Short reflection piece I wrote
Earl's Fabulous Fantasy World
Earl has a dream—no, a fantasy. His dream is to write fantasy. He says this, whistling the s’s. He doesn’t have many teeth. I don’t ask why. It’s hard to get a word in edgewise with Earl.
Earl has been coming to this writer’s group for, oh, five years now. In this very group, he tells me, three years ago come through a fella that later got published in a New York magazine. Earl’s forgotten the name of the magazine, and the fella, but the distinction remains. This group has turned out published authors.
This meeting goes by the name of a writer’s “support group,” and that’s fitting because these civilian groups are in fact a lot like the alcoholic support groups you see on tv: an incongruous bunch of knitting grandmothers, leather-clad bikers, pimply teenagers. The writing bug, like the vodka bug, bites indiscriminately.
No one’s wearing leather, on the outside at least. I live in the wilds of Virginia and you can never be too careful. A short drive and you’re in West Virginia and the horrors of those badlands, far out of cell phone range. I’ve been in those wildernesses and come back alive, but not to tell. Those memories go with me to the grave.
Earl is about par for the course for rural Virginia in a John Deere cap and red and black plaid shirt. Yes, that’s a Diet Pepsi can he’s holding, but no, it’s not filled with Diet Pepsi. It’s his spittoon.
It seems Earl, after numerous false starts, has finally brought the first chapter of what will be his fantasy trilogy to share. The group looks at me, the newcomer, with pleased eyes. I’ve stumbled into its banner day.
Irma leads the group, a stalwart granny with, you’ll forgive me for saying (I’m only being factual), a striking resemblance to Mrs. Doubtfire. There’s a cartoon cat in sunglasses lying on a couch and holding a martini glass on the front of her sweater. I’ve forgotten the caption but it was funny.
The group is mostly older women and they seem to regard me with deference, as to a young man of education.
Irma: “Does the newcomer have anything to share?”
“No, ma’am—”
“No you don’t! It’s Irma.”
“Hi Irma. No, nothing this time. I write sometimes. Mostly I just like to be around creative people. I’m hoping some of it will rub off on me.”
“Well Earl here is a very creative person. He has the first chapter of a new book he’s working on. A work of fantasy. Do you like fantasy?”
How to answer without offending Earl?
“Wow, fantasy. I can’t wait.”
At first it appears there won’t be enough copies to go around, but it turns out one old lady has lost her glasses, so I get her copy. Earl begins with an explanation. This all takes place in the mystical realm of Otgotti.
It begins passionately. There’s a love-making scene that’s more or less consensual: the young male’s reluctant and the queen is insistent. It’s truly a unique experience to hear Earl pronounce “sensually.” I’m learning a lot about Otgotti. There are swords and shields there. There are panties.
I don’t know how the old ladies are taking it. I’m too bashful to look up.
That part ends and exposition begins. The queen is unhappy in her marriage. The boy is a humanoid. He’s preparing for a journey. A Great Darkness threatens, crystals are involved, giant dragons. At any rate, if Earl succeeds, you’ll find out for yourself.
When the reading ends, I look up, and no one seems particularly nonplussed. On the contrary, the ladies are getting into character as critics. Each lady is adjusting her glasses with the firm-set jaw of a person about to begin a crossword puzzle: there’s serious, objective work to be done.
There’s a tradition here that each critique must begin with some kind of praise. A lady in a pink sweater begins. She says the atmosphere is evocative. Then to the criticism.
She says there’s no such word as “teethy.” When I check the dictionary later, she’s right, though I think there should be such an adjective, and I support Earl inventing it.
I’m grateful to her for then getting straight to the point: she wonders whether it’s wise to begin … in the bedroom. I wish I could prompt her by saying “in medias sex.” Earl is incredibly placid in the face of this and all other criticism tonight. He has no objection to placing this chapter later. It was the easiest thing for him to write and primarily he wants to know whether his characters are interesting.
The lady says the young male isn’t given any name. Earl says he wants him to be anonymous at this point. This is a microcosm of all criticism to me. The critic saying something doesn’t make sense; the author rebuts that it makes perfect sense when viewed in a certain way.
The rest of the comments and the rest of the readings tonight are mostly forgettable. There are the usual poems in ABCB. Some of them are touching. One is about a dead grandson. The strengths of amateur writing are always its immediacy and sincerity.
It's been several months and I haven't been back to the group. I meet Earl in a grocery store one day. He's telling me he still hasn't gotten much past chapter 2 in his work but he now plans to make it not a trilogy but a six-part series.
"Not a trilogy but a … a, what would you call that?"
I think for a second. A "sextology"? I'm wondering whether to feign ignorance. The moment's past anyway. It's hard to get a word in edgewise with Earl.
