Other Songs, Other Stories

 

In 1968, the world lost a musical genius named Wes Montgomery. Even if you don’t know Jazz, or his masterpiece, Bumpin’ on Sunset, you probably know Wes’ music from easy-listening radio. A consummate artist and seminal jazzman, Wes blazed a path across the post-Bebop landscape when the genre norm was saxophone, trumpet, vibraphone—anything but guitar.

Yet, even if you do know the music, you still may not know Wes Montgomery. He hit his stride as the Jazz form was in decline and guitars were associated more with English boys sporting ugly haircuts. Ironically, Wes’ best known recordings, (in this country) were covers of Lennon and McCarthy’s Day In the Life, Daniel Flores’ Tequila, and The Association’s syrupy-sweet Wendy. 

In Europe, Wes sold out 1000 seat halls. But in the states he played nightclubs and worked Indiana factories during the day.

After the demise of Pitch Madness (pitmad twitter) I recalled, again, that what many of us write isn’t currently in fashion. This isn’t a humble-brag screed or a down-nose at what anyone else is doing. Quite the opposite, I want you and me to write what our hearts desire to read. 

Like many of you, I write genre. And, like many of you, I’ve repeatedly polished up my little ditties and put them out there only to be met with ocassional rejection but more often silence from agents, publishers, and panels. It can be defeating to say the least.

"I wanted to be a Beatle. But I couldn’t because I’m Ozzy Osborne."  –Himself

The temptation to write sparkly vampires, or plucky-post-apocalyptic Mary Sues, or Mr. Darcy stand-ins who fiddle around with kink can be strong. Especially when it seems like that is all the agents want. 

Again, there’s nothing wrong with any of that. But early-on in your writing journey, you many not know that. 

When I started writing, after years of reading Ludlum, (multiple best seller in the thriller genre) my first attempt was a spy story. I think I made it 25K words before I lost interest. But I also read a lot of Ed McBain and Thomas Harris, (similar sales records) so I tried a police thriller. I made, maybe, 12K words. A decade of reading Robert B. Parker inspired me to try my hand at a PI. If I made it to 2500 words on my gumshoe I’d be shocked.  

Sure, I also read Edwin Torres and Donald Westlake, (most of his pen-names, anyway) as well as Elmore Leonard and George Higgins. Their stuff was edgy, certainly not mainstream, and difficult to find. Higgins and Torres was out of print for years as were many of the Stark novels despite the fact that both authors’ work were adapted into movies.  

The other guys were more accessible. They got read. They got praised. I wanted to be read and praised. When that didn't happen over night, I grew discouraged.

For a long time, I wrote nothing except term papers and essays. By the time I finished school, I was burnt on writing. English classes—literary dissection, snobbery, and bias—killed my confidence. Literature really is sadomasochistic.

For a long time after that I read other people’s stories, watched other people’s stories on the screen, and listened to other people’s stories in song. Then my Missus took me to my first-ever book signing with the great Walter Mosley. 

"Whatever you read, whatever you write, it’s supposed to be fun."  –Walter Mosley

There were probably 75 people packed in a room intended for maybe 20. I don’t even remember what the question was but his answer clicked with me. 

After studying details of real CIA “intrigues” in Africa, South America, and Asia I found little fun in writing spies. The po-po that McBain and Harris wrote didn’t reconcile with my family history. We’re from that side of town where the cops are often as bad, if not worse than the criminals. I once met famed Houston P.I. Clyde Wilson. It took me two days to get the smell of bullshit out of my nose.  

So, yeah, Ludlum, Harris, and Parker are authors I enjoyed reading. But as perfectly fine as their stories are, they’re not my stories. I write crime with Louisiana accents, big New Mexico vistas, and Texas savagery. My guys seldom get the "girl." More often than not, the she "gets" them. Far from damsels in distress or villainous vixens, my dames are head-knockers, showstoppers, and bosses. 

I started writing the night I got home from Mr. Mosley’s signing and it took me less than 6 months to finish a 60K word crime novel featuring a codeine-addicted car thief. I’ve spent something-something years since then learning how to turn the story I committed to paper into a coherint, cohessive novel. In that time, I’ve had some near misses with representation and publication. Every year there is the temptation to attempt another kind of story—space opera, sword-and-sandal epic, drag-queen gunfighters—personally interesting or not. Then I hear a Wes Montgomery tune.

In the decades since his death, Wes Montgomery’s original recordings have enjoyed a renaissance. His work has been covered by everyone from Earl Klugh to Pat Metheny. I can only wonder at the music we might’ve gotten if Wes hadn’t yielded to label pressure to record pop tunes. As writers we spend years, or decades, finding and developing our voice to write our stories. We must be uncompromising in our vision. 

Tell your stories. Write with the voice that resonates with you. Otherwise, why write it at all? 

The photo above, Wes Montgomery 1967 Gibson Portrait is in the public domain and use is covered under Creative Commons.