Walking in Twain’s Boots (And Hoping They Fit)

When people hear I once worked as a reporter in Virginia City, they get a faraway look in their eyes, as if I must’ve been hand-fed Mark Twain’s ghost chili recipe or something. The truth is, all I really got was a sore backside from sitting on barstools too long, and a pocket full of quotes from old-timers convinced the government was hiding silver under the courthouse.

Still, folks like to draw the comparison, “Why, you write like Twain!” they’ll say, which is a mighty fine compliment, even if undeserved.

It’s a little like telling a fella who plays the spoons at the county fair that he sounds like Mozart. Makes you blush, but you sure hope nobody asks you to play a symphony.

Now, don’t get me wrong — I’d love to lay claim to Twain’s style. The man had a way of making you laugh and wince in the same sentence.

He could take a simple observation, like a frog jumping, and turn it into a parable about human foolishness. I mostly write about frogs jumping and trying not to step on one.

But here’s the thing–I did walk some of the same dirt roads Sam Clemens did. Virginia City hasn’t changed much since he packed up his pen and left — the hills are still too steep, the whiskey’s still too strong, and the stories still come free of charge if you sit still long enough at a saloon’s bar.

You can’t soak that place in without it leaving a stain on your soul, and I guess some of that stain comes out in the writing.

Where I part ways with Twain is the meanness. Twain had a bite, a way of turning his pen into a wasp’s stinger.

He’d jab at politicians, preachers, or anybody with too much dignity to deserve it. My aim is usually lower — more at the little everyday foolishness, like the grocery store moving the cereal aisle or people who think “gluten-free” means “half-price.”

Besides, if Twain were alive today, I figure he’d have a field day on Twitter, and I don’t have the energy for that kind of fistfight. I’d rather sit on the porch, sip my coffee, and write about how my neighbor’s goat keeps breaking into my garden like it’s running for Congress.

So no, I’m not Twain, and that’s all right. Every generation needs its own storytellers, and Lord knows we’ve got enough nonsense to keep us busy.

Twain had riverboats and miners; I’ve got self-checkout machines and HOA meetings. Different scenery, same human comedy.

If there’s a moral to this ramble — and Twain always liked to sneak one in — it’s this — don’t get too tangled up trying to be someone else. Clemens didn’t sit around worrying if he sounded like Dickens.

He just told it straight, with a grin and a sharp elbow. The best I can do is tell it straight with a grin and maybe a soft nudge.

And if once in a while, somebody squints and says, “You sound a little like Twain,” well, I’ll tip my hat, thank ’em kindly, and go back to writing about life.

Because that’s where I live, and that’s what I know. And chances are, Twain himself would approve — so long as I keep the whiskey glass full and the stories honest.