Mother’s Day 2013

Mother’s Day has been different for me since Mom passed away. My inbox still fills this time of year with spam to “Don’t forget Mom.” Commercial.

Irene Rupkus

I’ve written about Mom over the years—her battle with Parkinson’s disease, and she appears, in some form or another, in a lot of my fiction. My effort to keep her memory alive, and perhaps to find some reason for her suffering. Several readers have reached out to me, grateful to me for sharing with them her story. There is comfort in knowing someone shares your pain.

Mother’s Day has evolved for me since I was boy, when I hand-crafted cards for her, a heart-felt sentiment inside written in shaky block letters. When I got older it became a Hallmark day—flowers, brunch, a card with a heart-felt sentiment in a more elegant cursive.

My first Mother’s Day without her, two months after she passed away, was difficult; it was spent with Dad (who is now gone from me, too) and my sister. It made little sense for us to ignore the day. After brunch, while Dad gave me directions, I drove the three of us by the tiny apartment in which they lived for a time after they wed, and where my sister was conceived. Sadly, the building, in a rundown neighborhood, was boarded up. I saw it as a pictogram of the aging process. Heraclitus wrote: “All things flow, nothing abides.”

Each year since has gotten a little easier—several spent with a lady love who was herself a mother and whose mother still lived. But I always saved a moment for a thought of my own mother.

The lady love has moved on from me, and a new one now holds a prominent place in my life; but Mom is still a part of me. I know I’ve disappointed her in many ways, but I hope I’ve made her proud of me, if only in the trying. I’ve tried to live a good life and have, on occasion, failed. Yet we don’t have to let our failures mark us, the labels others place on us rule us. A man’s mettle in the face of adversity, his perseverance in the aftermath of disappointment, is a better measure of whom and what he is.

Each Mother’s Day I remember Mom in my own way, and this year was no different. I have an old photograph of her—sweet 16, a high school graduate, and beautiful, I see in her eyes all the hopes and dreams of youth … destined to one day become my mother.

She who bore me, and now I bear her, her memory as well as her hopes and dreams.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom.

—

J. Conrad Guest, author of Backstop: A Baseball Love Story In Nine Innings, One Hot January, January’s Thaw, and A Retrospect In Death

Good Writing Practice?

When I saw the forum topic – “Elmore Leonard says the only verb you should use to carry dialogue in a novel is “‘said’” – I just had to give my two cents.

J. Conrad Guest

Despite his also living in the Detroit area, there is not much that Leonard advises about the craft of writing with which I agree. True, he’s enjoyed greater success in his literary career than I have in mine, but he’s been around much longer, and the publishing industry has changed a great deal since he broke into the business.

Leonard claims that any attempt by the writer to infuse style into a text is their attempt to “butt into the story.” I disagree with this. To me, how something is written is as important as what is written. That’s not to say that I enjoy the Hallmark style of Nicholas Sparks. I never like to feel as if my emotions are being manipulated; but I enjoy reading the work of stylists, like Raymond Chandler.

Leonard also says he deletes from his manuscripts anything he envisions the reader skipping over. In other words, any paragraph more than two sentences that might focus on description of setting. I must be alone in that I enjoy rich descriptions, especially of eras gone by. A text is only as good as what its words make happen inside my head, and a novel composed largely of dialogue, to me, is akin to a screenplay.

So most of what Leonard says about the craft of writing I let go. I’ve read some of his work, and I was underwhelmed, although I don’t envy or begrudge his success. But while I think much of what Leonard writes appeals to a large audience, it doesn’t mean his way is the right way, or the only way.

Still, I agree with what Leonard says about “said”. What I found surprising in the forum was the number of writers who vehemently disagreed, claiming that they use, and enjoy reading novels that employ, as many different dialogue tags as can be devised. Many claim this practice of using blurts, expounds, ejaculates, opines, whispers, moans, cries, shouts, yells, claims, states, attests, argues … well, you get the picture, adds color. That type of writing tires me out.

I believe a dialogue tag should be unobtrusive, that it shouldn’t draw attention to itself with colorful adverbs. It’s not a hard fast rule, nor is it a J. Conrad rule. I consider it more a “best practice” of contemporary writing.

Many of the comments argued that there is no right way or wrong way to write a novel, and that it’s up to the writer to write in a way with which he or she is comfortable.

I don’t participate in a lot of forums, because of the time they take up; but, as I wrote above, for this one, I felt compelled to add my two cents, which many might say ain’t worth a plugged nickel. I wrote that I agreed – a writer should follow his or her inner voice; however, I added that the road to publication is paved with the best practices of contemporary fiction. Then I added a short excerpt from my latest work in progress, A World Without Music. I inserted two versions: the first as I wrote it originally, and then the second one, revised to reflect a number of colorful tag lines. What do you think? Which one do you feel reads better, flows more smoothly?

“I’m Rosary. Rosary Bellamy. Bellamy’s French for ‘beautiful friend.’ Can I be your beautiful friend?”

Reagan looked at her – she was very pretty, even if she was arrogant, with blue eyes and blond hair, and rather large breasts that he guessed had been surgically enhanced. Unlike many men, he didn’t mind breast implants, so long as they weren’t oversized and so firm that they didn’t shake, bounce or wobble.

“Beautiful name,” he said. “One I’ve never heard before.”

“I’m Catholic.”

Reagan grinned and said, “No kidding?”

“I hated it as a child, for all the ridicule it drew. But I like it now.” A pause. “What’s your name?”

“Reagan,” he said.

“What a strange name.”

“The actor who would be president. I have my father to thank.”

“I like it. It’s sophisticated. Intellectual.”

“Careful. You sound rather elitist. You can’t know anything about my level of intellect or sophistication.”

Rosary ignored Reagan’s self-deprecation: “Tell me something about you I don’t know.”

Reagan laughed and said, “We’ve only just met. You don’t know anything about me.”

“Then tell me a secret.”

Reagan chuckled, then said, “Tom Waits sings, in ‘Tango Til They’re Sore,’ ‘I tell you all my secrets, but I lie about my past.’”

“So you have a checkered past.”

“Not what I said.”

Rosary peered intently at Reagan and said, “Aren’t you going to tell me a secret?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Then it wouldn’t be a secret.”

“It would be our secret.”

“How do I know it would remain our secret?”

“Ah, see? You just told me a secret – you have trust issues.”

“That’s no secret,” Reagan said.

“But it’s something you prefer I not know.”

–

The revision:

I’m Rosary,” she said seductively. “Rosary Bellamy. Bellamy’s French for ‘beautiful friend.’ Can I be your beautiful friend?”

Reagan looked at her – she was very pretty, even if she was arrogant, with blue eyes and blond hair, and rather large breasts that he guessed had been surgically enhanced. Unlike many men, he didn’t mind breast implants, so long as they weren’t oversized and so firm that they didn’t shake, bounce or wobble.

“Beautiful name,” he practically hummed. “One I’ve never heard before.”

“I’m Catholic,” she admitted shyly.

Reagan grinned and joked, “No kidding?”

“I hated it as a child, for all the ridicule it drew,” she explained. “But I like it now.” A pause. “What’s your name?”

“Reagan,” he announced.

“What a strange name,” she attested.

“The actor who would be president,” he espoused. “I have my father to thank.”

“I like it,” she decided. “It’s sophisticated. Intellectual.”

“Careful,” he warned. “You sound rather elitist. You can’t know anything about my level of intellect or sophistication.”

Rosary ignored Reagan’s self-deprecation: “Tell me something about you I don’t know,” she begged.

Reagan laughed and advised, “We’ve only just met. You don’t know anything about me.”

“Then tell me a secret,” she urged ardently.

Reagan chuckled, then admonished, “Tom Waits sings, in ‘Tango Til They’re Sore,’ ‘I tell you all my secrets, but I lie about my past.’”

“So you have a checkered past,” she indicted.

“Not what I said,” he denied.

Rosary peered intently at Reagan and purred, “Aren’t you going to tell me a secret?”

“No,” he refused.

“Why not?” she begged.

“Then it wouldn’t be a secret,” he explained patiently.

“It would be our secret,” she pleaded vociferously.

“How do I know it would remain our secret?” he responded uncertainly.

“Ah, see? You just told me a secret – you have trust issues,” she accused.

“That’s no secret,” Reagan disagreed.

“But it’s something you prefer I not know,” she portended.

–

J. Conrad Guest, author of: Backstop: A Baseball Love Story In Nine Innings, One Hot January, January’s Thaw, A Retrospect In Death

Free Inscribed Copy of A Retrospect in Death

American poet, novelist, travel writer and editor, Thomas Bailey Aldrich, wrote, “All the best sands of my life are somehow getting into the wrong end of the hourglass. If I could only reverse it! Were it in my power to do so, would I?”

J. Conrad Guest and cigar

I use this quote in the opening of Part One: Old Age in my new novel, A Retrospect in Death, which I finished writing two years ago. It’s a quote that has stayed with me since I discovered it, and I confess that it inspired me during the months it took me to complete that project. A Retrospect in Death is largely a story about regret over missed opportunities, poor choices, and avoiding risk.

I asked my father, shortly before he passed away, if he had any regrets. He laughed and told me, “Hell, yes. No one gets out of this life without them.”

In my youth, I once took a spill from a bike (not my own) that I was riding too fast. I banged my ankle hard, but after making sure I wasn’t seriously hurt, Dad scolded me for riding too fast a bike that was too big for me. The lesson I came away with was to avoid risk.

But life is a risk, largely lived by faith: that our next breath is promised, and when we tell our loved one, as we leave the house for work in the morning, that we’ll see them at the end of the day are but two examples of such faith. There are many things we risk: a change of job, the purchase of a new car or home, our heart to love; these are fairly standard risks. Yet some risk driving down a freeway at nearly twice the posted speed limit, while others risk their paycheck at the track, or their marriage for a sexual thrill.

The key is finding the happy medium. Who wants to get to the end of their life and wonder, Why didn’t I do this or that? I’ve heard too many stories of people who lived miserly, squirreling away their money for retirement, waiting for the day they could take that trip to Hawaii only to die young, before they ever had a chance to sample some of life’s simpler pleasures. Then, there are those who live life hard and fast, from paycheck to paycheck, who retire penniless, to become a burden to their children.

I have more than a few regrets, and working on A Retrospect in Death brought a few of them to the surface. As my work progressed, I thought more and more about that last part in Bailey’s quote: “If I could only reverse it! Were it in my power to do so, would I?”

By the time I typed The End, I knew the answer. All the best sands of my life might very well be in the wrong end of the hourglass, but I wouldn’t be here, writing these words, if not for the life I lived. I’ve made some poor choices along the way, took some risks I never thought I would while playing it perhaps too safe in other aspects of my life. But those poor choices, the risks I took and failed to take, all led me here, to this place, which is not such a bad place. Yesterday is past, and tomorrow … well, take it from John Wayne: “Tomorrow is the most important thing in life. Comes in to us at midnight very clean. It’s perfect when it arrives and it puts itself in our hands and hopes we’ve learnt something from yesterday.”

But what about you? If you were granted the chance for a do-over, would you grab it to live your life over again, avoiding the mistakes you made the first time, grabbing at those opportunities you previously let slip through your grip, risking where before you played it safe?

Please consider leaving a comment in response to that question. After a few days, I’ll select one comment, or maybe more than one, to receive an inscribed copy of A Retrospect in Death, once it launches.

—

J. Conrad Guest, author of: Backstop: A Baseball Love Story In Nine Innings, January’s Paradigm, One Hot January, January’s Thaw, and A Retrospect in Death (forthcoming)

A Retrospect in Death: Pending Launch

Last July, I announced the forthcoming launch of my latest novel, A Retrospect in Death, expected to be in October. With that announcement, I posted the prologue as a sort of teaser.

J. Conrad Guest

I knew that October was an aggressive timeline, but it was what Mike Simpson told me. I learned long ago that the review and editing process is painstakingly slow, and I know that Mike and Second Wind want what I want: a finished product that all three of us can be proud of.

That said, I was pleased to get an alert from Mike a few days ago that a file is soon to be sent to me, with edits. As always, Mike is very supportive of my work. We writers are a sensitive lot; we find validation in praise of our work. So when Mike wrote that I should “… read it closely and make sure that we didn’t misread an artistic passage and change it without recognizing your intent. You seem the master of numerous genres …” well, I was pleased to say the least.

In the prologue, the reader witnesses the death of an unnamed protagonist; they are taken to the other side of the Great Divide, where the protagonist is left alone, with his introspective thoughts on the life he left behind. After several millennia, he concludes that death, as he is experiencing it, is certainly no reward for his life’s suffering. At that moment, his higher self makes itself known to him.

Below is an excerpt from Part One: Old Age, which picks up with our protagonist learning, much to his chagrin, that he must return to the lifecycle. And the great debate commences …

Part One: Old Age

“All the best sands of my life are somehow getting into the wrong end of the hourglass. If I could only reverse it! Were it in my power to do so, would I?”

—Thomas Bailey Aldrich

“As in the first words?” I said, the patience of the other presence winning out over my own—it might’ve kept me waiting a minute or a millennium for all I knew. I didn’t utter the words as much as think them; not so much a telepathy, but an exchange of thoughts as energy.

“I am your higher self,” the Other said.

“My soul?”

“If it pleases you to think of me as such. You and I are one, and we are one with creation.”

“I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all together,” I said.

The Other seemed to find my Beatle-esque evaluation humorous, so I felt in the change in frequency of its energy.

“Quite right,” it said, the vibration of its communication feeling oddly Cockney to my life force; then, with a more familiar Midwestern twang, it added, “We are connected, you and I, through a channel, as I am connected to the Creator. And so, so are you.”

“God?”

“Yes, but not as you, in life, perceived him.”

“Angry, vengeful, demanding, white robe, long just as white beard, and flowing hair.”

“A deity man created in his own image.”

“An image we needed to keep us in line. Yet over the years man certainly seems to have pushed the envelope with an absent God, like a teen thinking they can pull the wool over their parent’s eyes. Parents more concerned with careers than with their children.”

The Other, forgoing judgment, said nothing; I ventured: “Where am I and how long have I been here?”

“You are beyond infinity, a place where time has no meaning.”

I expressed confusion.

“Your last life ended, as you once measured time, many millennia ago.”

“What took you so long to make yourself known to me?”

The Other chuckled and the vibration revealed much to me.

“I was given a timeout?” I asked.

“You needed time to reflect, but it was you who took so long. You are, in death, nearly as obstinate—mulish—as you were in life. It was when you concluded that life had won you little recompense in death that I thought you might be open to discussion.”

“My last life?” I asked, going back several lines in our exchange. “I’ve lived others?”

“Many. You are, as am I, immortal.”

As I pondered this the Other continued:

“The world is, from the perspective you once knew it, in another ice age. Man as the dominant species is nearly extinct, waiting, as the Neanderthals once did, for another cycle of warmth. When you return, you will perhaps return to the previous cycle, the one from whence you just came, or the one still to come.”

“So we’re time travelers?”

“Not in the H. G. Wells sense, no. But we are not bound by time in the sense your corporeal self once was.”

In that moment I understood, without really understanding the how, that past, present and future all exist as one moment, except, apparently, in this place that was “beyond infinity.”

“So I can return as Joan of Arc, a black slave prior to the Civil War, George W. Bush, or even Ty Cobb?”

I felt the Other acquiesce.

“And because we are, as you say, beyond infinity, I can return to a future not yet lived?”

“The choice is ours—yours and mine.”

“But must I? Return?”

“You are the essence of what you once were—pure energy. The teacup that once was your body was broken when you died, but your life’s quintessence—the tea so to speak—remains. Your energy will be sent back into the lifecycle, to exist in another physical form.”

“Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?”

While my other self considered this, I furthered my argument: “Life is futile.”

“Life is experience.”

“But why would I wish to return?” I asked.

“It is essential to the Creator, who desires to experience his own existence through his creation, both the good as well as the not so good.”

“You mean the evil.”

“Evil is a creation of man, the result of a lack of love.”

“Still, what’s the point of it all?” I asked; I felt as if the Other were judging me. I’d received little love in life—not for want of giving it, or trying to. Could I be faulted that others had cast away what I freely gave? Had I become evil?

“I am beyond judging you,” it said, reminding me that my thoughts were its thoughts. “We are one, and as one we shine or shame.”

I cringed and said, “If I truly am immortal, have lived countless lives, what do I gain from returning to the lifecycle ignorant of my previous lives, to be burned at a stake, flogged for my skin color, hazed by teammates envious of my superior talent, reviled as the worst president ever to hold office?”

I recalled reading The Long Embrace, a biography of Raymond Chandler. Author of The Big Sleep, Chandler wrote of L.A. and California: The most of everything—

“The best of nothing,” the Other finished my thought for me. And then: “I am privy to every aspect of your life, as well as your every thought.”

“Then you know what Chandler knew: When you con­stantly change a landscape, you erase the collective memory of a city. To force me to return without the collective memories of my previous lives is amoral.”

“Most are anxious to return.” To my disbelief, the Other continued: “To feel the rain on their face, to brave the cold breath of winter so that they may appreciate a fire’s warmth, to hear the clatter of dog claws dance on linoleum, to hear the purity of a child’s laughter, to feel love—”

“Love is at best transitory,” I argued. “When we find it, if we find it, it slips away, abandoning us when we least expect. If it finds us, we find it’s not at all what we want.”

“Love is all there is. It is a choice.”

“Predicated on a feeling.”

“A feeling that was, for you, based on a visual image of body parts.”

I shrank away from the Other’s charge, although no judg­ment sounded in its tone; it simply stated the truth—not as it saw it, but simply the truth.

“What else do we have to go on, at least initially?” I said. “I was able to turn some heads, even after I turned fifty—until I got sick. At a subconscious level, women look for physical signs that a man will be a good provider—broad shoulders, a powerful build—while in return, men look for someone with a good childbearing body.” I was not to be untracked: “As for the feeling to which I refer, it often disappears when someone discovers you’re not who they thought you were, or worse, who they wanted you to be.”

If I’d had legs, I’d be pacing; I didn’t, so my frustration betrayed itself in the hue of my essence.

I continued with my tirade: “God—the Creator, whatever—sticks us in a shell of flesh and blood where we can view the world from only one perspective, and expects us to be unselfish, to put the needs of others ahead of our own desires. Well I did that, more than once, with friends, employers and lovers. And each recipient was only too happy to take what I offered and give little in return. Until they tired of what I gave. Then they cast me away, unwanted.”

“But you gave expecting in return, did you not?”

“So what if I did? Mother Teresa never gave a thought to a heavenly reward for the sacrifices she made, the good she did? Even God isn’t purely altruistic. He expects something from his creation, doesn’t he? Whether it’s to take a knee in defer­ence to his glory, or, as you claim, to allow him to experience reality through us, there’s a price to pay for our existence. How many times did he forsake the Israelites because they failed to keep their covenant once they reached the Promised Land? So what if I expected something in return from the people in my life. It’s a sin to expect to be treated well in return for the good treatment you provide others? Matthew, chapter twelve, verse twelve: ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,’ yes?”

The Other went silent; I felt something like trepidation fill the void between us, as if it didn’t know how to respond. Then, perhaps in an effort to change tacks, it said, “Dave Matthews wrote, ‘you can be happy if you’ve a mind to.’”

“Yeah,” I said. “He also wrote, ‘you can’t roller skate in a buffalo herd.’”

“What did that mean?”

“I don’t know. You’re my higher self; I was hoping you could tell me.”

Out of abashment, the Other ignored my comment.

“So you wish to know how returning to the lifecycle can be to your benefit without memories of your previous lives.”

“The memories I can do without,” I said. “I can live without the anger, frustration and shame. It’s some of the more valuable lessons that I’d like to take along with me. To be born with specific wisdoms—knowing certain things without having to attend the school of hard knocks.”

“Isn’t that analogous to cheating?”

“So what if it is if it should make the world a better place in which to live, while providing the Creator a higher grade of experience? Wouldn’t that be more akin to the life to which Christ preached we should aspire?”

I was trying to deflect, make it sound as if I had the benefit of the greater whole in mind in addition to the Creator; but the Other was silent, and I knew my argument had left no impact.

Not knowing what else to say, I added, “All the more reason I’ve experienced enough living, thank you very much.”

“You were once a dreamer.”

“I was a lot of things, including, once, naïve.”

“You once loved a song, ‘The Kid,’ written by Buddy Mondlock. The lyric touched you: ‘the truth is, I could no more stop dreaming than I could make them all come true.’”

“My dreams all turned into nightmares.”

“All of them? There was a time when you dared to hope.”

“Dreams are a subject for poets.”

“Poets inspire people to reach out to make their dreams come true.”

“Not me. The only thing a poem ever did for me was solidify my belief that my dreams would never become reality. Somebody somewhere—maybe it was you—pushed a button, pulled a lever, twisted a dial, did whatever it took, to make certain that whatever I tried to do, even with the purest of intentions, always went awry, provided no return on my investment.”

“The real tragedy of your life is that you gave up trying.”

“Right,” I said. “The measure of a man is not that he failed, but that he kept trying. A platitude.”

“Christ fell three times.”

“And after the third time, the Romans compelled Simon the Cyrenian to help him to carry the cross. Talk about being at the wrong place at the wrong time.” I thought of Andrew Lloyd Webber, then said, “Jesus Christ, superstar, do you think you’re what they say you are?” I finished: “My point is, even the son of God got to a point when he couldn’t get up.”

The Other fell silent, so I added: “I truly have no say on the matter, whether or not I return?”

“The choice is ours alone.”

“Yours and the Creator’s?”

I felt rather than saw the Other nod, and I couldn’t help but feel something patronizing, a touch arrogant, even judgmental, in the non-gesture.

The Other ignored my exasperation—as in life I came to believe the god in whom I’d grown up believing ignored his creation—like a parent who thinks he knows what’s best for his children: Do as I say, not as I do. Vegetables are good for you, I recalled my father telling me through lips clenched around a cigarette.Sugar is not, he finished. I wanted to ask him, What about nicotine? But I was young and frightened of my father; yet when I turned sixteen, I smoked a few cigarettes—and later in life acquired a taste for cigars—even managed to pound back a few beers while I was under-aged. Looking back, that I never got caught somehow took some of the fun out of it.

Privy to the energy of my thoughts, the Other said: “Benjamin Franklin said, ‘Beer is living proof that God loves us and wants to see us happy.’”

It was an adage I’d often quoted in my younger, happier days. Before life beat me down.

“Ben also said that wisdom can be found in wine, freedom in beer; but in water you find only bacteria. God created water; man the former two.” When the Other remained mute, I added, “You don’t really believe that, do you, about beer and God wanting to see us happy? We’re supposed to be con­cerned about our eternal bliss, which means not enjoying life.”

“Not getting attached to earthly things does not preclude one from enjoying them.”

Feeling disadvantage in this debate, I said nothing.

“As for Benjamin Franklin, you forget that I have a per­sonal connection with the Creator.”

“So he’s an alkie, the Creator is, and part of his twelve-step program is to make me go back but without any of the knowledge and wisdom I may have acquired during my pre­vious lives.”

The Other ignored my derision. “You will have a choice in gender and certain other aspects of your next incarnation.”

“Like a role-playing game?” I put forth. “I get to pick attributes like charisma, looks, constitution, luck, and strength?”

I sensed the Other’s amusement, and I understood my analogy was spot on.

“I thought God had already experienced a little of life, when he sent his son to earth to be crucified.”

“A parable. God is at the center of the universe wherever he exists—as fauna, flora, as every molecule that composes his creation.”

“Even granite?”

“He exists in everything.”

“And he likes to suffer—or more accurately, like the boy who enjoys frying ants on a hot summer day with his magnifying glass, he likes to see us suffer.”

“He is not responsible for the suffering his creation wreaks upon itself.”

I sighed and shrugged nonexistent shoulders, a war veteran with phantom limbs.

“I suppose I get it,” I said. “Even pain is preferable to living in a vacuum.”

As if it were already decided that I’d return to the lifecycle, the Other said, “Before you return, I need to better understand your previous life.”

“You’re my higher self. You should already know everything you need to know.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d really rather hear it from your perspective.”

—

J. Conrad Guest, author of: Backstop: A Baseball Love Story In Nine Innings, One Hot January, January’s Thaw, and A Retrospect In Death (forthcoming)

Eking One Out

I thought I’d share a piece I wrote some time ago, one I’ve always been particularly fond of. Based on a true life experience, I don’t know if it qualifies as flash fiction or a memoir.

J. Conrad Guest

“E-K-E?”

“Eke.”

“What is that?”

“Are you challenging?”

“Believe it.”

Greg reached for the SCRABBLE Players Dictionary and began flipping its pages. He’d played this game against his old nemesis, Barry, plotting his strategy carefully. Playing his last tile a few minutes ago, Greg held a slim lead—347-341. The nearly three-and-a-half-hour epic battle had gone nearly the way he’d planned it. Barry had darted out to a quick early lead; but Greg had slowly reeled him in and, by the halfway point, he’d gone ahead, keeping it close, trading Barry’s scores nearly point for point. Greg’s catch me, kiss my ass strategy was to win by a single point if he could manage it, first pouring vinegar into Barry’s wound before rubbing salt into it; however, whether he won by a single point or six points, the game shame would be all Barry’s.

Greg had only to wait as Barry futilely searched the board for someplace to play his final tile, “K,” and come up empty. Maybe he hoped to tag it onto the end of a word somewhere—how many words ended with a “K?” Ink, blink, think, sink, stink, lick, stick, seek, peek, kick, monk, blank, click, tick, pick, pack, back, sack, peak, book, luck, cock, work, milk, chick, walk, talk, flick, link, bank, rank, drank, frank, junk, oak, quick, suck were just a few (Greg had played “pee” horizontally early on, scoring double word points, then made a new word of it a few turns later, adding “R” to the end of it when he played “harem” vertically, scoring triple letter points for the “H”). Or maybe Barry hoped to nestle it in between two letters to create something that, in his moody blues wildest dreams, would amount to seven or more points.

And so Greg had settled back into his chair, lips besmirked (not in the SCRABBLE Players Dictionary), smugly waiting for Barry to concede checkmate; the chair creaked from the weight of his great bulk, and he listened to the clock on the kitchen wall ticK its tocK. Greg was about to clean Barry’s clocK. All he had to do was wait for his capitulation.

This was going to be sweet.

FreaKin’ great.

Until clicK went the “K,” onto the plastic surface of the deluxe SCRABBLE playing board: EKE.

“Fahk,” Greg said, closing the SCRABBLE Players Dictionary.

“No, eke. To supplement with effort; to obtain with great effort.”

“Fahk me,” Greg said.

Barry nodded. “Eke. Five points for the ‘K’ and one each for two ‘Es.’ I guess I managed to eke out this one, old friend.” Barry did his best Ricardo Montalbán impersonation from The Wrath of Khan, as Khan had repeatedly referred to Captain Kirk as “old friend.”

“I hate you, Barry. I freakin’ hate you.”

Barry didn’t think Greg sounded at all like William Shatner.

—

J. Conrad Guest

Author of: Backstop: A Baseball Love Story In Nine Innings, January’s Paradigm, One Hot January, January’s Thaw

A Retrospect In Death (forthcoming)

500 Miles To Go (forthcoming)

What I Learned Today About the New Publishing Model

Apparently, I’m behind the times and have been, for the last two decades, doing it wrong.

J. Conrad Guest

It seems the new thing in publishing is writers publishing their work to receive valuable feedback from the consumer, who purchase books out of the goodness of their heart and to help the writer improve their craft, even though most consumers don’t know the first thing about the basics of story-telling or the craft of writing. The author then goes back to rework their book based on consumer feedback, and uploads it again. They repeat this process, as necessary, until a major publishing house discovers them as the next Hemingway.

How, if you’ll pardon the expression, novel!

I’ve been accused of being old school, a moniker I wear with pride. I’ve endeavored, over the past twenty years, to learn and improve my craft. I work hard to present my work in the best fashion I can: error free and polished as near to perfection as I can make it. I don’t wish to alienate my readership by publishing a poorly written story; why would someone wish to purchase another J. Conrad Guest book if I put them off?

What about you other writers? Do you rely on your readership to improve your work for you, or are you like me, wishing to publish solid, polished work, the best you can produce?

—

J. Conrad Guest, author of: Backstop: A Baseball Love Story In Nine Innings, January’s Paradigm, One Hot January, and January’s Thaw

What Has Happened to the Novel As An Art Form?

He transcended all the rules. There have been, perhaps, greater novelists, but he was incomparably the greatest artist who wrote a novel. — H. L. Meneken on Joseph Conrad

Today’s emerging writers are encouraged by a host of resources, including Writer’s Digest and The Writer, to adhere to a strict set of rules. The result is that today’s popular fiction finds all the punctuation in place and the sentence structure clean, narrative held to a calculated fraction of dialogue, and certain devised bells and whistles implemented to urge the reader to turn to the next page; but the characters seem a bit detached (writers are advised to separate themselves from their characters), the grammar a bit bland (lacking the beauty of a finely crafted sentence that leaves the reader breathless and stays with them, like a song they can’t get out of their head, long after they’ve closed the book for the last time) … all of which amounts to a formula, as if anyone with a good grasp of basic writing technique could’ve written it. Something is missing—signature.

Signature identifies the author to the reader. If you’ve ever read Joseph Conrad, you most certainly will be able to identify his signature. The same can be said about Poe, and Twain, and many other artists of the written word. These and many other writers from previous eras created art. They weren’t afraid to infuse their work with a healthy dose of themselves, perhaps because they understood, at some level, that readers read novels because what they really want is to know the author. Today’s writers are taught to remain apart from their creations. Yesteryear’s writers also knew how to turn a phrase, to elicit emotion, to, literally, paint with words. Today’s writers are advised to write down to a ninth grade level—keep it simple, stupid.

For a story to appeal to a reader, it must mirror, either through its protagonist or storyline, something in the reader’s life or it will fall flat. The failure to touch all readers is not a failure of the author; like other art mediums, fiction is not meant to appeal to everyone. You either get Jackson Pollock or you don’t. Rodin leaves you in awe or yawning.

Samuel R. Delany, arguably one of the most influential science fiction writers of all time, said: “Above all things, the story, the poem, the text is—and is only—what its words make happen in the reader’s mind. And all readers are not the same. Any reader has the right to say of any text: ‘But I didn’t think it was that good.’”

In other words, what reverberates in my being, what moves me and causes me to shiver, and leaves me both satisfied and hungry at once, may leave another reader in search of something else that in turn might leave me untouched. That’s the nature of the beast.

It could be argued that the publishing industry knows what the public wants to read, as evidenced by what appears on the best seller list. But despite publication of 100,000 more books (in part due to the growing self-publication industry) in 2003 than in 2002, a recent report by the Book Industry Study Group, a not-for-profit research organization, stated that 23 million fewer books were sold in 2003 than in 2002. While net profits increased slightly, due to higher prices, overall sales dropped despite high-profile releases such as Harry Potter and the Order of the Phoenix and Dan Brown’s thriller, The Da Vinci Code, neither of which, 100 years from now, will likely be used in classrooms as examples of exemplary writing.

While a struggling economy and the used book market can be considered factors in declining sales, cable and satellite, radio, music and movies all offer better value for the consumer’s entertainment dollar. Reading is a solitary endeavor (although its rewards are potentially far greater than the others), while the other entertainment offerings require much less effort and can be enjoyed, sequentially, as a couple or as a family. Is it any wonder that many consumers are finding it more difficult to justify parting with up to $35 for a hardback, something which they will in all likelihood enjoy but once?

Yet the one factor the publishing industry fails to consider as contributing to declining sales of fiction is the product they continually feed the consumer. The publishing industry, once comprised of 70 or 80 competing businesses, today, as five corporate bean counters, insists on such wide audience appeal that most popular fiction is, like two opposing politicians afraid to talk about their respective platforms for fear of offending some minority group, watered down. Hence they’ve taken much of the innovation and signature, and unfortunately most of the art, out of the novel. These five corporate bean counters all claim they seek new, original and fresh writing, but it often must also wear the scent of a best seller before they’ll take a chance on it. Sadly, the message this sends to agents and emerging writers is that the only formula for success is to produce mainstream fiction that will appeal to the masses. It’s unfortunate that the market for literary art seems to go largely untapped, and perhaps even more unfortunate that most of today’s popular fiction will, in the next century, be forgotten, while past works that today are considered classics will endure.

Such is the significance of true art.

J. Conrad Guest

Author of: Backstop: A Baseball Love Story In Nine Innings, January’s Paradigm, One Hot January, January’s Thaw,, and A Retrospect In Death (forthcoming)

A Retrospect in Death: The Approaching Launch

A Retrospect in Death begins with a man’s death. The reader is taken to the other side where the narrator encounters his higher self—not the god depicted in the bible, but the part of him that is immortal and connected to the creator. The protagonist learns (much to his chagrin) that he must return to the lifecycle. But first he must be “debriefed” by his higher self, and so they set about discussing the man’s previous life—in reverse chronological order: knowing the end but retracing the journey, searching for the breadcrumbs left along the way.

As I await my edits from Second Wind, we’ve been working on a cover. Covers are important. Books should never be judged by their cover; but they are what first draw our attention. I’d never heard of Carlos Ruiz Zafón; but when I saw a copy of Shadow of the Wind, at a brick and mortar bookstore, I picked it up. I read the blurb on the back, and then the opening paragraphs and was sold. Shadow of the Wind is one of the best books I’ve read in recent years.

A good cover, first and foremost, should entice the reader to pick up the book. In today’s digital age, it should appeal not only in print form, but also as a thumbnail. Finally, it should, in vague terms, convey to the reader what the book is about; but it shouldn’t mislead them.

Below is the second draft cover for A Retrospect in Death. Please let me know, in detail, what you think of it.

And Wrigley Makes Three by J. Conrad Guest

I can’t say I’m a Chicago Cubs fan, mostly because I’ve always been a Tigers fan; but also because the Cubs are in the National League and I don’t get to see them play often. More than one ex-girlfriend would argue that I’m a sports junkie, but I disagree. To me, a sports junkie is someone who watches one game after another all weekend long as well as weeknights. He schedules his vacation around sports events. Doesn’t matter to him if his home team is playing—game on? Well, game on. I follow the Tigers and, this time of year, check the box scores to see how the White Sox fared the night before. Not because I’m fan of the Pale Hose, but because they happen to be the team at the top of the Central Division, the team the Tigers are chasing to make the postseason.

J. Conrad Guest

My girlfriend is a Cubs fan. Colleen grew up on the north side of Chicago. I forgave her earlier in the season when the Tigers played at Wrigley Field in interleague play and she cheered the Cubbies. I could afford to: my team took two out of the three games. But I loved her all the more, too, because I understood, even though she now lives in Michigan after spending a few years living in California, that her connection to the Cubs is a bond to her youth—a much simpler time before the Internet, when talking on a phone meant being tied to a wall by an eight-foot curly cord. When she rode a bike at breakneck speed, hair flying behind her, and she played softball Chicago style: without a glove. When she was Daddy’s little girl. Before she was ravaged by adulthood and learned that fair play does not always beget fair play in return, and before she experienced her first bloodied and bruised heart. I’ve been there, done all that.

Something happens when one takes in their first baseball game. I recall my dad taking me to Tiger Stadium to see the Tigers play the Angels. I was seven and had only seen a game on TV. No HD back then. No color TV either. We had a black and white Magnavox and, because cable had not yet been born, games were telecast only on weekends. When I walked up the ramp and caught my first glimpse of the playing field, looking so green and perfectly manicured, I thought this surely wasn’t real—my own field of dreams a few decades before the movie.

And every game I’ve attended since takes me back to that moment: I’m a kid again watching grown kids playing a kid’s game, a game that hasn’t changed in more than a hundred years. Yes, the mound was lowered in the late 1960s and they added the designated hitter rule and now use limited replay review; but the basic concept of the game hasn’t changed: hit a ball squarely with a round bat. It’s a game of statistics like no other game. ERA, batting average, slugging percentage, on-base percentage; homeruns, extra base hits, runs batted in, runs scored, stolen bases, wins, saves, and on and on. Sometimes it gets annoying, like when the announcer cites that a certain player hits fifty points higher under the lights than during day games; but that, too, is part of the beauty of the game.

Baseball is the only major sport in which the defense puts the ball into play. The ball is pitched, it is hit and fielded—or not—by the opposition. There are no penalties in baseball. Simply errors when a fielder boots a ball, and a fan can disagree with the official scoring on whether it was an error.

The NHL eliminated the center line a few years ago to open and speed up their game; they added a trapezoid behind the net to limit the wandering goal tender. In today’s game a player will find himself in the penalty box for something that, a few years ago, was considered a good, clean check. Football has ruined their product by taking instant replay to an extreme, and they change from year to year not only what constitutes a penalty, but also what constitutes a catch or a fumble.

But baseball remains a beautiful game because of its simplicity and its roots to its origins: Who is the greatest player to ever play, Ruth or Cobb? (Cobb.)

And where the game is played is as important as the game itself. No identically configured ice rink or gridiron for baseball. Baseball is played in a park. The infields are measured identically, distance from base to base and from rubber to plate; but the outfields are limited only by imagination, both in distance and configuration. When Rangers Ballpark in Arlington, Texas, was built, they added a second deck in right field as a tribute to old Tiger Stadium in Detroit—the upper deck overhung the lower deck by several feet and robbed many a right fielder of making an inning ending or game saving catch. A routine out in many other parks, at Tiger Stadium a hitter might find himself circling the pillows with a walk-off homerun.

It hurt to see Tiger Stadium retired, labeled too old when, in actuality, the old Corktown neighborhood in which it resided had been allowed to deteriorate. Comerica Park, where the Tigers now play, is a beautiful facility. But despite the statues of Cobb, Greenburg, Gehringer, Newhouser, and Kaline, their ghosts are painfully absent from the playing field.

So now there are only two classic ballparks in existence: Fenway Park in Boston and Wrigley Field in Chicago. Fenway opened the same year Tiger Stadium did—although at that time it was called Navin Field and, later, Briggs Stadium. Wrigley opened a few years later.

In July my girl, Colleen, and I made a drive to Boston to see the Tigers play the Red Sox. It was our first extended trip together and our first visit to Fenway. When we took our seats, a few rows back of the Tiger dugout, and I gazed at the field I’d seen many times on TV and looked at the Green Monster in left field, I was taken back to my youth and a tear came to my eye. This was grand; but a part of me was green with envy—that Boston had managed to save this landmark treasure, while in Detroit, Tiger Stadium had been cast away, considered too old to renovate. No plastic surgery for this grand old gal where the likes of Cobb and Greenburg had thrilled previous generations. Where, on July 13, 1934, Babe Ruth hit his 700^th career homerun.

As thrilled as I was to visit the place where Ted Williams, the Splendid Splinter, once played, and before him, Cobb, too, if only as a visitor, a part of me grieved for the loss of my childhood friend, where I once sat alongside my dad as Denny McLain served up a blooper pitch for Mickey Mantle to hit over the wall in right field in his last ever plate appearance at Tiger Stadium.

After we returned from Boston, I realized that was two down. I had one to go if I was to visit the three oldest ballparks in America, and so we made plans to drive to Chicago to see the Cubs play.

September 15: Cubs versus Pirates. We took our seats, a few rows back of home plate—God bless Colleen. How she managed to score such great seats I have no idea and I don’t want to know. I felt a boy again as I gazed out on the green velvet playing surface. Against Wrigley’s famed ivy outfield walls, we looked over the shoulder of the home plate umpire as the pitches came in. Three left the building—two hit by the Bucks and one by one of the good guys.

By the end of the afternoon we’d enjoyed two of the best ballpark franks we’d ever had—Chicago style, with grilled onions and mustard—and a couple beers, Guinness for me and Old Style for Colleen.

The Pirates led throughout the afternoon, but a gallant comeback by the Cubs fell one out short. If Colleen was disappointed, she hid it well.

Later, as we sat sipping beers at Sheffield’s, within walking distance of Wrigley Field, Colleen told me that her summer, our first together, had been the best in her life. I smiled back at her, nodded, and told her I felt the same way.

Colleen has put me to shame, having visited twelve major league ballparks; but on our way home we talked about next year, taking trips to Cleveland, Pittsburgh, Philadelphia, Baltimore and Washington, D.C.—all parks to which Colleen has not been. I suspect it’s going to be a long winter.

It’s true, one can never go home. Tiger Stadium is gone, and with her vanished a part of my youth. But I have my memories, which can never be taken from me. Yet it’s only right that new memories are created, with a new love.

—

J. Conrad Guest

Author of: One Hot January, January’s Thaw, Backstop: A Baseball Love Story In Nine Innings

A Retrospect In Death (forthcoming)

Click to purchase

Forthcoming: A Retrospect In Death by J. Conrad Guest

Last month I posted the prologue to my forthcoming novel, A Retrospect In Death. This month I’m posting the opening to Part One.

Part One: Old Age

“All the best sands of my life are somehow getting into the wrong end of the hourglass. If I could only reverse it! Were it in my power to do so, would I?”

—Thomas Bailey Aldrich

“As in the first words?” I said, the patience of the other presence winning out over my own—it might’ve kept me waiting a minute or a millennium for all I knew. I didn’t utter the words as much as think them; not so much a telepathy, but an exchange of thoughts as energy.

“I am your higher self,” the Other said.

“My soul?”

“If it pleases you to think of me as such. You and I are one, and we are one with creation.”

“I am he as you are he as you are me and we are all to­gether,” I said.

The Other seemed to find my Beatle-esque evaluation humorous, so I felt in the change in frequency of its energy.

“Quite right,” it said, the vibration of its communication feeling oddly Cockney to my life force; then, with a more familiar Midwestern twang, it added, “We are connected, you and I, through a channel, as I am connected to the Creator. And so, so are you.”

“God?”

“Yes, but not as you, in life, perceived him.”

“Angry, vengeful, demanding, white robe, long just as white beard, and flowing hair.”

“A deity man created in his own image.”

“An image we needed to keep us in line. Yet over the years man certainly seems to have pushed the envelope with an absent God, like a teen thinking they can pull the wool over their parent’s eyes. Parents more concerned with careers than with their children.”

The Other, forgoing judgment, said nothing; I ventured: “Where am I and how long have I been here?”

“You are beyond infinity, a place where time has no meaning.”

I expressed confusion.

“Your last life ended, as you once measured time, many millennia ago.”

“What took you so long to make yourself known to me?”

The Other chuckled and the vibration revealed much to me.

“I was given a timeout?” I asked.

“You needed time to reflect, but it was you who took so long. You are, in death, nearly as obstinate—mulish—as you were in life. It was when you concluded that life had won you little recompense in death that I thought you might be open to discussion.”

“My last life?” I asked, going back several lines in our ex­change. “I’ve lived others?”

“Many. You are, as am I, immortal.”

As I pondered this the Other continued:

“The world is, from the perspective you once knew it, in another ice age. Man as the dominant species is nearly extinct, waiting, as the Neanderthals once did, for another cycle of warmth. When you return, you will perhaps return to the pre­vious cycle, the one from whence you just came, or the one still to come.”

“So we’re time travelers?”

“Not in the H. G. Wells sense, no. But we are not bound by time in the sense your corporeal self once was.”

In that moment I understood, without really understand­ing the how, that past, present and future all exist as one moment, except, apparently, in this place that was “beyond infinity.”

“So I can return as Joan of Arc, a black slave prior to the Civil War, George W. Bush or even Ty Cobb?”

I felt the Other acquiesce.

“And because we are, as you say, beyond infinity, I can return to a future not yet lived?”

“The choice is ours—yours and mine.”

“But must I? Return?”

“You are the essence of what you once were—pure energy. The teacup that once was your body was broken when you died, but your life’s quintessence—the tea so to speak—remains. Your energy will be sent back into the lifecycle to exist in another physical form.”

“Is there nothing I can say to change your mind?”

While my other self considered this, I furthered my argu­ment: “Life is futile.”

“Life is experience.”

“But why would I wish to return?” I asked.

“It is essential to the Creator, who desires to experience his own existence through his creation, both the good as well as the not so good.”

“You mean the evil.”

“Evil is a creation of man, the result of a lack of love.”

“Still, what’s the point of it all?” I asked; I felt as if the Other were judging me. I’d received little love in life—not for want of giving it, or trying to. Could I be faulted that others had cast away what I freely gave? Had I become evil?

“I am beyond judging you,” it said, reminding me that my thoughts were its thoughts. “We are one, and as one we shine or shame.”

I cringed and said, “If I truly am immortal, have lived countless lives, what do I gain from returning to the lifecycle ignorant of my previous lives, to be burned at a stake, flogged for my skin color, hazed by teammates envious of my superior talent, reviled as the worst president ever to hold office?”

I recalled reading The Long Embrace, a biography of Raymond Chandler. Author of The Big Sleep, Chandler wrote of L.A. and California: The most of everything—

“The best of nothing,” the Other finished my thought for me. And then: “I am privy to every aspect of your life, as well as your every thought.”

“Then you know what Chandler knew: When you con­stantly change a landscape, you erase the collective memory of a city. To force me to return without the collective memories of my previous lives is amoral.”

“Most are anxious to return.” To my disbelief, the Other continued: “To feel the rain on their face, to brave the cold breath of winter so that they may appreciate a fire’s warmth, to hear the clatter of dog claws dance on linoleum, to hear the purity of a child’s laughter, to feel love—”

“Love is at best transitory,” I argued. “When we find it, if we find it, it slips away, abandoning us when we least expect. If it finds us, we find it’s not at all what we want.”

“Love is all there is. It is a choice.”

“Predicated on a feeling.”

“A feeling that was, for you, based on a visual image of body parts.”

I shrank away from the Other’s charge, although no judg­ment sounded in its tone; it simply stated the truth—not as it saw it, but simply the truth.

“What else do we have to go on, at least initially?” I said. “I was able to turn some heads, even after I turned fifty—until I got sick. At a subconscious level women look for physical signs that a man will be a good provider—broad shoulders, a powerful build—while in return men look for someone with a good childbearing body.” I was not to be untracked: “As for the feeling to which I refer, it often disappears when someone discovers you’re not who they thought you were, or worse, who they wanted you to be.”

If I’d had legs I’d be pacing; I didn’t, so my frustration be­trayed itself in the hue of my essence.

I continued with my tirade: “God—the Creator, what­ever—sticks us in a shell of flesh and blood where we can view the world from only one perspective and expects us to be un­selfish, to put the needs of others ahead of our own desires. Well I did that, more than once, with friends, employers and lovers. And each recipient was only too happy to take what I offered and give little in return. Until they tired of what I gave. Then they cast me away, unwanted.”

“But you gave expecting in return, did you not?”

“So what if I did? Mother Teresa never gave a thought to a heavenly reward for the sacrifices she made, the good she did? Even God isn’t purely altruistic. He expects something from his creation, doesn’t he? Whether it’s to take a knee in defer­ence to his glory or, as you claim, to allow him to experience reality through us, there’s a price to pay for our existence. How many times did he forsake the Israelites because they failed to keep their covenant once they reached the Promised Land? So what if I expected something in return from the people in my life. It’s a sin to expect to be treated well in return for the good treatment you provide others? Matthew, chapter twelve, verse twelve: ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you,’ yes?”

The Other went silent; I felt something like trepidation fill the void between us, as if it didn’t know how to respond. Then, perhaps in an effort to change tacks, it said, “Dave Matthews wrote ‘you can be happy if you’ve a mind to.’”

“Yeah,” I said. “He also wrote ‘you can’t roller skate in a buffalo herd.’”

“What did that mean?”

“I don’t know. You’re my higher self; I was hoping you could tell me.”

Out of abashment the Other ignored my comment.

“So you wish to know how returning to the lifecycle can be to your benefit without memories of your previous lives.”

“The memories I can do without,” I said. “I can live with­out the anger, frustration and shame. It’s some of the more valuable lessons that I’d like to take along with me. To be born with specific wisdoms—knowing certain things without having to attend the school of hard knocks.”

“Isn’t that analogous to cheating?”

“So what if it is if it should make the world a better place in which to live while providing the Creator a higher grade of experience? Wouldn’t that be more akin to the life to which Christ preached we should aspire?”

I was trying to deflect, make it sound as if I had the benefit of the greater whole in mind in addition to the Creator; but the Other was silent and I knew my argument had left no impact.

Not knowing what else to say, I added, “All the more reason I’ve experienced enough living, thank you very much.”

“You were once a dreamer.”

“I was a lot of things, including, once, naïve.”

“You once loved a song, “The Kid.” The lyric touched you: ‘the truth is, I could no more stop dreaming than I could make them all come true.’”

“My dreams all turned into nightmares.”

“All of them? There was a time when you dared to hope.”

“Dreams are a subject for poets.”

“Poets inspire people to reach out to make their dreams come true.”

“Not me. The only thing a poem ever did for me was solidify my belief that my dreams would never become reality. Somebody somewhere—maybe it was you—pushed a button, pulled a lever, twisted a dial, did whatever it took, to make certain whatever I did, even with the purest of intentions, always went awry, provided no return on my investment.”

“The real tragedy of your life is that you gave up trying.”

“Right,” I said. “The measure of a man is not that he failed, but that he kept trying.”

“Christ fell three times.”

“And after the third fall, the Romans compelled Simon the Cyrenian to help him to carry the cross. Talk about being at the wrong place at the wrong time.”

The Other fell silent, so I added: “I truly have no say on the matter, whether or not I return?”

“The choice is ours alone.”

“Yours and the Creator’s?”

I felt rather than saw the Other nod and I couldn’t help but feel something patronizing, a touch arrogant, even judgmental, in the non-gesture.

The Other ignored my exasperation—as in life I came to believe the god in whom I’d grown up believing ignored his creation—like a parent who thinks he knows what’s best for his children: Do as I say not as I do. Vegetables are good for you, I recalled my father telling me through lips clenched around a cigarette. Sugar is not, he finished. I wanted to ask him, What about nicotine? But I was young and frightened of my father; yet when I turned sixteen I smoked a few cigarettes—and later in life acquired a taste for cigars—even managed to pound back a few beers while I was underaged. Looking back, that I never got caught somehow took some of the fun out of it.

Privy to the energy of my thoughts, the Other said: “Benjamin Franklin said, ‘Beer is living proof that God loves us and wants to see us happy.’”

It was an adage I’d often quoted in my younger, happier days. Before life beat me down.

“Ben also said that wisdom can be found in wine, freedom in beer; but in water you find only bacteria. God created water; man the former two.” When the Other remained mute, I added, “You don’t really believe that, do you, about beer and God wanting to see us happy? We’re supposed to be con­cerned about our eternal bliss, which means not enjoying life.”

“Not getting attached to earthly things does not preclude one from enjoying them.”

Feeling disadvantage in this debate, I said nothing.

“As for Benjamin Franklin, you forget that I have a per­sonal connection with the Creator.”

“So he’s an alkie, the Creator, and part of his twelve-step program is to make me go back but without any of the know­ledge and wisdom I may have acquired during my pre­vious lives.”

The Other ignored my derision. “You will have a choice in gender and certain other aspects of your next incarnation.”

“Like a role-playing game?” I put forth. “I get to pick attributes like charisma, looks, constitution, luck, and strength?”

I sensed the Other’s amusement and I understood my analogy was spot on.

“I thought God had already experienced a little of life, when he sent his son to earth to be crucified.”

“A parable. God is at the center of the universe wherever he exists—as fauna, flora, as every molecule that composes his creation.”

“Even granite?”

“He exists in everything.”

“And he likes to suffer—or more accurately, like the boy who enjoys frying ants on a hot summer day with his magni­fying glass, he likes to see us suffer.”

“He is not responsible for the suffering his creation wreaks upon itself.”

I sighed and shrugged nonexistent shoulders, a war veteran with phantom limbs.

“I suppose I get it,” I said. “Even pain is preferable to living in a vacuum.”

As if it were already decided that I’d return to the lifecycle, the Other said, “Before you return, I need to better understand your previous life.”

“You’re my higher self. You should already know every­thing you need to know.”

“If you don’t mind, I’d really rather hear it from your perspective.”

—

To read more, well, you’ll just have to purchase a copy once A Retrospect In Death becomes available.

—J. Conrad Guest, author of Backstop: A Baseball Love Story in Nine Innings,One Hot January, and January’s Thaw