banned by barry ellis

8/7/2019 BANNED by Barry Ellis

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BANNED!

By Barry Ellis

Billingsley‟s e-mail is characteristically blunt. “Norman, what you‟ve

done is completely unacceptable. Your shenanigans are an affront to all of

us who are serious about what we do and take the time and effort to do it the

right way. I read the story that you attempted to pass off as your own many

years ago. Sheila has as well. It was she who called it to my attention.

After discussing the matter with the other members of the group, I‟m afraidthat I have no choice but to suspend you as a member immediately. Good

luck with your future „writing‟.” Ouch.

Okay, fine. If that‟s the way they want it, that‟s the way they canhave it. The world isn‟t going to come to a stop because I got a little carried

away. Okay, a lot carried away. People get carried away all the time, after

all. I‟m not a murderer or a pedophile or one of those people who steal your credit card number and charge up a bunch of stuff when you‟re not looking.

I didn‟t manipulate the stock market to make a killing and now your dad has

to work another ten years before he can retire. I mean, let‟s keep a sense of

perspective here. I just did what I‟ve been trying to do (poorly) for a very

long time, and I finally did it better, unexpectedly, out of the blue. I just

took a few liberties to do it, that‟s all. And the looks on everyone‟s faces

served as testament to my success. I did it. I impressed them all, even

Billingsley (although he still managed a couple of jibes). He had to agree,

though. It was the best thing I‟d ever written. Nothing else mattered but that

I was admired, which made it all worthwhile. It was like that Mastercard

commercial. Price paid, getting banned from your writers group. Seeing

how they all regarded me before it happened, priceless.

I‟m not saying it was right. I‟m not trying to justify it at all. I‟m

arguing that I was pushed over the edge by trying so hard for so many yearsto write a decent damned story. And by decent, I mean, decent in the eyes of

others. I have notebooks filled with stories that I consider decent, but who

cares what I think? For a writer, it‟s all about what others think. Show mea successful writer who‟d say, “Oh, sure, it would have been okay with me if

I‟d never had anything published at all.” You can‟t do it! Writing is all

about validation. No matter how good you think you are, ultimately



someone else has to believe it too unless, of course, you happen to be a

person who enjoys pissing into the wind.

You ever try writing stories? Well, if you‟re looking for a way to ruin

a perfectly fine day and give yourself a raging headache in the process, try it

sometime. See how far you get. First you‟ll have a hard time coming upwith anything at all. And if you do succeed at wringing a few abject

paragraphs from your unyielding brain, you will invariably find them either

a) uninteresting, b) uninspired, or c) not even close to what you thought

you‟d set out to say. So then you‟ll rip that page out, ball it up, attempt a

three-pointer into the wastebasket (you‟ll miss) and begin the process again,

sucked into endless loop of frustration. When you‟re done, you‟ll look forlornly at the clock and realize that you just wasted two or so hours that

could have been spent doing something of real value like volunteering at the

homeless shelter or cleaning out your fridge.

Even if you do manage to turn out something that you think is superb,

it won‟t be long before you start to despise it. You may finish your session

thinking Wow, I nailed it! Then you‟ll read a really good story by a truly

gifted writer, and your anemic prose suddenly sounds as literary as the

owner‟s manual for your toaster oven.

And please, please, please, don‟t let a friend or relative tell you that

they like your writing. That‟s bad on a few levels. Oh, you‟ll feel mighty

fine about yourself for a minute and begin thinking you‟re really talented,

which, of course, you‟re not. Then you may feel emboldened to think you

might get something published or maybe even win a contest or at least get

honorable mention, which, of course, you won‟t. The people whose job it is

to pass judgment on those sorts of things are looking for stories. They‟re

just not looking for yours. It will take a while for that to dawn on you, but

sooner or later you‟ll get the picture. Finally, you‟ll start to question thejudgment of anyone who actually likes what you‟ve done. Are they just

being kind? Is it pure palaver? Are they lying? Did they even read it? You

end up with an extra reservoir of self doubt. As if you needed more.

Given all of the above, is there any mystery why I resorted to

chicanery? Especially considering my continuing longstanding inability to

impress Billingsley, the self-appointed leader of our group. Just because

he‟s had a couple of pieces published in some obscure journals thatnobody‟s ever heard of and he was three credits shy of his MFA when he



had to quit the program because he got shingles, doesn‟t make him the King

of All Things Written. But he thinks it does, and so does everyone else in

the group so it seems. I was not about to grovel for his favor, but it was

damned annoying to earn a sliver of encouragement from some of the others

only to hear him mutter a few tepid comments about what I‟d done and then

move quickly on. Probably to his protege, William, He Who Can Do No

Wrong. “William, this really is remarkable.” “William, I love your use of

metaphor.” “William, you really should try to find an MFA program. I‟ll give you a reference.”

What about me? I‟m laboring like a coal miner to come up with my

hard-won little stories. They may not be that great, but they‟re not that badeither. And it wouldn‟t have killed Billingsley to say he liked this or that

which I‟ve done, especially when he‟s so effusive with William. And then

to have them all agree in his assessment of William‟s greatness, well, itfinally got to me. I‟d show them all. I was desperate to make Billingsley

and the rest of them see me in a new light, even if it meant… I just should

have been a little more careful about it is all.

The story I picked was one from an old anthology I acquired from

somewhere, not really sure. It‟s one of my favorite stories, about a father

and son, both adults, in the middle of a lake fishing. From that thin premise,

the writer, an M.K. Stout, managed to weave an complex and sensitive tale

of family dynamics, unfulfilled dreams, and atonement. Exactly the kind of

story I would love to write and probably could if my brain weren‟t stuffedwith cotton, which it is, and I was talented, which I‟m not. It‟s the only

story I‟ve ever read by him/her, and it was published in the „60s, so I figured

I was probably safe.

Now, I had heard somewhere, I seem to recall, that copying a favorite

story or a particularly fine piece of writing in your hand can sometimes be a

useful tool to help you feel what it‟s like to write exceptionally. That writer

began with a blank sheet of paper; you begin with a blank sheet of paper.

That makes you even up in a way, right? So then off you go, just like thatwriter did. At least I think I heard it somewhere, but maybe I just made it

up.

And so I began. Slowly at first, each word, each sentence, each

paragraph rendered with such care and precision by M.K. Stout, moving

gracefully into the heart of the tale. I felt a little ridiculous doing it at first,



but as I began reading it while I was writing, it seemed as though I were

really writing it, like I was M.K. Stout, sitting at his/her kitchen table late at

night just like me spinning a marvelous story out of thin air with nothing

more than a pen and a pad of paper. Somewhere after the third page, I

completely forgot what I was doing and just started enjoying the experience.

As I wrote the last few words, a drop of sweat fell from my forehead

on to my tablet. I became aware I was breathing hard and that I was light-

headed. My hands were wet. It was like I‟d just completed a very long run

on a hot day. I‟d never felt anything like that after completing one of my

stories. Whereas before, I was but a flickering wick, I was now absolutely

incandescent. Surely this is how M.K. Stout must have felt when he/she

wrote those final words. Possessed of a weird nervous energy, I could

barely sleep that night.

Either I should have been more judicious in my story choice, or

maybe it was insane of me to have thought I could have ever pulled it off.

It‟s just that I so badly wanted to impress them, which I did for all of about

twelve hours. But now I‟m banned. I can just imagine Billingsley, Mr.

Three Credits Shy of an MFA, and his self-satisfied chuckle at having found

me out and his glee at being able to rat me out. Well, Billingsley can take

his little group to the Himalayas on a slow boat for all I care. They never

appreciated me anyway. You know what? I‟m glad they kicked me out! I

might just start my own group. See how they like that.

So I‟m back to my own stories now. No racing heart, sweaty hands,or dizziness. Just the usual dogged effort that I‟ve always made to tell a

good story. Notebook upon notebook filled with false starts and failed

finishes. That‟s the way it goes for me. Except that now I know what to do

whenever I need to shake myself out of the doldrums. I just won‟t share my

secret with anyone. Who knows, perhaps my children, years down the road

after I‟m gone, will find my notebooks and come across it, think it‟s mine,

and send it in for publication. Maybe some unwitting editor will accept it.Hey, it could happen. And since I‟ll be gone, I won‟t have to explain a

thing.

banned by barry ellis

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