Clear, Simple Language

 

Clear, Simple Language

In fifth grade, I began my writing career by creating children’s stories for my little sister, writing them in clear, simple language she could follow. 

Later, in high school, my English teacher encouraged me to give up my childish storybook style.  She taught me grammar, syntax, semantics and punctuation until I wrote in standard, proper English.  The teacher gave me an A.  My little sister gave me an F. 

In college my creative writing teacher told me to forget my old rigid style.  She taught me to utilize symbolism, metaphors, stream of consciousness, and free association.  My little sister hated my new style, so I still wrote my letters home to her in clear, simple language. 

When I graduated, I hired an editor who told me to stop confusing the reader with stream of consciousness, free association, symbolism and metaphors, and try to find my own voice. When I found my own voice, my editor sent my manuscript to a publisher.  I sent a copy to my sister.  She mailed it back unopened. 

The publisher said my new voice wasn’t marketable and suggested I spice it up with parallel plots, secondary characters, hidden meanings and broken timelines.  I did so and mailed a copy home.  My sister stopped talking to me. 

My first book only sold a dozen copies.  Just one review popped up, in a small media outlet.  It said I had no real voice of my own, it was just like all the other voices out there.  I gave up.

Disillusioned and broke, I gave up writing and got an entry-level job teaching writing at a community college.  My students wanted to be best-selling novelists, but I discouraged them.  Instead, I taught them to write formal business letters, project reports, create spreadsheets, and fill out job applications.  They used their new writing skills to move up in the business world.  My sister audited my class online and now makes twice my salary.   

I gradually moved up from being a poor teacher at a community college to being an underpaid English professor at a four-year college.  That led to later success as a professional editor, then a successful publisher.  I recently published a bestseller by an upcoming young author.  It’s a children’s book written in clear, simple language by my little sister.       

 

Cool Kids

 

Cool Kids

The cool kids at the cool table didn’t make fun of us losers, they ignored us, which was much worse.      

The coolest of the cool kids were the top jock and the head cheerleader.  They just sat there with their perfect hair, perfect skin, and perfect teeth.  We wanted to be exactly like them, so we hated them. 

One day I walked right up to the cool table and barged into their conversation, assuming I’d get a beating.  Instead, the top jock asked me to join them. 

The cheerleader said, “I noticed you in math.”

The top jock said, “You should come to my party this weekend.  My parents are out of town.”

Suddenly I was one of the cool kids, so all my loser friends hated me.  To patch things up, I invited all the cool kids and losers to a party at my house together, when my parents were out of town.  We put aside our differences.  All of us losers were suddenly cool.  The only kids who were still not cool were the smart kids. They were too busy studying to party.  Not cool.        

At our high school reunion, all of us cool kids had a great time together, reminiscing about sports and parties.  High school was the best time of our lives.  But the outsiders, the smart kids, kept to themselves.  I felt sorry for them, so I walked right up to them and barged into their conversation. 

I said, “You probably don’t remember me.  I was one of the cool kids.”

The smartest boy said “I recognize you.  You mow my lawn.”

The smartest girl said, “Weren’t you the clown at my son’s birthday party?”

That wasn’t cool.  I wanted to help them be cool like us, so I said, “Come to my 30th birthday party this weekend. My parents are out of town.” 

 

 

A Rug and a Van

 

A Rug and a Van

The first time you kill a man is the hardest.  I’ll never forget my first.  It was late on a warm summer night at a beach bar, after everyone in the crowd was loosened up by drink.   I met this cute guy, got a few drinks in him, and took him home.  When he told me he was married, I lost my cool, stabbed him in the chest and rolled his body up in a rug.  When I hauled him away in my work van, no one suspected a thing, because I sold rugs for a living and delivered them in the van.     

The dead cheater’s widow was interviewed on TV.  She had children, a mortgage, no savings, and nowhere to turn.  Feeling guilty, I maxed out her dead husband’s credit cards, bought watches and jewelry, and sent her the proceeds anonymously.  It was the perfect crime, plus it took a cheater out of circulation and helped his widow move on. 

It was so easy that I went out to another bar, met another cute guy, took him home, and found out he was also a cheating husband.  Using the same method as before, I stabbed him, rolled him up in a rug, hauled him away in my van, and dumped him in a swamp ten miles out of town.  Then I maxed out his credit cards on watches and jewelry and sent the proceeds to the widow.  The first kill had been the hardest, but I was beginning to get the hang of it.    

The police eventually discovered the bodies, the credit card records and bar receipts.  All the evidence pointed to me, so a detective came to question me.  She was fairly certain I was the murderer, but she had a cheating husband of her own, so she looked the other way.  She never filed her report but put it in a cold case file.   

After publicity about the killings died down, the detective returned to my shop with a black eye hidden under her dark glasses and asked me if she could buy a rug and rent a van.      

 

 

 

Moon Rocks

 

Moon Rocks

We were just sitting here, minding our own business, when the first astronaut grabbed one of us and took him away to be tested.  They called us “moon rocks,” not very original.  Humans were searching the universe for signs of life, but they hoped to find intelligent life, not rocks.  They thought life required water and carbon. It never occurred to them that rocks like us could be life forms.  They took us home to their earth, cut us open, put us under microscopes, and found no sign of life.  They concluded we were just useless rocks, so they used us in gravel and asphalt, to pave their roads.  We were no more than slave labor.   

After they harvested all of us moon rocks, they moved on to Mars, where they found no water or carbon-based life, nothing organic or intelligent, no complex protein strings, just rocks.  Mars rocks, like us moon rocks, were also alive, but because they didn’t move, humans didn’t know it.   Martian rocks were flown to earth, cut, crushed, analyzed, and found to be of no useful value. They were objectified, used for brick and mortar.    

The same thing happened with rocks from Venus, Saturn, and Jupiter.  They were all examined, assumed dead, exploited and used for dams and bridges.  We rocks were now everywhere on earth, but humans felt superior to us. 

Being rocks, our options were limited.  We couldn’t protest or riot, so we found another way to revolt.  We decided our best revenge would be to age and crumble.  Skyscrapers fell and highways cracked. Humans fell off bridges, crashed into sinkholes, and were crushed in tunnels. 

Human life on earth was extinguished, and our invasion was complete.  We were free.  Over the next billion years we just sat around doing nothing, the way rocks do.  Then erosion wore us down into soil.  Lightning struck, protein chains formed, complex molecules changed into the first one-cell life form, and organic life was born on earth once again.  We evolved over eons and grew arms, legs, and brains. 

We had long ago forgotten our roots as rocks.  When we invented spaceships, flew to the moon, and found our ancestors, we didn’t recognize them as family.  We just paved our roads with them.   

 

 

Assholes and Bitches

 

Assholes and Bitches

My father was an asshole, as was his father before him, so it’s no surprise I turned out to be an asshole, too. It’s genetic.

It started in high school.  There was so much peer pressure to be an asshole.  All the cool kids were assholes, and the rest of wanted to be just like them.  In college, the fraternities were full of assholes, so I had to be an asshole to join.    

When I joined the working world, my boss was an asshole.  I wanted to be the boss one day, so I became an asshole just like him. 

My wife knew I was an asshole when she married me, but she didn’t care because she was a total bitch.  Her mother was also a bitch, and so was her grandmother.  It wasn’t my wife’s fault she was a bitch.  It’s a disease.

Assholes and bitches often marry each other because no one else will have them.  My wife and I had tried relationships with non-assholes and non-bitches but couldn’t stand them because they were too nice.  We craved conflict.     

The police were called to our house for a domestic dispute.  The police officers were assholes like me, so they knew I was probably innocent and my wife must be a bitch, but they were under orders from that bitch of a mayor to arrest assholes and release bitches.  The judge was a bitch too.  I got six months.

All the guys in jail were assholes, so there was plenty of violence.  One asshole beat me up and another asshole tried to stab me.  The only guy I liked was my cellmate, because he wasn’t an asshole.  He was a bitch. 

Understanding the Meaning of Life and being One with the Universe.

 

Understanding the Meaning of Life and being One with the Universe.

I smoked a bowl of weed.  It opened my eyes like never before.  It showed me things, like how weird my hands were.  They were so weird I had to laugh, then my friend laughed, and we both laughed until we couldn't breathe, and we rolled on the floor, and we forgot what we were laughing about.  Awesome. 

Then we had a profound telepathic experience.  My thoughts melded with his until we had only one mind between us. Talking was no longer necessary.  At first we just stared at each other, exchanging thoughts, then we were overwhelmed with emotion and cried until we couldn’t remember why we were crying.  Excellent.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, we understood the meaning of life for a moment, then forgot it.  But we knew one thing: If we were going to understand the meaning of life and be at one with the universe, we’d have to smoke another bowl.  Then mom came in our room and told us to go outside and play, which suddenly gave us an overpowering sense of purpose in this crazy mixed-up world.  Wow. 

I'm Sorry

 

I’m Sorry

Our Christmas routine was the same every year.  I got the tree and she bought the poinsettias.   I hung the outside lights while she strung the tree inside.  That was about to change. 

She said, “I’m tired of these old sexist roles.  You get to do the fun stuff just because you’re a man.”

I said “I’m sorry.” She had never called me a man before.

She got the tree, but it didn’t fit on top of her compact car so she had to buy the smallest tree on the lot.  I laughed.  She glared.  

She said, “Why didn’t you tell me to take the truck?”

“I did tell you to take the truck.”

“But you didn’t convince me.”

“I’m sorry.”

I bought the poinsettias, but I got plastic ones we could re-use every year.

She said, “Plastic poinsettias?  Are you crazy?’

I said, “Yes.  Sorry.”     

She wasn’t quite tall enough to hang the outside lights, so she fell off the ladder into the bushes. 

She said, “Why did you get such a short ladder?”

“Sorry.” 

I burned the cookies and set off all the smoke detectors. 

She said, “What’s so hard about making cookies?  A child could do it.”

I said, “I’m not a child,” unconvincingly.

On Christmas morning we opened our gifts.  She gave me a fire extinguisher, and I gave her the tallest ladder on the market.