c. 2024 Rod Ice
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(2-24)
“A writer who is afraid to overreach himself is as useless as a general who is afraid to be wrong.” – Raymond Chandler
A convenient vehicle for writing projects is the tool of exaggeration. This option to magnify things so that they may be seen more clearly is useful in directing attention from the reader. Or for the purpose of highlighting a particular point with dramatic effect. Yet when viewed through a lens of guilt, as an act of hindsight, the trick can fold inward upon itself.
Guilt is a damning emotion for any professional wordsmith.
Such thoughts were alive recently, as I pondered stories penned about the conflicted world of trailer park living. This metaphorical device is one I would have never used in any of my past work. Because, that stream-of-consciousness had not yet been created, by chance. But after my own slide into the realm of financial and intellectual poverty, suddenly it found a place of honor. To spin yarns about alienation and drunkenness was more than convenient in this new age. It became familiar and even comforting, as a medium for self-expression.
To simply portray a village of mobile homes in the stark colors and dimensions of literal prose did not seem an attractive proposition, however. Instead of describing the drudgery associated with surviving each day in a boxcar residence, sans liberties and respect, something more was needed. That truism inspired my leap forward, not unlike a sports league where athletes are trained to grow bigger, faster, and stronger out of competitive necessity.
To write about a bum eating a bologna sandwich would fail in its mission to titillate the mind. But if that same, common individual was portrayed as a contrarian hero, reeking of tobacco and hard liquor, smashing his way through manufactured walls on his four-wheeler, and carousing with busty, barely-clad feral femmes from the neighborhood, suddenly much more could be had as a yield.
The young child of a former spouse got this concept in a flash of brilliance, when I debated the creative strategy with her mother. She observed defensively that it was necessary to ‘jazz things up for the newspaper.’ This pure and honest assessment made both of us laugh out loud. It hit the bullseye. With candor in her quiver, the kid was right on target.
Plain truth offered dryly is, to be sure, quite dry.
The rub in using hyperbole as a method to drive energy into a particular storyline is that some may look upon the result as a document of fact. A hard and fast statement, fit for a court of law. Seemingly chiseled into the stone face of a mountain. Yet human experience has shown that sometimes, great revelations come through fictional adventures. A bland retelling of events functions well under front-page headlines, on a newspaper. Yet when one digs deeper, in search of understanding, a more complete serving of authenticity is needed. One that crosses boundaries between lines of print, and the blank spaces in between.
Family members or friends might not get this take, initially. So, when reading about bawdy, rowdy characters propelled by lust and booze and philosophical extremes, they can react severely. Perhaps with thoughts of an intervention to stem a tide of addiction. Or with ideas rooted in theology and service to a higher power. With good intentions, they push forward to encourage betterment and healing. Still, the words of a comic character resonate more passionately than the admonitions of any prophet or pundit.
As Foghorn Leghorn said in the Warner Brothers cartoons, “It’s a joke son!”
Writing about those who survive on a subsistence level, in modular communities placed on rented strips of land, is a challenging exercise. But when situated in one of these isolated venues, with the parade of disaffection and regrets happening on a daily basis, this quantum leap is not difficult to make.
I debated the principle with Mama Grande, a close member of my bloodline, during a restful break in between writing sessions. On my way back from checking the Post Office in Chardon for business mail, I had stopped at her abode with sliced bacon and a shopping bag full of Ramen varieties. Items scored to bolster the household stash of foodstuffs.
Our conversation was lively and cheerful at first. But then, shame and correction entered the mix. I sat with my jaw drooping as she asked if I had ever considered seeking help for personal issues that were too weighty to be handled alone.
“I worry about you, brother. Your drinking, carousing, and lingering depression! It makes me concerned to see you suffering alone. Know this – it doesn’t have to be that way! We’ve got counselors at my church. Kind-hearted people with lots of experience battling the burdens of alcoholism, divorce, and other related ills. They can help!”
I choked on every word she uttered.
“ALCHOLOLISM? DEPRESSION? CAROUSING?”
She shook her head and affected a scolding tone that singed my ears.
“C’mon Rodney, I’ve read the volumes you create! Those strange, naughty tales are a cry for help, I think! Every chapter seems to be about getting drunk, and meeting scantily-clad floosies in your park! It’s quite disgusting, actually! How can you live such a careless life?”
My face had turned bright red. Unwillingly, I had swatted a hornet’s nest.
“All of that stuff is satirical hyperbole, don’t you get it? Like a funhouse mirror, distorting a reflection for amusement and dramatic effect...”
Mama Gee was not convinced. She adjusted her oversized glasses and peered at me with suspicion.
“Guzzling liquor every day? Passing out on your couch? Or on the wooden bench outside? Women coming to visit in a tight T-shirt and Daisy Duke shorts? Please, I’m not stupid! That kind of lifestyle will take its toll eventually. You’re an old codger now, so to speak. Not a teenager! Give up the beer and bourbon. Come to church with me, instead of wasting the time you have left! Get well and live right! We all care about you!”
I was panting for my breath, like a dog needing to go on a pee break.
“I’ve been writing for years, haven’t you noticed my counterculture themes before? It’s an act, a spoof on the prevailing attitude toward communities of mobile homes. There hasn’t been a bottle of strong spirits in my house for an eternity. And I never sleep on the sofa, or my porch, it would be too uncomfortable. My characters do those things, because I am delivering a stilted exaggeration of what transpires in the neighborhood, every day...”
My sibling brushed cracker crumbs off of her floral blouse.
“What about the seething hate over being stuck in your park? You spin out some really deep, dark thoughts about feeling isolated and shunned. It hurts my heart to read those awful confessions! I know you must be empty inside, totally sick and sorrowful. I just can’t stand it sometimes, so I have to close my eyes!”
Her reaction made me feel like a school kid who had been caught drawing dirty pictures.
“Sis, listen to yourself! If I was blitzed all the time, how would it be possible to function? How could I make it through the day without getting into a fight with someone, or being arrested? I live alone, which is for the better. Nobody comes around, unless I get an Amazon delivery, or a pizza provided through the restaurant pipeline. Think about it, what I do is use the privilege of ‘artistic license.’ It’s a common writing trick. I bend the truth a little bit, to garner attention. You know, polish the turd as some might say...”
Mama blew her nose into a Kleenex. She had tolerated my presence for long enough.
“Suit yourself! Go home to your tramp-stamp ladies and your jugs of cheap wine! I’ve tried to show you the way to recovery, just remember that! If you won’t listen, so be it! I’m done!”
The door slammed shut after I had made my exit.
I stood outside in the cool, evening air while balancing on my twin canes. A protagonist from one of my books would probably have lit a cigarette, and taken a fiery sip of Jack Daniel’s while walking down the zig-zag ramp, toward their pickup truck. Yet I had no such seedy comforts hidden in my hoodie pockets. A streetlight’s glare enhanced the inner gloom of silent sobriety. When I turned the ignition key of my plain, black vehicle, it rumbled to life and sat idling at the curb. I had to wait for my nerves to settle, before driving away. But when my fingers grasped the steering wheel, a familiar vibe interrupted this mood of woeful introspection.
All of this was likely to provide inspiration at home, in front of my computer.
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