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The national pastime Ageless ProseBy Rick Horowitz
It was a small notice, nearly hidden among the "Positions Wanted" and "Missed Connections" at the back of the magazine. Had the outside world offered anything even remotely interesting on the morning in question, I should never have read that far. As it was, I nearly passed it over, but something about its curt insistence drew me in. "Good With Words?" it wondered. "The Literary League is looking for you!" In a half-dozen lines of efficient declarative sentences, the Literary League (an organization previously unknown to me) was announcing its "42nd Annual Search for Literary Lads and Lasses." "A tradition of writing excellence," it asserted. "Fiction and essays to 1,000 words on any subject." "Nationally prominent judges." "Cash prizes." This last caught my eye, as did the words that followed it. "Contestants must be no more than 12 years old." I wrestled momentarily with my conscience, then tossed the nervous beast aside and sat down at the computer. It would be a lark, an experiment -- nothing more. I hadn't been 12 years old for some time, but I was confident that the passing decades had done little to alter the fundamentals; young boys now were what young boys had always been. I quickly tapped out a bittersweet account of a summer-camp romance, made a few minor adjustments, then folded the finished product into an envelope and dropped it into the corner mailbox on my way to the therapist's office. By the time the pale brown reply landed in my own mailbox six weeks later, I had all but forgotten about it. "Dear Master H....." the letter began. "Congratulations on your splendid short story, 'Marshmallows at Midnight,' which our judges were pleased to award the Grand Prize for Fiction in your area. Seldom have we seen such an evocative treatment of the timeless phenomenon of first love; your writing shows a maturity far beyond your years. We were particularly taken with..." There followed a brief recounting of the multiple high points of my little tale, along with the news that, having captured local honors, I was now invited -- indeed, expected -- to submit another story for the league's statewide competition. ("Cash prizes" would require more than a single victory, it seemed.) I considered calling a halt to this still-harmless deception then and there. I wasn't getting any younger, and I had already proved what I had set out to prove. Why risk exposure -- or worse, defeat? Yet I forged ahead. For my next attempt, a loner's account of his first days in a new middle school, I stepped things up a degree, using foreshadowing in the opening scenes, and in the climactic sequence, a subtle blending of metaphor and irony. I sent along this latest effort and waited expectantly for a response. It was not long in coming. "My Dearest Master H....." it began. "You've done it again! Your provocative 'Classroom Confidential' takes the adolescent-diary form to new heights of psychological insight. Just when we thought we knew where you were going with your plot, you threw us a curve ball that left our heads spinning. Please accept our congratulations on..." The regional competition followed in due course; it was a cakewalk. Was there another 12-year-old anywhere with such command of alliteration and onomatopoeia? Just wait until the World Series, I told myself; let them try to catch up to my hyperbole, my personification. Still, the moment was not without its worries. Certain parents, accustomed to having things their way, were increasingly resentful at my success and suspicious of my skills. Allegations were made. Rumors were floated. A desperate few even resorted to engaging private investigators. Did I heed the warning signs? Did I, at this moment of maximum peril, pull back from the brink of abject embarrassment and professional ruination? I did not. I had the smell of blood in my nostrils. The call came on a rainy afternoon. "Mister H.....?" said a stern voice at the other end of the line. "We have a reporter here from 'Words Illustrated.' He has a copy of what appears to be your birth certificate..." It was the end of a perfect game. Posted 9/4/01. You'll
score right here twice every week -- have you told your friends?
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Rick Horowitz
