The hook is the line that begins. Some people come up with a vague thought or observation that’s supposed to set up the theme of what you’re about to read. In the writer’s mind, it’s a profound outlook that no one else could identify with before he or she wrote it, but more often than not it’s another garbage concept they picked up from a television movie they saw the week prior. They sleep on it, forget what they saw and how awful it was, and by morning they think it was theirs. Even worse, it’s not uncommon to see entire novels that begin with a quote, which at it’s best is fair use plagiarism.
But once every so often someone will pull from their loins a hook as iconic as,
“It was a bright cold day in April, and the clocks were striking thirteen.”
The hook is the line that begins and without a proper beginning who can hope to get a reader to hear what he or she has to say? The pressure is incomparable. What I guess I’m wondering is this: is it more important to have meaning in the first few words of what you’re trying to get people to read or just another eye catcher so you can then say what’s actually in your heart?
Branching out into this new career path I have yet to really stumble upon the answer, or whether there even is one, or if it would matter at all; but still there’s an itch just behind my left eye that I can’t help but feeling would go away if I found it out.
The truth is, no matter how many flash fiction short stories or shit poems I don’t finish I can never seem to escape the all meaningful, yet pretentious, hook. I can never really tell if it’s interesting to me because I wrote it or if it actually has some substance to it. That’s where Terra Riley comes in.
A bit open minded and viciously loquacious, she is the best God-damned editor I could’ve asked for, plus she works pro bono, until I make any money at least, which doesn’t hurt her chances in the runnings for the “Best Person in My Shit-Life Award”. We’ve known each other since we were children growing up in the borough of Renovo, Pennsylvania. Only about five hundred kids went to our high school so it was hard not to know any girl that was within a grade or two of you.
All that doesn’t really matter though. The point is, the girl is so smart she talks and it’s like my brain develops arthritis. The fact that she’s an editor and not a writer herself astounds me, but she says that she likes tearing apart literature bit by bit more than she does building it. Says that editing someone else’s writing is just quantifying a piece of art, which is just another form of art itself. She can break down my own writing into the most minute pieces and explain what I’m trying to say better than I can. It’s incredible.
That amazing talent has lead to Ms. Riley making what I would consider to be too much money for any human being, so I guess I don’t feel too guilty about her stripping apart the trash that pours out of my key board and on to her desk. And man she really does tear it apart too. I once managed to pump out a fifty-seven thousand word novella in a month. Her editing process took two months. With all the notes and corrections I didn’t ever even resubmit it for publishing. She wasn’t very appreciative of that little throw away. As always though, Terra handled her frustrations exceedingly well. She threw a twenty-two inch flat screen at me.
By my praise, you’re probably wondering how far ahead is the point where these two fuck, but this story isn’t about that. Don’t misinterpret what I mean, I would definitely like to get intimate with a few of her more prominent assets, but she’s a perfect professional, and I actually respect that.
I’m writing the story about me, a man who’s been a full time writer for over a year now and hasn’t published anything aside from a couple of unoriginal sci-fi shorts, two free verse poems, and a haiku that when translated from English into Japanese has three lines of eight then eight then four syllables, which I’m pretty sure means it’s not actually a haiku, but just another three line free verse. And it’s all because I’m stuck on the god-damned hook.
Tonight I’m staying at the Boulder Station hotel and casino. It’s not on the strip, but the room was forty-three dollars. I mean, how am I supposed to gamble away the five hundred I made for contributing to Arbituo: a Space Anthology if I spend it all on the room? Plus the place is filled with locals, so the blackjack tables are way more fair. Some of you might say that my gambling is a bad habit, but I would submit to you that it’s really a statement about how frivolous spending should, in theory, stimulate our monetarily ran pseudo-capitalistic government; but secretly it only stimulates the people to look at our circus fuck entertainment industry just long enough so that no one notices how the wage gap gets just a little bigger every year.
Earlier I made the mistake of splitting fives while the dealer was showing a six. The smart thing to do would have been to double down, but I figured the true count of the deck was plus four so I just went for it. Pulled one hand fifteen and the other eleven, doubled on eleven: statistically the smart thing to do. Just my luck I got an ace bringing that eleven up to a twelve. Still cool I thought , the decks still at plus three and a half dealers showing a six, almost assuredly a bust. Dealer flipped his down card and showed an ace. Unbeknownst to me, this specific table stays on a soft seventeen. I lost ninety dollars on one hand. After that I colored up and got the fuck out of there.
Now I’m up in my room sitting on sheets I’m confident weren’t washed after the last customer’s stay, debating on calling a number I got off of one of those escort cards they hand out outside the Bellagio and Caesar’s Palace. I could probably go down to the strip and convince some bachelorette party left over to take the fifteen minute cab ride back to my hotel room, but honestly I just haven’t been in the mood for effort lately.
Anything I do that requires more attention than entertainment value feels like nine-thirty Monday morning at the packing plant I worked at when I was nineteen. Twelve hours a day five days a week which I spent trudging my way to the bed every night so I could enjoy the weekend. Only I didn’t enjoy the weekend because I was so strung out making nine dollars an hour I spent my weekends curled up on the bed watching another episode of CSI: whatever. And it’s all because I fell for it. I believed that working hard is it’s own reward, that it would satisfy me to know that I tried my best. Fuck that. Working hard sucks and the people who say otherwise either don’t want you to know how lethargic their life has become, or they’re above you in the chain of command and they’re trying to get you to pat yourself on the back so that they don’t have to.
Now I know what you must be thinking. Provided that I’ve already admitted to an affinity for booze, whores, and gambling, this is probably just another story about a broken writer who can’t seem to get his shit together long enough to stop getting in his own way. If you believe that you’re wrong again. I believe my tragic flaw is how truly uneventful my life is.
Sure I’m not exactly the happiest person, but I’m not really sad either. I just recognize how boringly middling my life has become. The vices aren’t a distraction from a tragic existence. They just fill a lot of time when I have nothing better to do. My life isn’t backed up with relationships or responsibilities the way most people’s are. When I was young I thought that was freeing, but now I realize this life is just as stale and stodgy and staid as every other small town guy, but I don’t have anyone to complain about it to. Scratch that, I can complain to the escorts, but they always want a tip .
Becoming Writer 2016 Anniversary Contest 