Twelve Good Pages

It would be one thing if we were stuck in a book.

There’s a respectability to being characters in a book. I was discussing it with my husband last night, and we both agreed that a novel--or even a novella--would be just fine. Not that we know the difference between a novel and a novella, but I think a novella is sexier. Not that I’m opposed to being in something sexy as long as I’m not the one supplying the sex. I’m not a prude, mind you, but I’m not doing anything prurient just so Reese Witherspoon can read all about it and then tell her friends. That’s not my cup of tea.

A novel would be fine, but that doesn’t appear to be what we’re living in here. Instead, everybody in town seems to be a character in a short story collection.

Now, may I ask you, reader--whoever you are--would you like to be a character in a short story collection?  

I don’t care that the short stories are linked. To me, that just means the author wanted to write a book, but couldn’t focus long enough on any one character, and that’s just laziness as far as I’m concerned. It doesn’t change the fact that my husband and I get the spotlight for a mere twelve pages before everybody’s moving on to Petra Yeoman and her rapidly deteriorating marriage.

My husband--his name is Victor, but the author only mentioned that once, so I don’t know how they expect the reader to remember it--Victor says that marriage woes are one of the most tiresome plot devices known to man, and I happen to agree with him. I used to teach literature at the local community college, and nearly every story I taught involved a marriage falling apart. By the end of the semester, the students were begging for Tolstoy, and I didn’t blame them. Not one bit.

Victor and I have this wonderful chapter that, if you ask me, really should be turned into an entire book. It’s all about this chest of treasures we find hidden in our basement, and we realized it had to have belonged to the former owner. We go through it, and by learning about the people who used to live in our house, we really learn a lot about ourselves. Oh, it has a good message and I get some really funny lines in. Victor isn’t as funny, but he tries, god love him, he certainly does try. The whole thing is really very entertaining.

Then, before you know it, it’s over.

We do make appearances in a few of the other stories, but only as ancillary characters. I make a quip in the supermarket in the story about a woman suffering from depression and Victor is sitting at the bar in the story about the two alcoholics, but other than that, you only get us for twelve measly pages, and I just think that is a sin.

Just because two people aren’t rife with tragedy doesn’t mean they aren’t worth spending time with, isn’t that right? Why, in real life, you would never want to be around half the characters in this book. I know fiction is supposed to be more vivid than real life and conflict is key, yes, I get that, again, I used to teach this stuff, but wouldn’t it be nice to just sit back with some tea in front of the fire and read about Victor and me opening up that chest and discovering all these marvelous little trinkets and doodads?

I’m not saying you all need to stop reading this right now and go write to the author so you can tell them what a horrible mistake they’ve made. I’m not saying that at all. I’m just saying that if you have a free minute, you could pop on over to their website and let them know that Reese Witherspoon might like reading all about how Petra and her husband go to bed every night in separate rooms, but you certainly don’t.

Don’t think I didn’t notice how long it took you to finish that Petra chapter--and the chapter about the tattoo shop owner who’s haunted by the young child he fathered and never cared for. That one was a real snoozer, wasn’t it? Thirty pages this author devoted to that literary tryptophan, and poor Victor and I get a pitiful twelve.

Chances are if I went home right now and murdered Victor in cold blood, this author would be writing an entire series about me. I’d have a movie optioned. I’d have podcasts. I bet Reese would demand to play me even though I’m old enough to be her…slightly older sister. Toss a little violence into your story, and  you’re the cat’s meow. Find a chest with some love letters in it and read them to your spouse, and suddenly you’re “too talky.” Suddenly people want to know where “the meat is.” What a disgusting phrase. You know where the meat is? On the plate Victor eats off every night, because we enjoy having dinner together even after thirty-four years. It’s also cooked perfectly, I might add.

You know, I’m not one to tell tales out of school, but this author has never even been to the town she set all these stories in. She heard the name “Fate Harbor” and she immediately put pen to paper. That means me and Victor and everyone else here are living in a fictional version of a real place. Is the fictional version better? I don’t know, because I’m never going to get to see the real place. I just know that everything here has the bland hues of a Thomas Kinkade painting. Not against old Tom, but I prefer to live a real life written by somebody who does more than leave their apartment on 44th Street in Manhattan once a day to go get a frozen burrito at the local bodega. That’s the person writing about all this small town malaise, and when you’re given that information, doesn’t it all just seem a little condescending?

Of course, they did a very good job with my chapter.

What was it that Andy Warhol said?

We’ve all got twelve good pages.