John Grisham's Debut Short Story

“I never missed a month,” she said.
      “Come on.”
      “And sometimes it was $200 a month ’cause I had two of you there at one time, as I recall. Guess I was lucky I never had all three behind bars. Couldn’t’ve paid my light bill.”
      “I thought those lawyers worked for free,” Butch said in an effort to deflect attention from himself and hopefully direct it toward a target outside the family.
      “They do,” Leon said. “It’s called pro bono work, and all lawyers are supposed to do some of it. As far as I know, these big firms who come in on cases like this don’t expect to get paid.”
      “Then what’s Raymond doin’ with $300 a month if he ain’t payin’ his lawyers?”
      “We’ve had this conversation,” Inez said.

“I’m sure he spends a fortune on pens, paper, envelopes, and postage,” Leon said. “He claims he writes ten letters a day. Hell, that’s over $100 a month right there.”
      “Plus he’s written eight novels,” Butch added quickly. “Or is it nine, Momma? I can’t remember.”
     “Nine.”
      “Nine novels, several volumes of poetry, bunch of short stories, hundreds of songs. Just think of all the paper he goes through,” Butch said.
      “Are you pokin’ fun at Raymond?” she asked.
      “Never.”
      “He sold a short story once,” she said.
      “Of course he did. What was the magazine? Hot Rodder? Paid him forty bucks for a story about a man who stole a thousand hubcaps. They say you write what you know.”

“How many stories have you sold?” she asked.
      “None, because I haven’t written any, and the reason I haven’t written any is because I realize that I don’t have the talent to write. If my little brother would also realize that he has no artistic talents whatsoever, then he could save some money and hundreds of people would not be subjected to his nonsense.”
      “That’s very cruel.”
      “No, Momma, it’s very honest. And if you’d been honest with him a long time ago, then maybe he would’ve stopped writing. But no. You read his books and his poetry and his short stories and told him the stuff was great. So he wrote more, with longer words, longer sentences, longer paragraphs, and got to the point to where now we can hardly understand a damned thang he writes.”
      “So it’s all my fault?”
      “Not 100 percent, no.”
      “He writes for therapy.”
      “I’ve been there. I don’t see how writin’ helps any.”
      “He says it helps.”

“Are these books handwritten or typed up?” Leon asked, interrupting.
      “Typed,” Butch said.
      “Who types ’em?”
      “He has to pay some guy over in the law library,” Inez said. “A dollar a page, and one of the books was over eight hundred pages. I read it, though, ever’ word.”
      “Did you understand ever’ word?” Butch asked.
      “Most of ’em. A dictionary helps. Lord, I don’t know where that boy finds those words.”
      “And Raymond sent these books up to New York to get published, right?” Leon asked, pressing on.
      “Yes, and they sent ’em right back,” she said. “I guess they couldn’t understand all his words either.”
      “You’d think those people in New York would understand what he’s sayin’,” Leon said.
      “No one understands what he’s sayin’,” Butch said. “That’s the problem with Raymond the novelist, and Raymond the poet, and Raymond the political prisoner, and Raymond the songwriter, and Raymond the lawyer. No person in his right mind could possibly have any idea what Raymond says when he starts writin’.”