burst into tears?”

Jon considered and then shrugged. “I don’t feel that strongly about things.”

“Sure you do. You’re eighteen-all hormones and emotion, testosterone and angst. The only thing worse than a teenaged guy is a teenaged girl. I don’t want you coming from here,” he said, tapping his head. He put the flat of his hand on his chest. “I want you coming from here. Writing’s hard. It’s a skill you attain by practicing. You don’t just dash off good work in your off-hours. You can’t be halfhearted. It takes time. You want to be a concert pianist, you don’t slog your way through Five Easy Pieces and expect to be booked into Carnegie Hall. You have to sit down and write. As much as you can. Every day of your life. Does any of this make sense?”

Jon smiled. “Not much.”

“Well, it will.” Mr. Snow flapped the pages at him. “I’ll give you this much. Clumsy as this is, I can see just the wee tiniest spark buried in the muck. You can do this. You have something. The trick is to get out of your own way and let the light shine through. Now get out of here. I’ll see you next week, okay?”