Lonnie Busch's Blog
November 17, 2024
The Fate of Ecstasy (excerpt)
(This is an excerpt from my short story collection, Push Me; Feisty Stories of Love & Loss.)
THE FATE OF ECSTASY
Jolene Dumont hadn’t planned on destroying Ecstasy when she brought her report to our attention. After all, she was from Ecstasy. Almost everyone on the City Council remembered her—spelling champ four years straight at Ecstasy Middle School, head of the chess club and debating team at Ecstasy High. She left Ecstasy on a full scholarship, went to a prestigious university on the East Coast, then graduated and started working for a multinational tire company in the R & D department, where, doing research on tire failure and recycling, she discovered that Ecstasy accounted for more flat tires per capita than any other town or city in the U.S.
We acted surprised by her findings, even though we knew something had been wrong for quite some time. The gradual proliferation of retail tire outlets over the past decade had not gone unnoticed. It wasn’t unusual to pass several cars a day pulled to the shoulder, trunk up, a hubcap full of lug nuts sitting on the ground.
We worried about the impact of Jolene’s report on tourism. The ancient beauty of the Appalachian Mountains was our big draw—rafting, hiking, fishing—bringing vacationers to Ecstasy each year, just like a dozen other towns in a hundred-mile radius. But if people had to choose between Ecstasy and all the other vacation destinations in the area, well… why risk a flat tire?
We voted to keep the report quiet, appointing a task force to investigate. That’s when Aaron Tinkler told us about Glen Goode’s Big People. He said Goode was an artist and a businessman, and collected enormous fiberglass figures—Muffler Man, Big John, the Uniroyal Gal. Aaron, his right leg pumping under the table like a jackhammer (the way it always did when he was excited about something), told us Goode’s men stood over twenty-four feet high. Aaron often brought up topics tangential to the discussion, but we listened, ready to move on, when he threw his hands out as if trying to stop us all from jumping off a cliff. He waved his open palms at us, stating that Goode’s collection attracted thousands of visitors to Gainesville, Texas every year.
“Don’t you get it?” Aaron said. “We could be known for our flat tires!”
Our eyebrows rose, our curiosity igniting slowly. A giddy pride welled up inside us, a warm little volcano at the pit of our stomachs. No longer would our town’s name be fodder for countless puns and jokes (and we’d heard them all). We could distinguish ourselves in a unique and remarkable way, even if it was just flat tires.
Over the next few weeks, we brainstormed every day, sometimes long into the evening. The secretary jotted ideas on a yellow legal pad: A gigantic fiberglass sculpture of a flat tire in the town square. New signs at the city limits, “Ecstasy—Flat Tire Capital of America.” A Flat Tire Festival each year, with special discounted prices on a set of new rubber. An interactive tire museum. A tire-themed fun park. An enormous tire swing. Creativity was flowing.
Ida Landry, our resident author and copywriter, wrote press releases and articles for The Voice of Ecstasy. Brent Flanagan, our very own body-builder and fitness-guru, ran a series of ads for his gym: “Replace that old spare tire around your middle with a new “flat” one!”
Jolene’s report had pumped new air into Ecstasy, and into the members of the City Council. We’d all served in leadership roles in our youth—head of the student council, prom committee chairperson, president of the glee club, master of ceremonies, protocol officer—but this was different; we were part of something important now, something rare, exciting! It was evident by the new pep in our step; even our spouses noticed. We didn’t just go to lunch; we did lunch. An infectious spontaneity sprang up. We were exercising the right side of our brain, beginning to see ourselves no longer as city officials, but as innovators and promoters, and even… well, artists! The women started wearing sleeveless blouses, tank tops, designer coveralls with backless shoes, and changed their hairstyles—more upflung and frisky. They traded in their fake pearls for colorful, jangling bracelets and toe rings. Some of the men wore leather pants, grew beards and mustaches, had an ear pierced.
Change was sweeping Ecstasy. We were reinventing ourselves. At our meetings we made popcorn in an old-fashioned movie house popper, blew bubbles from those little bottles of soapy liquid, and listened to country music while discussing zoning issues and business permits. We took up hobbies—flying drones, stringing beads, posting on social media.
Over the past few years since Jolene’s report, Ecstasy had become home to no less than thirty retail tire outlets, not counting the Super Walmart, AutoZone, and the many independent auto repair shops that also sold tires. We were hyped by Jimmy Fallon on The Tonight Show, made the cover of GO, Triple A’s travel magazine, and were linked to countless vacation websites. We became a destination! Our status as the Flat Tire Capital attracted a staggering number of sightseers and vacationers, as well as a steady influx of curious risk-takers who believed they could beat the odds and drive home on all four originals. Stores offered ridiculous discounts on tires. Families purchased T-shirts and mugs and postcards. Visitors from all over the world lodged in our motels and hotels, and frequented our fine eateries and cafés. Many of us on the City Council became entrepreneurs, opening up B&Bs, souvenir shops, and operated street vending pushcarts selling hot dogs, pretzels, and kielbasa sausage.
The multinational tire company Jolene worked for built a tire-testing facility in Ecstasy, creating over three hundred new jobs and numerous opportunities for local businesses. With funds donated by Jolene’s employer, we built The Rubber Room, a city-block-sized entertainment warehouse with piped in music, strolling Michelin Man mimes, video driving games, a tire obstacle course, go-cart track, the Fire-Stone Pizza Oven restaurant, and a gift shop, “101 Things To Do With Old Tires,” that sold, among other things, sandals with tread soles, and detailed blueprints for building your own self-heating shed from worn out steel-belted radials.
We held tire-sculpture competitions at our annual All-Weather Festival. We talked Glen Goode into selling us a replica of his Uniroyal Gal. And even with the economy off a bit over the past twelve months, it was still a good year, capped off by our Christmas Decorations Contest, the five-hundred-dollar prize going to Trojan Wheels for their darling Mr. and Mrs. Snowman Family, complete with hats and scarves, and made entirely from huge inner tubes spray-painted white.
Even under the barrage of accusations and allegations of conspiracy and wrongdoing—neighboring townships blaming our governing members for the flat tires, claiming that we seeded nails and tacks along our streets—Ecstasy flourished!
Until last Wednesday, when Otto Fincke of the Ecstasy street crew discovered the source of our undeniable and mysterious good fortune. He had been carrying a tar sack, patching small cracks and holes in the streets near the town center, when he came upon a spike—not much more than an inch or so in height and an eighth-inch in diameter at its base—protruding from the pavement at the intersection of Boone and Redondo (the busiest streets in Ecstasy), directly under the suspended traffic light.
News of the spike got immediate traction. Rival towns, long jealous of our burgeoning success, flooded our little community with local reporters brandishing cameras and microphones, ready to expose the incriminating thorn to the world, set on destroying us. Ecstasy police set up roadblocks, diverting traffic away from Boone and Redondo. They put up yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter of the intersection, winding it around the crosswalk poles on each corner, ordering folks to stay back. Reporters shouted questions. Kids rode up on bicycles ringing those annoying, tinny little bells, and elderly couples, who’d lived in Ecstasy their entire lives, huddled close together as if they were witnessing a harbinger of the apocalypse, their ice cream cones dripping down the fronts of their shirts.
All of us on the City Council were vexed by the curious spike, and well aware of its implications and the potential for embarrassment, but more than that, we were distracted by the noise and hubbub of the ensuing crowds. None of us could think. We voted on the spot to convene in private session at the courthouse.
We pushed our way through a throng of onlookers, repeating, “No comment, no comment,” slinking serpent-like, hands clasped in solidarity, through the streets. At the courthouse steps, the police parted the sea of bustling, sign-toting rebels, holding them at bay until we were securely inside. We crowded into the elevator. The doors slid closed. A hand reached between us from the back and pushed the button for the second floor. We stood in silence, perspiring collectively, holding our breath.
Safely inside the meeting room, we locked the doors, pulled the blinds, ordered pizzas and five one-liter bottles of diet Coke, and a chocolate cream pie from The Cakery Bakery. We tried to remain pleasant and upbeat, calm and organized, logical and intelligent.
“Humiliating.”
“Mortifying!”
“What will I do with all those T-shirts and mugs I just ordered?”
“An outrage!”
“Aliens.”
"Aliens" was Cleo Soldier’s answer to everything—when methane gas hung over the landfill one year; when thunder rumbled through the skies in the midst of a blizzard; when Ecstasy experienced a shortage at the gas pumps. Aliens. We all smiled and tried to remain focused.
“We have to remove it.”
“We should wait, get more information.”
“What if it’s a sign?”
“What information?”
“We’ll be laughed out of the state…or worse…”
“A sign of what? It’s a prank!”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“We’ll be torn apart by the media.”
“High school kids.”
“Aliens!”
Cleo sat arms folded, chin out, her eyes and hair the color of a thunderstorm. Just then, the pizzas arrived.
We hadn’t even finished the first pepperoni when our cell phones went off, mothers and sisters and wives and uncles calling to ascertain our fate, to determine if the town’s good fortune was in jeopardy, if we were doomed. They’d been sitting home watching their televisions, listening to radios, worried sick. One council member’s grandmother said the little spike was the best thing to ever happen to Ecstasy. Someone’s nephew claimed that if we removed it, we might as well board-up the damn town. Another said the scandal was like a broken nose that would never heal. The chocolate cream pie arrived. (cont)
https://mybook.to/BdzBlW
THE FATE OF ECSTASY
Jolene Dumont hadn’t planned on destroying Ecstasy when she brought her report to our attention. After all, she was from Ecstasy. Almost everyone on the City Council remembered her—spelling champ four years straight at Ecstasy Middle School, head of the chess club and debating team at Ecstasy High. She left Ecstasy on a full scholarship, went to a prestigious university on the East Coast, then graduated and started working for a multinational tire company in the R & D department, where, doing research on tire failure and recycling, she discovered that Ecstasy accounted for more flat tires per capita than any other town or city in the U.S.
We acted surprised by her findings, even though we knew something had been wrong for quite some time. The gradual proliferation of retail tire outlets over the past decade had not gone unnoticed. It wasn’t unusual to pass several cars a day pulled to the shoulder, trunk up, a hubcap full of lug nuts sitting on the ground.
We worried about the impact of Jolene’s report on tourism. The ancient beauty of the Appalachian Mountains was our big draw—rafting, hiking, fishing—bringing vacationers to Ecstasy each year, just like a dozen other towns in a hundred-mile radius. But if people had to choose between Ecstasy and all the other vacation destinations in the area, well… why risk a flat tire?
We voted to keep the report quiet, appointing a task force to investigate. That’s when Aaron Tinkler told us about Glen Goode’s Big People. He said Goode was an artist and a businessman, and collected enormous fiberglass figures—Muffler Man, Big John, the Uniroyal Gal. Aaron, his right leg pumping under the table like a jackhammer (the way it always did when he was excited about something), told us Goode’s men stood over twenty-four feet high. Aaron often brought up topics tangential to the discussion, but we listened, ready to move on, when he threw his hands out as if trying to stop us all from jumping off a cliff. He waved his open palms at us, stating that Goode’s collection attracted thousands of visitors to Gainesville, Texas every year.
“Don’t you get it?” Aaron said. “We could be known for our flat tires!”
Our eyebrows rose, our curiosity igniting slowly. A giddy pride welled up inside us, a warm little volcano at the pit of our stomachs. No longer would our town’s name be fodder for countless puns and jokes (and we’d heard them all). We could distinguish ourselves in a unique and remarkable way, even if it was just flat tires.
Over the next few weeks, we brainstormed every day, sometimes long into the evening. The secretary jotted ideas on a yellow legal pad: A gigantic fiberglass sculpture of a flat tire in the town square. New signs at the city limits, “Ecstasy—Flat Tire Capital of America.” A Flat Tire Festival each year, with special discounted prices on a set of new rubber. An interactive tire museum. A tire-themed fun park. An enormous tire swing. Creativity was flowing.
Ida Landry, our resident author and copywriter, wrote press releases and articles for The Voice of Ecstasy. Brent Flanagan, our very own body-builder and fitness-guru, ran a series of ads for his gym: “Replace that old spare tire around your middle with a new “flat” one!”
Jolene’s report had pumped new air into Ecstasy, and into the members of the City Council. We’d all served in leadership roles in our youth—head of the student council, prom committee chairperson, president of the glee club, master of ceremonies, protocol officer—but this was different; we were part of something important now, something rare, exciting! It was evident by the new pep in our step; even our spouses noticed. We didn’t just go to lunch; we did lunch. An infectious spontaneity sprang up. We were exercising the right side of our brain, beginning to see ourselves no longer as city officials, but as innovators and promoters, and even… well, artists! The women started wearing sleeveless blouses, tank tops, designer coveralls with backless shoes, and changed their hairstyles—more upflung and frisky. They traded in their fake pearls for colorful, jangling bracelets and toe rings. Some of the men wore leather pants, grew beards and mustaches, had an ear pierced.
Change was sweeping Ecstasy. We were reinventing ourselves. At our meetings we made popcorn in an old-fashioned movie house popper, blew bubbles from those little bottles of soapy liquid, and listened to country music while discussing zoning issues and business permits. We took up hobbies—flying drones, stringing beads, posting on social media.
Over the past few years since Jolene’s report, Ecstasy had become home to no less than thirty retail tire outlets, not counting the Super Walmart, AutoZone, and the many independent auto repair shops that also sold tires. We were hyped by Jimmy Fallon on The Tonight Show, made the cover of GO, Triple A’s travel magazine, and were linked to countless vacation websites. We became a destination! Our status as the Flat Tire Capital attracted a staggering number of sightseers and vacationers, as well as a steady influx of curious risk-takers who believed they could beat the odds and drive home on all four originals. Stores offered ridiculous discounts on tires. Families purchased T-shirts and mugs and postcards. Visitors from all over the world lodged in our motels and hotels, and frequented our fine eateries and cafés. Many of us on the City Council became entrepreneurs, opening up B&Bs, souvenir shops, and operated street vending pushcarts selling hot dogs, pretzels, and kielbasa sausage.
The multinational tire company Jolene worked for built a tire-testing facility in Ecstasy, creating over three hundred new jobs and numerous opportunities for local businesses. With funds donated by Jolene’s employer, we built The Rubber Room, a city-block-sized entertainment warehouse with piped in music, strolling Michelin Man mimes, video driving games, a tire obstacle course, go-cart track, the Fire-Stone Pizza Oven restaurant, and a gift shop, “101 Things To Do With Old Tires,” that sold, among other things, sandals with tread soles, and detailed blueprints for building your own self-heating shed from worn out steel-belted radials.
We held tire-sculpture competitions at our annual All-Weather Festival. We talked Glen Goode into selling us a replica of his Uniroyal Gal. And even with the economy off a bit over the past twelve months, it was still a good year, capped off by our Christmas Decorations Contest, the five-hundred-dollar prize going to Trojan Wheels for their darling Mr. and Mrs. Snowman Family, complete with hats and scarves, and made entirely from huge inner tubes spray-painted white.
Even under the barrage of accusations and allegations of conspiracy and wrongdoing—neighboring townships blaming our governing members for the flat tires, claiming that we seeded nails and tacks along our streets—Ecstasy flourished!
Until last Wednesday, when Otto Fincke of the Ecstasy street crew discovered the source of our undeniable and mysterious good fortune. He had been carrying a tar sack, patching small cracks and holes in the streets near the town center, when he came upon a spike—not much more than an inch or so in height and an eighth-inch in diameter at its base—protruding from the pavement at the intersection of Boone and Redondo (the busiest streets in Ecstasy), directly under the suspended traffic light.
News of the spike got immediate traction. Rival towns, long jealous of our burgeoning success, flooded our little community with local reporters brandishing cameras and microphones, ready to expose the incriminating thorn to the world, set on destroying us. Ecstasy police set up roadblocks, diverting traffic away from Boone and Redondo. They put up yellow crime scene tape around the perimeter of the intersection, winding it around the crosswalk poles on each corner, ordering folks to stay back. Reporters shouted questions. Kids rode up on bicycles ringing those annoying, tinny little bells, and elderly couples, who’d lived in Ecstasy their entire lives, huddled close together as if they were witnessing a harbinger of the apocalypse, their ice cream cones dripping down the fronts of their shirts.
All of us on the City Council were vexed by the curious spike, and well aware of its implications and the potential for embarrassment, but more than that, we were distracted by the noise and hubbub of the ensuing crowds. None of us could think. We voted on the spot to convene in private session at the courthouse.
We pushed our way through a throng of onlookers, repeating, “No comment, no comment,” slinking serpent-like, hands clasped in solidarity, through the streets. At the courthouse steps, the police parted the sea of bustling, sign-toting rebels, holding them at bay until we were securely inside. We crowded into the elevator. The doors slid closed. A hand reached between us from the back and pushed the button for the second floor. We stood in silence, perspiring collectively, holding our breath.
Safely inside the meeting room, we locked the doors, pulled the blinds, ordered pizzas and five one-liter bottles of diet Coke, and a chocolate cream pie from The Cakery Bakery. We tried to remain pleasant and upbeat, calm and organized, logical and intelligent.
“Humiliating.”
“Mortifying!”
“What will I do with all those T-shirts and mugs I just ordered?”
“An outrage!”
“Aliens.”
"Aliens" was Cleo Soldier’s answer to everything—when methane gas hung over the landfill one year; when thunder rumbled through the skies in the midst of a blizzard; when Ecstasy experienced a shortage at the gas pumps. Aliens. We all smiled and tried to remain focused.
“We have to remove it.”
“We should wait, get more information.”
“What if it’s a sign?”
“What information?”
“We’ll be laughed out of the state…or worse…”
“A sign of what? It’s a prank!”
“Who would do such a thing?”
“We’ll be torn apart by the media.”
“High school kids.”
“Aliens!”
Cleo sat arms folded, chin out, her eyes and hair the color of a thunderstorm. Just then, the pizzas arrived.
We hadn’t even finished the first pepperoni when our cell phones went off, mothers and sisters and wives and uncles calling to ascertain our fate, to determine if the town’s good fortune was in jeopardy, if we were doomed. They’d been sitting home watching their televisions, listening to radios, worried sick. One council member’s grandmother said the little spike was the best thing to ever happen to Ecstasy. Someone’s nephew claimed that if we removed it, we might as well board-up the damn town. Another said the scandal was like a broken nose that would never heal. The chocolate cream pie arrived. (cont)
https://mybook.to/BdzBlW
June 9, 2023
Spoken With Authority
***(contains profanity)***
The barbershop. That’s where I first heard it. I was almost eleven when my parents let me go by myself.
“…this fucking big around!”
That one word spoken with authority, not in anger, but with masculine passion to put the point on a point! Jesus, it was like being thrust into the world of men, where men discussed things that required words with more amperage than the watered-down versions of profanity I heard at home.
No, this place was real, a place my father wouldn’t even fit in, a place that shot me skyward past my dad’s stilted station as husband, breadwinner, and swearing flunky, a place crusted over with stubble-faced old men leaning forward on rock-hard knees, a place where arms swung wide like the blades of arthritic windmills and gnarled fingers poked sternly into imaginary chests if a tale was to be told correctly, a place where no one was ever surprised, or shocked, or dismayed, a place where the story of one man’s tragic tale was met—with no attempt to top—by another’s in the spirit of solidarity, conspiring against the cosmos with the same tenacity the gods had conspired against them, a place where men’s spittle and fire fueled the gravity of every yarn and landed on your forehead if you were unfortunate enough to be sitting too close.
I can still picture that old man sitting there, blue shirt and matching pants, some sort of mechanic’s jumpsuit, an oval sewn onto the left chest of the shirt and the name Earl stitched elegantly in satiny scarlet thread. His hands were maroon and bent, the fingers amber near the tips where his cigarette rested. His face was a craggy leather bag, his skull narrow with thick slate hair rolling back in a natural wave on top, trimmed thin as sprinkled pepper down his neck and around his ears. His knees poked at the material of his trousers like the fat ends of Louisville Sluggers, while the bottom cuffs crept up his bony ankles exposing droopy thin white socks and black shoes sturdy as cinderblocks.
“A maple tree! That bastard was this fucking big around!”
Earl’s voice was a rusty razor on a grainy strop, his spittle glittering through the shaft of sunlight, red eyes narrowed like a killer’s, arms bear-hugging some invisible trunk for us to see. Us. He didn’t exclude me because I was a kid. A couple of times he even looked right at me, those big mitts of his clamped to his knees. Veins thick as lamp-cords crisscrossing the backs of his hands, winding around his wrists. Scared the hell out of me and the only words I heard for the duration of my time in the chair were cocksuckersonofabitch spoken as one word, and all derivations and compound varieties of fuck. I was astonished, terrified and relieved when the barber swung the apron from my chest with a matador’s flourish and held up the mirror for me to admire the back of my head. I nodded, smiled nervously and dug in my pocket for the crumpled bills, still picturing Earl clutching that bastard of a tree, praying I’d never see him again.
(This is a 500-word flash fiction piece I wrote a several years back about an impressionable eleven-year old Catholic boy (me), who, in the early sixties made his first solo trip to the neighborhood barbershop. That skinny little fair-haired kid was introduced to a raft of swear words he hadn’t even known existed!
The funny thing was, a few years after this barbershop incident, I started working at a local grocery store a mile or so from my home, Gus’s Market, and met Bob who also worked there. Bob was a few years older than I was, and we became fast friends. One day I went to his house after school and met his two sisters and his mom. Bob’s dad was also there that day, and I just about fainted when I recognized him as “Earl” from the barbershop!
It turned out his dad was a golden-gloves boxer in his youth, worked as a mechanic, and was just a regular guy. Earl even took Bob and me fishing several times up on the Missouri River and we had a lot of fun, though I’m not sure I was ever able to see Earl as anyone other than the rugged, sinewy dude sitting in one of the dark wooden chairs along the back wall of the barbershop. Earl of course never recognized me, how could he, but I never told Bob. Of course by that time I was maybe 15 or 16, and already swearing like a merchant marine myself!
Fascinating how the threads of fate weave in and out of our lives.)
Lonnie Busch
The barbershop. That’s where I first heard it. I was almost eleven when my parents let me go by myself.
“…this fucking big around!”
That one word spoken with authority, not in anger, but with masculine passion to put the point on a point! Jesus, it was like being thrust into the world of men, where men discussed things that required words with more amperage than the watered-down versions of profanity I heard at home.
No, this place was real, a place my father wouldn’t even fit in, a place that shot me skyward past my dad’s stilted station as husband, breadwinner, and swearing flunky, a place crusted over with stubble-faced old men leaning forward on rock-hard knees, a place where arms swung wide like the blades of arthritic windmills and gnarled fingers poked sternly into imaginary chests if a tale was to be told correctly, a place where no one was ever surprised, or shocked, or dismayed, a place where the story of one man’s tragic tale was met—with no attempt to top—by another’s in the spirit of solidarity, conspiring against the cosmos with the same tenacity the gods had conspired against them, a place where men’s spittle and fire fueled the gravity of every yarn and landed on your forehead if you were unfortunate enough to be sitting too close.
I can still picture that old man sitting there, blue shirt and matching pants, some sort of mechanic’s jumpsuit, an oval sewn onto the left chest of the shirt and the name Earl stitched elegantly in satiny scarlet thread. His hands were maroon and bent, the fingers amber near the tips where his cigarette rested. His face was a craggy leather bag, his skull narrow with thick slate hair rolling back in a natural wave on top, trimmed thin as sprinkled pepper down his neck and around his ears. His knees poked at the material of his trousers like the fat ends of Louisville Sluggers, while the bottom cuffs crept up his bony ankles exposing droopy thin white socks and black shoes sturdy as cinderblocks.
“A maple tree! That bastard was this fucking big around!”
Earl’s voice was a rusty razor on a grainy strop, his spittle glittering through the shaft of sunlight, red eyes narrowed like a killer’s, arms bear-hugging some invisible trunk for us to see. Us. He didn’t exclude me because I was a kid. A couple of times he even looked right at me, those big mitts of his clamped to his knees. Veins thick as lamp-cords crisscrossing the backs of his hands, winding around his wrists. Scared the hell out of me and the only words I heard for the duration of my time in the chair were cocksuckersonofabitch spoken as one word, and all derivations and compound varieties of fuck. I was astonished, terrified and relieved when the barber swung the apron from my chest with a matador’s flourish and held up the mirror for me to admire the back of my head. I nodded, smiled nervously and dug in my pocket for the crumpled bills, still picturing Earl clutching that bastard of a tree, praying I’d never see him again.
(This is a 500-word flash fiction piece I wrote a several years back about an impressionable eleven-year old Catholic boy (me), who, in the early sixties made his first solo trip to the neighborhood barbershop. That skinny little fair-haired kid was introduced to a raft of swear words he hadn’t even known existed!
The funny thing was, a few years after this barbershop incident, I started working at a local grocery store a mile or so from my home, Gus’s Market, and met Bob who also worked there. Bob was a few years older than I was, and we became fast friends. One day I went to his house after school and met his two sisters and his mom. Bob’s dad was also there that day, and I just about fainted when I recognized him as “Earl” from the barbershop!
It turned out his dad was a golden-gloves boxer in his youth, worked as a mechanic, and was just a regular guy. Earl even took Bob and me fishing several times up on the Missouri River and we had a lot of fun, though I’m not sure I was ever able to see Earl as anyone other than the rugged, sinewy dude sitting in one of the dark wooden chairs along the back wall of the barbershop. Earl of course never recognized me, how could he, but I never told Bob. Of course by that time I was maybe 15 or 16, and already swearing like a merchant marine myself!
Fascinating how the threads of fate weave in and out of our lives.)
Lonnie Busch
April 19, 2023
BOOK CLUB
Book club had dwindled over the past few years; Joan overdosed; Carla ate her husband’s service revolver when hubby Don sold her personal library for 3.2 million and fled to Belize with a coffee shop waitress; Marianne was beaten to death when thugs broke in and carted her entire book collection away in a rented van; Shawna slit her wrists in the tub reading her signed copy of “Damage.” The other four women met similar fates, losing interest in life by degrees. Justine, Margo, Blossom, and Dee were the only ones left. This month’s book: “Lake House Strangers.”
They all said they loved the new novel by author, Argos Intrigue. Of course, they would.
“I knew when they got to the secluded lake house Deke would do something horrible to that airhead Isabel. Chaining her in the bedroom like that! Abusing her in that way… Jeez!” Margo said, smirking, her eyes glistening with lust.
“No, Deke was a perfect gentleman. I loved how they worked together fixing up that old shack together, Deke giving the lake house to Isabel’s aging mother,” Blossom said, cooing with her palm over her heart. “Then getting married on the boat dock.”
“Oh, brother!” Dee said. “Deke was no good from the start, all that bullshit about the Peace Corp. I knew he was an evil bastard, trying to enslave Isabel at the lake house, but Isabel surprised me, turning into that conniving monster, inviting all her cannibal friends to feast on Deke!”
“Wow, I loved Deke!” Justine said, despising the insipid novel. But she loved her friends, and book club, at least the memory of it. “I hated how Isabel took advantage of him at the lake house, auctioning off his organs and eyes online to the highest bidder! Her elaborate life support system was a shocker! I had no idea a human could be kept alive after having that many organs harvested!”
The women talked for another few hours before the evening broke up. Alone, Justine dropped “Lake House Strangers” in the trash compacter and made herself a cup of tea. Flipping on the basement light, she slowly descended the long flight of wooden steps. At the bottom, she set her tea down and went to her husband’s enormous gun safe, the size of a double-wide refrigerator and twice as deep. Twisting the numbers into the mechanism until it clicked she pulled the huge door open, the sight always bringing her infinite joy, the rare colorful book spines shining back, all of them written by human authors before AI devoured the entire publishing industry; eliminating brick and mortar bookstores, churning out derivative drivel— each new title individually created and printed on demand for the intended buyer based on their likes and dislikes, social media posts and reviews they’d written.
She pulled a novel from the safe and sat down near the furnace, sipping her tea. This book she could almost recite by heart, having read it so many times, but it didn’t matter. Kevin, her husband, had insisted they could get five mil for her amazing book collection, but she wasn’t about to sell. Glancing toward the corner, at the lighter patch of concrete that had hardened months ago, she wondered if the color would ever match the rest of the floor. She still missed Kevin, but the longing had faded. She opened her novel to the bookmark, settled back into her chair and let the words wash over her like warm summer sunshine.
February 18, 2023
Have It Your Way
"Have it Your Way." The successful campaign by Burger King which reflects the fast-food chain's commitment to tailor orders to individual preferences and tastes. What a great concept, right? Why shouldn't we expect that experience with everything? I mean, who hasn’t picked up a novel only to find they disliked it from the first few pages, but hung on for a few chapters until they finally just had to stop reading? And maybe even felt disappointed enough to want to lash out, warn others, quickly banging out one of those scathing one- or two-star reviews. I get that.
Like me, I think many reader/critics expect to repeat a previous experience they found to be pleasurable or satisfying, quick to reject that which doesn’t achieve those ends. Anthony Doerr’s new novel, Cloud Cuckoo Land, is riding high on the popularity list, with a stellar rating of 4.5 percent, with over 25,000 reviews! Yet, Cloud Cuckoo Land is not without its detractors, the one- and two-star reviewers who found it impossible to finish, putting it down after a hundred pages or so. “It isn’t, All the Light We Cannot See,” was a repeated cry by numerous disappointed consumers (approximately three percent of all reviews, so still a very low percentage). Yet, even those who didn’t finish the book still felt entitled to review it. Full disclosure, I am a huge Doerr fan, from the first story I read years ago in his short story collection, The Shell Collector, and everything since. Do I find some truth in what the bad reviews are saying about Cloud Cuckoo Land? Sort of (I get why some are reacting the way they are) but it doesn’t dampen my love of his work, nor would I ever leave a scathing review, no matter how much I was unable to approach his new novel. Why? Because I accept that even though I’ve been writing for over thirty years, I would never feel qualified to question Doerr's work, or his approach. Doerr is a genius, maybe the best writer working today. An unparalleled talent. So if I find it challenging, or difficult, it's an opportunity for me to drop the walls and learn. That’s why I will finish Cloud Cuckoo Land, right to the last page, a novel that somehow is becoming more and more brilliant to me each and every day!
My own novels have fallen under these harsh reviews by disappointed readers when I failed to meet expectations. No writer ever sets out to alienate readers, and I feel terrible when someone has a horrible experience from one of my stories. While at the same time, there is nothing I can do about it. Unlike Burger King, there is no way for me to please everyone. Part of the problem with my work, as well as other authors, is that some novels are difficult to categorize, not falling neatly into any one genre, which isn’t fair to readers who expect one thing and get something different. Even my agent vacillated over the proper category for The Cabin on Souder Hill. The publisher decided to go with Mystery/Thriller, which may have left many readers displeased, one so angry they said: “Never again!” to Busch’s novels.
I probably should just categorize my work as “literary,” though that would raise ire as well. About to work on this post, I was researching Margaret Atwood’s book, The Handmaid’s Tale, which surprisingly was under both Politics and Social Sciences, as well as (the more recent version with a different cover) under Science Fiction and Fantasy. But reading the blurb, I could see that it was both, as well as Literary.
One book that was also hard to categorize was Sarah Canary by Karen Joy Fowler. Over a decade ago I bought Fowler’s book, which was a Nebula Award Nominee for best science fiction or fantasy book. Unfortunately, I don’t think I made it more than twenty pages before I just put it down. It wasn’t until 2022, thirteen years later, that I pulled it from my shelf, dusted it off, and read it cover to cover in about two weeks. Fowler is an amazing writer, though I could never understand why Sarah Canary was nominated for The Nebula Award. I found nothing in Sarah Canary that violated science or came across as fantastic. Nevertheless, I didn’t care. The writing was stellar, the story moving, with fascinating historical snippets woven beautifully into the narrative. So what changed over that decade? I’m fairly certain it wasn’t Fowler’s book.
There have been many novels I’ve turned to the first page, brimming with anticipation, only to be disappointed or confused, or just unable to enter the story. Even so, I don’t think I could ever leave any author a one- or two-star review for a couple of reasons, one being that I won’t finish any novel that irritates me that much or is poorly written. And I wouldn’t feel good reviewing something I hadn’t completed. The second reason is something my dad used to say: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” I don’t believe he was promoting cordiality, but rather, giving me advice about not exposing my own ignorance through criticism of others, which I would have been guilty of on more than one occasion. So I am okay to move on from a disappointing read, but I understand when others aren’t; books cost money, and reading time is precious and limited, and no one wants either wasted on crap.
So blistering reviews are here to stay. Or are they? Maybe not. We are entering a new age that for many readers may be the balm they’ve been waiting for, while for others, like me, could spell the death of literature.
Under my own observations, I have concluded that we consumers of art and literature find it more and more difficult to approach these mercurial artforms with an unprejudiced mind, to hand ourselves over to the vision of the artist, to allow our minds to open to something new. I had this experience when I first started reading Philip K. Dick last summer (see my blog post, 2022, The Summer of Dick). I had no repository in my brain for his writing. It was foreign to me, and it took me a while to fold down the walls and allow him to take me somewhere I hadn’t been before. Fourteen Dick novels later, I am so glad I accepted the challenge!
But there is something afoot that goes beyond mere disappointment. Never in my lifetime did I expect to see “book banning” in America. Watching a video walkthrough of a library completely void of books gave me chills. A story about an author of children’s books ghosted because she is Chinese. School books banned for teaching certain subjects that state officials don’t like. Over 20 books were recently banned from a rural Virginia high school, among them, IT by Stephen King, The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison, The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood, 1984 by George Orwell and many others I read in high school, some ousted just for merely mentioning sex or sexual assault. Just this past week in the library where I live, a group of people met with library staff to offer up their list of books they want banned from the public library! How far does this go? Are we going to see an entire generation enter society having lost their right to choose, incapable of discernment, critical thinking and creativity?
We may be on the brink of momentous change in how we consume fiction, as well as historical and other texts. AI. Artificial Intelligence. Machine Learning. Devoting my entire life to the pursuit of art (painting, commercial illustration, sculpture, print making, CG art, video editing, animation and writing) I watched with a tinge of horror on LinkedIn recently as artists and designers discussed—both arguing for and against—the value of machine learning in the field of advertising and design, and art in general, the implications mind-boggling and disturbing. So what does that have to do with fiction?
Some authors already use formulaic approaches to their work, attempting to ensure success of their novels by ticking all the right boxes. One influencer and proponent of self-published authors urges them to study the market where they plan to publish, then tailor their work to appeal to that audience. All these approaches shock me, because they’re not about exploring ideas, but only about marketing and making money. As an artist for over sixty years, I can’t help but feel this is the tail wagging the dog. But I am old school, it seems, with this slow rolling trend approaching for over twenty years, maybe longer, and picking up speed.
Back to machine learning, algorithms, and AI. Have you noticed that when you make an online purchase, you are bombarded with ads for that exact product, or a similar one, for days after, or sometimes even while you are still questioning your purchase in the process of closing your browser? The future is here, and there is no way to stop it. But let’s be clear, this so-called futuristic technology isn’t futuristic as much as it is intrusive, invasive, devious and unwelcome. At least to me.
But what does this have to do with book reviews and readers?
AI artwork_Shutterstock
Soon, every person could have books written and tailored specifically for them, stories that will check every box, hit every plot point at precisely the prefect moment. But how is this possible? AI machine learning is already trolling your reviews and comments, mining your preferences through your social media interaction, recording your purchases—clothing, books, food, cars—religious affiliation, political leanings. We wear devices that log if and when we exercise, when we enter REM sleep, when we dream, when we ovulate, tracking our menstrual cycles. Think of it, AI will be able to deliver exactly the novel you like reading. The villains you hate will be vanquished horribly. The heroes you love will always be victorious.
This possibility is not sci fi. We already have print on demand. We already have novel plotting software, character creation software, tension building software for authors (all too numerous to list here!). Machine learning is already chewing through and documenting your life preferences and prejudices. All AI needs now is to input the schematic of your psyche. Combine all this technology with your personal data and what do you have?
YNOD
Your Novel on Demand. Limitless variations under one title, with the story skewed to each individual reader. It would certainly wreak havoc on book clubs; same book supposedly, but with wildly different characters, plot points and conclusions. But it would be a story told the way you want it told, with the words you like, characters dressed appropriate to your taste and sensibilities, who believe and endorse only the things you do, who wear their hair the way you approve, who speak and think just the way you would expect them to, who act in accordance with your values, your core beliefs, your sexual preferences, who would never offer you an experience or situation to conflict with your world view. Machine learning will mine your expectations and deliver exactly the novel you like reading. No more consternation, no more thinking, no more challenge, just a peaceful pastime that will never impinge upon your conception of life, or take your hard-earned cash and drag you from your comfort zone.
1 The Road
First AI novel_2018
Let’s face it, Amazon’s Vella is already exploring this model (I had been thinking, with some reservations, of placing one of my stories there), where the author posts an episode every few days, or once a week, and readers weigh in on whether they like the characters, which way the plot should twist, how the story should proceed. To this I would say, "Be careful what you wish for."
AI and machine learning is our new future, and one of the most frightening aspects is, that we will have no way of knowing if the novel in our hands was written by a flesh and blood person, or some AI robot with a pen name created by a pen name generator (Reedsy has a pen name generator), armed with all the details of our life. Scary? Maybe, but according to some reviews I’ve read, it could be a welcome addition to the world of literature, to the new, “Have it Your Way” frontier.
For me, this potentiality is alarming. Yet there is nothing to be done about it. However, it would nudge me toward tackling my copy of James Joyce’s 732-page tomb Ulysses, with its forty or so punctuation-free pages at the end, which amounts to maybe the longest run-on sentence in history (AI would never allow such a thing!). Then I’ll follow Ulysses with Donald Barthelme’s, Amateurs, a book which I found difficult to read, but I’ll gladly make the effort again, embrace the challenge. Luckily, I have shelves filled with other books I’ve never opened, or stopped reading, and many I want to read again, books I know were penned with a flesh and blood poetic sensibility for language, forged through the angst, rumination and celebration over the struggle with what it means to be human.
Like me, I think many reader/critics expect to repeat a previous experience they found to be pleasurable or satisfying, quick to reject that which doesn’t achieve those ends. Anthony Doerr’s new novel, Cloud Cuckoo Land, is riding high on the popularity list, with a stellar rating of 4.5 percent, with over 25,000 reviews! Yet, Cloud Cuckoo Land is not without its detractors, the one- and two-star reviewers who found it impossible to finish, putting it down after a hundred pages or so. “It isn’t, All the Light We Cannot See,” was a repeated cry by numerous disappointed consumers (approximately three percent of all reviews, so still a very low percentage). Yet, even those who didn’t finish the book still felt entitled to review it. Full disclosure, I am a huge Doerr fan, from the first story I read years ago in his short story collection, The Shell Collector, and everything since. Do I find some truth in what the bad reviews are saying about Cloud Cuckoo Land? Sort of (I get why some are reacting the way they are) but it doesn’t dampen my love of his work, nor would I ever leave a scathing review, no matter how much I was unable to approach his new novel. Why? Because I accept that even though I’ve been writing for over thirty years, I would never feel qualified to question Doerr's work, or his approach. Doerr is a genius, maybe the best writer working today. An unparalleled talent. So if I find it challenging, or difficult, it's an opportunity for me to drop the walls and learn. That’s why I will finish Cloud Cuckoo Land, right to the last page, a novel that somehow is becoming more and more brilliant to me each and every day!
My own novels have fallen under these harsh reviews by disappointed readers when I failed to meet expectations. No writer ever sets out to alienate readers, and I feel terrible when someone has a horrible experience from one of my stories. While at the same time, there is nothing I can do about it. Unlike Burger King, there is no way for me to please everyone. Part of the problem with my work, as well as other authors, is that some novels are difficult to categorize, not falling neatly into any one genre, which isn’t fair to readers who expect one thing and get something different. Even my agent vacillated over the proper category for The Cabin on Souder Hill. The publisher decided to go with Mystery/Thriller, which may have left many readers displeased, one so angry they said: “Never again!” to Busch’s novels.
I probably should just categorize my work as “literary,” though that would raise ire as well. About to work on this post, I was researching Margaret Atwood’s book, The Handmaid’s Tale, which surprisingly was under both Politics and Social Sciences, as well as (the more recent version with a different cover) under Science Fiction and Fantasy. But reading the blurb, I could see that it was both, as well as Literary.
One book that was also hard to categorize was Sarah Canary by Karen Joy Fowler. Over a decade ago I bought Fowler’s book, which was a Nebula Award Nominee for best science fiction or fantasy book. Unfortunately, I don’t think I made it more than twenty pages before I just put it down. It wasn’t until 2022, thirteen years later, that I pulled it from my shelf, dusted it off, and read it cover to cover in about two weeks. Fowler is an amazing writer, though I could never understand why Sarah Canary was nominated for The Nebula Award. I found nothing in Sarah Canary that violated science or came across as fantastic. Nevertheless, I didn’t care. The writing was stellar, the story moving, with fascinating historical snippets woven beautifully into the narrative. So what changed over that decade? I’m fairly certain it wasn’t Fowler’s book.
There have been many novels I’ve turned to the first page, brimming with anticipation, only to be disappointed or confused, or just unable to enter the story. Even so, I don’t think I could ever leave any author a one- or two-star review for a couple of reasons, one being that I won’t finish any novel that irritates me that much or is poorly written. And I wouldn’t feel good reviewing something I hadn’t completed. The second reason is something my dad used to say: “If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.” I don’t believe he was promoting cordiality, but rather, giving me advice about not exposing my own ignorance through criticism of others, which I would have been guilty of on more than one occasion. So I am okay to move on from a disappointing read, but I understand when others aren’t; books cost money, and reading time is precious and limited, and no one wants either wasted on crap.
So blistering reviews are here to stay. Or are they? Maybe not. We are entering a new age that for many readers may be the balm they’ve been waiting for, while for others, like me, could spell the death of literature.
Under my own observations, I have concluded that we consumers of art and literature find it more and more difficult to approach these mercurial artforms with an unprejudiced mind, to hand ourselves over to the vision of the artist, to allow our minds to open to something new. I had this experience when I first started reading Philip K. Dick last summer (see my blog post, 2022, The Summer of Dick). I had no repository in my brain for his writing. It was foreign to me, and it took me a while to fold down the walls and allow him to take me somewhere I hadn’t been before. Fourteen Dick novels later, I am so glad I accepted the challenge!
But there is something afoot that goes beyond mere disappointment. Never in my lifetime did I expect to see “book banning” in America. Watching a video walkthrough of a library completely void of books gave me chills. A story about an author of children’s books ghosted because she is Chinese. School books banned for teaching certain subjects that state officials don’t like. Over 20 books were recently banned from a rural Virginia high school, among them, IT by Stephen King, The Bluest Eye by Toni Morrison, The Handmaid’s Tale by Margaret Atwood, 1984 by George Orwell and many others I read in high school, some ousted just for merely mentioning sex or sexual assault. Just this past week in the library where I live, a group of people met with library staff to offer up their list of books they want banned from the public library! How far does this go? Are we going to see an entire generation enter society having lost their right to choose, incapable of discernment, critical thinking and creativity?
We may be on the brink of momentous change in how we consume fiction, as well as historical and other texts. AI. Artificial Intelligence. Machine Learning. Devoting my entire life to the pursuit of art (painting, commercial illustration, sculpture, print making, CG art, video editing, animation and writing) I watched with a tinge of horror on LinkedIn recently as artists and designers discussed—both arguing for and against—the value of machine learning in the field of advertising and design, and art in general, the implications mind-boggling and disturbing. So what does that have to do with fiction?
Some authors already use formulaic approaches to their work, attempting to ensure success of their novels by ticking all the right boxes. One influencer and proponent of self-published authors urges them to study the market where they plan to publish, then tailor their work to appeal to that audience. All these approaches shock me, because they’re not about exploring ideas, but only about marketing and making money. As an artist for over sixty years, I can’t help but feel this is the tail wagging the dog. But I am old school, it seems, with this slow rolling trend approaching for over twenty years, maybe longer, and picking up speed.
Back to machine learning, algorithms, and AI. Have you noticed that when you make an online purchase, you are bombarded with ads for that exact product, or a similar one, for days after, or sometimes even while you are still questioning your purchase in the process of closing your browser? The future is here, and there is no way to stop it. But let’s be clear, this so-called futuristic technology isn’t futuristic as much as it is intrusive, invasive, devious and unwelcome. At least to me.
But what does this have to do with book reviews and readers?
AI artwork_Shutterstock
Soon, every person could have books written and tailored specifically for them, stories that will check every box, hit every plot point at precisely the prefect moment. But how is this possible? AI machine learning is already trolling your reviews and comments, mining your preferences through your social media interaction, recording your purchases—clothing, books, food, cars—religious affiliation, political leanings. We wear devices that log if and when we exercise, when we enter REM sleep, when we dream, when we ovulate, tracking our menstrual cycles. Think of it, AI will be able to deliver exactly the novel you like reading. The villains you hate will be vanquished horribly. The heroes you love will always be victorious.
This possibility is not sci fi. We already have print on demand. We already have novel plotting software, character creation software, tension building software for authors (all too numerous to list here!). Machine learning is already chewing through and documenting your life preferences and prejudices. All AI needs now is to input the schematic of your psyche. Combine all this technology with your personal data and what do you have?
YNOD
Your Novel on Demand. Limitless variations under one title, with the story skewed to each individual reader. It would certainly wreak havoc on book clubs; same book supposedly, but with wildly different characters, plot points and conclusions. But it would be a story told the way you want it told, with the words you like, characters dressed appropriate to your taste and sensibilities, who believe and endorse only the things you do, who wear their hair the way you approve, who speak and think just the way you would expect them to, who act in accordance with your values, your core beliefs, your sexual preferences, who would never offer you an experience or situation to conflict with your world view. Machine learning will mine your expectations and deliver exactly the novel you like reading. No more consternation, no more thinking, no more challenge, just a peaceful pastime that will never impinge upon your conception of life, or take your hard-earned cash and drag you from your comfort zone.
1 The Road
First AI novel_2018
Let’s face it, Amazon’s Vella is already exploring this model (I had been thinking, with some reservations, of placing one of my stories there), where the author posts an episode every few days, or once a week, and readers weigh in on whether they like the characters, which way the plot should twist, how the story should proceed. To this I would say, "Be careful what you wish for."
AI and machine learning is our new future, and one of the most frightening aspects is, that we will have no way of knowing if the novel in our hands was written by a flesh and blood person, or some AI robot with a pen name created by a pen name generator (Reedsy has a pen name generator), armed with all the details of our life. Scary? Maybe, but according to some reviews I’ve read, it could be a welcome addition to the world of literature, to the new, “Have it Your Way” frontier.
For me, this potentiality is alarming. Yet there is nothing to be done about it. However, it would nudge me toward tackling my copy of James Joyce’s 732-page tomb Ulysses, with its forty or so punctuation-free pages at the end, which amounts to maybe the longest run-on sentence in history (AI would never allow such a thing!). Then I’ll follow Ulysses with Donald Barthelme’s, Amateurs, a book which I found difficult to read, but I’ll gladly make the effort again, embrace the challenge. Luckily, I have shelves filled with other books I’ve never opened, or stopped reading, and many I want to read again, books I know were penned with a flesh and blood poetic sensibility for language, forged through the angst, rumination and celebration over the struggle with what it means to be human.
Houdini, Escapist Fiction and The Role of Art
(Originally appeared in Crime Reads magazine in slightly altered form)
Houdini, maybe the most famous escape artist of all time, astonished audiences with his ability to shed shackles and chains (at times even bound by a straightjacket) while submerged in a tank of water without a breathing apparatus, the clock ticking, his very life on the line. It takes my breath away just thinking of it.
Most artists are “Houdinies” of a sort, illusionists able to free themselves from the shackles of convention, break through the rational boundaries of science, slip the straightjacket of logic. Nevertheless, many writers end up chained and shackled by another restraint: artistic bias. Detective novels, science fiction, horror, fantasy, romance, and just about anything else that isn’t considered “literary” is usually relegated to the category of Escapist Fiction, a term not often used favorably. Escapist Fiction helps us escape the mundane and terrifying aspects of our real world. But doesn’t all fiction, literary and otherwise, transport us temporarily from our everyday life? I mean, isn’t that kind of the point? Then why the distinction?
The Role of Art. What is the role of art? Well, from what I can gather, it is to reveal universal truths, plumb the depths of human suffering, teach us about ourselves and our proclivities, imbue our pointless lives with meaning, nothing short of saving the world! Is anyone or anything actually capable of such a Herculean task? Much art may actually realize some success in reaching these lofty goals, though art with the intent to “teach and save” from the outset usually falls prey to pretension and contrivance.
I doubt consumers of romance, thrillers, science fiction novels and cozy murder mysteries give one fig how literary criticism brands the fiction they love. But maybe they do. Regardless, the battle rages on between accessible fiction and erudite prose, the later believed to be some nefarious conspiracy to condescend and exclude, while the former is purely a commercial ruse to make a buck! And what’s at stake in this battle between escapism and true art, between hacks and heroes?
Absolutely nothing, except for the annihilation of art and books, the very thing we are supposedly devoted to defend! That’s what makes this argument so ridiculous. Is one side hoping to eradicate the other’s art from the planet? Do writing critics hope to obliterate the authors they don’t like, make them pay dearly for not checking the appropriate boxes, failing to deliver on the critic’s expectations? Can art possibly meet every individual expectation? Should it be expected to? And if it doesn’t satisfy an individual’s needs, is that art then a complete failure? Many critics believe it is, so secure in their conviction.
But are we missing some crucial point here? Does The Stand by Stephen King engage its readers any less than The Shipping News by Annie Proulx compels its own audience? And don’t they each have their own individual fans, as well as shared lovers of literature? And don’t both these authors harness their power through the imaginative manipulation of narrative and the masterful use of language? I do find it ironic that the erudite art world, as well as many casual readers these days, are very willing to construct a “caste” system to delineate the true artist from the fantastical escapist, the hero authors from the underserving hacks. Critical review by its very nature creates a system of division, an attempt to burn down work that doesn’t fit one’s own biases, while heralding those masterpieces which comport with their personal tastes and views. Critical review is never objective, based off a very narrow slice of ideals, preconceptions and prejudices; divided into those that fit one’s personal objectives. And those that don’t.
Somerset Maugham, in response to an American critic said: “I didn’t expect you to understand me. With your cold American intelligence you can only adopt the critical attitude. Emerson, and all that sort of thing. But what is criticism? Criticism is purely destructive; anyone can destroy, but not everyone can build up. You are a pedant, my dear fellow. The important thing is to construct: I am constructive; I am a poet.”
If you love Maugham’s work then you probably agree with him. But if you are not a fan, then Maugham is merely another hack who got the slamming he deserved. I personally think Maugham is one of the greatest writers ever. But if you’re reading this, you have no idea what I base my praise on, especially if you’ve never read his work. This is how the divide begins, and to what end?
For instance, does a simple painting of a red barn at some local art fair carry the same weight as the Mona Lisa? To the people who love the red barn, absolutely! And for them, may even carry more weight than the famous seated lady. Let’s face it, today’s masterpieces may have been yesterday’s mad ravings. Consider Vincent Van Gogh, whose brother owned a successful art gallery and couldn’t traffic enough of Vincent’s swirly creations for the poor painter to afford a latte, if they’d had them back then. I can only say this, that these artists—Leonardo da Vinci, Vincent Van Gogh, and the weekend painter—approached their subjects with the talent afforded them through grace and hard work, and a passion for finding what is true, whether in the mysterious smile of a curious and iconic woman, the tortured and magnificent brush strokes of a starry night, or the isolation of a long ignored red barn.
Maybe stepping back a moment to study this bickering and battle, we might find that it is born from a need for legitimacy, to feel worthy of our pursuit, either as artist or critic. Those of us who have dedicated our life to art in one way or another, want to feel that this irrational and often lonely enterprise—putting words to paper, paint to canvas, notes to scores—contributes in some practical way to humanity. After all, artists don’t build roads or cure diseases or unwrap the complex mysteries of the human genome. For artists, the planet Mars is an iconic device for a futuristic painting, a landscape for a fictional Armageddon, or part of a lyric, not an actual destination as it is for NASA. Parents rarely urge their children to become painters, writers or musicians.
Most of my career was spent as a freelance commercial illustrator, a fairly practical pursuit, even if my profession is marred by dubious intent. But commercial art made sense, had meaning. I made my client’s product look appetizing, magical, consumable, and they gave me money. No need to dig deeper. Not so simple with most other forms of real art. Its purpose is more furtive, unknowable.
William Kowalski, author of Eddie’s Bastard and The Best Polish Restaurant in Buffalo, said of my novel, The Cabin on Souder Hill, that it, “illustrates the power of the mind to overcome the dichotomy of what is rational and what is true.” Kowalski didn’t say it would save humanity, imbue our existence with meaning, or provide us the roadmap to world peace. And though it would have been impossible for me to elucidate my own intent behind my novel, I could not have imagined a more poignant and eloquent assessment of the result. Like the painter of the red barn, I was drawing upon the skills afforded me, and trying to remain faithful to what I believed was true.
I suppose we could all take a clue from Houdini, who spent his life “escaping” self-imposed manacles and constraints, not in order to save humankind or imbue anyone’s life with meaning, and maybe not even to delight and shock audiences with his amazing illusions, but rather to rail against the boundaries of his own being, to sacrifice himself to the magic and awe of his existence. No artist could hope to accomplish more.
February 1, 2023
ONE YEAR FROM NOW (short story)
(This short story first appeared in The Minnesota Review)
The room is small and bright like the inside of a hundred-watt light bulb and smells serious and antiseptic like a doctor’s office because that’s what it is. Medical encounters render me helpless. Like a child. Even though I’m forty years old and run my own business, I tremble when the nurse slides the frosted glass window and calls my name. She tells me to get on the scale so she can weigh me—one hundred and ninety-five pounds (Christ, my clothes are heavy)—then guides me down a hall, opens the door and drops my file in a plastic holder screwed to the wood. There’s a plain-colored plant in the corner of the room and two not-so-distinct chairs and an examination table covered with white paper that comes off a roll and covers the table for sanitary purposes and crinkles when you sit on it and is cold if you have your pants off, but I sit in one of the two chairs and look at a Popular Mechanics magazine and wonder who reads this stuff? and wait for the doctor. To prepare myself, I glance over at the table covered with white paper. It probably won’t be necessary for me to remove my pants and sit on the cold white crinkle paper because I’m just peeing too much. That’s what I tell the doctor when he comes in.
“How much is too much?”
“Fifteen to twenty times a day. Even after I go I still feel like I have to go again.”
“Open wide.”
He has me sit on the white crinkle paper after all, but with my pants on, depresses my tongue, feels my throat, looks in my ears, my eyes, up my nose, takes my pulse, my blood pressure, listens to my lungs, my heart, my cough, then has me pee in a cup and give it to the nurse who had weighed me, then feels my throat again.
“Do you know you have a lump here?”
I don’t know anything about a lump. Even when he guides my fingers to the alleged lump in my throat I can’t feel it.
“Here, press harder. Right here. Can you feel it?”
Of course I can’t feel it. I’m not a doctor. My fingers aren’t trained in the sensitive art of finding life-altering physical anomalies hiding in the darkest parts of the human anatomy.
“Is that why I’m peeing too much?”
“No.”
“What’s making me pee so much?”
“Stress maybe. Constricts the bladder. But the lump is what concerns me. We need to find out what it is.”
Two weeks from now I will have my first operation ever.
The room is small and mostly pale green like the center of pistachio Jell-O, with two chairs made of metal near the foot of my bed and no plant, green or otherwise, and one window and a television on a shelf near the ceiling in the corner of the room. Somebody has turned on Family Feud and I wonder who watches this stuff? and the room smells of betadine and bedpans like a hospital room because that’s what it is. The bandage at my throat feels tight making it difficult to breathe, but it isn’t the bandage that’s tight, it’s the swelling from the surgery making me uncomfortable and my stomach throws a solid ball of heat up into my throat and I know I’m about to vomit. The nurse sees me gagging like a cat with a hairball and puts a cold washcloth on the back of my neck and I suddenly feel better. I learn three things during my two-day stay. One, a cold wet washcloth placed on the back of your neck will often suppress the urge to vomit and two, after thyroid surgery, if you do vomit because the washcloth didn’t work, it hurts like hell, and finally, the lump they removed wasn’t benign.
“It was cancer, but we’re pretty sure we got it all. Thyroid cancer is very rare in men and usually only malignant ten percent of the time. But, as you know, there are exceptions. You’ll be all right though.”
The surgeon grabs my foot through the sheet on his way out and toggles it like a three-wood in his golf bag and I’m relieved, I think, and I visit his office a week or so later to have the staples removed and have the incision checked for infection and all looks well and he tells me that I’m lucky we found the cancer when we did before it spread to my lymph glands.
“I was peeing too much.”
“What?”
While the surgeon reads my file and ponders surgical sorts of things, I explain to him why I had visited the doctor in the first place, because I was peeing too much, but the doctor found the lump instead of finding the cause of my perpetual peeing.
“How much was too much?”
“Fifteen, twenty times a day.”
“That’s a lot. How about now?”
“No. I only pee a few times a day now. But the cancer…”
“The cancer wasn’t making you pee like that. Probably stress or something. Come back in six months and we’ll check you again. I think you’ll be fine.”
Four months from now my surgeon, due to frustration with malpractice insurance and HMOs, will leave his practice and become a consultant for McKesson Surgical Supply.
The room is small and vaguely yellow like the inside of a crème brulee, with two windows, draperies, and several plants in the corner, including one passive fern near the cushy chair and couch. I sit on the couch because of movies I’ve seen and know that the doctor always sits in the cushy chair and the patient always sits, or sometimes lies, on the couch. I choose to sit, instead of lie. The couch is cushy, made of leather, and I look at the Psychology Today magazine sitting on the small table to my right and wonder who understands this stuff? The doctor comes in and I explain the surgery, the thyroid cancer, and the lump in my throat that I hadn’t been able to feel and how the surgeon had removed it. Then I explain about my visit to the first doctor.
“I was peeing too much.”
“How much was too much?”
“Fifteen to twenty times a day.”
“Um. Thyroid cancer shouldn’t increase your urinary output.”
“The doctor said it was stress.”
“That caused the thyroid cancer?”
“No, the peeing. Even after I went to the bathroom I still felt like I had to go.”
“Go where?”
“To the bathroom.”
“Do you still feel that way?”
“Which way?”
“Like you have to pee all the time? Do you need to pee right now?”
“No. I went this morning. I’m fine.”
We talk for 59 minutes, mostly about the stress that must have been causing me to pee fifteen to twenty times a day, and my job, and my son, and my wife, and my family, both immediate and extended, and my debt, both real and imagined, my childhood, my dad, my older brother whom I hardly ever see, my hobbies which I lie about because I don’t have any, my eating habits, my age, my dreams, my fears….
“Hour’s up. That’s all for today. Is this same time next week good for you?”
I tell him it is and shake his hand and thank him and he hands me a prescription for pills to help relieve the stress and I take the prescription and shove it in my pocket and thank him again. He tells me that my hobbies are a great asset and that I should make time for them even though I have a busy schedule and then he tells me how important it is to set aside time for myself. I feel guilty over lying about my hobbies especially after he made such a big deal about them. I thank him again and secretly wish for hobbies.
“Take three of those pills every day and if you have any problems with side effects please don’t hesitate to call.”
“Yes. I will…I mean, I won’t.”
Seven months from now I will stop seeing my psychiatrist and take up nine-ball and archery.
The space is narrow and confined and somewhat dark like the inside of a cereal box but I can see blue sky directly above me and white morning clouds lolling past and over there is my green Toyota Camry sitting in the parking lot a hundred yards away. Walls of brick rise on both sides of me like I’m standing between two buildings because that’s where I am. On the pavement at my feet is a stained and wrinkled copy of the Enquirer with a photo of a two-headed frog goat boy(?) on the front page and I ponder the headline that reads “Child of Alien Parents” and wonder who writes this stuff? With my pool cue case in my left hand, my keys jangling in my right, I look over toward the parking lot, at my car sitting among so many others. Although I am still less than a one-minute walk from my Camry and a thirty-five minute drive from home, I picture my neighborhood perfectly, the Ginko tree in Ida Springer’s backyard, Burt’s audacious canary-yellow Hummer down the street, the Johnson’s brand new tan and burgundy metal tool shed and I can’t seem to bring myself to go home or move from between these buildings and for some reason my legs start to quaver and I figure it is because I have not slept in over twenty-four hours. My cell phone vibrates in my pocket and when I answer it my wife asks how I did in the nine-ball tournament.
“Third place.”
“That’s great.”
“It’s only third place.”
“But it’s the first time you won third place. What did you win?”
“Five dollars.”
“You want me to come down and meet you, Marshal?”
“Why?”
“To celebrate.”
“Third place?”
“I can meet you there.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you are. Where are you?”
“Between two buildings.”
One year from now my son will quit college and join an intentional community in Peru, my wife will leave me for a jury wrangler, claiming that I have lost my focus, I will pawn my archery equipment and keep the ticket in my wallet as a reminder that two hobbies at a time is more than I can handle, and my new girlfriend Josie will come to the smoky pool room dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a fringed and sequined jacket and sit in the shadows on a hard wooden stool sipping her beer and even though she knows nothing at all about nine-ball, occasionally, while I’m lining up my next shot, she will smile over at me, wink, and shoot me two thumbs up. After a few dates Josie will notice the one-inch scar at the base of my throat and I will tell her about the thyroid cancer, the surgery, and the peeing.
“How much did you go?”
“Fifteen to twenty times a day.”
“I go that much when I drink beer. Did drinking beer give you the cancer?”
“They weren’t related.”
“Who?”
“What do you mean, ‘Who?’”
“You said they weren’t related. Did you mean the doctors? I don’t understand.”
“I meant the peeing and the cancer.”
“Oh. What did the doctor say about drinking beer?”
“I don’t remember.”
For me, Josie will not be a destination, nor has she been the road less traveled. Even so, we will share many stimulating evenings discussing articles from the National Enquirer and watching Family Feud, not to mention the fun we will have building a plain wooden foyer-bench-that-doubles-as-a-storage-chest from plans Josie will come across in Popular Mechanics.
Lonnie Busch
The room is small and bright like the inside of a hundred-watt light bulb and smells serious and antiseptic like a doctor’s office because that’s what it is. Medical encounters render me helpless. Like a child. Even though I’m forty years old and run my own business, I tremble when the nurse slides the frosted glass window and calls my name. She tells me to get on the scale so she can weigh me—one hundred and ninety-five pounds (Christ, my clothes are heavy)—then guides me down a hall, opens the door and drops my file in a plastic holder screwed to the wood. There’s a plain-colored plant in the corner of the room and two not-so-distinct chairs and an examination table covered with white paper that comes off a roll and covers the table for sanitary purposes and crinkles when you sit on it and is cold if you have your pants off, but I sit in one of the two chairs and look at a Popular Mechanics magazine and wonder who reads this stuff? and wait for the doctor. To prepare myself, I glance over at the table covered with white paper. It probably won’t be necessary for me to remove my pants and sit on the cold white crinkle paper because I’m just peeing too much. That’s what I tell the doctor when he comes in.
“How much is too much?”
“Fifteen to twenty times a day. Even after I go I still feel like I have to go again.”
“Open wide.”
He has me sit on the white crinkle paper after all, but with my pants on, depresses my tongue, feels my throat, looks in my ears, my eyes, up my nose, takes my pulse, my blood pressure, listens to my lungs, my heart, my cough, then has me pee in a cup and give it to the nurse who had weighed me, then feels my throat again.
“Do you know you have a lump here?”
I don’t know anything about a lump. Even when he guides my fingers to the alleged lump in my throat I can’t feel it.
“Here, press harder. Right here. Can you feel it?”
Of course I can’t feel it. I’m not a doctor. My fingers aren’t trained in the sensitive art of finding life-altering physical anomalies hiding in the darkest parts of the human anatomy.
“Is that why I’m peeing too much?”
“No.”
“What’s making me pee so much?”
“Stress maybe. Constricts the bladder. But the lump is what concerns me. We need to find out what it is.”
Two weeks from now I will have my first operation ever.
The room is small and mostly pale green like the center of pistachio Jell-O, with two chairs made of metal near the foot of my bed and no plant, green or otherwise, and one window and a television on a shelf near the ceiling in the corner of the room. Somebody has turned on Family Feud and I wonder who watches this stuff? and the room smells of betadine and bedpans like a hospital room because that’s what it is. The bandage at my throat feels tight making it difficult to breathe, but it isn’t the bandage that’s tight, it’s the swelling from the surgery making me uncomfortable and my stomach throws a solid ball of heat up into my throat and I know I’m about to vomit. The nurse sees me gagging like a cat with a hairball and puts a cold washcloth on the back of my neck and I suddenly feel better. I learn three things during my two-day stay. One, a cold wet washcloth placed on the back of your neck will often suppress the urge to vomit and two, after thyroid surgery, if you do vomit because the washcloth didn’t work, it hurts like hell, and finally, the lump they removed wasn’t benign.
“It was cancer, but we’re pretty sure we got it all. Thyroid cancer is very rare in men and usually only malignant ten percent of the time. But, as you know, there are exceptions. You’ll be all right though.”
The surgeon grabs my foot through the sheet on his way out and toggles it like a three-wood in his golf bag and I’m relieved, I think, and I visit his office a week or so later to have the staples removed and have the incision checked for infection and all looks well and he tells me that I’m lucky we found the cancer when we did before it spread to my lymph glands.
“I was peeing too much.”
“What?”
While the surgeon reads my file and ponders surgical sorts of things, I explain to him why I had visited the doctor in the first place, because I was peeing too much, but the doctor found the lump instead of finding the cause of my perpetual peeing.
“How much was too much?”
“Fifteen, twenty times a day.”
“That’s a lot. How about now?”
“No. I only pee a few times a day now. But the cancer…”
“The cancer wasn’t making you pee like that. Probably stress or something. Come back in six months and we’ll check you again. I think you’ll be fine.”
Four months from now my surgeon, due to frustration with malpractice insurance and HMOs, will leave his practice and become a consultant for McKesson Surgical Supply.
The room is small and vaguely yellow like the inside of a crème brulee, with two windows, draperies, and several plants in the corner, including one passive fern near the cushy chair and couch. I sit on the couch because of movies I’ve seen and know that the doctor always sits in the cushy chair and the patient always sits, or sometimes lies, on the couch. I choose to sit, instead of lie. The couch is cushy, made of leather, and I look at the Psychology Today magazine sitting on the small table to my right and wonder who understands this stuff? The doctor comes in and I explain the surgery, the thyroid cancer, and the lump in my throat that I hadn’t been able to feel and how the surgeon had removed it. Then I explain about my visit to the first doctor.
“I was peeing too much.”
“How much was too much?”
“Fifteen to twenty times a day.”
“Um. Thyroid cancer shouldn’t increase your urinary output.”
“The doctor said it was stress.”
“That caused the thyroid cancer?”
“No, the peeing. Even after I went to the bathroom I still felt like I had to go.”
“Go where?”
“To the bathroom.”
“Do you still feel that way?”
“Which way?”
“Like you have to pee all the time? Do you need to pee right now?”
“No. I went this morning. I’m fine.”
We talk for 59 minutes, mostly about the stress that must have been causing me to pee fifteen to twenty times a day, and my job, and my son, and my wife, and my family, both immediate and extended, and my debt, both real and imagined, my childhood, my dad, my older brother whom I hardly ever see, my hobbies which I lie about because I don’t have any, my eating habits, my age, my dreams, my fears….
“Hour’s up. That’s all for today. Is this same time next week good for you?”
I tell him it is and shake his hand and thank him and he hands me a prescription for pills to help relieve the stress and I take the prescription and shove it in my pocket and thank him again. He tells me that my hobbies are a great asset and that I should make time for them even though I have a busy schedule and then he tells me how important it is to set aside time for myself. I feel guilty over lying about my hobbies especially after he made such a big deal about them. I thank him again and secretly wish for hobbies.
“Take three of those pills every day and if you have any problems with side effects please don’t hesitate to call.”
“Yes. I will…I mean, I won’t.”
Seven months from now I will stop seeing my psychiatrist and take up nine-ball and archery.
The space is narrow and confined and somewhat dark like the inside of a cereal box but I can see blue sky directly above me and white morning clouds lolling past and over there is my green Toyota Camry sitting in the parking lot a hundred yards away. Walls of brick rise on both sides of me like I’m standing between two buildings because that’s where I am. On the pavement at my feet is a stained and wrinkled copy of the Enquirer with a photo of a two-headed frog goat boy(?) on the front page and I ponder the headline that reads “Child of Alien Parents” and wonder who writes this stuff? With my pool cue case in my left hand, my keys jangling in my right, I look over toward the parking lot, at my car sitting among so many others. Although I am still less than a one-minute walk from my Camry and a thirty-five minute drive from home, I picture my neighborhood perfectly, the Ginko tree in Ida Springer’s backyard, Burt’s audacious canary-yellow Hummer down the street, the Johnson’s brand new tan and burgundy metal tool shed and I can’t seem to bring myself to go home or move from between these buildings and for some reason my legs start to quaver and I figure it is because I have not slept in over twenty-four hours. My cell phone vibrates in my pocket and when I answer it my wife asks how I did in the nine-ball tournament.
“Third place.”
“That’s great.”
“It’s only third place.”
“But it’s the first time you won third place. What did you win?”
“Five dollars.”
“You want me to come down and meet you, Marshal?”
“Why?”
“To celebrate.”
“Third place?”
“I can meet you there.”
“Where?”
“Wherever you are. Where are you?”
“Between two buildings.”
One year from now my son will quit college and join an intentional community in Peru, my wife will leave me for a jury wrangler, claiming that I have lost my focus, I will pawn my archery equipment and keep the ticket in my wallet as a reminder that two hobbies at a time is more than I can handle, and my new girlfriend Josie will come to the smoky pool room dressed in jeans, cowboy boots, and a fringed and sequined jacket and sit in the shadows on a hard wooden stool sipping her beer and even though she knows nothing at all about nine-ball, occasionally, while I’m lining up my next shot, she will smile over at me, wink, and shoot me two thumbs up. After a few dates Josie will notice the one-inch scar at the base of my throat and I will tell her about the thyroid cancer, the surgery, and the peeing.
“How much did you go?”
“Fifteen to twenty times a day.”
“I go that much when I drink beer. Did drinking beer give you the cancer?”
“They weren’t related.”
“Who?”
“What do you mean, ‘Who?’”
“You said they weren’t related. Did you mean the doctors? I don’t understand.”
“I meant the peeing and the cancer.”
“Oh. What did the doctor say about drinking beer?”
“I don’t remember.”
For me, Josie will not be a destination, nor has she been the road less traveled. Even so, we will share many stimulating evenings discussing articles from the National Enquirer and watching Family Feud, not to mention the fun we will have building a plain wooden foyer-bench-that-doubles-as-a-storage-chest from plans Josie will come across in Popular Mechanics.
Lonnie Busch
January 22, 2023
2022, The Summer of Dick
Imagine four or five novels by the same author mashed together into a single volume the size of an encyclopedia! Over eight-hundred pages, some well over a thousand! Library of America. That’s where I found Philip K. Dick at my local library, in these fantastic collections of novels published through Library of America, a non-profit entity that’s sole purpose is to prevent the loss of great literary works. The first volume I read contained four novels, Man in the High Castle, Three Stigmata of Palmer Eldritch, Do Androids Dream of Electric Sleep (which was made into the movie, Blade Runner), and Ubik.
I’ll be honest, though. When I started reading Man in the High Castle (which was turned into an American TV series), I put it down after one paragraph. “What the hell is this?” I picked up the book again, read a bit more, then stopped again. I consider myself a fairly patient reader, and even though it wasn’t the sci fi genre I had braced myself for, I wasn’t sure what it was. Nevertheless, I pushed on. And am so thankful I did, and over this past summer read thirteen of Dick’s novels back to back
However, don’t expect Dick to slow the narrative to explain terms such as, “conapt,” or “andy,” or “Pre-Fash.” Nor will he translate German phrases he sprinkles through his prose. Dick dumps his reader right into this futuristic world so the reader will feel like a part of it, Dick never risking the chance of spoiling the dream with cumbersome clarifications. Rest assured, meaning comes, eventually, which can leave a reader on uneven ground for a bit.
Dick’s work may be an acquired taste, at least it was for me, but so worth the effort. A remarkable writer, hands down. His work transcends the usual mélange of machinery and technologies, and instead, focuses on the human foibles, politics and dramas nestled into the chrysalis of a foreign landscape. Yes, there may be far-out gadgetry and ingeniously conceived devices, even space transports, but never to the detriment of great writing and living-breathing flesh-covered characters.
But it’s also Dick’s sense of humor, his fusion of the everyday and the fantastic, and his prescient, fearless wrangling with the nature of reality that kept me wanting more. Dick earned my trust as a reader early on. Even when I thought I knew where he was headed, I was always wrong; Dick constantly delivering something new. In one of his novels, he tinkers with the most cliché of all clichés; the waking from a dream motif! “Seriously?” I uttered to myself, chuckling, knowing, or at least believing, and hoping full well there was more to it, as the story wasn't over. And where he finally went awed me as a writer… and as a reader, left me gobsmacked!
Sadly, some of Dick’s work has been lost to us forever. Tom Doherty Associates has managed to resurrect some of his more mainstream work, published under the TOR imprint. Currently, I am reading one of his novels from TOR, Voices from the Street, and am constantly blown away by Dick’s fluid, evocative prose!
Dick’s other novels—Martian Time Slip, Dr. Bloodmoney or How We Got Along After the Bomb, Now Wait for Last Year, Flow My Tears the Policeman Said, A Scanner Darkly, A Maze Of Death, VALIS (the writing of VALIS a story in and of itself), The Divine Invasion and The Transmigration of Timothy Archer—I devoured one after another over the past summer in these huge Library of America volumes.
I’ll be honest, though. When I started reading Man in the High Castle (which was turned into an American TV series), I put it down after one paragraph. “What the hell is this?” I picked up the book again, read a bit more, then stopped again. I consider myself a fairly patient reader, and even though it wasn’t the sci fi genre I had braced myself for, I wasn’t sure what it was. Nevertheless, I pushed on. And am so thankful I did, and over this past summer read thirteen of Dick’s novels back to back
However, don’t expect Dick to slow the narrative to explain terms such as, “conapt,” or “andy,” or “Pre-Fash.” Nor will he translate German phrases he sprinkles through his prose. Dick dumps his reader right into this futuristic world so the reader will feel like a part of it, Dick never risking the chance of spoiling the dream with cumbersome clarifications. Rest assured, meaning comes, eventually, which can leave a reader on uneven ground for a bit.
Dick’s work may be an acquired taste, at least it was for me, but so worth the effort. A remarkable writer, hands down. His work transcends the usual mélange of machinery and technologies, and instead, focuses on the human foibles, politics and dramas nestled into the chrysalis of a foreign landscape. Yes, there may be far-out gadgetry and ingeniously conceived devices, even space transports, but never to the detriment of great writing and living-breathing flesh-covered characters.
But it’s also Dick’s sense of humor, his fusion of the everyday and the fantastic, and his prescient, fearless wrangling with the nature of reality that kept me wanting more. Dick earned my trust as a reader early on. Even when I thought I knew where he was headed, I was always wrong; Dick constantly delivering something new. In one of his novels, he tinkers with the most cliché of all clichés; the waking from a dream motif! “Seriously?” I uttered to myself, chuckling, knowing, or at least believing, and hoping full well there was more to it, as the story wasn't over. And where he finally went awed me as a writer… and as a reader, left me gobsmacked!
Sadly, some of Dick’s work has been lost to us forever. Tom Doherty Associates has managed to resurrect some of his more mainstream work, published under the TOR imprint. Currently, I am reading one of his novels from TOR, Voices from the Street, and am constantly blown away by Dick’s fluid, evocative prose!
Dick’s other novels—Martian Time Slip, Dr. Bloodmoney or How We Got Along After the Bomb, Now Wait for Last Year, Flow My Tears the Policeman Said, A Scanner Darkly, A Maze Of Death, VALIS (the writing of VALIS a story in and of itself), The Divine Invasion and The Transmigration of Timothy Archer—I devoured one after another over the past summer in these huge Library of America volumes.
January 11, 2023
My Rocky Road from Traditional to Self Publishing
About seventeen years ago I started writing short stories, which, to my delight, got quick traction in numerous literary magazines. I was elated to have my work published. Not long after that a writer friend of mine proposed a challenge to pen one page a day and email it to each other as an incentive to write persistently. A fun exercise that for me resulted in “Turnback Creek,” my novella that won the 2006 Clay Reynolds Novella Award along with publication from Texas Review Press. This was it, I was on my way…
https://lonniebusch.com/turnback-creek/
Or not. I took “Turnback Creek” to SIBA (Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance) show in Atlanta and tried to interest bookstores in my novella, but it was difficult. Most of them believed my novella was a “self-published” book, though I was quick to point out that it wasn’t. At the time, self-published work had a bit of a stigma, as I believe it still does today.
Nevertheless, I pushed on, eventually trying my hand at novels, and fell in love with the long form, and started sending them out to agents. Not much going on there. One or two favorable comments, but mostly standard rejections. I got busy with other things, namely my art, and was still doing commercial illustration at the time. https://lonniebusch.com/illustration/
About four years ago, when my illustration biz was slowing down, and I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do moving forward, I took another swing at publishing. My novel, “Pink Souder,” had been gathering digital dust for some time and I decided that would be the one I’d send out. Armed with a new copy of the Writers Guide to Agents, I started with the A’s and planned to work my way through the entire book, sending only to agents who accepted my genre. This was going to be a head-down-move-forward-no-matter-what process. If I got to the end of the guide, and had no prospects, that would be it, the end of writing.
The A’s yielded no agents in my genre, so I went to the B’s and sent my first electronic query, which was instantly responded to: “Thank you, but we are currently closed to submissions.” No worries, head down, push forward. On my morning walk the next day while listening to music on my iPhone, I was dinged. An email from the first agency, the one I had received the “closed to submissions” from. The owner of the agency wanted to read my manuscript. Things escalated and two weeks later I found myself with an agent. But more than that, the first agency I had sent to! This had to be a sign! Right? After a title change, “Pink Souder” became “The Cabin on Souder Hill,” and several months later, was picked up by a publisher. (Maybe you are thinking I caved on the title. Possibly, but I had decided I would treat this very new process as an experiment, and would take the advice of professionals along the way.)
It took about three years from landing an agent to the launch of “The Cabin on Souder Hill.” A few bumpy spots along the way, but there it was. Out in the public. This was it, I was really and truly on my way…! https://lonniebusch.com/the-cabin-on-...
Or not. My publisher had signed me to a two-book deal, and now that Cabin was released, they were ready to see that second book. No problem there. Getting an agent had spurred me on, and with renewed vigor I was writing night and day. I had several new novels for them to choose from. They hated them all. And terminated the contract. Within several months after that, my agent had become unresponsive to my emails and I had to terminate that relationship.
A very wise person once told me, “an expectation is a planned disappointment.” Obviously I was unable to heed that sage advice, because I was disappointed. Very disappointed. And numb. How had it come and gone so quickly? Yet I had so much new, good work just sitting on my computer. At least I thought it was good, no matter what the publisher said. But self-publishing was too expensive, and then there was that stigma, at least in my mind. I had wanted traditional publishing from the time I first started sending out short stories, even though the experience with my publisher had been less than stellar. (Of course, they probably felt the same about their experience with me!)
Traditional publishing at times can be a bit stifling, and yet, it has obvious benefits. So it took several months for me to wrap my head around self-publishing and get past my resistance. Finally, I discovered KDP. It wouldn’t cost me thousands of dollars, (which I didn’t have, since my illustration biz had dried up completely). But it also didn’t pay an advance, which I had received for “The Cabin on Souder Hill.”
However, this wasn’t about the money, not entirely anyway. It was about the work, getting it out there, finding some kind of flow between writing and readers. And so far it’s been a very rewarding experience. Combining my love of writing with illustration, animation, and video editing to produce my own book covers and promo videos is so gratifying, a chance to bring together all the things that truly energize me.
Self-publishing has also opened an avenue for me to interact with readers more directly, not needing permission to give books away or post chapters on my social media pages, and not limiting what sort of writing I can share with readers.
I am trying to heed that earlier advice, and curb my expectations, but I am excited to finally have The Baldwin Hotel in the hands of readers, and am looking forward to releasing upcoming novels, as well as publishing in different forms, such as my short story collection, and soon, an episodic mainstream work of fiction on Vella! Thanks for reading!
https://lonniebusch.com/turnback-creek/
Or not. I took “Turnback Creek” to SIBA (Southern Independent Booksellers Alliance) show in Atlanta and tried to interest bookstores in my novella, but it was difficult. Most of them believed my novella was a “self-published” book, though I was quick to point out that it wasn’t. At the time, self-published work had a bit of a stigma, as I believe it still does today.
Nevertheless, I pushed on, eventually trying my hand at novels, and fell in love with the long form, and started sending them out to agents. Not much going on there. One or two favorable comments, but mostly standard rejections. I got busy with other things, namely my art, and was still doing commercial illustration at the time. https://lonniebusch.com/illustration/
About four years ago, when my illustration biz was slowing down, and I was trying to figure out what I wanted to do moving forward, I took another swing at publishing. My novel, “Pink Souder,” had been gathering digital dust for some time and I decided that would be the one I’d send out. Armed with a new copy of the Writers Guide to Agents, I started with the A’s and planned to work my way through the entire book, sending only to agents who accepted my genre. This was going to be a head-down-move-forward-no-matter-what process. If I got to the end of the guide, and had no prospects, that would be it, the end of writing.
The A’s yielded no agents in my genre, so I went to the B’s and sent my first electronic query, which was instantly responded to: “Thank you, but we are currently closed to submissions.” No worries, head down, push forward. On my morning walk the next day while listening to music on my iPhone, I was dinged. An email from the first agency, the one I had received the “closed to submissions” from. The owner of the agency wanted to read my manuscript. Things escalated and two weeks later I found myself with an agent. But more than that, the first agency I had sent to! This had to be a sign! Right? After a title change, “Pink Souder” became “The Cabin on Souder Hill,” and several months later, was picked up by a publisher. (Maybe you are thinking I caved on the title. Possibly, but I had decided I would treat this very new process as an experiment, and would take the advice of professionals along the way.)
It took about three years from landing an agent to the launch of “The Cabin on Souder Hill.” A few bumpy spots along the way, but there it was. Out in the public. This was it, I was really and truly on my way…! https://lonniebusch.com/the-cabin-on-...
Or not. My publisher had signed me to a two-book deal, and now that Cabin was released, they were ready to see that second book. No problem there. Getting an agent had spurred me on, and with renewed vigor I was writing night and day. I had several new novels for them to choose from. They hated them all. And terminated the contract. Within several months after that, my agent had become unresponsive to my emails and I had to terminate that relationship.
A very wise person once told me, “an expectation is a planned disappointment.” Obviously I was unable to heed that sage advice, because I was disappointed. Very disappointed. And numb. How had it come and gone so quickly? Yet I had so much new, good work just sitting on my computer. At least I thought it was good, no matter what the publisher said. But self-publishing was too expensive, and then there was that stigma, at least in my mind. I had wanted traditional publishing from the time I first started sending out short stories, even though the experience with my publisher had been less than stellar. (Of course, they probably felt the same about their experience with me!)
Traditional publishing at times can be a bit stifling, and yet, it has obvious benefits. So it took several months for me to wrap my head around self-publishing and get past my resistance. Finally, I discovered KDP. It wouldn’t cost me thousands of dollars, (which I didn’t have, since my illustration biz had dried up completely). But it also didn’t pay an advance, which I had received for “The Cabin on Souder Hill.”
However, this wasn’t about the money, not entirely anyway. It was about the work, getting it out there, finding some kind of flow between writing and readers. And so far it’s been a very rewarding experience. Combining my love of writing with illustration, animation, and video editing to produce my own book covers and promo videos is so gratifying, a chance to bring together all the things that truly energize me.
Self-publishing has also opened an avenue for me to interact with readers more directly, not needing permission to give books away or post chapters on my social media pages, and not limiting what sort of writing I can share with readers.
I am trying to heed that earlier advice, and curb my expectations, but I am excited to finally have The Baldwin Hotel in the hands of readers, and am looking forward to releasing upcoming novels, as well as publishing in different forms, such as my short story collection, and soon, an episodic mainstream work of fiction on Vella! Thanks for reading!
December 21, 2022
A Story is Born_The Baldwin Hotel
Hi, my name is Lonnie Busch, and this is my first blog post on Goodreads. I’m an author, artist and backpacking enthusiast, though most of my writing centers around the paranormal. Why? Not sure, (maybe too much Twilight Zone and Outer Limits as a kid!) but those are the ideas that come most readily. For instance, the idea for my newest novel, The Baldwin Hotel, sprang from a brief ride in an elevator.
For me, riding in an elevator is akin to whistling while passing a graveyard; an implicit trust that everything will be okay, even when we don’t fully believe it. We press the button, the metal doors slide shut, the elevator car begins to move, and we come face to face with the realization that we have just entrusted our lives to numerous strangers and complex machinery, all the while trapped in this little metal room with no windows and no way to escape. (As far as I know I’m not claustrophobic, but maybe just a tad paranoid :))
Anyway, so one day I’m riding in an elevator, staring at my own smeared reflection in the brushed-stainless-steel doors, when the oddest and most disturbing notion hits me; what if the elevator doors open and I find myself staring into another elevator car identical to the one I’m standing in, with no way out? What would I do?
From that unsettling image, I tried to unravel the answers to numerous questions—What would happen if I stepped into that identical elevator? Would the doors close and take me to my original destination, or somewhere else? Would I ever get back, or be trapped for the rest of my life between two elevator cars? Why is this happening?—and The Baldwin Hotel was born.
I hope you'll check it out, and thanks for reading. Please post any questions or thoughts!
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BQGHMFV2?...
https://lonniebusch.com/
For me, riding in an elevator is akin to whistling while passing a graveyard; an implicit trust that everything will be okay, even when we don’t fully believe it. We press the button, the metal doors slide shut, the elevator car begins to move, and we come face to face with the realization that we have just entrusted our lives to numerous strangers and complex machinery, all the while trapped in this little metal room with no windows and no way to escape. (As far as I know I’m not claustrophobic, but maybe just a tad paranoid :))
Anyway, so one day I’m riding in an elevator, staring at my own smeared reflection in the brushed-stainless-steel doors, when the oddest and most disturbing notion hits me; what if the elevator doors open and I find myself staring into another elevator car identical to the one I’m standing in, with no way out? What would I do?
From that unsettling image, I tried to unravel the answers to numerous questions—What would happen if I stepped into that identical elevator? Would the doors close and take me to my original destination, or somewhere else? Would I ever get back, or be trapped for the rest of my life between two elevator cars? Why is this happening?—and The Baldwin Hotel was born.
I hope you'll check it out, and thanks for reading. Please post any questions or thoughts!
https://www.amazon.com/dp/B0BQGHMFV2?...
https://lonniebusch.com/
