Drew's C.V. 8/5/2009

Lecture handout for Structural Screwity: A Brief Guide to Reading and Writing Experimental Literature

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Reckoning the Claim

Fiddle Inn, Stumble Out --local saying

If you were Johnny (that's my name for him at least) would you be angry at our present predicament? I'm not sure I would have allowed it to happen the way it did, but anger, I think, would be a little too rash. After all, I don't even know you (read: Johnny doesn't know you). But then, as we can see here, you're outside the circle. You need to be explained to.

First things first, let's start at the beginning of things. You, (hello, welcome!) are my reader. Glad to have you aboard! I, as you most dubiously have guessed, am the author (not authoress, mind you. My wife's over there <-- ). My role, personage, description , if you will, has not a large bearing on the tale to be told, so let's save a tree, and skip to better parts of that lesser liked area of the story. Exposition.

****

When concerning one's self with writing a piece that contains autobiographical data, as my wife often does, and also as in my current case, there's a careful selection process that must be followed in which we writers (don't I sound pretentious?) form a fictional world out of factual data. This fact picking bit, which, I admit, I'm not much of a fan of, can be seen in much heavier usage, especially through writers such as Gustave Flaubert, Realists, or my wife. I apologize if I've offended Flaubert fans. In either case, at some point, any piece of fiction has a bit of “real” in it, but when concerned with these autobiographical pieces, there's a good deal more “real” for your dollar.

I brought up the idea of this sorting process, not to try to clue you in on the “secret world of the writer,” which, assuredly, I cannot begin to reveal to you (I am of the unpublished family of writers). Down and Out, you say? No, not really; that's a cliché anyway—more like I write for pleasure, not money (see definition of wife. [ <-- skip ahead a few pages there, chief.]). I brought it up because there's a grey area pertaining to the definition of autobiographical fiction. Most folks don't realize that there is a difference between autobiographical fiction and autobiographical fiction. The former concerns with a fictional telling of your own factual life (read: you as in I, you telling your life, not me telling your life). While the latter has nothing to do with the self, per se, but more so with the surroundings of the self. I am bothered by this. Autobiographical fiction (the latter) is a misnomer. (Hint: If it's not about you, it's not autobiographical.) Let's call autobiographical fiction by a more proper term, then: autotopographical fiction, or auto-everything-around-me-and-possibly-bits-from-my-life-but-not-my-whole-life-ical fiction. Both Lilly (the wife. Remember? She's over there -->) and myself are autotopographical writers, she more than me, me out of necessity, out of almost force, but I'm getting ahead of myself. So, rather than continue, getting ahead of myself and mucking up the narrative flow, I'll do a small bow and change subjects.

*small bow*

****

Perhaps the thing that got Lilly and I so hopped up on Johnny is the very thing that I am so inadvertently surrounded by in every seeping second of my current state of being. Erie. As in Erie, Pennsylvania. Grape Country. That city with the lake that caught on fire. Commodore Perry and the Baldwin Building. Welch's (Ok, that's in North East [read: suburb to the north east. Aptly named, no?]. But good enough for government work, right?). And who could forget the Kohler Building (which may or may not be torn down sometime in the next twenty years)? (What, you thought I'd mention the Peninsula? Bah. Ticks and bacteria.)

In her ever frantic search for “a nice place to settle down,” (and a permanent job), we've plopped ourselves in Erie for the moment. For the moment = no tenure (yet). She teaches English at one of the larger smaller satellites of Penn State, a little college with a big ego and even bigger engineering department—plastics type engineering mostly. According to the calendar (standard office calendar type, this one with McCarty Printing along the bottom with some phone/fax/email numbers included with a mint green stripe and matching text), we've been here just short of a year now. Using the phrase “according to” has a tendency to create doubt in a statement; my usage of the phrase was not unintentional. More on that later. In any case, we moved in our house (rented), neatly situated in grape country, i.e. the suburb of Harborcreek (Harbor Creek? I'm not sure, and it seems that the town isn't either, since the high school spells it differently than the township) sometime at the end of summer. It's summer again, so I imagine, since so far, things seem pretty predictable, it must have been about a year ago (Time can be slippery, no?).

The village of Harbor Creek isn't half bad. I-90 at the south border, North East to the east, the city limits to the west and the lake (sandstone cliffs and unmanned, unclean beaches) to the north. Sure, there's some houses, a few stores, mostly locally owned, and grapes, grapes in-between like a protective layer of green lines holding back the mighty Lake Erie (the shallowest of the Great Lakes).

****

Lilly has mentioned to me on more than one occasion that her students often gripe about how little there is to do in this town. I suppose for locals, transients, and college students, this statement might be true. A conservative town. A dying town, formerly known for big industry: GE, Hammermill (International Paper), AKW (Kaiser Aluminum [ <-- notice the company name changes. Name change = bought out = now being sold by buyer to remove competition]), other plants, etc. The city has steadily, and from what I've learned, drastically undercut its industry sectors, closing many of the plants, including the International Paper plant, and not really doing much of anything to replace these lost jobs. My current place of employment (and home of this document) is possibly one of the only things growing in Erie, the Erie Insurance Exchange. Started in 1925 by H. O. Hirt, a man, now long dead, but by the actions and whatnot of the company, you'd think he was either a god or merciless slave trader. Iconography? Oh hell yes. And growing. Coverage in 11 states now. 12^th largest auto insurer in the country. Decent library, and two cafeterias.

But with the decline in jobs, the city really has little to offer pleasure seekers. Did you know that Erie ranks second in annual precipitation, behind Seattle? Erie is no longer the 3^rd largest city in Pennsylvania. Erie has a mall; everyone says it's backed by the mafia “it's shaped like a machine gun,” they say. Proof. Proof is everything a body needs, right?

But there's a movie theater! 17 screens! And a cheap theater--6 screens @ 50 cents on Tuesdays. And don't knock the Sam's Club, nor the Gateway store, car dealerships, four Kmarts, two Wal-marts, hippy store, and army surplus. Plenty of room for the primary shopper of the household to stretch her arms, pocket book, limits of our Honda's trunk space. I am not the primary shopper of the household. My money is spent on tangible things: food. The Outback Steakhouse, Damon's, Applebee's, Quaker Steak and Lube, Raymond's, Ricardo's, Park Tavern, and yes, the Capitol. One cannot forget the Capitol; crucial, absolutely, to the story at hand (I don't know whose hand we're at either).

****

The first time we stopped there was in midsummer, before the move. Lilly had just finished the last round of contract signing, and a couple—both professors in her department, offered to take us to lunch at a nearby restaurant. The Fiddle Inn. Centrally located on Route 20 just seconds away from the main drag in Harborcreek. Apparently, like us, they were from outside of the area, the wife being from West Virginia, and the husband Nebraska, I think (all the flat states run together; can't keep them straight). They heard of the place through a student who once worked there, but transferred to another university (again with the theme of things leaving Erie).

****

By now, surely, you're getting frustrated with this piece. Too much exposition. Get this story going, you say. I agree wholly. But I cannot abide by what Lilly often does: write a story without the appropriate background. She focuses upon her scene; the kicker, the claim, the heart, and often, well misses out on the important stuff. She would write this story about Johnny, (she pronounces it Ian) just as easily avoiding the details about the recent economic struggle in Erie (would you find an Ian in grape land? [ <-- Methinks no.]), without the sense that the city has negative capacity for fun (so the kids say), without the exposition. Perhaps it's the newest wave of postmodern thought: cut out the exposition, let the reader put it all together. Action. Action. ACTION! Similarly, to cut off a leg still allows some mobility, but only hopping and spinning. I don't write about hopping and spinning.

****

After we moved, we made it a point to eat and drink there regularly. The habit seemed “quaint” as Lilly put it, and “close to home” as I put it, and thus since she likes all things antique, quaint, and anti-city, and I don't like to drive, the Fiddle Inn was our eating house of choice. It was on the way home for both of us; it was next to a gas station. Can't lose. Besides, the place had history. The bartender, John, was a good man. Dedicated. A good father, beautiful son. We talked to John often, but John is not Johnny. Johnny was a cook, and I never learned his name; he rarely spoke to anyone, save Kate, and then only in low tones. Lilly thought he was cute; he tended bar on Fridays. We never go there on Fridays.

By now, you are forming character sketches of Lilly and I: we eat out, she teaches, I work for an evil insurance operation (IT department no less [ <-- wah wah wah C++ wah wah programming wah wah { <-- ever notice programmers sound like the teacher on Charlie Brown? ( <-- Damn nested statements)}]), she likes looking back at things past, I use the past to explain the present, et cetera. I love Lilly greatly, and since this story = about Lilly, I think you need to learn more about my

****

wife n, pl wives [ME wif , fr. OE wif; akin to OHG wib wife] (bef. 12c) 1. a dial : WOMAN b : a woman acting in a specified capacity—used in combination <fish wife> 2: a married woman— wifehood (et cetera) [Marginal Write in: -->] 3: money grubbing backstabber
-Webster's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary (aged hand-me-down copy, with notes from previous owners)

****

My wife is the type of girl that carries a dangerous name. Lilly, the flower, Lilly the flake, Lilly a rolling name, a name for a flake or an emerald—rare beyond any other, hard, pretty, “of thought.” My Lilly was not a flake; she did not wilt, does not wilt, ever. And she is most definitely not mine. She's a one-girl bouquet. She does not play well with others. She claims stories. I'm a college fling-turned husband. Dedicated is my ____ ____ (read: last name). A friend once sung a song about Lil' and I:

*music*
I don't sing well; let's skip this part.
*end of musical number*

According to ( <--) the calendar, our 6^th anniversary is in two weeks; I've never reconsidered; I won't let her down.

Lilly likes work. She makes more work if necessary. Fortunately, cleaning is not considered work; it's something for bored days. A disorganized house is a loved house. She writes no less than one hour a day, and juggles life. She teaches writing classes; one hundred forty papers every couple of weeks to grade; she beams through the worst of them, never a grumble (Absurd. I say). Last month she enrolled both of us into a creative writing workshop. We meet on Fridays at the Star's house (The Star = person to be workshopped, host, and dinnermaker). After dinner and some sweet cool drinks, we critique. Informal, of course. Leave your tie at the door.

****

Being in this writing circle is an interesting experience in itself. The styles and voices in our group of six are invigorating, to say the least. The girls of the group (Lilly and Ann), so far have outshined the rest of us, Lilly in The Atlantic Monthly, Ann in her own book. Pressure to write, competition for publication; a good time, I guess. Men are supposed to like competition. I don't care for it. Reading, critiquing, reciprocating, being critiqued. I like that cycle; simple, nothing more added; competition free. Lilly likes the competition; she shows me her works at every stage of the process, from claim to complete. Arduous. She's an expert revisionist, or what I might meekly and in close company call a poor drafter. Everything's fixed later. Later. Later. Later.

While I'm here, I might as well take the time to tell you about Lilly's writing proce

and so nothing else really happened at work today. Going to the Capitol at 7:45; later than usual, but I guess there's a dinner party, and the place isn't set up for both a dinner party and walk-ins running in parallel: stresses the cooks. My wife has entered the room. Perhaps in her presence my fictional muse will awaken. Right! Engage warm-up exercises! Exercises Engaged! Commence exercising!

Thoughts of the day: feelings/relations metaphorical extensions:

• Happy: excellent lunch, worked out today, work passed quickly
• Sad: missed the news this morning
• Angry: Bill forgot to send out the memo
• Glad: Lilly's in the room now, looking over my shoulder
• Angaaaaarehhhy: ahe shea;s mashinga the keays

Later: I would write:

Lilly: What are you writing? New story?
Me: Naw, just typing some thoughts down, that metaphor feeling exercise
Lilly: always with the exercises. Why not write something?
Me: Dunno. Edit: ¹ (maybe because you claim all the good ones)
Lilly: I'm going downstairs, The life of Gary Coleman is on E! True Hollywood Stories. Maybe I'll get a hook. Try writing something, eh?
Me: *anger cloud over head*

Satisfied Column-ated relations

Angsty: I like the word

The metaphor for angsty: Take a Blender, any will do. I am the blender. Take a bus, preferably of the Greyhound variety (any tour bus size will do, however). Fill me with some ice cream, a tad of milk, and a bottle of chocolate syrup. Attach me to long reaching extension cord. Place on warm dry, and preferably large field. Set blender control to puree. Drop bus on blender before the milkshake is completed.

She's gone. Returning control to main project. (and the Story ensues)

About Lilly's writing process: Stage 1: The Claim. All stories for an autotopographical writer begin with a hook, preferably one from reality (this is where most folks confuse autobiographical fiction with autotopographical fiction. Just because you witness something, the action isn't autobiographical: it's not happening to you); something as simple as a bird landing on a car, setting off the alarm, and shitting on the car as it nearly dies of fright, or it can get complex. Johnny is a complex case; many ins many outs, lots of possibilities, but only one outcome. One outcome. Never another. You cannot eat the same Oreo twice; get another Oreo; that one was mine, and I ate it. That's the claim. One scene, one story, no retelling. Not by her, not by me. Anything can be claimed, and at any time, so be vigilant; she might claim your next story too.

Stage 2: The Dig (I will talk at you until I get my idea). Combined with Stage 1, this step of the process can veritably be the worst. She calls it “conversational brainstorm” (read: rubbing it in). If I were cruel, I'd go against my writing instincts and force her through a Dig or two. But I don't want bitterness, and I claim only out of necessity.

She beautifully articulates the setting, repeating the hook, claim, whatever; a mantra to build her brainstorm trance. We carry on unnatural dialogue—the amateur kind; a monologue with “uh-huh,” "yeah,” and “mmm” every third sentence or so (sometimes I transcribe them as a cheesy phone conversations in stories. [<-- no, I don't]).

****

But why focus on her process; why is it important? Do we not seek the abnormal in life as something to talk about? (That's my question to you.) I believe that writing a piece in private, keeping it hidden through the usage of various computer technologies beyond Lilly's grasp (which, considering her skills, is not difficult—but one must remain aptly prepared, just in case). I prefer FTPing the file to my work computer, using not less than one layer of PGP encryption along with altering the file extension. I know I sound absurd and perhaps a bit too paranoid, but at least I don't encode my stories into JPEGs. But try to understand my point of view: I'm afraid that without this security, I might lose a story; if she reads prematurely, she may claim, and I'd be left in the dust. Secrecy is a must.

The institution of secretive work adds some element of suspense to my writing process. Fear of being caught. The creative rush associated with working on something you aren't allowed. You must know of this at least to some small degree—reading perhaps a comic book inside your history book in the third grade, or surfing forbidden WebPages on the company Interweb—mouse on the minimize button (or fingers on Alt+Tab for you advanced users). As people, we are given some primal rush to do things forbidden. This story, the story of Johnny and Lilly, her evolution and mine is doubly forbidden.

****

8 PM. We enter the Capitol just a bit later than expected. While traveling, I thought of the week and tonight's role as beginning the weekend. Five days of getting up early, fighting for a parking space, eating lunch with “associates” and clocking out at 9:30 PM (hip new-age lingo for bedtime. [ <-- Activate your vocabulary with today's vernacular!]). The end result: 1 evening + 2 days of freetime. Some payoff!

Lilly insists we take the spot at the bar, since we'll stay for some sweet cool drinks after dinner (so that she can be tended by Johnny). Menus given and drink orders taken. I sip a Kamikaze to the tune of Black Sabbath (can I use “tune” in conjunction to “Black Sabbath?” [ <-- Yes. Yes I can.]); a juke chosen by the former owner's son, turned regular. Lilly is in the mood for salad; I opt for soup and special (prime-rib sandwich).

8:47 PM. Satiated, I reach for another sip of Japanese suicide. Kate is our server—amiable, lovable even, but not Lilly. I'd never. Lilly asks when Kate's shift is over ( <-- where is Johnny?). John comes in in an hour. We smile. John's a good man (Lilly's eyes lie; she wants Friday night Johnny).

The bar is between rushes—a couple play the trivia game, the former owner's son drinks with his girl, Kate talks to us; otherwise we're alone. She likes education; she likes kids. She'll be a lovely mother. She does not embody the negativity of her lineage, the Baybrook family.

****

The Baybrooks are the Trumps of Harbor Creek. Their estate, just a few minutes' walk from the Capitol seems more fitting for Hollywood hills than grape land. Paint money. Lenny Baybrook and his brothers own the market in the greater Erie area for exterior home livening—siding, murals, painting, and the like. The family makes yearly TV commercials for Christmas—many locals speak in disgust; too much money, Lenny beats the wife, staged his brother's accidental death for a bigger piece of pie et cetera, et cetera. Neither Kate nor her family (they are also regulars; they repainted the building), seem to fit this negative casting. The locals aren't fond of success, I suppose.

****

8:53 PM. John arrives. Always early, always smiling. Everyone here knows John; John has worked here since the former owner bought the place four years or so ago. John's sister owns the Capitol now. Lilly's eyes shine dark; she wants her Ian (my Johnny? No. I don't think I own him [ <-- But Lilly might]). John gets himself a 7-UP and cranberry, talks to the couple at the trivia game. Laughter ensues.

****

One of the reasons that the Capitol is so appealing to me is its interior. The dining room, with the minor exception of unsteady tables, shines with the light of good remodeling and an even better sense of interior decoration. The sister to the former owner continues to decorate, just as the former owner continues to cook and live in the above refurbished and very nice (from what I hear) apartments. We don't eat out there much. The bar is our home. Classic L shape with the short arm of the L at the far end of the room, trivia machine holding the position where it joins with the wall. Big mirror facing the short side, twin televisions, jukebox (with a very decent selection), minor decorations, good selection of sweet cool drinks. Kate and John (our usual tenders) always ensure that the drinks are fresh, strong, and refilled. We tip well.

****

8:58 PM. The next rush begins. Kate's still talking. Lilly isn't listening, though only I could tell. I am pretending to listen to Kate while I stare at my watch and focus on Lilly's inattentiveness. Kate really is adorable; some man will fall hard for her, if not already.

There is a sort of charge in the air; something will happen tonight; a claim will land tonight, and I'll not be the claimer. But whatever comes of it, you won't hear about any history in Lilly's piece, and this bar, has

****

A kind of history that folks get mighty proud of. The Capitol, a bar, a restaurant, our usual hangout. Local. Homey. 19^th century. The Capitol, then called the Fiddle Inn, served as both inn and restaurant, offering apartments from travelers passing through Erie. At the time, Erie was in its heyday—seaport to the Atlantic through the St. Lawrence Canal. But also and more nefariously, Erie's sections of rail ran at a different gauge than the rest of the country, forcing all traffic through the city to stop and switch trains; a money making tactic that most likely kept the city alive (look at it now. [ <-- standard gauge and no visitors, no tourists { <-- yeah, I know people go to the peninsula, but. Damn. Ticks and Bacteria.}]). Back then, The Fiddle Inn sat next to the train station and likened to serve as a haven for all manner of overnight guests, including one Abraham Lincoln.

As time marched onward, (this is what Lilly leaves out) the Fiddle fell into disrepair. New owners abandoned the rooms above, and eventually the kitchen as well. Only the bar, decrepit, filthy, remained as sole evidence of the existence of the Fiddle Inn—the house that housed Lincoln. The once great building continued to slide downward, eventually with a revoked liquor license, the building, skeletal and uninhabited stood, a red sore at the entrance to Harbor Creek for a decade before it was rebought, fixed up, painted green, and reopened—high times had begun again, but even then the Fiddle Inn's second birth was shaky. Fiddle Inn, Stumble Out.

****

About 9:52 or so. Busy now. Standing room only. Lilly is glad we got here early. The owner, finished cleaning up, (owners that do work too are great; I wish Erie Insurance could grasp that idea [ <-- read: boss not owner]), joins us out at the bar. John buys her a drink; I offer her my chair; she takes the spot with graciousness. I like Stephanie. Lilly and Stephanie begin talking. I push through the smoky throng towards the juke. Quarters in hand, I order up some Floyd, and some old school Duran Duran (just for the hell of it).

While “Hungry like the Wolf” jams through the room, I spin about the room. Part drunk. Part giddy like a school girl (hopped up on pixie sticks and Smarties). Mirth, everywhere. Something Will happen tonight. Only the dour Peters brothers sit in red-nosed half-hunched silence. Fuck them. Stingy tippers. I'm dancing now. I can't. Laughter and mirth. Laughter and mirth.

The door is opening. It's warm in here; cool out there. A red hat (with a man of course). Hey it's

****

Stage 3: plotting (god-damn get on with writing your story; you've rubbed it in enough). Once she knows what she's going to write, she outlines. 7^th grade reading class style—remember hating 7^th grade reading class? She does it all in this phase, and god forbid she deviate. The insanity of this stage bothers me almost more than Stage 2. Story plotting should not look like this²:

(?)I. Climax scene. Location: The Bar, The Capitol, Friday Night

1. Husband and wife waiting for Johnny in the Red hat to arrive
1. Cut to interior thoughts of husband, wanting to thank, but no reason given
2. Husband looks to wife
3. Husband sees wife pointing at guy
2. Cut to Johnny
1. Not wanting to be here
1. used to work here, doesn‘t want to be recognized
2. is recognized
1. not sure if he wants to meet girl again, doesn't remember much
3. spotted by couple
1. jesus that guy is big
2. afraid he is going to get mauled
4. couple approaching
1. oh god am going to die
2. both smiling
3. reaching out
1. bracing
1. impact
2. terrified
2. not dying
4. being hugged
1. wild
5. shift back to husband
1. how to thank?
1. Think think think
\
1. Got to be a guy about it
2. Stuttering thanks.

End of scene, climax reached.

(?)II. Dénouement

1. et cetera
2. et cetera
3. et cetera

Writing such a story in this manner leaves no room for a story with vitality. Not to mention the boredom I am forced to go through in reading these outlines (she wants me to check them for logical errors). I reckon I'd plot the same scene (considering that I'd written nothing else) in the following way:

I know this ³ :

JOHNNY WITH THE RED HAT
Thanks for a night to remember
the rest of my life, we made a new
life. That's right, I'm pregnant. Meet
me at the Capitol (where we met),
Fri. night. I need your help! Please
wear the red hat so I can recognize
you. This time I'll introduce myself.
(ad from newspaper, placed by wife)

The scene: at the bar, wife and Johnny meeting again.

Notes: The child is not Johnny's. Johnny was a bartender at the Capitol—but he got fired/quit that night. Johnny counseled her to reconcile with her husband. Over a month has passed; she's afraid he's left town without her being able to thank him. Her husband wants to meet the guy (the help part) and thank Johnny too.

(proceed to write climax scene)

. . . .

(proceed with dénouement)

. . . .

Quite obvious that my version leaves for more openings, twists, and plenty of room for total overhaul. I'm not saying that my method is the way to go (she is publishing after all), but I am saying that her methodology is arduous and my role in her creative process is somewhat annoying.

Stage 4: The Plow. (Thank god. Only one more stage!) I like this stage. More writers (including myself) need to get good at this stage. Simply, she sits down, and does not get up until her story is told completely (though not in the best form). I admire her ability to write the entire thing, filled with errors, and poor language, without stopping and fixing things. However, since she has already instituted Stage 3, I'm usually not all that interested in her stuff at this point; it's little more than capitalization and punctuation.

****

Johnny's here! My eyes are on Lilly; hers on him, a glow in her cheeks (is she drunk? [<-- Keep on guessing there, hot stuff]). *Glances at watch* 10:35 PM. Johnny's making his way in, stealth style—head low, eyes to the ground; avoidance. The state of drunkenness battering away at my senses—everything's slow and fast at once. Kate yells out “Johnny!,” Lilly (thinking he's heading to her) gets up, “Ian!,” two other folks (the couple playing trivia) turn and open their arms, “Johnny!,” Me: Hey, it's Johnny! I need to pee.

The urinal at the Capitol isn't much to recommend. No real privacy (one urinal in direct view from the door, hell for the insecure man, I suppose). I'm not thinking about privacy. Johnny, the guy that Lilly has raised her eyes over for months is now in the same room; others are reaching out to him as well. Kate knows him, as does John. Johnny, Johnny-boy. Who are you? According to Lilly, your name is Ian. That phrase brings doubt. I doubt her; they called him by my name for him: Johnny. Johnny-cake. Johnny, boy oh boy (is my wife having an affair?). An interesting idea occurs (as I zip): Johnny, if not tending, does not work here any longer (reason for the low-key entrance), but the trivia couple (playing trivia when we arrived) were there for him. Congealing thought. Yes. Indeed. Of course! *exits toilet*

"Claim!"

Fuck. She beat me to it; always does. She's swaying toward me (how can I get mad at her claim? [<-- She gets horny when drunk {<-- I can't resist her when she's sober}]). She tells me of her story idea: Ian's been fired, but on his last night he talked to some girl and talked her out of divorce. Good thing too; she's pregnant. She goes back to the hubby; and they work stuff out. She wants to thank Johnny, but he's been fired <-- problem. She posts a classified (see above). They meet, etc. Proceed to stage 2 (tomorrow morning).

****

The drive home: Lilly's elated, and horny. I'm thinking about next Friday. I'm the star. No claim yet. I'm not writing another piece about city life in Erie—I think Brad will slap me in the face if I do. Too much nature, no content. Those stories take too much time anyhow. Time. Time. Why time? How does the calendar control my life? Concreteness governs the life of a writer, yet abstractness governs the governing of action. Time. The calendar says that it is now August 19 ^th , (an after midnight technicality). Time time time. Goddamn time. Time for what? Time for

****

¹ time n [ME, fr. OE tima; akin to ON timi time, OE tid – more at TIDE] (bef. 12c) 1

a: the measured or measurable period during which an action, process, or condition exists or continues : DURATION b : a continuum which lacks spatial dimensions and in which events succeed one another from past through present to future c: LEISURE (~ for reading) 2: the point or period when something occurs: OCCASION 3: an appointed, fixed, or customary moment or hour for something to happen, begin, or end <arrived ahead of ~> 4. a: an historical period: AGE b: a division of geologic chronology c: conditions at present or at some specified period <~s are hard> <move with the ~s> d: the present time <issues of the ~> 5 a: LIFETIME b: a period of apprenticeship c: term of military service d: a prison sentence 6: SEASON <very hot for this ~ of year> 7 a: rate of speed: TEMPO b: the grouping of the beats of music: RHYTHM 8 a: a moment, hour , day or year as indicated by a clock or calendar <what ~ is it> b: any of various systems (as sidereal or solar) of reckoning time 9 a: one of a series of recurring instances or repeated actions <you've been told many ~s> b: pl (1): added or accumulated quantities or instances <five ~s greater> (2): equal fractional parts of which an indicated number of equal comparatively greater quantity <seven ~s smaller> <three ~s closer> c: TURN <three ~s at bat> 10: finite as contrasted with infinite duration 11: a person's experience during a specified period or on a particular occasion <a good ~> 12 a: the rate <straight ~> c: wages paid at the discharge or resignation <pick up your ~ and get out> 13 a: the playing time of a game b: TIME-OUT – at the same time: HOWEVER, NEVERTHELESS <glorify the equalitarian ideal and at the same time keep woman in the subordinate role—Vance Packard> -- at times: at intervals: OCCASIONALLY—for the time being: for the present—from time to time: once in a while: OCCASIONALLY – in no time: in the shortest possible time – on time: 1 a: at the appointed time b: on schedule 2: on the installment plan – time and again: FREQUENTLY, REPEATEDLY
-Webster's Ninth New Collegiate Dictionary (the same aged hand-me-down copy, with notes from previous owners. No notes this time.)

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Time for some explaining. Time to notice that abstractions have unnecessarily long dictionary entries. Time to notice that abstraction is fiction and. The intangible can only be explained through suspending belief. Suspend your belief, enjoy the story, deny time its pleasure; it's unreal, unreal as myself. Why? Was it time for Lilly and I to get in an accident, my drunken hands weaving the Honda across three lanes into oncoming traffic. Killed by a Baybrook paint truck? Time for decision, time for climax, time for resolution, time for an end!

Before the end, it's time to consider the facts. You've listened to me, but to what end? Who am I? Your narrator (hello? Welcome? Goodbye?) What's my role here? Do I get a name? (no.) Do I get a face? (no.) Do I get to be Lilly's Husband? (Lilly never married.) She doesn't live in Erie. She never did, nor did I. What does that do for your narrative structure? Your time, was it well spent? Time time time time time. Why count the times? Why remember history, when you can't find your speaker? Is this Lilly's story, or is it mine? Who had the claim? Was there a claim? I claim. Right now, just in case. It's your story.

Or maybe it's not time for that. Maybe it's time for

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Stage five: Besting the reader (Ain't Lilly a bitch? At least she hasn't claimed your stories… yet). The end (<-- close the book; go home. Over. End. Fin. Aufwiedersehen. Sayonara. Bis Dann. Good-bye.). ⁴