J. M. Unrue (Mike)

I’m an old guy, a dreaded boomer, a curmudgeonly curmudgeon; someone who has seen it all and seen too much. I am a Woodstock baby, a bleeding heart, a dinosaur who doesn’t have a clue about how things should be done now. I am more wizened than wise and straddle the fine line between eccentric and obstreperous.

I hate the superficiality of social media. I hate it more that people love it. I hate it more still that people no one should know are famous for hyperbole and the superfluous use of the word epic.

I hate reality TV. My kids love The Bachelor. In my admittedly outré world, the happy couple would be forced to stay married at least ten years and work their crummy jobs while their luster faded. Should they fail, they would spend the remainder of the ten years in the same jail cell. Live and in color!

Well…

I have written eight books of fiction. No two are alike. I do not write in a single genre. I used to think this was a good thing. I have written social satire, sci-fi/fantasy, and Americana.

Despite such prescient limitations and consequent dyspepsia, I decided to write a love story, an honest-to-God, dyed-in-the-wool love story filled with hugging-and-kissing-and-houghmagandy (look it up).

I will, of course, be revealed as a sap, a quasi-whimsical romantic yearning for irretrievable youth, as opposed to the erudite elder statesman I yearn to be. So be it.

It gets even weirder.

Not only was my inclination to pen an epic tale of man-woman amour, I decided to write the whole thing in dialogue—an entire novel. Nearly 9000 lines. I recently wrote a short story collection in dialogue and had an epiphany that I was onto something—or else my Doritos came from ergot-infested corn.

I just hope Nora Roberts doesn’t puke in her oatmeal.

There you have it. Love in Words and Music. My paean to intransigence.

Ah, but what a lovely web I’ve woven, a lifelong affair filled with humor, affection, and abiding devotion. Spicy and sweet like the Honey Bar-B-Q at B-Dubs.

Ain’t life grand.

P.S. Special eBook introductory price. A buck. What a bargain! Buy it. Make an old man smile.

A question often overlooked before starting any writing project, though tacitly understood and relevant to the task, is What am I trying to prove?

Certainly, hopes for literary credibility, dreams of commercial success, the establishment of name recognition sufficient to generate interest for future projects, money (of course), all exist at the outset. These serve as both cause and effect—the impetus to continue, the culmination of plotting and planning and sheer mental effort, the enormous amount of energy and patience required, the reason for doing the damn thing in the first place.

Rarely would one in some still, quiet hour, perhaps in those early waking moments before the sun fully blooms, with that first cup of coffee to repel the last vestiges of sleep, and embracing the calm of a new day, turn to mind and think—

What am I trying to prove?

For me, and admittedly this is a vanity, I have always sought uniqueness, much to my detriment and dissatisfaction. There is nothing particularly ennobling in such endeavors. To attract a readership beyond a single story, a writer clings to a genre, commits to a style, becomes more proficient, and creates consistency in the hope of building a following.

What am I trying to prove?

Craftsmanship, certainly, an affection for elliptical phraseology and rhythmic syntax, a sardonic worldview (oh yes), and the virtue of sentimentality (I can’t seem to help myself). Beyond this—and in my own defense uniqueness is not simply being different—to attain and adhere to a self-subscribed quality level.

What I have grasped in my simple, ignominious way, is that uniqueness requires not only a host of tenebrous, almost otherworldly qualities, but advocacy from people who recognize this distinction, and exists beyond your Granny saying what a special boy you are, and is, in fact, as remote as it is indecipherable. 

What am I trying to prove?

Several years ago, I wrote a short story about an imagined conversation between Jesus and Buddha in the afterlife—satire, mind you, though with a certain philosophical bent. I ultimately decided to employ dialogue only. I had several other stories, and set about writing them strictly in dialogue, just to see if I could, at least to my own satisfaction.

The result is my new book God on a Budget and other stories in dialogue. Who knows, maybe I’m onto something.

Still, I haven’t answered the question, and I suppose I should, if for no other reason than to articulate a purpose for such a purposeless exercise.

What am I trying to prove?

That in the effort to get it right, I have produced something unique. Granted, this is not qualitative assessment. This does not address a level of artistry or even soundness.

This simply means that I pulled it off and am (mainly) pleased with the outcome.

After all, we all have something to prove. Don’t we?

When all the results are tallied, there are only three fundamental conclusions a writer can make to end a story—life is good, life’s a bitch, life is survivable.

People tend to like happy, feel-good endings, a portent of a promising future, everything all tied up nice and neat. The reason for this is simple. The real world is a messy place, rife with apprehension, a daily slog with gremlins hiding everywhere. We know we are being manipulated by the writer. We just don’t care. We need the elevation of spirit the same way people need church. A surrogate buoyancy to get us through the next round of stressors.

The adverse of this deals with the prospect of ultimate failure. This is honest in that such is the case for all of us at any given time, forays into discouragement that lay us low, strain our coping skills, and last as long as they last. The dishonesty stems from the pretense that a desperate end somehow equates to artfulness. A hero is only valuable as a dead one. Someone has to suffer interminably or the real world is left hungry for verity. We rejoin our lives with a skewed sense of gratitude. We leave an immaterial world with the belief that life is indeed unkind but at least we’re not on the receiving end—this time.

The last intends to illustrate that all life is a matter of perspective. Happiness is transient. Death can be a blessing. Nothing can truly thwart us as long as we have a happy face emoji at the ready. Optimism is not only a choice, but a way of life. Of course, so is pessimism. We spend our lives at the fulcrum, proactive or not, reactionary or inert. Careers sour, but there are new opportunities. Relationships fail, but new hope exists. Life is never one thing. Life is what you make it, unless you are a privileged legatee.

As a writer, I tend toward the first, though with qualifications.

First, the real world is for journalists, not fiction-writers. You want to pee in the pool, write an op-ed. Don’t bring doom and gloom to the table just because you think you’re a poet.

Secondly, regardless of attendant tribulations, there is always an exit. At least until you stop drawing breath. This is not optimism. This is reality. The ebb and flow of life does not allow for ultimate defeat—only evolution. One step forward, two steps back, still provokes a change-of-direction. Our existence on this earthbound plane is not static, nor will it ever be.

Lastly, hope is not a delusion. Hope exists because there is a frame of reference for enrichment. If there has ever been love, love is real. If there has ever been success, there is potential. If peace-of-mind has inhabited the psyche but for a fleeting moment, we may yet recognize sanity.

The fiction writer brings all of these elements to bear within the same story. What we have learned is that the true ending is never the last word on the page.

 Beginning January 2, 2024, The Festival of Sin and other tales of fantasy will be on a temporary eBook promo for $.99.