sk.everythingseventual- 第1部分

　　
　　
　　
　　What　I　did　was　take　all　the　spades　out　of　a　deck　of　cards　plus　a　joker。　Ace　to　King　=　1…13。　Joker　=　14。　I　shuffled　the　cards　and　dealt　them。　The　order　in　which　they　came　out　of　the　deck　became　the　order　of　the　stories；　based　on　their　position　in　the　list　my　publisher　sent　me。　And　it　actually　created　a　very　nice　balance　between　the　literary　stories　and　the　all…out　screamers。　I　also　added　an　explanatory　note　before　or　after　each　story；　depending　on　which　seemed　the　more　fitting　position。　Next　collection：　selected　by　Tarot。
　　
　　
　　Introduction：　Practicing　the　（Almost）　Lost　Art
　　Autopsy　Room　Four
　　The　Man　in　the　Black　Suit
　　All　That　You　Love　Will　Be　Carried　Away
　　The　Death　of　Jack　Hamilton
　　In　the　Deathroom
　　The　Little　Sisters　of　Eluria
　　Everything's　Eventual
　　L。T。's　Theory　of　Pets
　　The　Road　Virus　Heads　North
　　Lunch　at　the　Gotham　Café
　　That　Feeling；　You　Can　Only　Say　What　It　Is　in　French
　　1408
　　Riding　the　Bullet
　　Luckey　Quarter
　　　
　　　
　　　
　　　PRACTICING　THE　（ALMOST）
　　　LOST　ART
　　
　　
　　
　　I've　written　more　than　once　about　the　joy　of　writing　and　see　no　need　to　reheat　that　particular　skillet　of　hash　at　this　late　date；　but　here's　a　confession：　I　also　take　an　amateur's　slightly　crazed　pleasure　in　the　business　side　of　what　I　do。　I　like　to　goof　widdit；　do　a　little　media　cross…pollination　and　envelope…pushing。　I've　tried　doing　visual　novels　（Storm　of　the　Century；　Rose　Red）；　serial　novels　（The　Green　Mile）；　and　serial　novels　on　the　Internet　（The　Plant）。　It's　not　about　making　more　money　or　even　precisely　about　creating　new　markets；　it's　about　trying　to　see　the　act；　art；　and　craft　of　writing　in　different　ways；　thereby　refreshing　the　process　and　keeping　the　resulting　artifacts…the　stories；　in　other　words…as　bright　as　possible。
　　I　started　to　write　'keeping　＇the　stories＇　new'　in　the　line　above；　then　deleted　the　phrase　in　the　interest　of　honesty。　I　mean；　e　on　here；　ladies　and　gentlemen；　whom　can　I　possibly　kid　at　this　late　date；　except　maybe　myself？　I　sold　my　first　story　when　I　was　twenty…one　and　a　junior　in　college。　I'm　now　fifty…four；　and　have　run　a　lot　of　language　through　the　2。2…pound　organic　puter/word　processor　I　hang　my　Red　Sox　cap　on。　The　act　of　writing　stories　hasn't　been　new　for　me　in　a　long　time；　but　that　doesn't　mean　it's　lost　its　fascination。　If　I　don't　find　ways　of　keeping　it　fresh　and　interesting；　though；　it'll　get　old　and　tired　in　a　hurry。　I　don't　want　that　to　happen；　because　I　don't　want　to　cheat　the　people　who　read　my　stuff　（that　would　be　you；　dear　Constant　Reader）；　and　I　don't　want　to　cheat　myself；　either。　We're　in　it　together；　after　all。　This　is　a　date　we're　on。　We　should　have　fun。　We　should　dance。
　　So；　keeping　that　in　mind；　here's　yet　another　story。　My　wife　and　I　own　these　two　radio　stations；　okay？　WZON…AM；　which　is　sports　radio；　and　WKIT…FM；　which　is　classic　rock　（'The　Rock　of　Bangor；'　we　say）。　Radio　is　a　tough　business　these　days；　especially　in　a　market　like　Bangor；　where　there　are　too　many　stations　and　not　enough　listeners。　We've　got　contemporary　country；　classic　country；　oldies；　classic　oldies；　Rush　Limbaugh；　Paul　Harvey；　and　Casey　Kasem。　The　Steve　and　Tabby　King　stations　ran　in　the　red　for　a　lot　of　years…not　deep　in　the　red；　but　far　enough　to　bug　me。　I　like　to　be　a　winner；　you　see；　and　while　we　were　winning　in　the　Arbs　（that　would　be　the　Arbitron　ratings；　which　are　to　radio　what　the　Nielsens　are　to　TV）；　we　kept　ing　up　short　on　the　bottom　line　at　the　end　of　the　year。　It　was　explained　to　me　that　there　just　wasn't　enough　ad　revenue　in　the　Bangor　market；　that　the　pie　had　been　cut　into　too　many　slices。
　　So　I　had　an　idea。　I'd　write　a　radio　play；　I　thought；　sort　of　like　the　ones　I　used　to　listen　to　with　my　grandfather　when　I　was　growing　up　（and　he　was　growing　old）　in　Durham；　Maine。　A　Halloween　play；　by　God！　I　knew　about　Orson　Welles's　famous…or　infamous…Hal…loween　adaptation　of　The　War　of　the　Worlds　on　The　Mercury　Theatre；　of　course。　It　was　Welles's　conceit　（his　absolutely　brilliant　conceit）　to　do　H。　G。　Wells's　classic　invasion　story　as　a　series　of　news　bulletins　and　reports。　It　worked；　too。　It　worked　so　well　that　it　sparked　a　national　panic　and　Welles　（Orson；　not　H。G。）　had　to　make　a　public　apology　on　the　following　week's　Mercury　Theatre。　（I　bet　he　made　it　with　a　smile　on　his　face…I　know　I'd　be　smiling；　if　I　were　ever　to　e　up　with　a　lie　so　powerful　and　persuasive。）
　　I　thought　what　had　worked　for　Orson　Welles　would　work　for　me。　Instead　of　starting　with　dance…band　music；　as　the　Welles　adaptation　did；　mine　would　start　with　Ted　Nugent　wailing　on　'Cat　Scratch　Fever。'　Then　an　announcer　breaks　in；　one　of　our　actual　WKIT　air　personalities　（nobody　calls　em　deejays　anymore）。　'This　is　JJ　West；　WKIT　news；'　he　says。　'I'm　in　downtown　Bangor；　where　roughly　a　thousand　people　are　jammed　into　Pickering　Square；　watching　as　a　large；　silvery　disc…like　object　descends　toward　the　ground　。　。　。　wait　a　minute；　if　I　raise　the　mike；　perhaps　you　can　hear　it。'
　　And；　just　like　that；　we'd　be　off　to　the　races。　I　could　use　our　very　own　in…house　production　facilities　to　create　the　audio　effects；　local　munity…theater　actors　to　do　the　roles；　and　the　best　part？　The　very　best　part　of　all？　We　could　record　the　result　and　syndicate　it　to　stations　all　over　the　country！　The　resulting　ine；　I　figured　（and　my　accountant　agreed）；　would　be　'radio　station　ine'　instead　of　'creative　writing　ine。'　It　was　a　way　to　get　around　the　advertising　revenue　shortfall；　and　at　the　end　of　the　year；　the　radio　stations　might　actually　be　in　the　black！
　　The　idea　for　the　radio　play　was　exciting；　and　the　prospect　of　helping　my　stations　into　a　profit　position　with　my　skills　as　a　writer　for　hire　was　also　exciting。　So　what　happened？　I　couldn't　do　it；　that's　what　happened。　I　tried　and　I　tried；　and　everything　I　wrote　came　out　sounding　like　narration。　Not　a　play；　the　sort　of　thing　that　you　see　unspooling　in　your　mind　（those　old　enough　to　remember　such　radio　programs　as　Suspense　and　Gunsmoke　will　know　what　I　mean）；　but　something　more　like　a　book　on　tape。　I'm　sure　we　still　could　have　gone　the　syndication　route　and　made　some　money；　but　I　knew　the　play　would　not　be　a　success。　It　was　boring。　It　would　cheat　the　listener。　It　was　busted；　and　I　didn't　know　how　to　fix　it。　Writing　radio　plays；　it　seems　to　me；　is　a　lost　art。　We　have　lost　the　ability　to　see　with　our　ears；　although　we　had　it　once。　I　remember　listening　to　some　radio　Foley　guy　tapping　a　hollow　block　of　wood　with　his　knuckles　。　。　。　and　seeing　Matt　Dillon　walking　to　the　bar　of　the　Long　Branch　Saloon　in　his　dusty　boots；　clear　as　day。　No　more。　Those　days　are　gone。
　　Playwriting　in　the　Shakespearean　style…edy　and　tragedy　that　works　itself　out　in　blank　verse…is　another　lost　art。　Folks　still　go　to　see　college　productions　of　Hamlet　and　King　Lear；　but　let's　be　honest　with　ourselves：　how　do　you　think　one　of　those　plays　would　do　on　TV　against　Weakest　Link　or　Survivor　Five：　Stranded　on　the　Moon；　even　if　you　could　get　Brad　Pitt　to　play　Hamlet　and　Jack　Nicholson　to　do　Polonius？　And　although　folks　still　go　to　such　Elizabethan　extravaganzas　as　King　Lear　or　Macbeth；　the　enjoyment　of　an　art…form　is　light…years　from　the　ability　to　create　a　new　example　of　that　art…form。　Every　now　and　then　someone　tries　mounting　a　blank…verse　production　either　on　Broadway　or　off　it。　They　inevitably　fail。
　　Poetry　is　not　a　lost　art。　Poetry　is　better　than　ever。　Of　course　you've　got　the　usual　gang　of　idiots　（as　the　Mad　magazine　staff　writers　used　to　call　themselves）　hiding　in　the　thickets；　folks　who　have　gotten　pretension　and　genius　all　confused；　but　there　are　also　many　brilliant　practitioners　of　the　art　out　there。　Check　the　literary　magazines　at　your　local　bookstore；　if　you　don't　believe　me。　For　every　six　crappy　poems　you　read；　you'll　actually　find　one　or　two　good　ones。　And　that；　believe　me；　is　a　very　acceptable　ratio　of　trash　to　treasure。
　　The　short　story　is　also　not　a　lost　art；　but　I　would　argue　it　is　a　good　deal　closer　than　poetry　to　the　lip　of　the　drop　into　extinction's　pit。　When　I　sold　my　first　short　story　in　the　delightfully　antique　year　of　1968；　I　was　already　bemoaning　the　steady　attrition　of　markets：　the　pulps　were　gone；　the　digests　were　going；　the　weeklies　（such　as　The　Saturday　Evening　Post）　were　dying。　In　the　years　since；　I　have　seen　the　markets　for　short　stories　continue　to　shrink。　God　bless　the　little　magazines；　where　young　writers　can　still　publish　their　stories　for　contributors'　copies；　and　God　bless　the　editors　who　still　read　the　contents　of　their　slush　piles　（especially　in　the　wake　of　2001's　anthrax　scare）；　and　God　bless　the　publishers　who　still　greenlight　the　occasional　anthology　of　original　stories；　but　God　won't　have　to　spend　His　whole　day…or　even　His　coffee　break…blessing　those　people。　Ten　or　fifteen　minutes　would　do　the　trick。　Their　number　is　small；　and　every　year　there　are　one　or　two　fewer。　Story　magazine；　a　lodestar　for　young　writers　（including　myself；　although　I　never　actually　published　there）；　is　now　gone。　Amazing　Stories　is　gone；　despite　repeated　efforts　to　revive　it。　Interesting　science…fiction　magazines　such　as　Vertex　are　gone；　and；　of　course；　the　horror　mags　like　Creepy　and　Eerie。　Those　wonderful　periodicals　are　long　gone。　Every　now　and　t