NOVEL THAT WAS TURNED DOWN BY N.Y. WINS THREE “BEST” AWARDS | Christopher Meeks | Blog Post | Red Room

NOVEL THAT WAS TURNED DOWN BY N.Y. WINS THREE “BEST” AWARDS | Christopher Meeks | Blog Post | Red Room

Red Roomers Blog About Self-Reinvention | Red Room Well Red | Blog Post | Red Room

Red Roomers Blog About Self-Reinvention | Red Room Well Red | Blog Post | Red Room

Red Underwear ... a Sample

Originally Published in Story Magazine Spring 1998

Red Underwear

I ran this ad, you see, because I was tired of being a lonely guy.  For the last couple of years, since my wife ran away with her dance teacher, I've regretted the days because they catch me in their desolate clutches.  I know I don't exist by myself on some vast island, but I am alone.  Sure there is the mailman who drops envelopes through the slot in my door; there is the upstairs neighbor's dog who whines every night at the wind; and there are the boys on my job at Zippy Delivery who aren't too deep.  I asked one of them, “What is life?”  He said that life was pussy.  That's all he could think of.  So despite all of that stimulation along with the animal sounds of the city and   the man and woman next door who beat on and love on each other until dawn, I was still lonely.

I went to the bars.  But bar people try too hard to be cool and sultry, as if they're owners of the universe and their silk clothes and gold neck chains are vestments of royalty.  I found myself silently berating them.

“Hi. My name is Henry,” I'd say to some sleepy-eyed woman. I'd get a blank stare as if I was the smoke that they had just blown from their cigarette.  “Probably just a Hospital shit toter,” I'd say to myself.  But those negative thoughts only made me more bitter.

No, bars aren't good places to meet people if you are down to earth and sincere.  Besides they sound like garbage can factories--”CRASH BAM BAM BOOM!”  I don't have a loud voice so I had to get real close to talk.  I worried about my breath, so I always suffered from anxiety when I approached a chick.  You see, I'm not too handsome either and the girls get righteously indignant if an ugly guy comes too close.  I'm 5'4”, skinny and bowlegged--I look like a wishbone when I'm naked. These glasses make me look owlish.  If I were a Tom Cruise or Denzel Washington, women would have welcomed me to run my tongue over their eyelids.  But for a guy like me, bars do more harm than good.

So I ran an ad in a local magazine.  It said:

LONELY GUY 5' 7”, SLENDER-BUILT, VERY NICE BROWN EYES, JUST WON

$1000 WRITING PRIZE--SEEKS SINCERE TRIM LADY TO HELP HIM PARTY AND

CELEBRATE HIS GOOD FORTUNE.  MUST BE SLENDER.  PHONE 881-LOVE.

Yes, I placed this ad.  I meant to put a comma between nice and brown.  I kind of worried about that.  I didn't want to confuse anyone as to whether I was saying I was nice or had nice brown eyes.  There is a difference.  Lots of guys have nice brown eyes but will put their fist in a woman's mouth before she can say “I do.”  Me, I am nice with brown eyes.  And that phone number, I thought it was clever.  Now the money deal may have been a bit of a come-on, but I really hoped that when the dough ran out, I'd be left with a nice girl, kind of by default.

I'm a great believer in default.  We are alive by default.  We are the eggs that didn't die and wash out in our Mother's blood.  We are the ones who survived the pill or leaked out of a busted condom.  And even if our parents planned us, we weren't the ones they wanted.  We are what they got.  So there's lot of validity in the principle of default.  That's why I was applying it in my quest for a nice girl.

Lots of girls called 881-LOVE.  Even a few guys--the husky voice: “Hello, I'm Tiger. I give heavenly massages . . . “Of course I hung up on them.  But Like I said, a lot of girls called. A few were only interested in my American Express number. One lady said she was a Pentecostal Minister, had six children, was trying to start her own church, and the Lord put it in her heart to call my number.  I told her that the person I wanted had already answered my ad.  The lady broke out in heaves of sobs.   She swore, when she caught her breath, to wring the devil's neck for putting rocks in her path of righteousness. The woman cried until I promised to send her a donation.   She kept calling me and asking had I given God his share.  I sent her a hundred dollars and never heard from her again.

Let me say this--It's strange the feelings you get when you run a personal ad.  You're giddy with power and confidence.  You dream of luscious women who are going to call, cry into the telephone, and say “I've been waiting to meet you all of my life!”  All of that is what you imagine.  You don't feel your own desperation until you see your ad surrounded by boxes of SWF's, SBF's, SBM's, and SWM's--all of those initials seeking love, and your own ad sticks out like a gout infested toe.  You get mad because you had to resort to this.  You had to beg for love and friendship.  But you try to have hope.  You make yourself believe you've done the normal thing and you will meet the right person.  Or so you think.

###
End of Sample


Available on
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Cheeseburger Sample

Selected by Joyce Carol Oates for the 1987 PEN/Discovery Prize
Also Published in the Ontario Review (Winter Fall 1988)

Cheeseburger

by 

Charles Harvey

I mean, I know Cheeseburger and Polo Mack, they some bad boys. Cause that’s what my Mama say they is. She call them “Northern Rats” ‘cause they hang around here in Hattiesburg, Mississippi on the corner of 30th Avenue and Jefferson Street, where I live. “Come down here to thaw out in the sun,” Mama say. They draw ugly things on my Mama ‘s white picket fence. They and some more boys call themself the “Folks.” They draw moons and stars and pitchforks all over her fence. She don’t say nothin’ to them. She just give them her hot eyes as she slaps fresh paint over their drawins on her fence. But she yells at me ever’ time they come around.

“They ain’t never said nothin’ to me, Mama. And I ain’t never said nothin’ to them,” I plead with her.

“They hang around here ‘cause you a gal,” my Mama say.

  Even when I walk quickly by them with my head down in my shoulders like a broke-neck chicken, my Mama don’t be no happier. She says if I was a son instead of a daughter, I would run them wild nigguhs away from her picket fence.

But there is somethin’ else too. I don’t know if Mama knows it or not, but I am in love with Cheeseburger. He is tall and skinny and the color of Mama’s mahogany dinin’ room table. He’s got a long thin neck that I want to hug. His eyes make me cry ‘cause they so sad and dreamy lookin’ . I want him to be dreamin’ about me. My Cheeseburger’s got a short square haircut like my boy cousin who’s in the army. Cheeseburger wears a small diamond earring. He reminds me of my best girlfriend, Thelma, who’s willowy like a black weed. Sometimes I don’t know why I love Cheeseburger. One day I love his eyes. Next week it’s his chest. Then later, the sight of his thighs sends me to heaven. I wonder if my Mama knows how much I love Cheeseburger. Wish she would say, “That boy make you a good husband, Della.” But then I probably wouldn’t want him no more.

Here’s what I really wish. I wish he wouldn’t hang around with that dude called “Polo Mack.” That dude is sloppy and ugly. He wears an old goofy red cap that he sets way back on his head. He got a big ugly nose like a dog. And he’s black as burnt toast. Polo Mack grabs girls by their arms and calls them bitches. He grabbed me by my arm. My Cheeseburger looked the other way. I was mad at Cheeseburger for a whole week ‘cause he didn’t take up for me. Then I saw Cheeseburger in some new red shorts and a half of a blue Mickey Mouse sweatshirt that showed off his stomach, and I fell in love with him all over.

The week that I wasn’t in love with Cheeseburger ‘ called him and them other boys dogs, and Mama seemed happy with me. We talked about what a shame it was them thugs from up north were comin’ down south, bringin’ that dope with ‘em, and breakin’ into people’s houses. Everybody on the block was gettin’ burglar bars and bad dogs. Hattiesburg was hirin’ more police. It was just a shame, me and Mama agreed.

Then I saw Cheeseburger’s navel and fell back in love with him. And Mama started fussin’ at me ‘cause I was a girl and not a boy. She said I was drawin’ them nigguhs to her fence like shit draws flies. My Mama said that to me. And no matter how much I looked like I was ignorin’ those boys (I really was ignorin’ ol’ Polo Mack), she fussed more. Even when they didn’t paint the moon and stars on her fence, she fussed.

So I say to myself, if my Mama don’t love me, I know Cheeseburger do. Cheeseburger, who never look in my direction, even when I wear tight jeans, purple jelly sandals, and my own Mickey Mouse T-shirt cut off at the navel, even when I wear this outfit with my hair swept back from my face, back to my shoulders--Cheeseburger never say nothin’ to me. But I still imagine he love me. I dream about him kissin’ me. I dream he touched my titties, like those so-called “good boys” Mama was always tryin’ to get me hooked on. But Cheeseburger touch me so much better, like he know what he’s doin’. Like he know I ain’t gonna slap his hand away.

I ain’t never did it with nobody. My skinny girlfriend Thelma have. She say it hurt. I tell her my Cheeseburger don’t hurt me. She say all boys hurt you. I say not Cheeseburger. She say Cheeseburger is ugly and he’s a punk. I tell her Cheeseburger ain’t no punk. I tell her this lie: I tell her I was out one night in the backyard throwin’ away some garbage. It was real dark. I heard somebody leap over the fence and whisper my name.

“Della. Della, baby.” The voice was like a soft wind lickin’ my neck. I wasn’t scared ‘cause I knew it was Cheeseburger.

Thelma interrupts my lie. “How you know it was Cheeseburger? You ain’t never heard his voice. It might have been ol’ Polo Mack.”

“You think I’m a fool, Girl,” I say. “I know it was Cheeseburger ‘cause I heard him talkin’ to some other boys one day. He talked real cool, like a northern boy, like that Leroy boy on Fame. And besides that, I found out it really was Cheeseburger ‘cause he kissed me.”

Thelma goes back to swoonin’ over Prince’s picture on the cover of People. Thelma thinks Prince is her little angel. Any light-skinned boy is Thelma’s angel. One tine Thelma tol’ me she liked me ‘cause I look like Prince. She said she wish I was a boy. She said she just love yellow people. I tol’ her, I said, “Woman, you crazy.”

There must be somethin’ to being light-skinned. Mama said I could be like Vanessa Williams. That was before them pictures came out in that magazine. Now Mama just shakes her head whenever anybody talks about Vanessa. Me, I like brown people. Especially brown boys. I like the way the sun makes them glow. My Cheeseburger glows.

Anyway, I go back to tellin’ Thelma my lie about me and Cheeseburger. I tell her about how he carried me behind Mama’s big ol’ palmetto plant, how he kissed me, and how he pulled off my bra and played with me. We both stood behind that plant in the dark with our clothes off, and he put his hands on my behind, and I had my hands on him, and we did it three times, and now I’m goin’ to have Cheeseburger’s baby.

 “Stop lyin’!” Thelma yelled. “Boys don’t do it but once!

I tell her again, my Cheeseburger did it three times. Thelma calls me a liar again. I call her a bitch, and tell her to get out of my house, and leave my magazine. Thelma turns around on the porch and tells me, she says, “If you gonna have a baby, I’ll bet it’s Polo Mack’s.” I slam the door. Open it and slam it again. I slam it until the wood frame cracks.

###

End of Sample

Available at:

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Writing Tips 7 and Happy New Year!

To The $.99 Book Buyers and Readers

 

I thank you for trying me out. You’ve stepped up and put your 99 cents out on a limb. I desire to be a good investment of your money and time. I may be a short read, but I desire to be the best that I can be. But here is what you can do to make our relationship better.

1.  Do not buy me in bulk

2.  Read my product description

3.  Review me fairly

I think the reason why you’re disappointed is because you didn’t choose carefully. My product description and cover gives a good indication of what my book is about. It also clues you in on my writing skills. You also most likely will have an excerpt in the description. That will give you a sample of the type of story you’re going to encounter. If you were just clicking on all of the $.99  books and free books, it means you bought me in bulk like someone buying a bushel of apples. Some will be rotten, misshapen, and bruised. However do you castigate all apples from here on? Of course not. You just choose more carefully.

If you’ve chosen carefully and you’re still disappointed, and you desire to write a review of your experience with me, please be balanced and tell why I didn’t work for you. If it’s “not your taste” or “not your kind of book,” why did you buy me? To say I’m “boring” doesn’t help either. A Shakespeare play probably “bores” the heck out of seventy percent of the population in the U.S. But the other thirty percent are on the edge of their seats eating up every word. Express how you found the book unappealing. That will help me grow as a writer and give you a richer experience as a reader even if I do remain cheap.

Amazon Author Pages

WritingTips 6

The Occupational Hazards of Writing

We are well acquainted with hazards of many occupations. Chemical plant workers are exposed to dangerous chemicals and the always present danger of explosions. The Discovery Channel has brought us the dangers of deep sea crabbing. We can just imagine all of the hazards of coal mining, logging (the most dangerous job in the world) and perhaps wild animal training.

Some of our more sedentary occupations have their built in occupational hazards. Office workers are exposed to chemicals in synthetic rugs and chemicals from printer and copier toner. And of course we can’t rule out the psychological hazards of office work such as being exposed to toxic bosses and/or co-workers. We can see how office stress leads to weight gain and even mass killings. Something is going on in America’s offices and it’s not being talked about at the coffee bar.

http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Occupational_safety_and_health

Writing has its own built in set of occupational hazards. Most people think of writing as someone lying languidly by the beach sipping a cool drink (perhaps in the south of France--whatever that means), and day dreaming about the next plot. Or some conger up the image of a guy hunched over an old type writer, with a pile of cigarette butts and crumpled papers lying about, grimacing and taking a swig from a bottle. I think the latter is closer to the truth. The hazards of writing:

1. Failed Relationships (What’s a relationship?)

2. Alcoholism http:/moreintelligentlife.com/content/tom-shone/when-novelists-sober

3. Suicide (  http://www.amazon.com/Suicidal-Authors/lm/R2E1FREVX7PCZB

4. Ill health

Writing is not easy. It’s even harder in today’s publish yourself digital world. In the old world of publishing, you got an agent to hold your hand (if you were lucky) and coddle you through the process. Then the editor and you battled to produce a “good” book, which of course meant sellable or saleable. Now it’s all about you and the reader in almost direct and instant interaction. Well the writing might not be instant, but the publishing is and so is the reader feedback when you are writing in the popular genres (romance, urban, vampires). If you don’t want instant feedback, perhaps write poetry or call your book literary. So you ask yourself:

a. Is my character believable?

b. Is there a big hole in my plot?

c. Are the scenes in a chronological sensible order?

d. Are there moments where my dialog sounds robotic and canned?

e. “Oh my god! I’ve used “nad” for and three times!” Yes grammar and spelling mistakes.

Of course it’s easy to correct those errors once your readers happily point them out to you with ratings of one * out of  a possible five ***** stars and comments such as “Did you use your pre-schooler as your spell checker?”

Being prolific and well ranked has some down side too. You’re churning out blockbuster after blockbuster, getting those five ***** nad (haha) AND making that paper. But your diet is pizza by the cardboard box load and maybe diet soda. There’s no time for the gym or sex. So we battle the bulge until fat wins the war.

So nope writing is not easy. I have a sneaking suspicion the only folks enjoying the South of France are the widows and widowers of famous dead writers. However as we head into the new year, let’s resolve to bring balance into our life.

1. Find time to get out of the house at least once every couple of days.

2. Hit the gym twice a week

3. If you must, write like  a maniac 330 days a year, but then take a month off.

4. Take a break between books. (Of course tell that to the muse who’s now the new spouse in your life making you feel guilty)

5. Watch your diet

6. Open the venetian blinds and let a bit of life in.

Cheeseburger

Red Underwear

My Manhood is Very Important to Me

The Amazon Zanies -- Come one Come All - Have A Prosperous New Year

Coming Soon

The Democratization of the publishing world does produce some zaniness out of this world. Yes even the mentally ill can get published. But I like a Democracy. It's all about freedom and choice. As the Pastor says, "The Doors of the Church are now open." The days of having Agents and Publishers slam doors in your face are soon to be a thing of the past. How do you make it happen for you?


1. Write Well
2. Revise Well
3. Edit Well
4. Market Well
Make 2012 your year to get published.
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And now the zany...If this person can navigate their way to Amazon and get published, surely you can.

Re: My book size is small compared to my original document.  Posted: Dec 17, 2011 9:52 PM    in response to: sunever    Reply First, to answer Mr. notjohn, about me not having a credit card and thus not being worthy to publish, you must understand that not everybody on earth is supposed to have one, did you ever try to get one as a socially assisted? You can't, probably half or more of this planet never touched a credit card and they are as good as you, and that bring me to your second surprise as to the how in hell can I be so incompetent with word as to end-up with a 7.5 MB book! Well, this book is a lifelong investment, I spent 12 years on it, it got a million, yes sir, a whole million words, and that's why it is big, and that's why I'm under social assistance and can't get a credit card, you think you can write a million word books on weekends? I started this book at 26 as French Quebecker that barely understood English, and I didn't have time to make a stash of money for my old days, so I’ve been under social assistance until now to write this book and nothing else. And another thing you must understand is that when you start such a quest, you don't think of the money at the end, or when you'll be done, and your sole goal and reason of existence is the book, so it just happen one day that you're finished. So one day I woke up and said the book was done, but I woke-up to the reality that I lost contact with the whole world too, I never used the internet in my life before finishing the book, in fact, this is the first ever text I write on a forum. As for the book, nobody ever read it until now, i battled a panoply of publishers at all sauces to come to the conclusion that they were only after money and they didn't want to read a line of a book, nobody ever published a million words book it seems while there are dictionaries and bibles all over the place, and the argument don't even stand as at .9 size it can fit as a thousand pages book, anyway this whole industry is a mess of profiteers, so either I self published for 12000$ while I can't spare 10$ or I abandoned and I would have done all this for nothing. But I discovered Amazon and until now, I’m very happy they exist. Finally I’ll thank Mr. bkhitch and Mr. bigtoad; each answered half my question, but I’ll mention that I already passed my book through a few different previewers, with satisfactory results, I did mention that the online previewer showed things to be relatively good, nobody seems to have read that phrase, my problem was just that I was not sure about the end result as sold since it was almost half size. Thank you all for your help. And by the way, if you want to know what a million words book look like as fat paragraphs, “a flower to life” is the book.

His Book: A Flower to Life
Disclaimer: This in no way represents the quality of Amazon books and stories.

My Stories
Cheeseburger
My Manhood is Very Important to Me
Betty's House
Roommates
Red Underwear
The 520i
The Cicadas