Finis?

Done!

At last, Jake’s story is finished – with a teaspoon of Whiskey White to spare! I polished him up last Friday and am ready to set him aside in favour of whatever comes next. However …

A fellow named Julian Green said, “I write my books because I want to know what is in them.” I like that quote so much that it runs as my screen saver, as a reminder that I write for myself first and anyone else second. This is particularly true because few others actually read what I write, but I think Mr. Green’s point was as much about surprising the author as surprising the audience. Letting the characters tell the story can be eye-opening for me, too. Case in point: “Between the Storms.”

I had the opening, as inspired by Alex Colville’s painting. I knew one or two things about Jake when I started, and suspected that I knew something about the girl he pulled from the sea. What I didn’t expect was the solution to another creative conundrum I’d been pondering offstage.

A million years ago, I wrote 4 (okay, 4.5) volumes of an untitled series about mortals in the employ of a group of urban vampires. I had mapped the storyline to a climax, but the actual ending eluded me. It was still a good story. I revisit it now and then, fully intent on revising, reworking, updating and finishing it one day. I’m just unsure how to make it current without rewriting whole darned thing (one of the issues with present day fiction is that outdated references can create hiccups in the reader’s flow). Now, thanks to Jake, I may have my answer and my ending. It’ll be a lot of work, but it will be fun (and a lot of work). It will take time (and be a lot of work), but I want to do it (though it will be a lot of work) because it deserves to be finished and maybe, just maybe, it will be the thing that makes me famous.

The Gorgeous Struggle

Getting there ...

Jake’s story is almost finished. I wrote two thirds of it during my week off last month. Progress since then has been steady, but – to my mind – interminably slow. And, as is usual when fitting my writing into my life instead of the other way around, I’ve found myself struggling to get it done. The latest scene, for instance, has been written three times. The characters have reached a critical point in their relationship, so I want to get it right.

Yesterday, I revamped a few things while the scene played out in my mental cinema. Jake is sure about his feelings. Kim, not so much. Women are complicated. Jake knows that, but he’s willing to wade through the crap to have her. Only the crap is deeper than it looks. I sorta kinda knew that, given my familiarity with her background, but she wasn’t explaining it well enough to convince him. It was better to have her show him, live in his living room, just how torn she is. Enter the other man. Once he showed up, the complications became more apparent, but I was still stymied on how to describe Jake’s perception of Kim’s dilemma. So I followed sage creative advice and took a break.

Alan Parsons has been my musical wallpaper for this story, but while making lunch I threw the Gatsby soundtrack onto the stereo and promptly remembered why I bought the darned thing. It’s awesome! I was cheerfully chopping veggies and singing along with Fergie and Jack White and Lana del Rey—and then Goyte came on. The song is called “Hearts a Mess” and it’s stunning. Weird, but stunning (hear here). I actually stopped to listen when it came on. And something so profound happened that I pulled the disc off the junky little kitchen stereo and ran it down to the big cahuna in the living room. I cranked up the volume, stood between the speakers, closed my eyes, and got it.

Ah! That golden moment when all comes clear! It happens to creative people more often than we think, but it never gets old. The puzzle piece that finally drops into place, the plug that finally fits the socket – I live for those moments, and yesterday’s was momentous. Ironically, it always happens when I’m not looking. I have battled for days with this scene and the minute my back is turned, the answer arrives in a flaming chariot. It’s proof to me that intellect consistently gets in the way of my imagination. One day I’ll learn to act quickly when a plotline gets hopelessly knotted. I’ll leave it in a pile on the bedroom floor and go distract my mind with something trivial. Then my spirit will be free to unravel the mess unhampered by a well-meaning mental analyst.

As for finishing Jake’s story … I’m on it!

 

Head Games



"Pacific"



Yesterday morning, I selected the wrong tea. I thought it was the right tea (and it would have been, had the character associated with it been willing to talk). Pondering my supply, I stumbled onto a tin of David’s Whiskey White and immediately thought Good tea for Jake. That gave me pause.

Jake? Who the heck is Jake?

I picked Persian Apple and proceeded to bash my head against my desk. Finally, fed up with me bouncing around inside my own skull, Ter sent me on a walk under explicit orders to return with a decision on which story to write. I knew which one I wanted to work on, but the other two were should-ing me to distraction. A 30 minute stint at the beach and I made up my mind. Go with the one I wanted.

It turns out that Jake is the mystery man in the tale inspired by Alex Colville’s painting. Yes, Whiskey White is his tea, and when the final all-important puzzle piece dropped into place, I was off to the races. Music is as vital to my process as tea and solitude; every story I write has its own soundtrack. Julian demands Chopin, Lucius likes Def Leppard. On my way back from the beach, I was wondering what Jake would like and the answer came as clearly as the flavour of tea: Alan Parsons. It was so perfect that I almost ran the rest of the way home. I wrote all afternoon and was more productive than I’ve been in ages. It’s nowhere near done, but at least I know how it will end. It's currently untitled; the post title refers to the nonsense I put myself through before allowing myself to pick the project I most wanted to pursue.

The story began a few blog entries back, but here is the next scene. It’s almost all dialogue and not very long – I’m still trying to figure out how best to post my work when a short story for me runs longer than some novellas.

Anyway, here you go. Just a nibble. Please note the use of punctuation J

* * *

Just as he was mentally composing his message, Doug answered the phone.

“Jake! Good to hear from you, man. When did you get back?”

“Last night. Late last night,” he amended, anticipating a reprimand for not calling sooner.

“How was the Continent?”

“Cold and drizzling. Bud, I’ve got a problem.”

Doug’s bonhomie turned wary. “What kind of problem?”

“A girl washed up on my beach this morning.”

“You’re shitting me.”

“I wish I was. How soon can you get here?”

“I take it she’s still breathing?”

“Barely, but yeah, she’s breathing.”

“Call the police.”

“I’m calling you. That’s close enough.”

Silence preceded a short, resigned sigh. “I’ll be right over.”

* * *

A Thousand Words

Look at this picture:



"Pacific"

It’s driven me crazy for years. I glimpsed it during a documentary about Canadian artist Alex Colville that I watched pretty much because it was on. During the show, one of Colville’s contemporaries remarked that his work was so interesting because you always had the feeling that something bad had either happened or was about to happen. The contradiction of violence and tranquility in this one really hit me. There’s a story in this painting; a story that’s eluded me for years.

Last week, I started to get something. Picture if you will a man of mystery between assignments. He got back last night, late last night, in heavy rain and brutal wind. He crashed oncoming through the door, slept hard—this is the only place where he sleeps deeply—and woke on his own to a placid dawn. He puts the coffee on and takes a shower. The workout can wait a day, but weapons maintenance can’t. It can, however, wait for coffee.

Half-dressed, he pours a cup and carries it to the picture window, propping a shoulder against the deck doorjamb. The sky is a polished silver-blue, split from a matching sea by the dark blue horizon. A brisk salt breeze has the surf curling as it hits the shore, thumping the sand like a Golden Retriever’s tail welcoming him home. Already his rhythm is adjusting to the ocean’s heartbeat. The solitude is sublime.

He sips his coffee and contemplates a trip to town. The kitchen needs stocking and he’d better do something about the garden. Not the roadster, then. He decides on the SUV.

Later on he might take the chainsaw down to the beach and carve up some driftwood for the fireplace … and then he spies something lying on the sand, half-buried amid the logs and ropy kelp tossed ashore by last night’s storm.

He slowly straightens, muscle coming alert, eyes intent on what could be a bunch of seaweed but looks suspiciously like a tangle of dark brown curls …