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writer_melThis week, Melinda Duval was in Texas.
Corpus Christi was a harbor town, very rough and tumble in some places and elegant in others. Mel liked it just fine, but truth told, it was just another town. She was in a different one every few days, after all, talking to people she'd never see again. That was her life.
She loved it. The freedom of it,, the chance to learn the truth that people only told to strangers. And then she took those truths and told them in her own way. She wasn't sure if anyone she met ever recognized themselves in her stories. Maybe. But there really weren't that many unique truths out there. People lived and died and loved and hated and feared. It was the littlest details that made it personal.
In order to tell stories that reached a broad audience, Mel had to be careful about how many details she put in. It was her constant battle. She might quote a subject verbatim but she would credit a character who was a mix of three completely unrelated people. And then there was the part that came only from her, that something her editor liked to call special sauce. Given that she wrote horror stories, that creeped Mel out a little.
Tonight Mel was in a little restaurant right on the water. She'd asked at her hotel for a recommendation, somewhere people went for the food more than anything. Her plan was to do some editing while she ate and she needed real fuel. She got herself a beer and asked for a few minutes to get set up before she looked at the menu. When she finally had everything ready, she actually blinked at the menu.
She'd been expecting the usual kind of club food, but this looked much better. Lots of fresh seafood and fresh pasta. She ordered a nice fresh salad to go with the shrimp she planned to gorge on, then settled in to work. She had a stack of printouts that amounted to five stories. Or maybe four if she decided the last two really needed to be melded into one.
It was a good place to work, bustling but not loud. Her waitress figured out pretty quickly to keep her water full and let her eat. And the food really was that good. It held up well when she got distracted by her work. By the time she got through the first three stories, she needed a break. After making neat piles of both her papers and her dishes, she waved the waitress over.
“Tell me what your best dessert is?”
Before the waitress could answer, the man at the next table replied firmly, as though he was utterly certain of his answer. “The Cranberry Apple Pie is outstanding. Tart. And the pecan crust it outstanding.” He beamed at her. “That's what I came back for.”
The waitress laughed. “Third day in a row. I'd say that's a pretty good recommendation.”
Mel had to agree so she nodded. “I'll take one. Thank you.” She looked over at her neighbor. “And thank you. I'm terribly indecisive about desserts. They almost all look good. And you can actually get good Key Lime down here, so...”
He nodded firmly. “No one down here feels the need to dye it that horrible green.” He visibly shuddered. “No lime has ever been that color.”
Something about that shudder won her over. Mel stopped the waitress and asked her for a second slice. Then she waved the man over. “Please join me?” He was almost done with his meal and she hoped she could shame him over. She invited people to eat with her all the time. Food had a great way of loosening tongues.
And there was something about him. He was older, maybe a generation older than her. A little heavy and nearly bald, he was still very handsome. She thought he must have been stunning as a young man. She could see it in his eyes and his lips. And then there was the sparkle in his eyes. He knew full well she was studying him.
As he took his seat across from her, Mel noticed two more things. His suit was remarkably nice and he was moving a little stiffly. The stiffness didn't keep him from extending his hand when he introduced himself. “Kenneth Rathers.”
He had a nice shake. Not many people did anymore. “Melinda Duval. Thank you for joining me.”
He laughed softly. “Well, you did bribe me. How could I resist?”
She bowed her head, blushing slightly. “I did, didn't I?”
He nodded. “You did indeed.” He gestured at the papers beside her. “But I'm guessing you wanted a break?”
She glanced over to see if they were in the way at all, shifting them a little to move them into a neater pile. She didn't bother turning them over or hiding anything. They were drafts of stories. What could he tell from one page of edits on a story from an author he'd never heard of? “Editing is where the real work comes in. Which means it not nearly as much fun as the actual writing part.” She shrugged. “But as my editor at my publisher always say, “Anyone can scribble a draft. Only a pro can craft a story.” She managed a decent version of his very Jersey accent which was vastly different from her own middle class Ohioan sound.
Despite his laughter, Rathers nodded firmly. “Quite right, quite right. You must know your audience as well as your message. It's not just...stringing events together.”
He said that last with a dismissive wave of his hand and she raised an eyebrow. “You clearly know something about it. Are you a writer?” It would be a fairly large coincidence but maybe that's why he noticed her.
He shook his head. “No, not me. I haven't the patience. And I need a much more immediate audience, I'm afraid.”
“I can see that.” She'd noticed how he watched her carefully, tracking how she reacted. “That's something I never get. By the time I give a story to my editor, I've done three or four drafts. And then it's months before I read it in a library or a bookstore.” She shook her head. “Nothing immediate about the publishing world.”
“And do you make your living from it?”
Mel nodded. “Barely enough, but more with each collection, so that's good.” As far as she was concerned, she was successful. She could afford to live in New York City. She could pay all her bills. That's all she needed.
“That's excellent. It's much more than most writers do.” He leaned in a little, that sparkle coming back to his eyes. “Stories? Not novels?”
“Stories. They go in magazines and I have my third collection coming out.” She licked her lips. This was the make or break moment. When she told people what she wrote they were very often disbelieving which was just exhausting. “I write horror stories.”
He absolutely beamed at her. “Then you wrote Masks, didn't you?”
She sat back so fast her chair wobbled. This was a first. People came to her signings. She had fans. But no one had recognized her out of the blue this way before. “Uhm....yeah. That's mine.”
“I thought your name was familiar but it's common enough. But horror? That is much too narrow a term for what you write.” He leaned in to match her lean back. “My colleague bought your book and when he was done he handed it to me, insisting that I read it immediately. And he was absolutely correct. He will be unspeakably jealous that he did not speak with you.”
Knowing that she was blushing furiously, Mel fought not to hide behind her hair. “Well, uhm, I have copies with me. For the signing tomorrow.” She shrugged. “I'm no Stephen King, but at least you'll have proof?”
Rathers actually clapped. “That would be marvelous! He might forgive me if I managed that.”
Now she did hide her face for a moment. “So now you know all about what I do. Tell me abut you?” What she meant was 'Dear God, take the spotlight off me.”
He waved her off. “I am a business man. Wheeling and dealing and none of it ever really matters. The only advantage to any of it is that I travel and get to meet interesting people.”
“A business man? That's terribly vague. You could do anything from pork futures to.... international real estate.” What Mel knew about either of those things would fill a thimble.
Rathers shrugged. “I've done both, actually. Sometimes on the same day. I...facilitate other people's needs. Robbing Peter to pay Paul actually works quite well if you do it right.”
Something in his expression changed for just an instant and Mel desperately wanted to ask just what he was thinking of, but something told her not to. She was absolutely going to remember that phrase, though. “And you do it well.” It absolutely was not a question. She'd noticed his suit, after all.
He nodded. “Generally, yes. It's all about knowing how people value an item or service. It's up to them to decide. The trick is to balance your needs and theirs. It's best if they come out ahead, of course.” He smiled faintly. “Then they come back for more.”
“Not so different from what I do. Never fill in the blanks. Horror is about suggesting the evil.” It was a familiar topic for her. Part of the explanation of 'where she got her ideas' that seemed to come up at every autograph session. “If there isn't a question of what really happened then...then its a slasher movie and I hate those.”
He gave a slightly startled laugh. “God, yes. All about sexual repression and guilt. And blood. Not subtle at all.”
He absolutely earned points with her for that reaction. She was all set to question him more on that when their desserts came. She'd forgotten about them completely. He made very happy noises when the dishes appeared and thanked their waitress profusely.
Mel watched the woman's reaction carefully. Once she was gone and they'd each had a few bites of their pie, which was even better than he'd said, Mel put her fork down for a moment. “Is that how you do it? How you figure out what they need?”
When he saw her fork was down, he put his down too so he could focus on her question. “What did I do? I only said thank you. You did as well.”
“I think I said, 'Oh wow thanks' while a forkful of pie was already on it's way to my mouth. You did a bit more than that.” He'd told the waitress how lovely the plate was and how much he'd looked forward to it. All with his hand lightly, very politely, on her arm.
“What does a waitress want more than anything”
“Tips....” The moment the word was out Mel understood her mistake. “Appreciation. Recognition for how hard this job is.” She'd waited tables, but not for long. It was a horrible job. “But how do you figure it out for something bigger?”
He absolutely beamed at her, which was a remarkably attractive look on him. “But don't you see, it's the same no matter the goal. People are people. They care about their families, they want recognition, they want revenge. Anything else is a matter of scale.”
She gave that some thought. Even the grandest goals she could think of pretty much boiled down to variations on those themes. Finally she nodded and ticked things off on her fingers as she spoke, “Food, housing, family,respect, pride. Maslow.” That was something she always tried to remember in creating characters and motivations. “But still, negotiating the scale of those needs can be tricky if you don't know the whole story.”
He shrugged. “That's where research and building relationships comes in. You have to enjoy people.”
“Which you clearly do.” She didn't fool herself that he'd sat with her because he thought she was cute. He'd been intrigued by her work.
That got another broad grin. “I do. Even the worst people have something interesting about them, something that drives them. They might be repugnant, but you can still find a way to sway them.” He grin actually grew. “And if you can find a way to....inconvenience them in the process? All the better.”
She laughed. “Screw them over, you mean. So your business has a conscience. That's rare enough these days.”
“Of course,” he insisted. “You must have some sort of standards. You must have a reputation.”
She thought about that for a moment. “I wonder what mine looks like. Not that the people I talk to have that much chance to really talk to each other, but still. People won't talk to me if I don't treat them with respect.”
“And that's important? That people talk to you? I thought writing was a solitary thing. Don't you have a garret somewhere?”
She glanced at her papers. “Uhm...no. I have a one bedroom, barely, in the City.”
He waved a hand. “I've seen those places. You have a garret.” He clearly was building his own image of her.
“I suppose. But I'm not there often. I'm on the road nine months of the year. I go back to Ohio for my parent's birthdays and for Christmas and Thanksgiving. And the rest of the time I'm in...my garret. Usually arguing with my editor and doing signings in the Ctiy.”
“That's a lot of travel for something you can do from your living room.”
She shook her head. “I can't. I have to talk to people, hear their stories. Without that my stories would be nothing.” She wasn't telling their stories, not at all. She just needed that spark. “I've always told stores, ever since I was little. And I've always loved listening to other people's stories. I would sit with the grown ups rather than running around with the other kids.” She shrugged. “Now I travel.”
“Then you're more of a reporter?”
He was clearly bating her and she rolled her eyes. “I'm....a miner. A...a jeweler. I search conversations for tiny veins of something precious. And then...then I take the raw stones, cut them into their purest, most reflective pieces, set them into something new and precious.” And now she flushed darkly.
He nodded, his smile oddly proud. “People's stories are precious. It's rare to see them treated that way.”
She could only agree, so she said nothing. They clearly understood each other. The waitress came over a few moments later and cleared the very nearly clean dessert plates. When the checks came, he tried to grab both of them, but Mel neatly grabbed hers. “Now how can I have bribed you over if you don't let me pay for mine?” His nod came with a laugh, but she noticed he tipped even more extravagantly than she expected.
When they got outside, he walked with her a little way before a car drove up to meet him. At the wheel was a powerfully built black man with a bald head. He was closer to Mel's age. When Rathers saw him, that beaming smile came back. He leaned in a little and spoke just to Mel. “If you were serious about the book, we'll be at the Emerald Bay. For the rest of the week. You can leave it at the desk.”
“Absolutely.” She thanked him for his company at lunch, waved to Dembe the driver, then stepped back so he could get in the car. It was a very nice car.
Mel watched them drive off, then headed straight back to her hotel, which was nowhere near as nice as the Emerald Bay. She signed the book, packaged it up, then sat down to make as many notes as she could about their conversation. Easily half were observations on how he moved. She wanted to remember all it all. If she was in fact a miner, she'd just found pure platinum.
She kept her word and delivered the book the next day, neatly sighed with a note inside for Rathers. She included her publisher's contact info and said if they were ever in New York at the same time, he could buy her dinner.
Dembe Zuma handed Raymond Reddington the note with a raised eyebrow. “You gave her my name?”
Reddington shrugged. “What's the point of the inscription if it's not really to you, my friend.”
Dembe shook his head, but he clutched the book tightly. “We should go to a signing when the new one comes out.”
“Maybe. Maybe we should.”
Corpus Christi was a harbor town, very rough and tumble in some places and elegant in others. Mel liked it just fine, but truth told, it was just another town. She was in a different one every few days, after all, talking to people she'd never see again. That was her life.
She loved it. The freedom of it,, the chance to learn the truth that people only told to strangers. And then she took those truths and told them in her own way. She wasn't sure if anyone she met ever recognized themselves in her stories. Maybe. But there really weren't that many unique truths out there. People lived and died and loved and hated and feared. It was the littlest details that made it personal.
In order to tell stories that reached a broad audience, Mel had to be careful about how many details she put in. It was her constant battle. She might quote a subject verbatim but she would credit a character who was a mix of three completely unrelated people. And then there was the part that came only from her, that something her editor liked to call special sauce. Given that she wrote horror stories, that creeped Mel out a little.
Tonight Mel was in a little restaurant right on the water. She'd asked at her hotel for a recommendation, somewhere people went for the food more than anything. Her plan was to do some editing while she ate and she needed real fuel. She got herself a beer and asked for a few minutes to get set up before she looked at the menu. When she finally had everything ready, she actually blinked at the menu.
She'd been expecting the usual kind of club food, but this looked much better. Lots of fresh seafood and fresh pasta. She ordered a nice fresh salad to go with the shrimp she planned to gorge on, then settled in to work. She had a stack of printouts that amounted to five stories. Or maybe four if she decided the last two really needed to be melded into one.
It was a good place to work, bustling but not loud. Her waitress figured out pretty quickly to keep her water full and let her eat. And the food really was that good. It held up well when she got distracted by her work. By the time she got through the first three stories, she needed a break. After making neat piles of both her papers and her dishes, she waved the waitress over.
“Tell me what your best dessert is?”
Before the waitress could answer, the man at the next table replied firmly, as though he was utterly certain of his answer. “The Cranberry Apple Pie is outstanding. Tart. And the pecan crust it outstanding.” He beamed at her. “That's what I came back for.”
The waitress laughed. “Third day in a row. I'd say that's a pretty good recommendation.”
Mel had to agree so she nodded. “I'll take one. Thank you.” She looked over at her neighbor. “And thank you. I'm terribly indecisive about desserts. They almost all look good. And you can actually get good Key Lime down here, so...”
He nodded firmly. “No one down here feels the need to dye it that horrible green.” He visibly shuddered. “No lime has ever been that color.”
Something about that shudder won her over. Mel stopped the waitress and asked her for a second slice. Then she waved the man over. “Please join me?” He was almost done with his meal and she hoped she could shame him over. She invited people to eat with her all the time. Food had a great way of loosening tongues.
And there was something about him. He was older, maybe a generation older than her. A little heavy and nearly bald, he was still very handsome. She thought he must have been stunning as a young man. She could see it in his eyes and his lips. And then there was the sparkle in his eyes. He knew full well she was studying him.
As he took his seat across from her, Mel noticed two more things. His suit was remarkably nice and he was moving a little stiffly. The stiffness didn't keep him from extending his hand when he introduced himself. “Kenneth Rathers.”
He had a nice shake. Not many people did anymore. “Melinda Duval. Thank you for joining me.”
He laughed softly. “Well, you did bribe me. How could I resist?”
She bowed her head, blushing slightly. “I did, didn't I?”
He nodded. “You did indeed.” He gestured at the papers beside her. “But I'm guessing you wanted a break?”
She glanced over to see if they were in the way at all, shifting them a little to move them into a neater pile. She didn't bother turning them over or hiding anything. They were drafts of stories. What could he tell from one page of edits on a story from an author he'd never heard of? “Editing is where the real work comes in. Which means it not nearly as much fun as the actual writing part.” She shrugged. “But as my editor at my publisher always say, “Anyone can scribble a draft. Only a pro can craft a story.” She managed a decent version of his very Jersey accent which was vastly different from her own middle class Ohioan sound.
Despite his laughter, Rathers nodded firmly. “Quite right, quite right. You must know your audience as well as your message. It's not just...stringing events together.”
He said that last with a dismissive wave of his hand and she raised an eyebrow. “You clearly know something about it. Are you a writer?” It would be a fairly large coincidence but maybe that's why he noticed her.
He shook his head. “No, not me. I haven't the patience. And I need a much more immediate audience, I'm afraid.”
“I can see that.” She'd noticed how he watched her carefully, tracking how she reacted. “That's something I never get. By the time I give a story to my editor, I've done three or four drafts. And then it's months before I read it in a library or a bookstore.” She shook her head. “Nothing immediate about the publishing world.”
“And do you make your living from it?”
Mel nodded. “Barely enough, but more with each collection, so that's good.” As far as she was concerned, she was successful. She could afford to live in New York City. She could pay all her bills. That's all she needed.
“That's excellent. It's much more than most writers do.” He leaned in a little, that sparkle coming back to his eyes. “Stories? Not novels?”
“Stories. They go in magazines and I have my third collection coming out.” She licked her lips. This was the make or break moment. When she told people what she wrote they were very often disbelieving which was just exhausting. “I write horror stories.”
He absolutely beamed at her. “Then you wrote Masks, didn't you?”
She sat back so fast her chair wobbled. This was a first. People came to her signings. She had fans. But no one had recognized her out of the blue this way before. “Uhm....yeah. That's mine.”
“I thought your name was familiar but it's common enough. But horror? That is much too narrow a term for what you write.” He leaned in to match her lean back. “My colleague bought your book and when he was done he handed it to me, insisting that I read it immediately. And he was absolutely correct. He will be unspeakably jealous that he did not speak with you.”
Knowing that she was blushing furiously, Mel fought not to hide behind her hair. “Well, uhm, I have copies with me. For the signing tomorrow.” She shrugged. “I'm no Stephen King, but at least you'll have proof?”
Rathers actually clapped. “That would be marvelous! He might forgive me if I managed that.”
Now she did hide her face for a moment. “So now you know all about what I do. Tell me abut you?” What she meant was 'Dear God, take the spotlight off me.”
He waved her off. “I am a business man. Wheeling and dealing and none of it ever really matters. The only advantage to any of it is that I travel and get to meet interesting people.”
“A business man? That's terribly vague. You could do anything from pork futures to.... international real estate.” What Mel knew about either of those things would fill a thimble.
Rathers shrugged. “I've done both, actually. Sometimes on the same day. I...facilitate other people's needs. Robbing Peter to pay Paul actually works quite well if you do it right.”
Something in his expression changed for just an instant and Mel desperately wanted to ask just what he was thinking of, but something told her not to. She was absolutely going to remember that phrase, though. “And you do it well.” It absolutely was not a question. She'd noticed his suit, after all.
He nodded. “Generally, yes. It's all about knowing how people value an item or service. It's up to them to decide. The trick is to balance your needs and theirs. It's best if they come out ahead, of course.” He smiled faintly. “Then they come back for more.”
“Not so different from what I do. Never fill in the blanks. Horror is about suggesting the evil.” It was a familiar topic for her. Part of the explanation of 'where she got her ideas' that seemed to come up at every autograph session. “If there isn't a question of what really happened then...then its a slasher movie and I hate those.”
He gave a slightly startled laugh. “God, yes. All about sexual repression and guilt. And blood. Not subtle at all.”
He absolutely earned points with her for that reaction. She was all set to question him more on that when their desserts came. She'd forgotten about them completely. He made very happy noises when the dishes appeared and thanked their waitress profusely.
Mel watched the woman's reaction carefully. Once she was gone and they'd each had a few bites of their pie, which was even better than he'd said, Mel put her fork down for a moment. “Is that how you do it? How you figure out what they need?”
When he saw her fork was down, he put his down too so he could focus on her question. “What did I do? I only said thank you. You did as well.”
“I think I said, 'Oh wow thanks' while a forkful of pie was already on it's way to my mouth. You did a bit more than that.” He'd told the waitress how lovely the plate was and how much he'd looked forward to it. All with his hand lightly, very politely, on her arm.
“What does a waitress want more than anything”
“Tips....” The moment the word was out Mel understood her mistake. “Appreciation. Recognition for how hard this job is.” She'd waited tables, but not for long. It was a horrible job. “But how do you figure it out for something bigger?”
He absolutely beamed at her, which was a remarkably attractive look on him. “But don't you see, it's the same no matter the goal. People are people. They care about their families, they want recognition, they want revenge. Anything else is a matter of scale.”
She gave that some thought. Even the grandest goals she could think of pretty much boiled down to variations on those themes. Finally she nodded and ticked things off on her fingers as she spoke, “Food, housing, family,respect, pride. Maslow.” That was something she always tried to remember in creating characters and motivations. “But still, negotiating the scale of those needs can be tricky if you don't know the whole story.”
He shrugged. “That's where research and building relationships comes in. You have to enjoy people.”
“Which you clearly do.” She didn't fool herself that he'd sat with her because he thought she was cute. He'd been intrigued by her work.
That got another broad grin. “I do. Even the worst people have something interesting about them, something that drives them. They might be repugnant, but you can still find a way to sway them.” He grin actually grew. “And if you can find a way to....inconvenience them in the process? All the better.”
She laughed. “Screw them over, you mean. So your business has a conscience. That's rare enough these days.”
“Of course,” he insisted. “You must have some sort of standards. You must have a reputation.”
She thought about that for a moment. “I wonder what mine looks like. Not that the people I talk to have that much chance to really talk to each other, but still. People won't talk to me if I don't treat them with respect.”
“And that's important? That people talk to you? I thought writing was a solitary thing. Don't you have a garret somewhere?”
She glanced at her papers. “Uhm...no. I have a one bedroom, barely, in the City.”
He waved a hand. “I've seen those places. You have a garret.” He clearly was building his own image of her.
“I suppose. But I'm not there often. I'm on the road nine months of the year. I go back to Ohio for my parent's birthdays and for Christmas and Thanksgiving. And the rest of the time I'm in...my garret. Usually arguing with my editor and doing signings in the Ctiy.”
“That's a lot of travel for something you can do from your living room.”
She shook her head. “I can't. I have to talk to people, hear their stories. Without that my stories would be nothing.” She wasn't telling their stories, not at all. She just needed that spark. “I've always told stores, ever since I was little. And I've always loved listening to other people's stories. I would sit with the grown ups rather than running around with the other kids.” She shrugged. “Now I travel.”
“Then you're more of a reporter?”
He was clearly bating her and she rolled her eyes. “I'm....a miner. A...a jeweler. I search conversations for tiny veins of something precious. And then...then I take the raw stones, cut them into their purest, most reflective pieces, set them into something new and precious.” And now she flushed darkly.
He nodded, his smile oddly proud. “People's stories are precious. It's rare to see them treated that way.”
She could only agree, so she said nothing. They clearly understood each other. The waitress came over a few moments later and cleared the very nearly clean dessert plates. When the checks came, he tried to grab both of them, but Mel neatly grabbed hers. “Now how can I have bribed you over if you don't let me pay for mine?” His nod came with a laugh, but she noticed he tipped even more extravagantly than she expected.
When they got outside, he walked with her a little way before a car drove up to meet him. At the wheel was a powerfully built black man with a bald head. He was closer to Mel's age. When Rathers saw him, that beaming smile came back. He leaned in a little and spoke just to Mel. “If you were serious about the book, we'll be at the Emerald Bay. For the rest of the week. You can leave it at the desk.”
“Absolutely.” She thanked him for his company at lunch, waved to Dembe the driver, then stepped back so he could get in the car. It was a very nice car.
Mel watched them drive off, then headed straight back to her hotel, which was nowhere near as nice as the Emerald Bay. She signed the book, packaged it up, then sat down to make as many notes as she could about their conversation. Easily half were observations on how he moved. She wanted to remember all it all. If she was in fact a miner, she'd just found pure platinum.
She kept her word and delivered the book the next day, neatly sighed with a note inside for Rathers. She included her publisher's contact info and said if they were ever in New York at the same time, he could buy her dinner.
Dembe Zuma handed Raymond Reddington the note with a raised eyebrow. “You gave her my name?”
Reddington shrugged. “What's the point of the inscription if it's not really to you, my friend.”
Dembe shook his head, but he clutched the book tightly. “We should go to a signing when the new one comes out.”
“Maybe. Maybe we should.”
