In which the author implores you buy my story and tells another for free.
When I was a sad round boy I used to call my middle school teachers at home when I was lonely. I just wanted someone to pick up the phone. I had this one teacher, Mr. S. I thought he was someone that understood me. I thought he was my sad round boy mentor but, in retrospect, he was not someone a sad round boy should have been left alone with.
I used to imprint on older men, follow them with big round boy puppy eyes, collecting their tossed off affections and approvals. I wanted to be a better sad round boy and I thought they could tell me how. I wanted my brother back, my dad, my favorite ghosts. I admired charming monsters and sometimes they looked at me with vicious sad round boy devouring eyes and I thought I heard them say “sad round boy, you can do this” but they never did.
So I got taller, less round. I paid a lot for therapy. And taxes. And a custom URL. But I always had this unresolved craving for a Mentor with the big letters. I imagined a Punk Rock Novelist. Blue collar. Self-made. He would tell me How it Was and he would be foul mouthed and honest and vulnerable and he’d tell me he’d been through 37 kinds of Hell, had a closet full of souvenirs and matching scars, and he’d say “I understand you and believe me because of the 37 kinds of Hell thing we just talked about, Erik: you can fucking do this.”
There is no Punk Rock Novelist. He’s just a character I wrote because I needed him. And maybe I still imprinted on him. Maybe I still wanted his tossed off affections and approvals. Maybe I thought I needed them. Turns out, I didn’t.
So, Space Cocaine. Zip zap COVID-19 fun times short fiction hell yeah. Some very wonderful people invited me to join their madcap adult supervision recommended anthology, Space Cocaine: the Zoom Situation, and I wrote them a story called “Whispers.” I wrote it when I was lonely and just wanted someone to pick up the phone and understand me. It’s about our hero, Vanessa. She’s blue collar, self-made, foul mouthed, honest, and vulnerable. She really doesn’t have a clue how it is but she’s been through 37 kinds of Hell and she’s so scarred and she’s so scared to open the door and go outside. But she needs to save the girl, doesn’t she? She’s our hero. Our hero, she needs a Mentor with the big letters and she gets one. It’s the one she never expected and the one she’s always needed.
I’m the Punk Rock Novelist. I’m the Mentor with the big letters and I swear, frequently and through 37 kinds of Hell and back, you can fucking do this. Every sad round boy, every funny shaped sloppy feeling person in the whole infinite multiverse, you are stronger than a minotaur and you can do the thing that scares you. Believe me.