Introduction
I was flipping through a collection of short stories by one of my favorite authors. At the beginning there’s a quote from Henry David Thoreau: Not that the story need be long, but it will take a long time to make it short. The true meaning of this statement is lost to history. For me, it’s about cutting away the bull—and in life (as Thoreau doubtless would have agreed) there is a lot of bull. So yeah, it can take awhile, even when all you’re trying to do is compose a short story people might actually want to read.
You may have noticed that very few of my novels manage to break 90,000 words (of the five, only two have cracked it). This is because twenty-five years ago I was taught the importance of being concise by some very kind editors at Amazing Stories. It was 1995 and magazines were rejecting my work left and right. Of course they were. I was submitting material with near zero literary quality. I knew nothing of story construction, or poetry, or dialogue. And I certainly didn’t know anything about being concise. For example: In a short story a writer need not concern himself with his character taking a pee when he wakes up in the morning; it is almost naturally assumed by the reader that this necessary digression on the way to the breakfast table has taken place. And really, why would I want to watch my protagonist pee?
I don’t know if I actually wrote any pee scenes, but you get the idea. Amazing Stories sent me lots of rejection letters, but with those letters they also sent tips on how to make things better. Their biggest beef with me? “Get to the point,” one editor implored. Yes, I was torturing them. And all they wanted to do was help. To that magazine I now submit my apologies and thanks.
Years later I started crafting outlines for all of my work. This also helped. It was also a big reason I was able to make so many things happen to poor Scott and Ingrid in Regions Of Passion in a such a short span (111,000 words I think). I tried to keep the bull to a minimum. The same thing went down with my follow-up novels, and the ten short stories you’re about to read. (Just be warned: Hurricane Angel and Aftermathers were both written in the 90s; I’ve cut away most of their nonsense, but little bits here and there may remain).
I don’t attempt short stories very often. Since taking up outlining they don’t interest me as much. Why that is I can’t say. And sometimes they change right in the middle (Double Dutch was originally supposed to be about a demon rabbit that torments two little kids), and sometimes I just want to be silly (Konky), and sometimes I feel like there’s more to be told about a previous story (Never Trust A Smile is actually a prequel to Aftermathers).
All of these stories—and yes, my novels too—have terrible covers over at Smashwords. I don’t know how to make the damned things, sorry. Nor am I willing to pay someone else, when the best any of this stuff typically does is around 2 or 3 downloads per month. Anyway, what I mean to do with this book is compile the stories and then shut them all down as separate entities. Of course once I’m done with this intro I still need to make the cover. That outta be a hoot.
Where have you gone, 1997? I need a DeLorean. Back then all I did was work at a grocery store all night, then come home and play video games, then read Guy de Maupassant or Clive Barker or Eric McCormack or whoever, then go to sleep. Those were some good times. Times I can’t have back no matter how many coins I drop into the fountain, or how many prayers I offer up to that bearded old man with his hand on the zodiac wheel. On my nights off I ate Little Debbie cakes, drank coffee, and listened to Art Bell. Outside, comet Hale-Bopp was streaking across the sky. My dog loved me, and dammit, I loved him right back. We were happy. I wish I’d known as much at the time (I think the dog did know, which is why he was always so sweet; the clock was ticking, but rather than listen to it, he ran outside to play in the snow). Today I live in Manila. It’s hot. The cigars are terrible. And most of the time I’m too tired to climb steps, let alone sit down and work on a novel.
Literature gave me things. It soothed my panic attacks and demonstrated—quite adeptly—the power of words. With my own writing I tried to give back. That includes the stories here. They’re short and—fingers crossed—get to the point readily enough. That’s more than we can say for this introduction, right? This part of the compilation doesn’t even have a point. The studio asked for it, so here it is.
Okay fine, here’s the point: Life is a series of chapters, and when they end we can’t just flip back to our favorite parts. All we have are the memories. I guess those will have to do. 1997–2005 was one chapter of my own life—the best of them all. I think back on that time period a lot, wondering how I could have let it slip away. Another chapter ran from 2006 to 2013. And from 2013 we went to 2019 and now we have COVID-19 and I don’t really know if that’s supposed to mean another chapter or not.
Anyway, some thanks are in order. Joe, I love ya buddy, even though I fire you like ten times a day. You always put the pink slip back on my desk with one hand; with the other, you’re up with the middle finger. We’re stuck with each other and that’s cool. Johnny? One of these days that coffee shop is gonna take off. Johnny’s Joe. Just you wait. And Crystal you know you’re beautiful in so many different ways I could never be concise to describe it; with all my heart I thank you for the things you do. Gentle Reader (that’s you holding the iPad, or the Android or the Kindle), I beg of thee: Don’t be a stranger. Indie authors like me need you around. Thank you dearly for the time.
All right. I think we’re good. Read on.
Tag Cavello, August 6, 2020