I once read a quote from an esteemed author advising young writers to not “listen to writers talking about writing or themselves.” I pulled the quote from what seemed like a legitimate website. If you’ve made it this far, then you should know that nothing is ever what it seems. A great man once told me, “Don’t believe what you hear and half what you see.” I now pass along that very same message to you. You weren’t born yesterday. You know this. I know this. I don’t have to tell you that information on the Internet should only be taken just like you take your steak, with just a pinch of salt. Again, you already know this. Whether or not it came from this particular lady author whom, despite her views, I admire, remains entirely up in the air. For now, we’ll say it did. The worst mistake any writer can do, especially a young writer, is talk about himself or his craft. Let the writing speak for itself. That’s what I always say. Having only published a handful of books under two pen names, I will readily consider myself to still fall under the category of a young writer, always allowing myself room to grow, trying to tweak the craft or find new angles to tell a story. However, every now and then, a question is asked, which gives a young writer like myself a rare opportunity to finally set the record straight. What better platform than right here!
Not too long ago I was asked a question about what I liked most about being a writer. I was skeptical to respond at first, mainly because it was asked anonymously and, of course, it was asked on the Internet. I respectfully answered the question with conciseness. It was a good question (and I thank you again for asking it); however, the one question I really hoped that someone would ask is why I write. Why write? It may come off as an inquisitive question. Nonetheless, it’s a pretty reasonable question in today’s world. Don’t you think? Why write? Why do you write, Eli? Tell me, Izzy! Brohemian! Why write in a world where the word writer or author is inherently followed with the roll of someone’s eyes? Why would anyone allow himself or herself to be treated like a punching bag? Is it like some kind of masochism-thing you’ve got going on or something? What’s the deal? You stable? So why write, Eli? Why write in a world where the majority of people don’t read books but rather rip the movie from the Internet? Is it defiance? You mad, bro? What is it!?! You busted your tail working two jobs while going to school and forked out all that damn money to be an engineer. Remember? So, now, just a couple of years as an engineer, you decide that you don’t want to do it anymore! You chose to take a step backward, not forward, and relive a pipe dream! Have you lost your fucking mind!?!
After I wrote the second book, Until the Son Rises, these were some of the few questions I initially asked myself, as any writer should, especially a novice. Before I tell you why I write, I’ll expand on that one question about what I like most about being a writer. If you’ve read the post, then you already know. What I failed to mention was that it has also taught me the basic principles every writer should be aware of or at least have sense of, which is to never believe someone who tells you, “That’s never been written before,” mainly for two reasons: one, they’re oblivious to the fact that that has been written before (sorry, it has); and two, they’re lying to your face. I take that back—three reasons: they’d rather spare you the criticism. This is something every writer must learn the hard way, including a young writer; and if you’ve been writing for a while, for business or pleasure or both, you know exactly what I’m talking about. And if you already know this, then you know that any idea is up for grabs as long as it comes from within. Let’s admit it. We forget things, some things more than others. We forget things that happened many years ago, and now we’re dealing with them again. Still, we can’t seem to get a grasp on them, either it be social or political issues. Mr. Hopkins, a remarkable individual whom you will meet very soon, sums it up in two words: a revolving door. How we stop the door from spinning round and round is solely up to you. Got a wedge? It’s okay if you don’t. Chin up. We’ll get through it. Don’t believe what you hear and half what you see. Remember? It’s part of being human, especially living during a time where information, real or fabricated, is easily accessible. There’s only so much the human brain can absorb until it becomes overloaded; and then, like a computer, those things have to be consolidated, or even worse, deleted. But what if you had to delete the things that mattered the most to you? Forget about the trivial shit, the noise. I’m talking about memories. Good ones or bad. What about birthdays? Anniversaries? Tragedies? Would you rather replace indefatigability with conveniency? Unless you write owner’s manuals, writers write to make it less convenient for you. Don’t let anybody tell you any differently. And second: Why write, Eli? I write because I can’t see myself doing anything else. That’s all I’ve got for you now. But if I had to back up that answer, I’d say I write to entertain, first and foremost, then to stimulate, to provoke, to nourish, to justify, to sympathize, and, finally, to remind you of the things that easily slip through the cracks, even if they’re as fundamental as human interactions. Hello. Hey there. How are you? Nobody has asked me that in a long time. I’m good. Thanks for asking. Tell me a little about your last book…well now, that’s never been written before. This leads me to the reason I’m here. For argument’s sake, we’ll start by calling him Memphis Brown. So, Memphis…Why did you choose the name Memphis Brown? He’s got brown eyes. Plus, I like the name, Memphis. I can picture Memphis: hunched shoulders, a twinge in his chest from the burden he lugs around all day, cloaked in a black duster that his daddy handed down to him before he passed away, a week-old beard, smoking Pall Malls through one side of his mouth, sipping on cheap bourbon through the other. And this burden you speak of. What is it? The story, of course, his story, one that came to him in the dead of night, one of great tragedy, a dark tale and yet, dare I say, a tale of hope. Any other questions? Uh. Yeah. Can you get to the point? Ah ha! Yes! The point: our writer is unlike any other writer. Memphis breaks the mold. How so? He’s humble. Learned it from the old. Reinforced it with the new. That’s why. Doesn’t have that reek of arrogance. No pretension here, buddy. The guy would give you the shirt off his back, if you needed it. Just flesh and bone with a soft spot for intricate wordplay. He’s an old soul with a new voice and a damn good pair of ears, a keen listener. Memphis is writing a fictional tale about a lone wanderer who finds himself lost in the underbelly of Detroit, and the only means to his survival is through a one-armed drug dealer named Rouge. Why Rouge? Because he’s got wavy red hair and he’s a quarter French and in a former life, he used to be in the service. His comrades called him Red, but he preferred to roll with Rouge. Said it sounded important. And why Detroit? Well, Memphis lived in Ann Arbor for a couple of years; and he used to visit the Motor City whenever reality threw him a curve ball. So, it’s fair to say that Memphis knows a thing or two about Detroit’s nocturnal life. The story, however, is right on point, as sharp as a honed blade. The baby’s practically writing itself. The characters are rich and meaty, and they leap off the page as if they existed somewhere in real life. Memphis spends months conjuring up characters with every keystroke, following them through whatever journeys they embark on. He finally arrives at the light at the end of the tunnel and finishes the last sentence with both poise and relief. He makes it count too, a thinker, of course, to make it less convenient for you, the reader. Then, he feels that weight lift off his body, that burden. And things are going well for Memphis until one night he explains the story to a regular at the neighborhood pub that he normally frequents after putting the final touches on a story. After Memphis is done giving his spiel, the drunk replies, “Hey, Scammer Man! Dat there reminds me of dat one story from da f’ckin’ Adies, you knows dat one wit da m’dget…” If Memphis knew what this bonehead was slurring about, Memphis would’ve never written the story to begin with. But he had written it. Had the manuscript marked with coffee stains to prove it. Eventually, the guy remembers and then hollers it out for everybody to hear. Memphis doesn’t even finish his drink. He stumbles to the library and googles the story on the computer. Then, it hits him like a swift kick to the nuts. Sure enough, the drunk was right. Almost. Even the spit Memphis swallows feels like an anchor being dropped from his chest and into the pit of his stomach. And it’s heavier than before. Another burden. Go fuck a goat…But it’s not exactly the same, Memphis realizes. The story is similar to his; however, it’s not his.
Last summer, I found myself in the same predicament as Memphis here, writing a story, like Memphis, that came to me in the dead of night, only to find out later through a friend, not some regular, that the story (The Fifth) shared a similar twist as another story out there—a movie from the Nineties, not the “Adies.” Somehow, the idea must’ve burrowed way deep into my subconscious, only to germinate for many years and then, when the time came, sprout like a weed. More than likely I saw this movie when I was younger, although I don’t remember it. But who knows? What I did know was that I had an idea for a story. Consequently, I pushed aside a couple of other stories I was working on. That brings us right here, to Freeze: A Week With Mr. Hopkins, the story I wrote after The Fifth. Its inception came from that line alone: that’s never been written before. In other words, nothing is new under the sun, or as in the Book of Ecclesiates: “There is no new thing under the sun.” I pulled that one from the Internet as well. So, you know how it goes. Retelling a story has been done before. But what the heck? Why not retell a story that has already been told before? Not a recent story. But something old, way old. Hell! Centuries old, something deep and dark and spawned during a time when the word epic meant epic, and yet, strangely enough, something that remained relevant today, which is something every writer longs for, to be relevant, to be recognized even though it’s the farthest thing from his or her mind. Even the humble ones.
What is Freeze?
To sum it up on a sleeve would be hard to do, but if it had to be done it could. Freeze is mostly about everything…mostly. It’s about life. It’s about death. It’s about loss. It’s about monsters, some big while others small. It’s about how even the sweetest taste of revenge can grow bitter and pungent. It’s about the sting of betrayal. About corruption, rejection, heartbreak, redemption, acceptance…It’s about a brave young woman who will do anything in her power to find the answers to life’s riddles. It’s about forgiving but never forgetting. It’s about learning how to put down your foot and take a stand and say, “Enough is enough!” Finally, it’s about you, the dreamers, for paving the way for the idea of an universal story that will forever resonant in our hearts and soar through our spirits as long as humanity reigns: the idea of finding true love, and when found, holding onto it for as long as you can, as well as loving who you are on the inside and out, and most importantly, loving what you’ve captured and then sharing it for the world to see, or in this case, to read.
To everyone who follows me or pays whatever amount of interest in my little blog, thank you. It means a great deal to me…And never ever give up your dreams, no matter who tries to shoot them down! Think big and aim high!
— Yours truly, EK
P.S. The movie was The Red Violin.
