Harvey Mulecue

I’ve read and listened to many author interviews over the years, and when asked, many if not most of the writers claim they don’t write with a specific audience in mind. They only create to please themselves, the idea being that if a piece elicits an emotional response from its creator it should instigate a similar reaction from a reader. A sound philosophy, I’d say, and I too write exclusively for an audience of one.  However, my ideal reader is not me.

He is 75-year-old Harvey Mulecue of Nederbush, Indiana. That’s right, every story idea, every word choice, every image, analogy, and metaphor must pass muster with a retired elevator repairman who also enjoys perusing the Reader’s Digest Large Print Smut Edition and ignoring stop signs.  If Harvey doesn’t let loose his raspy too-much-dust-in-the-elevator-shaft laugh at a section intended to be humorous, I work it over until he’s giggly as a Hoosier school girl. If while in the middle of what I’d hoped was a particularly dramatic  passage he’s suddenly interested in who’s on The View,  I revise it until he’s so riveted he doesn’t leave his chair once to yell at those kids who are always screwing around with his bird feeder.

There’s no doubt the man’s a tough critic, especially if his dermatitis is flaring up or he’s had a few mugs of the hard apple cider he brews in his basement, but by God he’s made me a better writer. I can rest assured that if he likes anything I’ve written then the general book-buying public will surely follow suit. I highly recommend to every author out there, find your own Harvey Mulecue.