This excerpt came from a trainhopping article, now over a decade old. Except to my mind, the detective's name was Quackenworth. His stepfather was a conductor, but this minor coincidence had no bearing on Quackenworth's life path as a private eye of the fright train. No, Quackenworth shaped his destiny from an early age by counting every boxcar at train crossings, knowing the evil onslaught must pass after he'd reached the right number. If only he could compile the optimal amount of clues, justice would once again ride high along the train tracks.
That's how I feel about words, but whatever the day of the week, I'm dying a slow death by disorganization. I'm working a web writing job that requires me to fact check, cross reference, be creative, give constructive feedback and edit for a range of lessons and subjects as quickly as possible. I also somehow agreed to take on the role of fiction genre editor for a new magazine that involves creating a reputable first issue from scratch while coordinating and assigning submissions to seven co-editors, all of whom are older if not twice my age and seem way more experienced. These are excellent opportunities and outstanding people have my back in both cases, but I have to ask: when did I become an editor instead of a writer?
Add to this navigating adulthood, that strange world of contracts, taxes, bills, and more bills, and I'm like Detective Quackenworth counting boxcars, knowing that there has to be a cutoff, a safe crossing point, right? So, this week I vowed to transform back into a writer by sending out as many submissions as possible.
Since graduating from my MFA program, I've only sent out five submissions, which is, well, pathetic. I decided that if I could get just one publication anywhere, then I could call myself a real writer. I looked through a lot of my past work and finally decided on three short stories that would be the foundation of my getting published arsenal. I'd originally planned to send these three stories to as many places as possible, knowing that, in all probability, I'd have a better chance of getting accepted at least somewhere.
Again, there had to be a cutoff point, some magical number of submissions that would result in my first publication and being able to call myself a real writer. Except as I compiled unfamiliar websites and revised my all too familiar stories, I realized that only one of the stories in my arsenal (I liked it the least) was well-written. After losing a day, I finally ended up sending just that one story to a journal that I knew and respected. I want my first publication to mean something, and I think my other approach would have been the same as fucking anything with a hole and claiming I'd found true love.
Instead, I decided to spend this week writing the best damn page that I could. I also wanted it to be a complete story...
I first heard the story about a goldfish named Adolph about three years ago in Chicago. This goldfish wasn't always named Adolph. The fish's owner traveled out of state and left the goldfish alone in his apartment. The owner's landlord illegally moved all the stuff, including the goldfish, into storage. A month later, the owner returned, recovered his belongings, and found the goldfish still alive, somehow surviving in water only a few inches high and muddy with feces – not only this, but the goldfish had grown considerably.
The owner marveled at the amazing survival ability of his fish and then forgot it about it again, this time in the bottom of a cooler. The owner remembered the fish after moving apartments and found it squirming in water that now looked like chocolate milk filled with raisins... the fish was even bigger. The owner finally put the goldfish in a nice, new tank with clean water - all seemed well until he started adding other fish. This monstrous fish murdered all newcomers by ramming them in the gills. So, the goldfish spent the rest of its days in solitude, sometime thrashing around in the fake plants or nibbling its own poop. Somewhere along the way, the owner decided to name it Adolph. Personally, I would've named the goldfish Genghis, Stalin, or Rasputin, but it wasn't my fish.
I first wrote the goldfish story down after missing a flight and having to wait four hours for the next plane while contemplating Purgatory. It was really more of a blog post that anything.
A few months ago, I reworked it into a shorter story, about 1500 words long. This time it was a story within a story being told to a stubborn prisoner by an interrogator. The interrogator tells this admittedly juvenile story and comes off as stupid to the prisoner, who is with holding an important molecular formula. The prisoner begins to point out flaws, plot holes, becoming more invested in the story as the interrogator plods along. When he finishes the story, the interrogator leaves the holding chamber for a few seconds and comes back in with a cooler. Instead of containing a huge, forgotten goldfish, it's loaded with rations. The interrogator drops the stupid act and only taps an imaginary glass wall before leaving the prisoner to wait out his own forgotten goldfish story.
Writer friends gave me feedback – one suggested that I have the story take place after the goldfish story has been told and while the prisoner is stuck living it out. I limited myself to one notebook page while trying to recapture this story. This time I put it in second person.
The prisoner doesn't care about the goldfish's name – he's too busy trying to remember the name of the interrogator (a prim, proper, merciless woman) who told him the story, hoping to hasten her return and willing to say what needs to be said to leave his tank. He doesn't hate her; he blames the goldfish. Each day the fluid (some of it his own filth and some pumped in from outside) in his tank rises a little more. He worries that he's shrinking as the fluid rises, since the fish in the story grows as its water levels fall. Oh yeah, he's also been trying to keep afloat on this styrofoam cooler that's bigger than a coffin – some guards dragged it into his tank while the woman told him the story. Like the previous version, the cooler came filled with rations – now another piece of it crumbles away as he wonders if a goldfish can really survive on its own filth. Mostly though, he just wants her to make sense oh so many names ago.
The current goldfish story is actually shorter than the above summary. It's still not ready, but as I've come to memorize the lines to work and rework, everything else began to seem, well, less shitty if not downright enjoyable. I've been noticing Texas wildflowers everywhere I go and can't say for how long they've been there to behold. I also can't say when a story takes shape, but if I'm not yet a real writer, then at least I'm not a goldfish.
This week, I've also been working on follow-up questions as part of an interview with a real writer. We've talked about how society might be more a collection of tendencies than permanent selves. As we unearth these tendencies, abandon some and realign others, we just might be able to change how we think.
One of my follow-ups is along these lines:
Say you wake up tomorrow with a one-time super power, a minor wish. Your writing will connect so fully with one reader's mind and soul that his or her way of thinking will be irrevocably changed. Whose mind do you change?
I began to ask this question of myself. Whose mind would I change: the president of Iran, the Pope, an Alpha Centauri Warlord? There were too many options, so I'd like to change my own mind first. I'd like to stare down paralyzing doubt, challenge it with imagination before taking one step and then another. “Begone Fright Train, for I have another story to tell,” I'd like to shout while charging forth and trusting in each syllable.
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