U Is for Undertow (Kinsey Millhone 21)

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

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

“Is there a way to fix it?”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Jon smiled. “Not much.”

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

“Okay.”

“You have to write every day, Jon. I mean it. No faking, no farting around, and no shorting me on time.”

Walker came back from Hawaii and the first time the four of them convened at the bus, he took one look at Jon and knew what was going on. For a change, Destiny was cool. She kept her distance, her manner strictly matter-of-fact. Jon and Creed and Walker smoked dope and shot the shit while she sat cross-legged in the grass, reading Tarot cards. Jon thought they’d pretty much pulled it off, but when he and Walker left and were barely out of earshot, Walker turned to him with dismay. “What the fuck are you doing, man? Are you out of your mind?”

“I don’t remember asking for your opinion.”

“Well, here it is anyway. She’s a slut and she’s stupid on top of that.”

“I notice you’re not all that picky about the girls you screw.”

“Because they’re nice and they’re clean. She’s disgusting.”

“I don’t want to hear about it, okay?”

“What if you get caught? How can you try pulling this shit right under his nose?”

“They have an open relationship.”

“Oh, right. You believe that, you’re a horse’s ass.” Walker shook his head. “You’re going to regret it, buddy boy. I’m telling you right now, this won’t end well.”

“Thanks. I’m touched by your concern.”

Saturdays belonged to him and the freedom was a relief. Destiny, Creed, and Sky Dancer went off early to the farmer’s market in town and spent the rest of the day in family pursuits. Destiny wanted to learn to tie-dye so she’d gone to Sears and shoplifted half a dozen three-packs of white T-shirts, which she intended to dye in batches and then sell at the beach. Jon was grateful for the long stretch of hours he could call his own. Friday night he slept well, and when he got up he threw on a T-shirt and cutoffs. He made a fresh pot of coffee and carried a cup to his desk. He reread his story about the boy who ran with wild dogs, this time cringing at turns of phrase that before had seemed lyrical. “Soaring” was what he thought to himself when he was crafting sentences. He went through line by line, X-ing out anything clumsy or pretentious. In the end there was maybe half a paragraph worth salvaging. He took Mr. Snow’s advice and tossed the rest of it in the trash.