George Martin stepped into his Santa suit and prepared for his final night of magic making. He had played the jolly old elf for more than forty years, and for everyone of those forty years, the children made the same request.
"I want to be white." "Make me white, Santa, please." "Santa, why can’t I be white?" The words differed, but the sentiment remained unchanged. George Martin never had to ask Santa for whiteness. His mother was of Scottish descent, his father German. His mother’s red hair and father’s blue eyes finished the perfect Santa look when coupled with his pale skin. When George turned eighteen, the President of the United Mall of America took interest in him. He and his friends were enjoying a day in the mall that October day with no thought of their future. "Excuse me young man, what is your name?" Before George stood a giant—the man had to stand over six foot five and weight a fighting trim three hundred pounds. He was the biggest black man any of the boys had seen in person. "Reggie Robales?" asked George’s friend, Willie. "Double R?" "Yes sir. But I’m not here to talk football. I need your friend to untie his tongue." The big man smiled. George clenched his hands together sure that the cameras had caught him thieving the sunglasses that lay in his pocket. "George Martin." "Nice to meet you, Mr. Martin." A large brown hand shot under George’s nose. He placed his own small hand into the other man’s hand. "Le me look at you son. Do you know who I am?" "Sure. Double R. Best damn linebacker in the history of the game." George flashed a smile of his own since he felt a little braver. "Yes sir, those were the days, but not anymore. I’m the President of the United Mall of America." His answer awed the group of boys. Somehow, Double R’s current job proved more impressive than his glory on the football field. "No way?" George gave the man an honest smile now. The man nodded. "I’m so glad to meet you. What can I do for you?" George’s heart beat a sad note of regret as he recalled the sunglasses in his pocket. Just his luck, he thought, busted by the prez. "You’ll do perfect, Mr. Martin." "Excuse me, sir?" "How would you like a job as a mall Santa?" "Me? I don’t think I could." "Why not? Perfect complexion, correct eye color. Not too many whites to play the old fat man. Always recruiting new ones." "I’m too young, sir." "Come now, you have to be over eleven, that means you can work." "No, I mean to look the part, and I’m not fat enough." The floor shook with the great man’s stomping fit of laughter. "Son, the magic of makeup and hair dye will take care of the age. As for the weight—we’ll have to work to fatten you up." With a slap on the back, they secured the deal. There had been contracts to sign, deals to haggle, and relocation to consider, but in the end, the salary settled any lingering doubt that he had. He said goodbye to everything he knew in Atlanta and moved to Chicago. With over a year of eating and no exercise, he began as the Vista Mall’s new Santa. He made more in a month than most individuals made in five years. America put a heavy price on its childhood myths. When a younger George Martin had questioned why him, a marketing analyst told him, " Although whites look to be going the way of the dodo, the public prefers the white Santa." He never again questioned his line of work. The system had been good to him. They set him up in a comfortable neighborhood and pointed him towards the nearest chapter of the National Society for the Protection of the White Race. There, he met Melissa. Although more prone to tan than George, the society approved their marriage. As George aged more into his role, they raised three children. Andy, the eldest, inherited too much darkness from his mother to play Santa. Still, the system could not waste his whiteness. They employed Andy as a mall Jesus in Albuquerque. George always felt bad that Andy hadn’t married yet. Andy said that his role took precedence over his own happiness. Their daughter, Janet, had the fairest skin of all. If she had been male, she definitely would have followed in her father’s footsteps. Instead, she became a mall Tooth Fairy in Los Angeles. She married a mall Santa of her own, and they had two fair skinned boys to the joy of George and Melissa. Jamie, their youngest, was almost a clone of his father. He lived in Tampa with his wife and son. All the papers proclaimed him Tampa’s favorite Santa. George never missed a chance to visit his son. Life had been good for George Martin, but he wanted to return something. He packed away the last of the makeup and dye. At that moment, he realized just how perfect life had been. He had thought a lot more about his life of late; he supposed that happened as people grew older. He couldn’t find much bad in his life, so he decided he would give back for one Christmas. He would make life a little better, a little happier, for the children of Chicago. Maybe he could call himself Santa for real. He kissed his sleeping wife before he left. He had told no one about his Christmas Eve errand. He shuffled the last two sacs over his back and began his journey. Without reindeer or sleigh, he would make a dream come true. Although it would only be makeup and dye, the children of Chicago would have a white Christmas after all.
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I hadn't been working in publishing long when I groaned at one of the submissions that had come across my desk. The groan was the absolute worst kind of all, not because the story fell flat and generated no interest, but precisely because it did; however, the dreadful writing insured the story would go nowhere. As a writer myself, I genuinely want to see other writers succeed and nearly everyone I have ever worked with in publishing, whether academic or commercial, does as well. I think a myth circulates that those working in publishing don't want to see new writer's succeed and it hurts many a new writer's career.
Anyway though, back to the topic at hand - poor writing. Of course, an uninspired tale compromised by plot holes and inconsistencies will fair no better, but sometimes such writing indicates a lack of talent that no amount of writing education will overcome. It's much more disheartening to see a natural born storyteller miss the mark through poor writing. If a writer does have some level of talent though, he or she can find the cure in doing more reading. Why read a writer might ask, and I could easily retort, Why not? Instead though, here are some ways reading will improve your writing. 1) Improved Grammar. I think it would surprise most non-writers to learn just how much writers actually hate grammar. English teachers love grammar and all the little fine nuances of it. Most writers I know and have known over the years groan at it just the same as a first year college student stuck in English 101. By grammar, I mean the grammar of commercial writing here, not the grammar of textbooks for commercial writing does not strictly adhere to the finer points of English grammar. By reading commercial writing (articles in newspapers and magazines, novels, poetry - whatever genre you write in), you will begin to familiarize yourself more and more with the ways writers can string together words and make a pearl necklace out of them. Best of all, it's a painless process, no mindless drills or rote memorization. 2) Sense of Market. All author had better think of marketing and how they can contribute to the success of their writing. In other fields, novices seek out the advice of more seasoned practitioners. I certainly recommend that newer writers also seek the advice of established writers, and you can find easier access to do so than every before with social media, but don't skip reading the writing of those in your chosen genre. You don't want to copy them certainly, but by reading their material closely, you can see what is popular, or on the flipside, pick up a not-so-successful author's writing in your genre and read it. You will find clues in the material from subject selection to writing choices clear through to marketing and promotion clues that can help you in your own writing. 3) Develop Your Inner Ear. We all have inner voices and an inner ear that guide is in our writing and these do not develop in a vacuum. While you want to encourage those unique voices and ear to guide you in your writing and give it your own unique flavor, by reading the work of others, you can add more depth and character to what you already have. It will still be important to interact with other people directly and experience all life has to offer, but don't overlook gaining experience and understanding by reading. 4) Researching Your Markets. You want to sell your work eventually and what better way to find potential markets for your work than to read material by others in your field that have been successful. You might find an agent or publishing company to query in the author's biography or acknowledgements. Then, if you have really read that author's work, it gives you an important "in' to segue into your own work. Such common ground can often be used to overcome some of the barriers to catching the attention of the very people you want to. 5) Connect within Your Industry. Extensive reading can offer you ways of connecting with those writers and readers and fans of those authors. by leaving reviews or comments on their work. You want to impress these people and stand out from the sea of the many mindless comments. The only way to do so is to have actually read the writer's material and to then make a well informed comment. Do so, and you might earn a number of new followers and fans of your own when you are ready to launch your own writing. After all of these years, I am still surprised by the number of writers who are not regular readers. For me, reading provides a wonderful escape from everyday life and is a reward in and of itself. That said, there are many benefits that writers will find when they start regularly reading. I challenge you to do more reading in 2015, perhaps 6 books? That's only a book every two months. If you write, what benefits have you seen when you read more? "O Captain! my Captain! our fearful trip is done,
The ship has weather’d every rack, the prize we sought is won, The port is near, the bells I hear, the people all exulting, While follow eyes the steady keel, the vessel grim and daring; But O heart! heart! heart! O the bleeding drops of red, Where on the deck my Captain lies, Fallen cold and dead." - Walt Whitman Think back. Do you recall sitting on an uncomfortable plastic chair in a stuffy classroom trying to keep your eyes open when a teacher introduced this poem (or any of the other usual selections). Admit it, no matter how much you may love language, there was likely a poem you were taught as a teenager or younger that made your groan. You might have found the funny language perplexed you. Or maybe you didn't see how something a person wrote years before your death had anything to do with you and your world. Then, as you grew up, your love of language increased and you found yourself enjoying poetry. Now, you call yourself a writer. Perhaps you mainly write non-fiction articles or long novels, rich in detail and carefully crafted prose. Reality, I find however is that most writers will dabble in poetry throughout their careers. You might even (gasp! says your teenage self) introduce yourself as a poet in some circles, as you sit in the back of a coffee shop waiting your turn to take the microphone and share your most intense feelings. As you sit there, do you listen to your fellow poets, those who go before and those who will come after you? I challenge you to really listen sometime and see what you truly think now that you are an experienced adult and writer. Most of the time, you are going to see self-professed poet after poet reading about their intense feeling in colorful language that is really nothing more than a moment scribbled into a hot mess. Take a careful look in the mirror and you might even admit that hot mess creating poet is you, too. As I have reflected on a great many areas of my own life, I have not ignored my writing life. You might call me an egotistical ass (and sometimes, I am, I agree), but what I found is that some of my poems were very good, but others were very dreadful. Like the little girl with the curl, there really seemed to be a distinct division there. I came to realize this year that I had often fallen into the free verse trap. What is the free verse trap? The belief by egotistical poet that poetry and them are too free to be shackled by the conventions of rhyme, meter, diction, syllables and anything that has anything to do with form. When you live in this illusory world, you tell yourself that lie because really, you've never taken the time to apply those items to your own poetry. Sure, you read about such things in college probably or in your self-studies of poetry. If you went the academic route, you probably had professors quiz you on things like iambic and trochaic. You applied them to lines in quizzes and identified them in the work of the masters. Then, you put academia behind you and took up your own writing. So, why did you not apply some of the nuts and bolts to your own writing? I think the ultimate answer is that it is damn hard work and most of us are really lazy. I found countless of my own poems that I had sent out into the world. I had stunted these poems potentials by essentially sending out a rough draft, just that hot mess of emotion colliding with language and the rain came down, right?! Not really. Now, I have been fighting with form and meter and rhyme schemes and taking that raw emotion and re-working it. Have I written a great poem even in doing that? Probably not, but by exploring a variety of methods and forcing myself to see it through, I can finish any poetry writing I do with a sense of accomplishment, my "face marred by dust, sweat, and blood." (Teddy Roosevelt). I challenge you to abandon the life of a passive poet who goes to the coffee shop clutching yet another free verse poem simply because you dared not to try something different. Some poems belong to the free verse realm, but if that's all you ever write, you will never know the difference but true poets will. What do you write? Are you a poet? Perhaps you prefer to write stories or maybe you stick to the facts and write articles. Maybe you are a bit of all of the above. As writers, once thing is for sure, we write. That likely means that you write more than simply the main writing endeavor that you mean when you talk to people about being a writer. Don't overlook the fruits that the "labor" of your other writing endeavors might yield.
For example, I write a blog that features some of my day to day life, things that I do, things that I find fascinating. It likely has little value in the grand scheme of writing and has little interest for more than a handful of individuals. For me, it is a way to release certain emotions, share a bit of myself in the world, connect with those who might prove interesting individuals. It certainly is not the "writing" I talk about when I talk to others about writing. It's not the writing that I wish to sell, and let's face it most writers are in it for commercial reasons as well as the love of writing. Still, in re-reading some of the entries, I recently came across a line or two that was poetic in it's presentation and could easily slip into a story, novel or poem. I was delighted at this unexpected treasure among my silly observances on life. I immediately copied it and put it aside in a file. This is an important lesson for writers. Don't neglect your "throw away" writing. Whether it's your own blog, a status update on social media or some other scrap you have scribbled down. Most writers learn early to carry a notebook with them to jot down those flashes of inspiration that come at inopportune moments, but there are other places to look for those flashes of genius that just might spark your next great work. Have you been lucky enough to find such unexpected treasures? If so, where have you found them? |
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