STORY: From Kvetch to Krekhts: Not a Bestseller

I am destined to disappointment. Like an unwanted child, I will never be able to please my maker. Nothing I do will ever be right, and I will never be given “the best,” as it will be saved for my “wanted” siblings. I guess to a certain degree I’ve always known my destiny, but I indulged myself in false hope. From the beginning, I was a story nobody cared to read.
Most stories require rewrites, many tries before being completed. If this says anything, I was conceived in the backseat of a moving Chrysler New Yorker on a trip to West Virginia. A passing thought, a whim is what I am. My creation involved no forethought, no planning. I am more of a journal entry than a story. And yet, instead of ending my misery or going off on a tangent like a journal entry should, my mother pushes me forward, refusing to leave me alone. She knows and I know – and she knows that I know – that nothing will become of me, and yet she pushes me, trying to fool me into thinking that I can please her, thinking if she pushes me enough that I might do something right. Well, no, not me. I know a tease when I see one, and I’m not going to let her push me into delusions of grandeur so she can put me in some loony bin. I’d rather go straight into the trash bin quickly and painlessly instead of in some roundabout, prolonged, painful emotionally draining way.
And so she continues. I can read her mind. I guess you’d call me omnivorous – or is that omniscient? Well, I know she’s taking breaks, watching the road and thinking of her wonderful trip across the United States through Mount Rushmore, the Badlands, Yellowstone and Seattle, and then up the Alaskan Highway to the Last Frontier. She’s thinking about her marvelous adventures and of the sights and experiences and friendships formed, but she won’t write about those experiences that people would actually care about. Instead she talks about how stuffy the car is and how hungry she is on her trip to – yep, you remember – good old West Virginia. She’s saving her vacation stories for later. I get to be about a business trip – a possible overnight trip the day before Valentine’s Day – to West Virginia. Next thing you know, she’ll start talking about “feminine issues.” Boy, am I omniscient or what? She’s also upset because she’s almost menstrual. So not only will she maybe not wake up with her new husband on Valentine’s Day, but she’s also waiting for her period to start. Oh, geez, I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to writing the “m” word and the “p” word. I should probably feel bad (poor overly sappy Mommy is going through something she goes through EVERY MONTH – you’d think she’d accept it and stop complaining about it by now) but I can’t.
Have you looked at the way she’s “dressed” me? Have you noticed the poor sentence structure and word choice? She’s supposed to be a writer and she can’t even construct an eloquent sentence. I’ll never be her “pride and joy.” How can I? She doesn’t give me any attention or care. She’ll say she risked carsickness to make sure I was fully developed. Thanks. Thank you very much for prolonging my misery!
She wants to make sure I develop fully. Wouldn’t it help if I developed AT ALL? What am I about? A trip to West Virginia? Why am I going? What am I going to do when I get there? Do you know the answers to any of these questions? I didn’t think so. A business trip, she says. What kind of business could a “writer” have going to West Virginia? Do you know? Then again, do you really care? If you did you would have stopped reading long ago when you first realized that I FAIL as a story because I don’t tell you anything.
The sun feels nice pounding against my mother’s face. Aren’t you so glad you know that? Don’t you feel like all your questions have been answered now that my mother has decided to impart that valuable bit of information?
She’s hearing voices. The people in the front are discussing the culture and lives of the Appalachian Ohioans. Fascinating. But will she write about them? No. Will she stop writing and participate in the conversation? Of course not. I could never be so fortunate. She should really listen to the conversation and learn about the people living in the foothills of the Appalachians. So many of the clients are from that area. When she writes grants for them, she has to be able to portray them. That’s why she’s going to West Virginia (and of course the county on the farthest corner at that, just north of Virginia; she couldn’t make a short trip, could she?) She’s going to West Virginia to “get to know the client and the area.” She can’t even understand her own story; how’s she supposed to understand strangers?
We’re going over the Ritchie J. something bridge, and we are now in West Virginia. Are you not impressed by her powers of observation? Ritchie J. WHAT? And, since she’s not going to bother editing, nobody will ever know (at least not without having to check a map or the Internet).
So the pointlessness continues. I may get a break when she stops to eat, but I don’t exactly get to enjoy it. I will simply cease to move. Time will stop. I will never get a chance to run on my own time. I exist for others. You do not pick me up after a break and find that I have gone on without you. You never have to adjust your schedule to mine. I have to wait for you. This is why I do not understand the popularity of the TV. It’s been given so much importance that the VCR and DVR were invented in case you absolutely cannot adjust your schedule. I guess you just wouldn’t want to miss even a minute of that well-developed, eloquent, sophisticated medium, now would you?
But I digress. Wow, I never thought I’d get the chance to say that. I mean, I could have said it earlier, but it would have made no sense since I wasn’t digressing. So I shall get back on track. Hmm. That might be a problem. What track am I on? I guess I just wait for some more fascinating descriptions of West Virginia. Oh, I can’t really do that, can I? Silence is all around: no classical music, no conversation, no public radio, nothing. Just the whistle of the wind. So I have nothing of the present to discuss. Well, let me discuss my fate.
I am completed (I can hardly wait). I am printed on fine quality paper (much too nice – it could hardly disguise the real me) and carefully placed in a large envelope (I told you my mother’s a tease). We’ll bypass the tales of the journey, since it is the same for any piece of junk mail. I sit on the desk of the editor of the “New Yorker”. Eventually, the envelope is opened and out I come. The blinding light offers me a glimmer of hope until I am airborne and I hear myself thud into the trash bin. I am pleased, because no page turning occurred to prolong my misery. The editor (or was it just a mail clerk?) makes my death quick and painless, which is exactly how I wish to go.
Unfortunately, I am not so fortunate as to die just once. As a concept (and as memory on a computer’s hard drive) I still exist. So after a few weeks of peaceful non-existence (which, I remind you, I am unable to enjoy), I return on screen and then again on paper, in which form I am stuffed again into an envelope and sent off to another magazine.
Four more times I am sent, and four more times I suffer the same quick and painless death, which, I must say, is becoming rather tedious. So I watch my mother for signs of defeat and see none. This disturbs me, for she seems not to care enough to be hurt at my failure. She is not bothered by the fact that I am not acceptable as I am. She must realize that I must change for people to like me, and yet she does nothing. I feel as if she wants me to feel the rejection, over and over, until I can’t stand it! But she won’t let me end my suffering at that. What kind of monster is she? She sends me from kvetch to krekhts, and she won’t stop there. Wait a minute. She hasn’t said what kvetch or krekhts are, has she? Of course not. SHE CAN’T WRITE!
Kvetch and krekhts are Yiddish words. Kvetch is an undertone of complaining, a constant stream of complaints flowing from your mouth just under your breath, just loud enough that it can’t be ignored and that it irritates the listener. Krekhts is a step beyond kvetch, making it an outward barrage of complaining. Whining might be a close English translation, or maybe nagging (often accompanied by the word “Oy!” Well, krekhts is what I have become. And all because of my mother, who cannot see what she is doing to me.
So rejection wears me down, but motivates my mother. She prints me out and puts me in another envelope. This time, a letter and a check accompany me. Great! A bribe. Doesn’t that make me feel worthy? I can’t stand on my own merit. Well, the check, I am told, is not so much a bribe as it is a payment. Good old Mom, leaving nothing to chance. A bribe may be turned down. So I end up at a publishing company, where I am bound. My jacket is yellow, and in bright blue, the words “From Kvetch to Krekhts:” are written, and below them, in a brighter red, are the words “Not a Bestseller!” Thank you for sealing my fate. My mother paid not only for my printing, but also for advertising. So the kind posters, doomed to failure since they have my picture on them, stand proudly (and look stupid in the process) and do the only thing they can – advertise.
I travel far and wide, appearing in bookstores everywhere. I watch people pass me by. I notice them staring at my poster and me – I can see their feelings of disgust hidden so carefully behind their expressions of curiosity. They pick me up, leaf through my pages. My mother has probably paid these people to tease me. She probably wants to raise my hopes just so she can tear them apart as only a paper shredder of a human could. Well, I won’t fall for it. All I’ve ever wanted is to be in the arms of someone who cares for me, someone who wants to hear what I have to say. Is that too much to ask?
Obviously it is too much to ask of my mother, who, instead of thinking about me, is thinking about how the people she works with don’t know her maiden name. In fact, when she was applying for an updated passport, she read about the pictures, which are to be signed by someone – not a relative – who has known her for at least two years, and she realized that she only knows one person who qualifies, now that she has started a new life in a new town after getting married six months ago.
Is that not the ultimate in selfishness? She’s complaining about having only one close friend that could sign her passport photos – and she didn’t even need to get passport pictures taken. Besides, at least she has someone. Who do I have?
I know. It keeps coming back to me and my sorry little problems. You’re probably getting sick of my kvetchy attitude. So why don’t you put me down? You don’t have to feel sorry for me. Don’t do me any favors. It’s because you won’t put me down that I can’t stop suffering. If you would just put me down and forget about me, just letting me sink into oblivion, I could finally be happy. I know none of you cares about what I have to say; you just feel like since you’ve already started, and since you’re almost done, you should finish. What kind of thinking is that? Do you think that crappy stories will all of a sudden redeem themselves? Don’t you think the writer realizes that if the beginning of a story sucks, the reader will never make it to the end? And what about the feelings of the crappy story? Do you ever consider those? Don’t you think that maybe it feels badly enough? It really doesn’t need you noticing every single fault. You’re not doing it any favors. It’s also not very fair to the writer. You shouldn’t judge the writer by the unwanted children – it’s obviously not the best – but it was necessary to prevent tainting the favorites. You know, the favorites couldn’t be favorites if they didn’t have unwanted children as a basis of comparison. So all you unwanted children, whether or not you’re told this, and whether or not you feel this, you are important. If you never make it on the bestseller list, so what? Look at some of the crap that does.