Every story has a hero... the main character who helps you discover the true potential of the tale you are telling. At the same time, though, the hero of your story isn't the only character that matters, at least he/she shouldn't be. The hero should be constructed as part of a network of characters, all inter-meshing with one another.
In comparing each character to your hero, you begin by defining them. This can be done in four ways... within the context of the story, by opposition to one another, the overlying archetype of each character, and by an underlying theme in the story itself. Every character should work toward advancing the goal of the story, or the premise. Each character has a part to play, otherwise they don't belong in the story. You'd be well advised to get rid of them.
The most important character in a story is the hero, the one who has found themselves in a predicament that drives the action. All other characters represent either an opposition to the hero, or an alliance... and sometimes, a combination of both. The hero makes a decision to go after a great desire but has a weakness that prevents them from achieving their goal.
An opponent blocks the hero from their desires, but more, they also desire the same goal as the hero. This forces the hero and the opponent to come into direct contact. The opponent doesn't necessarily have to be evil... in fact, the opponent might be a more moral person than the hero, even a friend or a lover. The opponent is just on the other side, that's all.
The hero might also have allies in a story... characters who help the hero move toward their desire and also help the reader to know the values and feelings of the hero. The ally may also have the same goal as the hero but sometimes they have their own goals and desires.
More layered stories make use of a combination of opponents and allies, such as a fake ally who is really an opponent in disguise. This character pretends to be the hero's friend but really has an agenda all their own. However, by acting as a friend to the hero, the fake ally often ends up inadvertently helping the hero achieve their desire.
Some stories make use of two or more main characters... a love story, for example, defines both characters equally... a person only becomes an authentic individual by entering into a relationship with another person on an equal footing. Still, even in love stories, one of the characters drives the desire line and so becomes the most powerful character in your story.
Another type of story with two main characters is a buddy story. These stories are more unequal but allow the author to examine the hero through the buddy, who is a sort of a mirror image of the hero. The buddy is both the opponent and the ally to the hero. One of the most intriguing parts of a buddy story is the conflict between the friends.
Each character in a story should be representative of a specific archetype, or psychological profile. This allows the author to create unique and authentic characters by comparing them to all the other characters in the story. This is done primarily through the theme, or the proper way to act, expressed in each of the characters.
Some questions to ask yourself: have you clarified the hero's goal in the story, and does it run the entire length? Have you detailed the opponents in ways that express the same desire as the hero?
Thursday, May 10, 2012
Wednesday, May 2, 2012
What is your story about?
When I tell people that I am a writer, one of the first things they ask is: what is your story about? And I believe it is essential for me to answer that question in one sentence. First of all, if I cannot express what I'm writing about, then what am I doing writing about it? And second, it is far more important to know what I'm writing about than how I go about writing it.
What the story is about, or the premise, involves knowing the moment the story begins, some idea about the main characters, as well as a clue to the outcome of the story. It is essential to begin with a good premise for all the rest of the story builds on it. If the premise fails, then nothing will help the story.
Knowing what the story is about and boiling that knowledge down to a single sentence means we are starting out with almost nothing to go on. This allows us as writers to explore what works and what doesn't work and yet we are guided by that one idea. This idea should be something that may change our lives... that way, no matter what else happens, when we are done writing we've changed our lives.
So, you say... Dan, how do I know what's going to change my life? Ray Bradbury's little book called Zen and the Art of Writing has some very good pointers to this very question. He suggests writing down a wish list of what we would like to see in a movie or in a book... what we are interested in... passionately interested in... what entertains us. We might think of oddball characters, unique plot twists, themes and genres that attract us.
The next step is to make a list of premise lines... every story we have ever thought of telling boiled down to a single sentence. Once we have both lists in front of us, we can look for similarities, patterns concerning what we love... our vision as a writer. Of course, this exercise will not guarantee that we write a story that will change our lives... nothing will do that. But by doing the exercises of learning what we are passionate about we come to know ourselves a little better and to give ourselves a chance to write something truly original and unique.
People are naturally curious and for writers, that's a good thing. Make use of it... and next time someone asks you: what is your story about? Be ready with a good answer!
What the story is about, or the premise, involves knowing the moment the story begins, some idea about the main characters, as well as a clue to the outcome of the story. It is essential to begin with a good premise for all the rest of the story builds on it. If the premise fails, then nothing will help the story.
Knowing what the story is about and boiling that knowledge down to a single sentence means we are starting out with almost nothing to go on. This allows us as writers to explore what works and what doesn't work and yet we are guided by that one idea. This idea should be something that may change our lives... that way, no matter what else happens, when we are done writing we've changed our lives.
So, you say... Dan, how do I know what's going to change my life? Ray Bradbury's little book called Zen and the Art of Writing has some very good pointers to this very question. He suggests writing down a wish list of what we would like to see in a movie or in a book... what we are interested in... passionately interested in... what entertains us. We might think of oddball characters, unique plot twists, themes and genres that attract us.
The next step is to make a list of premise lines... every story we have ever thought of telling boiled down to a single sentence. Once we have both lists in front of us, we can look for similarities, patterns concerning what we love... our vision as a writer. Of course, this exercise will not guarantee that we write a story that will change our lives... nothing will do that. But by doing the exercises of learning what we are passionate about we come to know ourselves a little better and to give ourselves a chance to write something truly original and unique.
People are naturally curious and for writers, that's a good thing. Make use of it... and next time someone asks you: what is your story about? Be ready with a good answer!
Sunday, April 29, 2012
Story Structure
When we are born into the world we are helpless and weak... we need others to look after us, to provide nurturing which allows us to flourish and grow into adults. At first, these needs are very basic and yet profound... food, comfort, warmth, love. Later as we mature into independent beings capable of going out into the world on our own we form desires, we encounter obstacles and opponents, we make plans and fight battles, and we learn about the world through revelations, eventually coming to a new kind of equilibrium, a better life.
A story comes into being in much the same fashion. It begins with a weakness and a need... and this need is both moral and psychological. Something is missing from the main character's experience... something basic and yet profound... something they must have in order to lead a better life. This is the beginning of the desire that drives the character arc. The need that is missing from the character's life and the desire they feel to obtain it are two very different functions of a story. The need is always below the surface... it is the key to the story, while the desire is what the story is about.
The opponent (or opponents) the main character, or hero, encounters along the story line desire the same goal... this is the deepest most important level of conflict within the story... it is only by competing for the same goal that the hero and opponent come into contact again and again throughout the story. The opponent in this regard isn't an evil person... a true opponent wants to prevent the hero from achieving their goal while at the same time striving for that goal.
When an opponent appears, a plan is necessary to achieve action in the story. The plan is linked to both the desire of the hero as well as the desire of the opponent. The plan may be vague or complex. Along the way, in the middle of the story, the hero and the opponent confront one another as each vies for the goal. The battle is the final conflict which determines who achieves the goal... it may be a conflict of violence or a battle of words.
Engaging in battle is painful, leading to the hero's revelation... the more intense the battle, the deeper the revelation, and like need, revelation comes in both a moral form and a psychological form. A moral revelation is plain to everyone while the psychological revelation is clear only to the hero. The psychological revelation allows the hero to see themselves as they really are... it obliterates the mask behind which they have hidden and reveals important truths heretofore obscured by the lies in which they had come to believe.
At the end of the story, things have returned to normal and yet a fundamental change has occurred in the hero's experience. If this is a positive change the hero evolves into a better person. Conversely, if it is a negative change, or if the hero is incapable of learning from it, the hero devolves or perhaps is even destroyed by the revelation.
The seven structural steps are:
1. Need
2. Desire
3. Opponent
4. Plan
5. Battle
6. Revelation
7. Equilibrium
Notice too that not only can these steps be used in the story as a whole, but they can also be incorporated into each chapter... a story each within the story leading to the final revelation.
Does this help in your writing? Can you see these steps in other stories?
A story comes into being in much the same fashion. It begins with a weakness and a need... and this need is both moral and psychological. Something is missing from the main character's experience... something basic and yet profound... something they must have in order to lead a better life. This is the beginning of the desire that drives the character arc. The need that is missing from the character's life and the desire they feel to obtain it are two very different functions of a story. The need is always below the surface... it is the key to the story, while the desire is what the story is about.
The opponent (or opponents) the main character, or hero, encounters along the story line desire the same goal... this is the deepest most important level of conflict within the story... it is only by competing for the same goal that the hero and opponent come into contact again and again throughout the story. The opponent in this regard isn't an evil person... a true opponent wants to prevent the hero from achieving their goal while at the same time striving for that goal.
When an opponent appears, a plan is necessary to achieve action in the story. The plan is linked to both the desire of the hero as well as the desire of the opponent. The plan may be vague or complex. Along the way, in the middle of the story, the hero and the opponent confront one another as each vies for the goal. The battle is the final conflict which determines who achieves the goal... it may be a conflict of violence or a battle of words.
Engaging in battle is painful, leading to the hero's revelation... the more intense the battle, the deeper the revelation, and like need, revelation comes in both a moral form and a psychological form. A moral revelation is plain to everyone while the psychological revelation is clear only to the hero. The psychological revelation allows the hero to see themselves as they really are... it obliterates the mask behind which they have hidden and reveals important truths heretofore obscured by the lies in which they had come to believe.
At the end of the story, things have returned to normal and yet a fundamental change has occurred in the hero's experience. If this is a positive change the hero evolves into a better person. Conversely, if it is a negative change, or if the hero is incapable of learning from it, the hero devolves or perhaps is even destroyed by the revelation.
The seven structural steps are:
1. Need
2. Desire
3. Opponent
4. Plan
5. Battle
6. Revelation
7. Equilibrium
Notice too that not only can these steps be used in the story as a whole, but they can also be incorporated into each chapter... a story each within the story leading to the final revelation.
Does this help in your writing? Can you see these steps in other stories?
Wednesday, April 25, 2012
Braids All Undone
She couldn't get the incessant noise out of her ears… the sound of metal crumpling and glass shattering… and she still felt dizzy as if the car had yet to stop flipping over. A policeman sat outside her door not allowing anyone to enter the room save her mother and her father… and her attorney. Why did she need an attorney? The question bothered her more than it should have.
"Why don't you go and pick her up?" Leslie asked her mother. "I don't want to go out tonight."
"If I hadn't drunk so much, I would," mom replied. "If I get another DUI they'll lock me up for thirty days this time… please… just go and pick up your sister for me… the house is only five miles away. If you don't pick her up, I'm afraid she'll end up riding with someone who shouldn't be driving."
"I've been drinking too… what if I get stopped?"
"Oh… you've only had a couple glasses of wine… and besides, if you're careful you won't get stopped. Now go… before your sister decides to ride home with some drunk."
The silence of secret snow greeted Leslie as she made her way to the car. Just fucking great… the roads would be treacherous now in the middle of the night… the plows never started until six in the morning. She despised mom for drinking so much… she hated herself for having to move back home with her after the divorce. If only Benny Parker had been a real man instead of a spoiled child they might have made something of their marriage. Instead, when he turned twenty one he decided to pick up a flask and he never set it down again.
Amy never should have been allowed to attend the party in the first place. Mom knew there would be a keg there and hard liquor as well… every party Amy attended featured booze and she had only just turned seventeen.
"She's too young to be drinking," Leslie argued after Amy left for the evening. "You know, you could be arrested for allowing her and her friends to drink here."
"I'd rather have your sister drink here than run around hiding it from me," mom replied as she hoisted another martini to her lips sipping it loudly, knowing full well how that sound irritated Leslie to no end. "Besides, I started drinking at her age and it never hurt me any."
You're a fucking drunk mother… a no-account boozer who hasn't held a job in ten years. But of course Leslie never spoke those kinds of words. When she had been a little girl Leslie remembered mom putting her hair in braids… her fingers nimbly quick at gathering and separating the strands before weaving then together in beautiful braids. With her hair done up in plaits Leslie felt safe, as if nothing in the world could harm her. Now, mom's hands trembled so she couldn't do up the buttons on her own blouse, at least not until she had a few drinks.
The car fish-tailed each time Leslie turned a corner. The tires were shot. She meant to get them replaced before winter set in but the kids needed new clothes for school and boots and coats when the cold came early and Benny had been jailed for non-payment of child support… as if that helped matters… and her paycheck evaporated each Friday before she had time to consider things like tires.
When she reached the party house Amy came running out to the car followed by a group of other kids she didn't know and who all began piling into the doors before she could object.
"Thanks for coming to get me, sis," Amy said, slurring her speech. "These people need rides too… I didn't think you'd mind. They all live near us."
And if I did mind, would you tell them all to get the fuck out of the car? Leslie yearned to have enough hair on her cunt to tell her sister to grow up… to quit running around with kids who were nothing but losers. Instead she silently seethed as she backed out the driveway to head for home.
"You're going the wrong way," a boy spoke up… the one riding bitch. "I live back that way." He grabbed the steering wheel causing the car to veer into a curb laughing hysterically.
"Amy! Tell this guy to either behave or I'm stopping right now and making him get out," Leslie called to her sister who rode in the back seat. When Amy didn't answer Leslie took a quick glance back to see she had passed out. "Great… just great. Okay… tell me where you live and I'll drop you off first."
"I live on Brockway… on the dead end. You have to hurry… I'm supposed to be home by now. My dad is going to be pissed."
"The roads are too bad," Leslie told him. "I'm going as fast as I can…"
She wondered why boys had to be so impatient… so impotent… like the men they would inevitably become… like her father, who had left them for a barfly he met in a tavern where he banged the drums as part of a rock band that got lost somewhere on the road to fame and ended up marooned in Pittsburgh, of all places.
"Why can't we go back home?" she had wondered to her mother the day dad left. "I want to go home."
"We are home," mom told her. "Get used to it, sweetie. This is as good as it gets."
And mom turned out to be right. When Leslie met Benny and spread her legs for him on their first date after he told her how much he loved her and how he would be the man of her dreams she thought of Pittsburgh as being not so bad after all… not if boys like Benny lived here. And when their first daughter was born and Benny picked the baby up in his arms gently cradling her Leslie believed in love for the first time in her life.
When he started in with the drinking, though, all that changed. Benny turned into a mean drunk before her eyes, cursing Leslie for any perceived slight no matter how insignificant. Twice he had backhanded her knocking her to the floor before swearing how sorry he felt and promising never to drink again. Once the promise lasted nearly a week but then he lost his job and having him around all day long drunk and abusive proved too much for her. She packed up the girls one afternoon while he dozed in a drunken stupor and moved back in with mom.
"We need to take your picture, miss," a woman in a police uniform and holding a camera in her hands told her. "Please sit up… we can take it with you lying in bed… no need to stand."
"Why do you need my picture?"
"Mug shot… any time someone is arrested we take mug shots. Okay… look at the camera please… good. Now, turn to the side… that's it. Okay… now I need to take your fingerprints." The woman put her camera into a bag she carried and pulled out what looked like a cigar box.
"I'm under arrest? Is that why the policeman is sitting outside my door?"
"Yes, ma'am… now, let me have your right hand please… just let it go limp… I'll do everything." The woman put Leslie's index finger onto an ink blotter and then rolled it onto a piece of white cardboard, repeating the process until she had ten prints.
"What am I under arrest for?"
"I'm sure your attorney can fill you in on that… I really don't know. I'm just here to take your mug shot and finger prints. Thank you for being so cooperative."
"You're welcome," Leslie murmured without thinking. Her mind tried to reconstruct what had happened for her to end up here, in a hospital bed and under arrest. She wondered if they would take her to jail once she regained her strength.
There had been an accident… that's the last thing she could remember. That kid… Amy's friend… that obnoxious little asshole… he'd grabbed the wheel and the tree came closer and closer no matter how she tried to steer away from it… when they went into the ditch running alongside the road the car flipped before hitting the tree broadside… in the back door where Amy lay passed out… Amy.
"Nurse, has my mother been in to see me?" The woman had entered the room carrying a tray of food… breakfast? Or lunch? Leslie didn't know. "I mean… I thought she might be here."
"I believe your mother stopped in earlier… you know your sister is in intensive care on the sixth floor… she may be there with her."
"Intensive care? Why is Amy there?"
"I'm sorry… I probably shouldn't have told you that… I thought you knew. Please, let me have a doctor come in and talk with you."
Blood. There had been blood everywhere. And bodies.
"This one is the driver," someone said, a man in a blue uniform standing over her shining a flashlight in her face. "She looks a bit banged up but she's conscious… and she's been drinking… let's get the breathalyzer before the paramedics get back."
"This one's not breathing either… that makes four dead." The voice came from somewhere outside the car… from somewhere in the dark and the cold… she had hung onto the steering wheel hard enough that it snapped but it kept her from being ejected. "Let's get her out… the ambulance is here."
She remembered feeling hands hoisting her from the car with an excruciating pain shooting down her leg. She must have passed out.
"You're being charged with aggravated drunk driving and vehicular homicide, Ms. Parker," the woman said when she walked into the room after knocking and peeking through the door. She looked to be just out of law school and she wore what looked like a man's suit and she carried a brief case from which she pulled a sheath of paperwork, handing it to Leslie. "I've been assigned by the court to represent you."
"But I didn't do anything…"
"You were driving a car with a blood alcohol level of .09. In this state, anything over .08 is legally drunk. Your car crashed into a tree at a high rate of speed killing four people… all under the age of eighteen… and critically injuring two others, including your own sister."
"But I didn't do anything…"
"So you're saying you weren't driving the car?"
"No… I… my mother… made me go. I didn't want to."
Leslie remembered how the time had gone by so slowly when she'd been pregnant with the kids but the time for her trial to start seemed to rush upon her like a fast moving storm. Guilty, the jury agreed, with the judge nodding at the bailiff who put handcuffs around her wrists and led her away.
"But I didn't do anything," she kept trying to explain to anyone who would listen. It had to be some kind of mistake. Fifteen years? Is that what the judge had said?
"But I didn't do anything…"
"Why don't you go and pick her up?" Leslie asked her mother. "I don't want to go out tonight."
"If I hadn't drunk so much, I would," mom replied. "If I get another DUI they'll lock me up for thirty days this time… please… just go and pick up your sister for me… the house is only five miles away. If you don't pick her up, I'm afraid she'll end up riding with someone who shouldn't be driving."
"I've been drinking too… what if I get stopped?"
"Oh… you've only had a couple glasses of wine… and besides, if you're careful you won't get stopped. Now go… before your sister decides to ride home with some drunk."
The silence of secret snow greeted Leslie as she made her way to the car. Just fucking great… the roads would be treacherous now in the middle of the night… the plows never started until six in the morning. She despised mom for drinking so much… she hated herself for having to move back home with her after the divorce. If only Benny Parker had been a real man instead of a spoiled child they might have made something of their marriage. Instead, when he turned twenty one he decided to pick up a flask and he never set it down again.
Amy never should have been allowed to attend the party in the first place. Mom knew there would be a keg there and hard liquor as well… every party Amy attended featured booze and she had only just turned seventeen.
"She's too young to be drinking," Leslie argued after Amy left for the evening. "You know, you could be arrested for allowing her and her friends to drink here."
"I'd rather have your sister drink here than run around hiding it from me," mom replied as she hoisted another martini to her lips sipping it loudly, knowing full well how that sound irritated Leslie to no end. "Besides, I started drinking at her age and it never hurt me any."
You're a fucking drunk mother… a no-account boozer who hasn't held a job in ten years. But of course Leslie never spoke those kinds of words. When she had been a little girl Leslie remembered mom putting her hair in braids… her fingers nimbly quick at gathering and separating the strands before weaving then together in beautiful braids. With her hair done up in plaits Leslie felt safe, as if nothing in the world could harm her. Now, mom's hands trembled so she couldn't do up the buttons on her own blouse, at least not until she had a few drinks.
The car fish-tailed each time Leslie turned a corner. The tires were shot. She meant to get them replaced before winter set in but the kids needed new clothes for school and boots and coats when the cold came early and Benny had been jailed for non-payment of child support… as if that helped matters… and her paycheck evaporated each Friday before she had time to consider things like tires.
When she reached the party house Amy came running out to the car followed by a group of other kids she didn't know and who all began piling into the doors before she could object.
"Thanks for coming to get me, sis," Amy said, slurring her speech. "These people need rides too… I didn't think you'd mind. They all live near us."
And if I did mind, would you tell them all to get the fuck out of the car? Leslie yearned to have enough hair on her cunt to tell her sister to grow up… to quit running around with kids who were nothing but losers. Instead she silently seethed as she backed out the driveway to head for home.
"You're going the wrong way," a boy spoke up… the one riding bitch. "I live back that way." He grabbed the steering wheel causing the car to veer into a curb laughing hysterically.
"Amy! Tell this guy to either behave or I'm stopping right now and making him get out," Leslie called to her sister who rode in the back seat. When Amy didn't answer Leslie took a quick glance back to see she had passed out. "Great… just great. Okay… tell me where you live and I'll drop you off first."
"I live on Brockway… on the dead end. You have to hurry… I'm supposed to be home by now. My dad is going to be pissed."
"The roads are too bad," Leslie told him. "I'm going as fast as I can…"
She wondered why boys had to be so impatient… so impotent… like the men they would inevitably become… like her father, who had left them for a barfly he met in a tavern where he banged the drums as part of a rock band that got lost somewhere on the road to fame and ended up marooned in Pittsburgh, of all places.
"Why can't we go back home?" she had wondered to her mother the day dad left. "I want to go home."
"We are home," mom told her. "Get used to it, sweetie. This is as good as it gets."
And mom turned out to be right. When Leslie met Benny and spread her legs for him on their first date after he told her how much he loved her and how he would be the man of her dreams she thought of Pittsburgh as being not so bad after all… not if boys like Benny lived here. And when their first daughter was born and Benny picked the baby up in his arms gently cradling her Leslie believed in love for the first time in her life.
When he started in with the drinking, though, all that changed. Benny turned into a mean drunk before her eyes, cursing Leslie for any perceived slight no matter how insignificant. Twice he had backhanded her knocking her to the floor before swearing how sorry he felt and promising never to drink again. Once the promise lasted nearly a week but then he lost his job and having him around all day long drunk and abusive proved too much for her. She packed up the girls one afternoon while he dozed in a drunken stupor and moved back in with mom.
"We need to take your picture, miss," a woman in a police uniform and holding a camera in her hands told her. "Please sit up… we can take it with you lying in bed… no need to stand."
"Why do you need my picture?"
"Mug shot… any time someone is arrested we take mug shots. Okay… look at the camera please… good. Now, turn to the side… that's it. Okay… now I need to take your fingerprints." The woman put her camera into a bag she carried and pulled out what looked like a cigar box.
"I'm under arrest? Is that why the policeman is sitting outside my door?"
"Yes, ma'am… now, let me have your right hand please… just let it go limp… I'll do everything." The woman put Leslie's index finger onto an ink blotter and then rolled it onto a piece of white cardboard, repeating the process until she had ten prints.
"What am I under arrest for?"
"I'm sure your attorney can fill you in on that… I really don't know. I'm just here to take your mug shot and finger prints. Thank you for being so cooperative."
"You're welcome," Leslie murmured without thinking. Her mind tried to reconstruct what had happened for her to end up here, in a hospital bed and under arrest. She wondered if they would take her to jail once she regained her strength.
There had been an accident… that's the last thing she could remember. That kid… Amy's friend… that obnoxious little asshole… he'd grabbed the wheel and the tree came closer and closer no matter how she tried to steer away from it… when they went into the ditch running alongside the road the car flipped before hitting the tree broadside… in the back door where Amy lay passed out… Amy.
"Nurse, has my mother been in to see me?" The woman had entered the room carrying a tray of food… breakfast? Or lunch? Leslie didn't know. "I mean… I thought she might be here."
"I believe your mother stopped in earlier… you know your sister is in intensive care on the sixth floor… she may be there with her."
"Intensive care? Why is Amy there?"
"I'm sorry… I probably shouldn't have told you that… I thought you knew. Please, let me have a doctor come in and talk with you."
Blood. There had been blood everywhere. And bodies.
"This one is the driver," someone said, a man in a blue uniform standing over her shining a flashlight in her face. "She looks a bit banged up but she's conscious… and she's been drinking… let's get the breathalyzer before the paramedics get back."
"This one's not breathing either… that makes four dead." The voice came from somewhere outside the car… from somewhere in the dark and the cold… she had hung onto the steering wheel hard enough that it snapped but it kept her from being ejected. "Let's get her out… the ambulance is here."
She remembered feeling hands hoisting her from the car with an excruciating pain shooting down her leg. She must have passed out.
"You're being charged with aggravated drunk driving and vehicular homicide, Ms. Parker," the woman said when she walked into the room after knocking and peeking through the door. She looked to be just out of law school and she wore what looked like a man's suit and she carried a brief case from which she pulled a sheath of paperwork, handing it to Leslie. "I've been assigned by the court to represent you."
"But I didn't do anything…"
"You were driving a car with a blood alcohol level of .09. In this state, anything over .08 is legally drunk. Your car crashed into a tree at a high rate of speed killing four people… all under the age of eighteen… and critically injuring two others, including your own sister."
"But I didn't do anything…"
"So you're saying you weren't driving the car?"
"No… I… my mother… made me go. I didn't want to."
Leslie remembered how the time had gone by so slowly when she'd been pregnant with the kids but the time for her trial to start seemed to rush upon her like a fast moving storm. Guilty, the jury agreed, with the judge nodding at the bailiff who put handcuffs around her wrists and led her away.
"But I didn't do anything," she kept trying to explain to anyone who would listen. It had to be some kind of mistake. Fifteen years? Is that what the judge had said?
"But I didn't do anything…"
Thursday, April 19, 2012
Justine
Justine took a job in town as a receptionist at a car dealership. The owner offered to pay her college tuition if she’d sign up for an accounting course so twice a week on Tuesdays and Thursdays Justine went to the local college for two hours after working all day. Jimmy said he didn’t want to be tied to a job… instead he stayed home finishing the cabin’s interior and tending the vegetable garden they’d planted and smoking marijuana.
They had the cabin up by the middle of July. It consisted of a plywood covered frame with a roof covered in tar paper to keep the rain out and windows to let in light and a door to keep out the varmints… and best of all they had a bathroom with running water in the sink and a toilet that flushed, scavenged from the front yard of a house in one of the better neighborhoods. The shower only ran cold unless the sun shined and warmed the water tank painted black and nestled on the roof.
Several people they’d met at the cabin-raising in Mendocino had come over to help them with their cabin, including a young girl who seemed quite smitten with Jimmy, a plain-looking thing with yellow teeth and small breasts and a large butt and a nose that looked broken twice and badly set each time. She called herself Lila. Jimmy told Justine that she shouldn’t be jealous… that all the young people these days practiced free love. Justine thought to herself that she should do as Jimmy said and not to be jealous but she couldn’t help it… she didn’t want to share her man with anyone… especially this girl. Justine had formed an instant dislike for her the moment she set eyes on her.
“You’re not going to sleep with Lila, are you?” she asked Jimmy one night while they lay in bed. “I wouldn’t sleep with anyone else besides you.”
“If you wanted to, I wouldn’t mind,” Jimmy told her. “I feel our relationship is solid enough that we can see other people, don’t you?”
“Well, I guess,” Justine said, not sure what else she should say. “So if I wanted to sleep with Patrick you wouldn’t mind?”
“Do you?”
“No… but that’s beside the point, Jimmy.”
“No, I wouldn’t mind,” Jimmy said after a few seconds. “I think sleeping with other people is all part of what we are doing here… we’re building something special, Justine… a whole new way of life. Why should we shackle ourselves to one person forever… until death do us part? It doesn’t make sense. That is part of the old ways… they have communes not far from here where everyone sleeps together… dozens of people.”
“Is that what you want?” Justine wondered. She couldn’t see herself in that type of situation. She knew what Jimmy tried to visualize but deep down she wanted a life with just one man. Maybe, she thought, it had been the way she was raised. But she didn’t want any part of group sex. It sickened her to even think about it.
“I don’t know what I want,” Jimmy said. “I guess I want to experiment.”
“You want to sleep with Lila.”
“Yes, I do,” Jimmy said. “I don’t know why it upsets you. It’s our way of life, Justine. You know that.”
“You should do what you feel is best, Jimmy. If you’re going to sleep with other people though, I’m leaving. I never signed on for that crap.”
Jimmy rolled over to face the wall, the way he did when he grew angry and no longer wanted to talk. In a few seconds he started to snore. Justine slipped out of bed going to the door. A full moon showered silver light into the surrounding fields and trees turning them grey. In the distance a campfire burned. She walked out into the yard naked looking back at the cabin remembering all the love that went into its building. A tear rolled down her cheek landing on her breast. She fought off the sudden urge to walk over to where the campfire burned offering her body up to whomever the strangers were sitting around it. Maybe that’s what Jimmy wanted… maybe it would excite him to hear about such an encounter. She couldn’t do it. She went back inside slipping into bed with her back to Jimmy’s.
Justine wondered why Jimmy had to be such a traditional lover if he wanted to experiment with other partners… he insisted exclusively on the missionary position abhorring oral sex. When she had tried to give him a blow job right after they met he acted shocked.
“How could you even think about doing that?” he said with a look of distain that all but accused her of being a whore… pulling his penis away from her mouth. As soon as she took it in between her lips it had gone limp anyway. "That's disgusting, Justine. I don't want to be kissing you after my thing has been in your mouth."
Her first lover, Randy, loved trying different positions and going down on her for hours and laying naked with her in the sunshine. But Jimmy made a conscious effort never to let Justine see him without his clothes on… he made sure to turn out the light before coming to bed and their lovemaking had to be at night… he wouldn’t hear of doing it in the morning or the afternoon. It had to be dark. Jimmy wouldn’t even take off his shirt when he worked out of doors.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” Justine demanded. Lila sat on the front porch rocking in a chair Jimmy had constructed by weaving branches and sticks together. She seemed quite at ease sitting there when Justine arrived home from her college course after working all day. “I’m not working my ass off all day to come home to this.”
“Nothing is going on, Justine,” Jimmy explained, as if he were weaving a lie the same way he weaved the chair. “She stopped by to see how the cabin is coming along, that’s all. If you want her to leave, I’ll tell her to leave.”
“Of course I want her to leave,” Justine said. “You know how I feel about you being around her.”
“So now you don’t trust me… is that it?”
“I trust you’ll fuck her first chance you get, if you haven’t already.”
“This isn’t going to work out, is it Justine.”
“What do you mean by this?” Justine asked. “Are you saying you want me to leave?”
“I’m saying what we have together isn’t strong enough to survive us seeing other people,” Jimmy said in a low voice. “Maybe you should go.”
“I’ll go, then,” Justine said. She took her suitcase packing her belongings. It astonished her that she didn’t feel more angst at their breaking up. She tried to decide how she felt… she thought she had loved Jimmy but now she wasn’t so sure. She felt free… free of his manic rage at The Man… free of his lust for Lila or any other woman who happened along… free to pursue her own destiny instead of following Jimmy down the hippie trail into some sort of weird multi-partner sexual oblivion. He had never once told her if he thought she was pretty. She wondered if he had even noticed her at all. She had no idea what lay in wait for her and that excited her all the more.
After packing she looked around the place seeing very little in the cabin that belonged to her… that surprised her too. Jimmy spent money on books and furniture that he had to have while she tried to put aside what she could out of her paycheck. The money from his mother, Rita, gradually dwindled away to nothing. But at least Justine had a small nest egg to start out life on her own.
“Drive me into town,” she said when her suitcase had been packed.
“Why don’t you wait until morning?” Jimmy suggested. “Lila’s going to go soon. It’s late now and you won’t be able to get a bus until morning anyway. Stay one more night.”
“If you don’t want to drive me, I’ll walk.”
“Come on then… I’ll take you,” Jimmy relented.
When they got in the car to leave Justine noticed Lila still sat on the porch. Justine imagined she’d be there waiting for Jimmy when he got home, an ugly little thing who’d probably enjoy making love with the lights off as much as Jimmy. She put down the sun visor looking into the mirror mounted on the back. She always considered herself a pretty girl… some people even called her gorgeous but her modesty wouldn’t allow that. Still, looking at her reflection she couldn’t help wondering how Jimmy could prefer a girl like Lila. When they arrived at the bus station, Justine got out, retrieved her luggage from the back seat, and walked away without saying goodbye. Though she had been tempted for just an instant, she didn’t look back.
They had the cabin up by the middle of July. It consisted of a plywood covered frame with a roof covered in tar paper to keep the rain out and windows to let in light and a door to keep out the varmints… and best of all they had a bathroom with running water in the sink and a toilet that flushed, scavenged from the front yard of a house in one of the better neighborhoods. The shower only ran cold unless the sun shined and warmed the water tank painted black and nestled on the roof.
Several people they’d met at the cabin-raising in Mendocino had come over to help them with their cabin, including a young girl who seemed quite smitten with Jimmy, a plain-looking thing with yellow teeth and small breasts and a large butt and a nose that looked broken twice and badly set each time. She called herself Lila. Jimmy told Justine that she shouldn’t be jealous… that all the young people these days practiced free love. Justine thought to herself that she should do as Jimmy said and not to be jealous but she couldn’t help it… she didn’t want to share her man with anyone… especially this girl. Justine had formed an instant dislike for her the moment she set eyes on her.
“You’re not going to sleep with Lila, are you?” she asked Jimmy one night while they lay in bed. “I wouldn’t sleep with anyone else besides you.”
“If you wanted to, I wouldn’t mind,” Jimmy told her. “I feel our relationship is solid enough that we can see other people, don’t you?”
“Well, I guess,” Justine said, not sure what else she should say. “So if I wanted to sleep with Patrick you wouldn’t mind?”
“Do you?”
“No… but that’s beside the point, Jimmy.”
“No, I wouldn’t mind,” Jimmy said after a few seconds. “I think sleeping with other people is all part of what we are doing here… we’re building something special, Justine… a whole new way of life. Why should we shackle ourselves to one person forever… until death do us part? It doesn’t make sense. That is part of the old ways… they have communes not far from here where everyone sleeps together… dozens of people.”
“Is that what you want?” Justine wondered. She couldn’t see herself in that type of situation. She knew what Jimmy tried to visualize but deep down she wanted a life with just one man. Maybe, she thought, it had been the way she was raised. But she didn’t want any part of group sex. It sickened her to even think about it.
“I don’t know what I want,” Jimmy said. “I guess I want to experiment.”
“You want to sleep with Lila.”
“Yes, I do,” Jimmy said. “I don’t know why it upsets you. It’s our way of life, Justine. You know that.”
“You should do what you feel is best, Jimmy. If you’re going to sleep with other people though, I’m leaving. I never signed on for that crap.”
Jimmy rolled over to face the wall, the way he did when he grew angry and no longer wanted to talk. In a few seconds he started to snore. Justine slipped out of bed going to the door. A full moon showered silver light into the surrounding fields and trees turning them grey. In the distance a campfire burned. She walked out into the yard naked looking back at the cabin remembering all the love that went into its building. A tear rolled down her cheek landing on her breast. She fought off the sudden urge to walk over to where the campfire burned offering her body up to whomever the strangers were sitting around it. Maybe that’s what Jimmy wanted… maybe it would excite him to hear about such an encounter. She couldn’t do it. She went back inside slipping into bed with her back to Jimmy’s.
Justine wondered why Jimmy had to be such a traditional lover if he wanted to experiment with other partners… he insisted exclusively on the missionary position abhorring oral sex. When she had tried to give him a blow job right after they met he acted shocked.
“How could you even think about doing that?” he said with a look of distain that all but accused her of being a whore… pulling his penis away from her mouth. As soon as she took it in between her lips it had gone limp anyway. "That's disgusting, Justine. I don't want to be kissing you after my thing has been in your mouth."
Her first lover, Randy, loved trying different positions and going down on her for hours and laying naked with her in the sunshine. But Jimmy made a conscious effort never to let Justine see him without his clothes on… he made sure to turn out the light before coming to bed and their lovemaking had to be at night… he wouldn’t hear of doing it in the morning or the afternoon. It had to be dark. Jimmy wouldn’t even take off his shirt when he worked out of doors.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” Justine demanded. Lila sat on the front porch rocking in a chair Jimmy had constructed by weaving branches and sticks together. She seemed quite at ease sitting there when Justine arrived home from her college course after working all day. “I’m not working my ass off all day to come home to this.”
“Nothing is going on, Justine,” Jimmy explained, as if he were weaving a lie the same way he weaved the chair. “She stopped by to see how the cabin is coming along, that’s all. If you want her to leave, I’ll tell her to leave.”
“Of course I want her to leave,” Justine said. “You know how I feel about you being around her.”
“So now you don’t trust me… is that it?”
“I trust you’ll fuck her first chance you get, if you haven’t already.”
“This isn’t going to work out, is it Justine.”
“What do you mean by this?” Justine asked. “Are you saying you want me to leave?”
“I’m saying what we have together isn’t strong enough to survive us seeing other people,” Jimmy said in a low voice. “Maybe you should go.”
“I’ll go, then,” Justine said. She took her suitcase packing her belongings. It astonished her that she didn’t feel more angst at their breaking up. She tried to decide how she felt… she thought she had loved Jimmy but now she wasn’t so sure. She felt free… free of his manic rage at The Man… free of his lust for Lila or any other woman who happened along… free to pursue her own destiny instead of following Jimmy down the hippie trail into some sort of weird multi-partner sexual oblivion. He had never once told her if he thought she was pretty. She wondered if he had even noticed her at all. She had no idea what lay in wait for her and that excited her all the more.
After packing she looked around the place seeing very little in the cabin that belonged to her… that surprised her too. Jimmy spent money on books and furniture that he had to have while she tried to put aside what she could out of her paycheck. The money from his mother, Rita, gradually dwindled away to nothing. But at least Justine had a small nest egg to start out life on her own.
“Drive me into town,” she said when her suitcase had been packed.
“Why don’t you wait until morning?” Jimmy suggested. “Lila’s going to go soon. It’s late now and you won’t be able to get a bus until morning anyway. Stay one more night.”
“If you don’t want to drive me, I’ll walk.”
“Come on then… I’ll take you,” Jimmy relented.
When they got in the car to leave Justine noticed Lila still sat on the porch. Justine imagined she’d be there waiting for Jimmy when he got home, an ugly little thing who’d probably enjoy making love with the lights off as much as Jimmy. She put down the sun visor looking into the mirror mounted on the back. She always considered herself a pretty girl… some people even called her gorgeous but her modesty wouldn’t allow that. Still, looking at her reflection she couldn’t help wondering how Jimmy could prefer a girl like Lila. When they arrived at the bus station, Justine got out, retrieved her luggage from the back seat, and walked away without saying goodbye. Though she had been tempted for just an instant, she didn’t look back.
Justine
Several people they’d met at the cabin-raising in Mendocino had come over to help them with their cabin, including a young girl who seemed quite smitten with Jimmy, a plain-looking thing with yellow teeth and small breasts and a large butt and a nose that looked broken twice and badly set each time. She called herself Lila. Jimmy told Justine that she shouldn’t be jealous… that all the young people these days practiced free love. Justine thought to herself that she should do as Jimmy said and not to be jealous but she couldn’t help it… she didn’t want to share her man with anyone… especially this girl. Justine had formed an instant dislike for her the moment she set eyes on her.
“You’re not going to sleep with Lila, are you?” she asked Jimmy one night while they lay in bed. “I wouldn’t sleep with anyone else besides you.”
“If you wanted to, I wouldn’t mind,” Jimmy told her. “I feel our relationship is solid enough that we can see other people, don’t you?”
“Well, I guess,” Justine said, not sure what else she should say. “So if I wanted to sleep with Patrick you wouldn’t mind?”
“Do you?”
“No… but that’s beside the point, Jimmy.”
“No, I wouldn’t mind,” Jimmy said after a few seconds. “I think sleeping with other people is all part of what we are doing here… we’re building something special, Justine… a whole new way of life. Why should we shackle ourselves to one person forever… until death do us part? It doesn’t make sense. That is part of the old ways… they have communes not far from here where everyone sleeps together… dozens of people.”
“Is that what you want?” Justine wondered. She couldn’t see herself in that type of situation. She knew what Jimmy tried to visualize but deep down she wanted a life with just one man. Maybe, she thought, it had been the way she was raised. But she didn’t want any part of group sex. It sickened her to even think about it.
“I don’t know what I want,” Jimmy said. “I guess I want to experiment.”
“You want to sleep with Lila.”
“Yes, I do,” Jimmy said. “I don’t know why it upsets you. It’s our way of life, Justine. You know that.”
“You should do what you feel is best, Jimmy. If you’re going to sleep with other people though, I’m leaving. I never signed on for that crap.”
Jimmy rolled over to face the wall, the way he did when he grew angry and no longer wanted to talk. In a few seconds he started to snore. Justine slipped out of bed going to the door. A full moon showered silver light into the surrounding fields and trees turning them grey. In the distance a campfire burned. She walked out into the yard naked looking back at the cabin remembering all the love that went into its building. A tear rolled down her cheek landing on her breast. She fought off the sudden urge to walk over to where the campfire burned offering her body up to whomever the strangers were sitting around it. Maybe that’s what Jimmy wanted… maybe it would excite him to hear about such an encounter. She couldn’t do it. She went back inside slipping into bed with her back to Jimmy’s.
Justine wondered why Jimmy was such a traditional lover if he wanted to experiment with other partners… he insisted exclusively on the missionary position abhorring oral sex. When she had tried to give him a blow job right after they met he acted shocked.
“How could you do that?” he said with a look of distain that all but accused her of being a whore… pulling his penis away from her mouth. As soon as she took it in between her lips it had gone limp anyway. Her first lover, Randy, loved trying different positions and going down on her for hours and laying naked with her in the sunshine. But Jimmy never let Justine see him without his clothes on… he made sure to turn out the light before their lovemaking and wouldn’t hear of doing it in the morning or the afternoon. It had to be dark. Jimmy wouldn’t even take off his shirt when he worked out of doors.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” Justine demanded. Lila sat on the front porch rocking in a chair Jimmy had constructed by weaving branches and sticks together. She seemed quite at home to Justine when she arrived home from her college course after working all day. “I’m not working my ass off all day to come home to this.”
“Nothing is going on, Justine,” Jimmy explained. “She stopped by to see how the cabin is coming along, that’s all. If you want her to leave, I’ll tell her to leave.”
“Of course I want her to leave,” Justine said. “You know how I feel about you being around her.”
“So now you don’t trust me… is that it?”
“I trust you’ll fuck her first chance you get, if you haven’t already.”
“This isn’t going to work out, is it Justine.”
“What do you mean by this?” Justine asked. “Are you saying you want me to leave?”
“I’m saying what we have together isn’t strong enough to survive us seeing other people,” Jimmy said in a low voice. “Maybe you should go.”
“I’ll go, then,” Justine said. She took her suitcase packing her belongings. It astonished her that she didn’t feel more angst at their breaking up. She tried to decide how she felt… she thought she had loved Jimmy but now she wasn’t so sure. She felt free… free of his manic rage at The Man… free of his lust for Lila or any other woman who happened along… free to pursue her own destiny instead of following Jimmy down the hippie trail into some sort of weird multi-partner sexual oblivion. He had never once told her if he thought she was pretty. She wondered if he had even noticed her at all. She had no idea what lay in wait for her and that excited her all the more.
After packing she looked around the place seeing very little in the cabin that belonged to her… that surprised her too. Jimmy spent money on books and furniture that he had to have while she tried to put aside what she could out of her paycheck. The money from his mother, Rita, gradually dwindled away to nothing. But at least Justine had a small nest egg to start out life on her own.
“Drive me into town,” she said when her suitcase was packed.
“Why don’t you wait until morning?” Jimmy suggested. “Lila’s going to go soon. It’s late now and you won’t be able to get a bus until morning anyway. Stay one more night.”
“If you don’t want to drive me, I’ll walk.”
“Come on then… I’ll take you,” Jimmy relented.
When they got in the car to leave Justine noticed Lila still sat on the porch. Justine imagined she’d be there waiting for Jimmy when he got home, an ugly little thing who’d probably enjoy making love with the lights off as much as Jimmy. She put down the sun visor looking into the mirror mounted on the back. She always considered herself a pretty girl… some people even called her gorgeous but her modesty wouldn’t allow that. Still, looking at her reflection she couldn’t help wondering how Jimmy could prefer a girl like Lila. When they arrived at the bus station, Justine got out, retrieved her luggage from the back seat, and walked away without saying goodbye. Though she had been tempted for just an instant, she didn’t look back.
“You’re not going to sleep with Lila, are you?” she asked Jimmy one night while they lay in bed. “I wouldn’t sleep with anyone else besides you.”
“If you wanted to, I wouldn’t mind,” Jimmy told her. “I feel our relationship is solid enough that we can see other people, don’t you?”
“Well, I guess,” Justine said, not sure what else she should say. “So if I wanted to sleep with Patrick you wouldn’t mind?”
“Do you?”
“No… but that’s beside the point, Jimmy.”
“No, I wouldn’t mind,” Jimmy said after a few seconds. “I think sleeping with other people is all part of what we are doing here… we’re building something special, Justine… a whole new way of life. Why should we shackle ourselves to one person forever… until death do us part? It doesn’t make sense. That is part of the old ways… they have communes not far from here where everyone sleeps together… dozens of people.”
“Is that what you want?” Justine wondered. She couldn’t see herself in that type of situation. She knew what Jimmy tried to visualize but deep down she wanted a life with just one man. Maybe, she thought, it had been the way she was raised. But she didn’t want any part of group sex. It sickened her to even think about it.
“I don’t know what I want,” Jimmy said. “I guess I want to experiment.”
“You want to sleep with Lila.”
“Yes, I do,” Jimmy said. “I don’t know why it upsets you. It’s our way of life, Justine. You know that.”
“You should do what you feel is best, Jimmy. If you’re going to sleep with other people though, I’m leaving. I never signed on for that crap.”
Jimmy rolled over to face the wall, the way he did when he grew angry and no longer wanted to talk. In a few seconds he started to snore. Justine slipped out of bed going to the door. A full moon showered silver light into the surrounding fields and trees turning them grey. In the distance a campfire burned. She walked out into the yard naked looking back at the cabin remembering all the love that went into its building. A tear rolled down her cheek landing on her breast. She fought off the sudden urge to walk over to where the campfire burned offering her body up to whomever the strangers were sitting around it. Maybe that’s what Jimmy wanted… maybe it would excite him to hear about such an encounter. She couldn’t do it. She went back inside slipping into bed with her back to Jimmy’s.
Justine wondered why Jimmy was such a traditional lover if he wanted to experiment with other partners… he insisted exclusively on the missionary position abhorring oral sex. When she had tried to give him a blow job right after they met he acted shocked.
“How could you do that?” he said with a look of distain that all but accused her of being a whore… pulling his penis away from her mouth. As soon as she took it in between her lips it had gone limp anyway. Her first lover, Randy, loved trying different positions and going down on her for hours and laying naked with her in the sunshine. But Jimmy never let Justine see him without his clothes on… he made sure to turn out the light before their lovemaking and wouldn’t hear of doing it in the morning or the afternoon. It had to be dark. Jimmy wouldn’t even take off his shirt when he worked out of doors.
“What the fuck is she doing here?” Justine demanded. Lila sat on the front porch rocking in a chair Jimmy had constructed by weaving branches and sticks together. She seemed quite at home to Justine when she arrived home from her college course after working all day. “I’m not working my ass off all day to come home to this.”
“Nothing is going on, Justine,” Jimmy explained. “She stopped by to see how the cabin is coming along, that’s all. If you want her to leave, I’ll tell her to leave.”
“Of course I want her to leave,” Justine said. “You know how I feel about you being around her.”
“So now you don’t trust me… is that it?”
“I trust you’ll fuck her first chance you get, if you haven’t already.”
“This isn’t going to work out, is it Justine.”
“What do you mean by this?” Justine asked. “Are you saying you want me to leave?”
“I’m saying what we have together isn’t strong enough to survive us seeing other people,” Jimmy said in a low voice. “Maybe you should go.”
“I’ll go, then,” Justine said. She took her suitcase packing her belongings. It astonished her that she didn’t feel more angst at their breaking up. She tried to decide how she felt… she thought she had loved Jimmy but now she wasn’t so sure. She felt free… free of his manic rage at The Man… free of his lust for Lila or any other woman who happened along… free to pursue her own destiny instead of following Jimmy down the hippie trail into some sort of weird multi-partner sexual oblivion. He had never once told her if he thought she was pretty. She wondered if he had even noticed her at all. She had no idea what lay in wait for her and that excited her all the more.
After packing she looked around the place seeing very little in the cabin that belonged to her… that surprised her too. Jimmy spent money on books and furniture that he had to have while she tried to put aside what she could out of her paycheck. The money from his mother, Rita, gradually dwindled away to nothing. But at least Justine had a small nest egg to start out life on her own.
“Drive me into town,” she said when her suitcase was packed.
“Why don’t you wait until morning?” Jimmy suggested. “Lila’s going to go soon. It’s late now and you won’t be able to get a bus until morning anyway. Stay one more night.”
“If you don’t want to drive me, I’ll walk.”
“Come on then… I’ll take you,” Jimmy relented.
When they got in the car to leave Justine noticed Lila still sat on the porch. Justine imagined she’d be there waiting for Jimmy when he got home, an ugly little thing who’d probably enjoy making love with the lights off as much as Jimmy. She put down the sun visor looking into the mirror mounted on the back. She always considered herself a pretty girl… some people even called her gorgeous but her modesty wouldn’t allow that. Still, looking at her reflection she couldn’t help wondering how Jimmy could prefer a girl like Lila. When they arrived at the bus station, Justine got out, retrieved her luggage from the back seat, and walked away without saying goodbye. Though she had been tempted for just an instant, she didn’t look back.
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
I'm a Writer, dammit!
I haven't always been a writer.
I married young and the demands of a growing family meant a man like me had to become a provider. So, I worked… first in the employ of others and later as a business owner. I recall quite well the day I stood on the loading dock of the factory where I used to work. I saw my boss pull up in his Cadillac, open up the trunk, and take out his golf bag. I realized that while I'd been slaving away in a hot factory all day long, he'd been hitting the links and playing games. I told myself then and there that I was finished making someone else rich.
Not long after that day I started my own business and quit my job of making the boss rich. Actually, the man fired me before I got the chance to quit but that's another story and neither here nor there so far as becoming my own boss. The writing was on the wall long before and him firing me merely allowed me to draw unemployment compensation for a year while I got my business off the ground, something me quitting wouldn't have allowed.
I thought I worked long hours at my job… little did I realize the hours were even longer when a person is self-employed. Not only was I responsible for the day to day business activities, but I had to effectively market the business, schedule appointments, go out and sell my services against stiff competition, and when the business grew, I had to learn to hire quality people to help me run my business.
By the time I turned 45, my oldest son had been married for a half dozen years and the other children were no longer children. Part of the reason I started my business was the hope that the kids would want to be a part of it too, but it never seemed to appeal to them as much as it did to me. Oh sure, they all worked for me for a while but then went off and did their own things… got good jobs… married good people… started their own families.
Putting all my time into the business had another down side I do not like talking about… my wife left me about the time the business really took off. I suddenly found myself alone with a thriving business and no one to share it all with. About this same time I started dabbling on the Internet where I found my way to a discussion group centered around the work of Robert Pirsig, the author of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and a second novel called Lila: An Inquiry into Morals.
During the course of these talks, I met a man who lived in Norway who had personally corresponded with Mr. Pirsig and who asked me to attempt putting the first year's worth of discussions into book form… well, he really asked me to write the Lila Squad story but since I didn't know how to do that, I took the archived posts and put them into a readable format, after securing permission from the contributors, of course.
A month after I uploaded my manuscript of compilations to a website that I taught myself how to construct, the fellow from Norway sent me an email telling me that he had received a snail mail letter from Robert Pirsig saying he had discovered my website and how much he liked it and how he had started making notes on the book I had named Lila's Child.
After the amazement of such a thing happening had worn off, I wrote my friend in Norway an email asking if he thought Mr. Pirsig might be willing to share his notes with me. I thought what a great addition they would be to Lila's Child. My Norway friend wrote me back to tell me that he had severe reservations on asking Robert Pirsig to share his notes so I took it that to mean it would never happen. Still, I began to rework the manuscript that I had uploaded, noticing a number of mistakes that had heretofore escaped my attention.
In a month or so, my Norway friend wrote me to say Robert Pirsig had agreed to take a look at the manuscript once I had finished working out the bugs. Apparently he had reconsidered his recalcitrance in asking Mr. Pirsig to supply notes and had written him a letter without telling me, perhaps hoping to save me the heartache of a refusal.
Over the next few months I sent the completed manuscript back and forth to Robert Pirsig many times, asking questions and basically having the intellectual time of my life. I quit watching television. I neglected my business. I spent whole weeks in front of the computer working and reworking the manuscript to include the notes and introduction Robert Pirsig had been so gracious to provide. Time disappeared. I lost myself completely in my work the way I had never before experienced.
And then it was finished.
I felt empty. When I rose in the morning I had nothing with which to occupy my mind. My old routines had become dull and no longer seemed worthwhile indulging in. I went back to working my business but with my heart no longer in it not long afterward I decided to sell it. Times were good and it didn't take long before I found a buyer.
One day, a woman who I had started seeing asked me if I could do anything in the whole world, what would it be? Right away, I told her I would write. I didn't even have to think about it. At the time I had the time and the money to do anything but my experience with Lila's Child still resonated within my psyche and I knew that somehow, some way, I wanted to recapture that feeling of losing myself in my work.
So… I began writing. I wrote short stories at first… they seemed easier and not the challenge that a novel presented. I bought all kinds of books on writing and spent hours every day reading on how one became a better writer. Some of the books were very good and I learned something from all of them. I began reading the classics again, this time dissecting them so far as plot and theme and storyline.
I found myself imitating the authors I loved especially well. The more I wrote the closer I came to finding my own voice within the din of all those brilliant writers who'd come before me. My first novel grew out of a single original paragraph I wrote without giving it much consideration. Three more novels followed.
I took a part-time job to help pay the bills and began writing every day for at least four hours. I considered writing to be my real occupation even though I didn't sell enough books to do it full time. I began to establish more of a web presence to help market my books. But when I shared my preoccupation with writing with my son, he told me that he thought how everyone needed a hobby and how happy he was that I had found something I enjoyed doing.
A hobby? Really?
Now, I must say in all fairness that my son has a remarkable sense of humor that he no doubt inherited from his mother's side. And I am quite sure he meant well. I suppose I might think the same thing if someone told me they were writing in their spare time.
But I am a writer, dammit!
This isn't a hobby. A hobby is something practiced for enjoyment without thought of financial reward. And yes, when I am lost in a story that I am writing, I'm not thinking of making a boatload of money off it. At the same time, however, I feel the skill sets that I have evolved over the last few years have resulted in me becoming a writer… not a hobbyist.
I sell books all over the world! People actually pay to read the words I write! While I may not (yet) be a professional in the sense that I earn a living with my writing, I feel I have achieved a distinction many others will never achieve. I have penned a novel!
I am a writer!
I married young and the demands of a growing family meant a man like me had to become a provider. So, I worked… first in the employ of others and later as a business owner. I recall quite well the day I stood on the loading dock of the factory where I used to work. I saw my boss pull up in his Cadillac, open up the trunk, and take out his golf bag. I realized that while I'd been slaving away in a hot factory all day long, he'd been hitting the links and playing games. I told myself then and there that I was finished making someone else rich.
Not long after that day I started my own business and quit my job of making the boss rich. Actually, the man fired me before I got the chance to quit but that's another story and neither here nor there so far as becoming my own boss. The writing was on the wall long before and him firing me merely allowed me to draw unemployment compensation for a year while I got my business off the ground, something me quitting wouldn't have allowed.
I thought I worked long hours at my job… little did I realize the hours were even longer when a person is self-employed. Not only was I responsible for the day to day business activities, but I had to effectively market the business, schedule appointments, go out and sell my services against stiff competition, and when the business grew, I had to learn to hire quality people to help me run my business.
By the time I turned 45, my oldest son had been married for a half dozen years and the other children were no longer children. Part of the reason I started my business was the hope that the kids would want to be a part of it too, but it never seemed to appeal to them as much as it did to me. Oh sure, they all worked for me for a while but then went off and did their own things… got good jobs… married good people… started their own families.
Putting all my time into the business had another down side I do not like talking about… my wife left me about the time the business really took off. I suddenly found myself alone with a thriving business and no one to share it all with. About this same time I started dabbling on the Internet where I found my way to a discussion group centered around the work of Robert Pirsig, the author of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance and a second novel called Lila: An Inquiry into Morals.
During the course of these talks, I met a man who lived in Norway who had personally corresponded with Mr. Pirsig and who asked me to attempt putting the first year's worth of discussions into book form… well, he really asked me to write the Lila Squad story but since I didn't know how to do that, I took the archived posts and put them into a readable format, after securing permission from the contributors, of course.
A month after I uploaded my manuscript of compilations to a website that I taught myself how to construct, the fellow from Norway sent me an email telling me that he had received a snail mail letter from Robert Pirsig saying he had discovered my website and how much he liked it and how he had started making notes on the book I had named Lila's Child.
After the amazement of such a thing happening had worn off, I wrote my friend in Norway an email asking if he thought Mr. Pirsig might be willing to share his notes with me. I thought what a great addition they would be to Lila's Child. My Norway friend wrote me back to tell me that he had severe reservations on asking Robert Pirsig to share his notes so I took it that to mean it would never happen. Still, I began to rework the manuscript that I had uploaded, noticing a number of mistakes that had heretofore escaped my attention.
In a month or so, my Norway friend wrote me to say Robert Pirsig had agreed to take a look at the manuscript once I had finished working out the bugs. Apparently he had reconsidered his recalcitrance in asking Mr. Pirsig to supply notes and had written him a letter without telling me, perhaps hoping to save me the heartache of a refusal.
Over the next few months I sent the completed manuscript back and forth to Robert Pirsig many times, asking questions and basically having the intellectual time of my life. I quit watching television. I neglected my business. I spent whole weeks in front of the computer working and reworking the manuscript to include the notes and introduction Robert Pirsig had been so gracious to provide. Time disappeared. I lost myself completely in my work the way I had never before experienced.
And then it was finished.
I felt empty. When I rose in the morning I had nothing with which to occupy my mind. My old routines had become dull and no longer seemed worthwhile indulging in. I went back to working my business but with my heart no longer in it not long afterward I decided to sell it. Times were good and it didn't take long before I found a buyer.
One day, a woman who I had started seeing asked me if I could do anything in the whole world, what would it be? Right away, I told her I would write. I didn't even have to think about it. At the time I had the time and the money to do anything but my experience with Lila's Child still resonated within my psyche and I knew that somehow, some way, I wanted to recapture that feeling of losing myself in my work.
So… I began writing. I wrote short stories at first… they seemed easier and not the challenge that a novel presented. I bought all kinds of books on writing and spent hours every day reading on how one became a better writer. Some of the books were very good and I learned something from all of them. I began reading the classics again, this time dissecting them so far as plot and theme and storyline.
I found myself imitating the authors I loved especially well. The more I wrote the closer I came to finding my own voice within the din of all those brilliant writers who'd come before me. My first novel grew out of a single original paragraph I wrote without giving it much consideration. Three more novels followed.
I took a part-time job to help pay the bills and began writing every day for at least four hours. I considered writing to be my real occupation even though I didn't sell enough books to do it full time. I began to establish more of a web presence to help market my books. But when I shared my preoccupation with writing with my son, he told me that he thought how everyone needed a hobby and how happy he was that I had found something I enjoyed doing.
A hobby? Really?
Now, I must say in all fairness that my son has a remarkable sense of humor that he no doubt inherited from his mother's side. And I am quite sure he meant well. I suppose I might think the same thing if someone told me they were writing in their spare time.
But I am a writer, dammit!
This isn't a hobby. A hobby is something practiced for enjoyment without thought of financial reward. And yes, when I am lost in a story that I am writing, I'm not thinking of making a boatload of money off it. At the same time, however, I feel the skill sets that I have evolved over the last few years have resulted in me becoming a writer… not a hobbyist.
I sell books all over the world! People actually pay to read the words I write! While I may not (yet) be a professional in the sense that I earn a living with my writing, I feel I have achieved a distinction many others will never achieve. I have penned a novel!
I am a writer!
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