Telling Stories

It is a long-time dream of mine to tell stories. I have a large, sprawling, involved, and wonderful family, so big books, long series, and lots of characters with multi-facets and issues are something I enjoy writing.

But one thing I like to try my hand at are smaller works, anthologies, short stories and articles, that people often assume are easier because they are, after all, short. One has only to read any of the great short story writers of the past, or Bailey White's MAMA MAKES UP HER MIND, to know that "easy" and "short story" are words that don't really go together naturally. I was watching John Grisham on television one day. He was promoting his book of short stories, FORD COUNTRY, and he said something to the effect that he'd wanted to give a short story collection a shot because it was a difficult thing to write. I read one scathing critic's review of the book, and a ton of reader reviews who loved it, so likely Mr. Grisham considered his quest a success.

Just writing short story articles is a challenge for me. Any day I expect Sara, owner of Fresh Fiction and my editor, to give me the hook. I'm grateful she hasn't so far, but next month always looms. For a girl who cut her teeth on Erma Bombeck's short tales of home life and P. G. Wodehouse, the mastery of the topic has proven elusive, though I keep studying it, in an effort to meet the challenge.

Recently, I forced myself to pick up Willa Cather's DEATH COMES TO THE ARCHBISHOP. I say forced because I remember Willa Cather came up at some point during my school days. All of us groaned at having to read her work. It was popular to groan over Willa Cather, O'Henry, perhaps even Oscar Wilde. But I felt disloyal to the family tree, because Willa Cather is a distant relative (my grandmother's father's sister or something like that). In fact, my father still goes home once a year to the Cather family reunion. One does feel a sense of shame when one dreads reading the work of a long-deceased, famous, classic- writing relative.

So, as I say, I forced myself to read DEATH COMES TO THE ARCHBISHOP. The descriptions are beautiful, the sense of place mesmerizing. Instantly, I was transported to the world of a Catholic priest traveling miles and miles on a donkey, Contento, enduring days of hardship to bring comfort and worship to the outlying Mexican people who had no religious in their small pueblos. Then I realized the format was short stories, basically, that Cather had drawn together. She sets the stories, legend-like, of the people the priest meets along the way, while sharing Father Vaillant's own hardships, hopes, and dreams. It is magical writing. I read like a fiend for days, could not tear myself away from it. I dreamed of getting on the back of a donkey and riding through desolate, unsettled old New Mexico, which would be quite a feat for a woman who doesn't want to be far from Whole Foods. I would tell my son (who warned me that he would absolutely not be reading Willa Cather, and not to even try to get him to) that he was missing out on great material. My son recently picked up DUNE by Frank Herbert, which is not a short story, as anyone knows. One of those many wonderful and fascinating aunts in my family gave me her copy of DUNE to read when I was about thirteen. My aunt used to live in a commune in California. When rattlesnakes came into their living space, she would put them in a basket and carry them away to a better, more hospitable home. I once met a farmer who used to kill the rattlesnakes he found, keeping their fangs and honeycomb-like rattles. The farmer's approach would be my method of coping with rattlesnakes, but I think my aunt's way is cooler.

I chase the elusive short story ability like a shiny grail. Why do I love them so much? They are digestible, and I'm usually in a line of sorts. You can get a lot in a little bit of time from a short story, if the writer is talented.

I bought a huge book, a beautiful thing of about 513 pages, called The Haka'wati. It is the story of Lebanese life woven around mystical tales, and there is nothing short about it, not the lush description, nor the sense of place whether in the harder present or in the magical tales. Rabih Alameddine writes:

What is a hakawati, you ask? Ah, listen. A hakawati is a teller of tales, myths, and fables (hekayat). A story-teller, an entertainer. A troubadour of sorts, someone who earns his keep by beguiling an audience with yarns. . . . A great hakawati grows rich, and a bad one sleeps hungry or headless.

Mr. Alameddine goes on to describe a hakawati as something of a "fibster." It's true that writers "fib," and I'm not offended by that description. We imagine and dream our characters and stories, but we don't lose our heads for it. Maybe we don't get another contract, but that's not quite as permanent. I keep his book, though many others have gone to the used bookstore, not that I made it all the way through its great size. (Remember, carpool lines, kids, dogs, life). I keep it for the short scenes of life that fascinate me, and Mr. Alameddine's sense of story. It's magical, a carpet ride of color and life I've never experienced, the opposite of a donkey trek but so much the same, too, because of the wonderful gift of storytelling.

I'm going to tell a story this month, and one next month, about people I've met recently since I moved to my new home. I'm going to practice what I've learned from writers past and present, infinitely greater than me. Listen . . .

When I was growing up, my father didn't take my sister and me into the liquor store. We waited in the car with Mom, while Dad ran and grabbed whatever dinner liquor was needed. Dad never said, you should never be in a liquor store, but since we were not allowed to touch the liquor bottles at home, I believe I equated that a liquor store was not the place for a lady to be.

Recently, after we'd moved to our new house, my husband and I went in search of wine, which could not be bought at the grocery store as we'd done before. It is a dry county in places. A few miles away was a chain liquor store, and a small mom-and-pop with a foreign-style name. My husband and I noted the kids going in there after karate class for their soft drinks and snacks, and moms who looked an awful lot like me coming out with their brown paper bags. We also noted the black burglar bars, but that's not so uncommon a sight on free-standing liquor stores. I went in and bought a bottle of wine while my husband waited in the car. The Pakistani owner was friendly, his store clean. We deemed it safe enough, and anyway, he carried the cheap wine I like at only ninety-nine cents above what I had paid in the old neighborhood. I've had sixty dollar vintage but I prefer cheap wine, and communion, wine. My husband says I cannot ask our priest what kind of wine the church serves at communion even though he says it's good and he wishes he knew the brand. In the Bible, Jesus turns water into wine, the "best" wine. I prefer cheap, though, and hope that doesn't say something about the state of my soul.

The next time we needed the beloved grape, I went back alone to the mom-and-pop shop. I picked up two large bottles and got in line beyond a big man who was paying for a can of Red Bull. I was happy my errand was nearly over. The bottles were heavy and I probably looked like a Bacchanalian raccoon clutching my haul.

But then, the customer said, "I gave you a twenty."

The owner of the store said, in his thick foreign accent, "You gave me a dollar."

The customer insisted, "I gave you a twenty."

"You gave me a dollar. I have everything right here on video," the owner replied, his staccato voice sure and stern.

They sparred with each other a minute more. Then the customer, realizing he'd met a mark too smart for him, asked, "Well, can I have my dollar back?"

In no mood to put up with someone trying to play switcheroo with him, the owner shouted, "Get out of my store! Don't you ever come back!"

The customer scurried to the door. The storeowner bellowed after him, "And if you ever come in here again, I'm going to put a bullet in you!"

Three things flashed through my mind. One, maybe this was why Dad never took us into the liquor store with him. Two, I wasn't leaving unless guns did appear, because I really, really needed these two bottles of wine. I had promised them as my portion of the Christmas Eve dinner. Third, Mr. Storeowner was now in a very bad mood, and I couldn't blame him. I wondered, as I set my bottles onto the counter and he murmured, "Idiot!" under his breath about the customer who'd just left, if he would take my check. I had out-of-town checks. He had no reason to trust anyone at the moment. Who was to say I, too, wasn't going to scam him, with a check he might not ever recover if it were bad? I could not look him in the eye, because I felt so sorry for him. Yet he told me in the kindest voice that if we needed anything at all again, he would be open on Christmas Day and New Year's Day. It is awfully hard not to promise to return to a store where you know the owner is trying hard just to make a living for his family.

And so, Fresh Fiction readers, this would-be hakawati hopes she's entertained you. I beg you don't consign me to sleeping on a dark street in Lebanon or anywhere else your fertile imaginations might conjure, and I hope Sara, owner of this café called Fresh Fiction, allows me to keep my head, at least a little while longer.

Favorite Things: Usually I like to mention some good books or movies I've recently enjoyed, but with the cold winter months many of us have been enduring, I think I'll share some things I use to get through the winter, in case it might be helpful to you, too. Eucerin's Calming Crème for dry, itchy, chapped skin is a wonderful skin-saver! Also keep some Smith's Rosebud Salve on your nightstand for dry lips, and Estee Lauder's Nutritious moisturizer is so soothing for the face. I'm very prone to dry skin in the winter, as I think a lot of people are, so I keep these nearby, along with my SmartWool socks and Uggs. And hot peach tea! It's good to winterize!

Comment any time during the month of February to be eligible for the drawing of three ten dollar Amazon e-certs, chosen by Fresh Fiction! Happy Valentine's Day! Until next time, Tina Leonard

Tina Leonard has a publishing history of more than fifty projects. With sales of over a million books, she is also a Bookscan and Borders bestselling author. Tina enjoys family, friends, researching projects, and a good glass of wine when she's not on deadline. She's writing a new series, and hopes to further burnish her hakawati skills. THE COWBOY FROM CHRISTMAS PAST is her latest release. Tina is looking forward to her new six-book series, CALLAHAN COWBOYS, in mid-2011, as well as a 2011 Christmas novella. You can find out more about Tina at www.tinaleonard.com/.