(Someone becomes a development manager and look what happens!)

This was a strange kind of writer’s block.

It’s not that I didn’t know what to write, rather that I was vacillating about whether to write it.

Why may soon become obvious. But more likely, it will remain opaque to you, dear reader, and the truth is that I’ve been soul-searching and agonising over reasons why I do or don’t need to write this for no valid external reason at all.

To whit, some examples:

Con: The story doesn’t need this bit. This chapter is getting too long already. People are wondering about what the hell that prologue was all about. It’s just back story. All this characterisation is unnecessary.

Pro: Novel writing 101 – Characterisation is everything. If readers are going to stick with your story, it’s generally because of the characters.  Sure the plot may entertain and engage, the lyrical (hah!) description may inspire, but ultimately, characters is what makes the reader CARE.

Such decisions are the fate of the tortured artist.

RIGHT. That’s it. What a pile of melodramatic crap!

[editor's note: An angry looking and somewhat unshaven individual has burst in and grabbed control of the keyboard. Law enforcement has been notified by silent alarm.]

The REAL reason is that you’re too much of a people pleaser and all that TALK about being courageous and writing what was ‘true’ and taking RISKS was all lip service. This is where the rubber hits the ROAD, pal! Grow some BALLS. Write the damn thing. Stop being so politically correct and grow a BACKBONE, you lilly-livered COWARD!

[editor's note: The interloper has been restrained and muzzled by security and is now limited to merely glowering angrily and making occasional muffled growling noises. We apologise and return you to our original programming.]

Chapter 1: Not Waving, but Drowning [continued]

Cassandra wakes up, nauseous and headachey. She is eighteen years old. The light leaking in around a ragged and mildewy curtain seems overly bright. The unfamiliar room smells of unwashed socks and the bed is lumpy and uncomfortable. The flannelete sheets feel slightly sticky and unclean against her naked skin.

Looking over the edge of the bed, she recognises her Levis, t-shirt, bra and panties scattered haphazardly across the messy floor, interspersed with other unfamiliar clothes. The intermittent snoring coming from over her shoulder alerts her to the presence of another. Rolling over, she feels a sudden twinge of pain from her groin, which then recedes to a dull ache.

Lying on his back in the bed, blonde hair tussled, mouth agape is Anthony, one of her fellow Civil Engineering students from Monash University.

Most of the male students in her classes don’t seem to know what to make of Cassandra’s private and serious manner. Some leered and made awkward passes at her. Most eventually ended up ignoring her.

Not Anthony.

Anthony was the de facto ring leader of a small band of like-minded guys who’d known each other since high school. He had persisted in trying to get to know Cassandra. When she talked, she felt like he really seemed to listen and take an interest in her opinions. With his good looks, cocky grin, and easy laugh, he reminded Cassandra a bit of her father. At least, her father in his more carefree times, before…

Last night Anthony had finally convinced a reluctant Cassandra to come out with their group, first to a local pub ‘for a few warm-up rounds’ as he put it, and then on to a party. Cassandra remembered the pub and the first few beers, high spirited conversation, Anthony’s hand on her knee, but it was all a blur after that. Her pounding head doesn’t help with the remembrance and even thinking about beer makes her nausea worsen.

Anthony stretches out his arms and yawns. Sitting up, he opens his eyes. He sees her looking at him and smiles.

“Morning babe. How’s it going?” he asks.

“I feel like shit.” she replies.

“Well, you did drink quite a bit last night…” he explains, wagging his finger at her.

As she sits up, the pounding in her head intensifies. She groans and rubs her eyes. Then a thought occurs to her, crawling sluggishly and unwelcomely into awareness. She sits with it, a dim sense of horror dawning.

“Did we…” she trails off, afraid to say it.

“Yeah.” he grins, then frowns. “Hey, if I’d known you were a virgin, I’d have been more gentle.” he adds.

Cassandra just looks at him, stunned.

“Don’t you remember?” he asks after an uncomfortable pause.

“No – I don’t!” she insists, clutching her aching head in her hands.

“Hey, you were into it.” he says. “You’re just not used to drinking, are you?” he adds, putting his arm across her shoulder, a somewhat false sense of helpfulness in his tone.

Cassandra shrugs him off.

“Hey. Don’t be like that.” he says.

Cassandra sits hunched in the bed, a deep sadness washing over her. A tear runs down her cheek. Then a hotness overrides the churn in her stomach, fighting through the throb of her temples. Angrily, she wipes the tear away and looks back at him, a fire now in her gaze.

Anthony meets her eyes and swallows hesitantly. Then his smile slowly fades and his cheeks redden.

“Look. What are you saying?” he asks.

Cassandra keeps his gaze, daring him to look away. As he looks back, his expression hardens.

“Hey. What kind of guy do you think I am?” he demands, looking away now.

“I think that’s pretty obvious!” she hisses, angrily leaping out of bed. She starts hurriedly putting on her clothes.

Anthony sits in the bed and throws up his hands in mock exasperation.

“Did you even use a condom?” she demands, over her shoulder, as she pulls on her jeans. She is so full of hatred, she couldn’t bring herself to even look at him.

“Uh.. You said you were on the pill.” he replies.

“WHAT UTTER BULLSHIT!” she explodes.

“Jeez. Keep it down! My flatmates will hear you.” he hisses.

“FUCK YOU!” she yells, slamming his bedroom door behind her.

Blink

Cassandra is standing impatiently at the counter in the pharmacy, waiting for the assistant to come back with her prescription. It’s been taking for ever. She can hear the hushed voices of the assistant and the pharmacist in the back of the store, and she is sure they are talking about her. She feels another wave of shame and a sense of uncleanness. She just wants the ordeal to be over and to be anywhere else but here.

Finally, the assistant saunters back over to the counter, the prescription in her hand.

“Here you go. ” she says smiling. “You do realise that the morning after pill is not a substitute for birth control?” she adds.

Cassandra can hear the unspoken judgement in her tone. And with that, her sense of shame fades and the hot burning in the pit of her stomach returns.

“Can I have it please.” Cassandra asks, firmly, hand outstretched.

“Oh, sure.” the assistant replies, feigning surprise.

Cassandra takes the prescription, abruptly turns and starts walking.

“You forgot your change.” the assistant calls out.

Cassandra doesn’t look back.

Blink

You see, cholesterol is no longer my friend. Now I don’t have any of the true risk factors so whilst there is nothing to really worry about, she thinks it would be better for me to eat a little better and exercise a little more. No need to tempt fate.

Apparently, my situation is “classic for middle-aged men with young families”. Pow!

I suppose it’s fair enough – I have just turned 40 after all. But nevertheless, Ooof!

So I was instant messaging with a friend yesterday, talking about the blog and generally shooting the breeze as us old folks do. In the process, I remembered how much I enjoy talking with him, so it’s something I definitely should do more of – Timezones be damned. He’s in the USA and I’m in New Zealand you see.

Anyway, we got to chatting about the process of writing and the self-consciousness that goes with it which he could relate to. And then he made the insightful comment that he reckons it’s harder for us old fogies (Ooof!) compared with todays youth who seem pretty blase about it.

See, they write stuff and ‘publish’ themselves on Facebook, mySpace, Flickr, their blog, etc every day and are often TXTing (which is what SMS is called here in NZ) on their cellphones late into the night and even into the wee hours (if their parents will let them).

As for TXTing, I’ve heard stuffy English profs bemoan this trend and complain that TXTspeak with it’s very loose relationship with spelling and grammar is going to “degrade the future of literature”. Shit, at least they are writing something, which is a fuck load more than I manage on any given day and I’m the one that fancies himself as a writer. (Note to self: writers WRITE!)

Last year, I remember watching our teenage baby sitter, sitting on the couch with a cellphone in each hand TXTing on them simultaneously, both thumbs a blur of motion and she wasn’t even looking at the screens!

Boy, did I feel old watching that. Not quite middle-aged old though I should point out.

Me, I hate TXTing on those horrible cellphone keypads. 4 jabs to get an S and bugger, I’ve gone past it so I have to go around the horn. And where is the damn full stop? In my day, sentences use to end with them.

Shit, at my snail-like TXTing pace, it’d be quicker to just call the damn person and tell them. You know, by talking. In my day, that was what phones were for. Quaint but true.

Anyway, all this talking about writing is really just letting me avoid doing more of it.

Best get on with it.

Chapter 1: Not Waving, but Drowning [continued]

Cassandra is in the kitchen, standing at the stove. She is thirteen years old. She checks to see if the rice is done yet. Nope – not quite. She cooks most nights now and Beef Stroganof is her fathers favourite. She reckons she makes it as well now as her Mum used to.

It’s Friday night and she’s feeling pretty excited. Her father has agreed to take her hunting tomorrow for the first time. She’s done lots of hiking, camping, and fishing with him – but letting her come hunting and being taught to use the rifle is special. It’s testimony to her growing up, and something far better than the awkwardness she feels about her changing body. She remembers having to talk with Rita about periods and shudders.

She walks over to the back door which is ajar and the evening breeze gently strokes her face. Her father is sitting on the back step, wistfully looking out into the orange and purple clouds scattered across the sky. His left hand is resting on his knee, a cigarette sitting between his fingers, largely forgotten, a limp arch of curving ash.

“It’s almost ready. 10 more minutes.” Cassandra says.

He doesn’t respond.

“Dad, dinner will be ready soon.” she repeats, reaching down to touch his shoulder.

“Huh… Oh, sorry. What did you say?” he says, turning and blinking.

“Dinner is almost ready.” Cassandra says, smiling.

He nods, absently, drifting way again.

“You’re thinking about Mum, aren’t you. I can always tell.” she says, after a pause.

“Yeah, I guess it was the smell of the Stroganof. It was my favourite and…” he says, trailing off. He sighs.

“I miss her too.” Cassandra says, squeezing down beside him on the step. He puts his right arm around her shoulders and they both look out at the sunset.

Disturbed by the motion, the ash has fallen from the cigarette and left a grey smear down his trouser leg.

“You really should stop smoking those things, Dad. Smoking can kill you.” Cassandra says.

“Yes, yes. So you keep telling me.” he replies, smiling now, and tussling her hair.

Blink

]]> http://sparkintheumbra.com/writing/novel/talkin-bout-my-generation/feed/ 1 http://sparkintheumbra.com/writing/novel/more-of-the-same/ http://sparkintheumbra.com/writing/novel/more-of-the-same/#comments Wed, 28 May 2008 09:03:28 +0000 Paul http://sparkintheumbra.com/?p=8 It’s been a weird thing, deciding to actually post the initial drafts of the novel. Normally, what you see on the printed page is the result of much revision, editing, and rewriting.

First drafts are generally rough and flawed beasts, written to get the basics down. The author can take solace in the fact that no-one else ever needs to see them, with all their dialogue warts, plot holes, and missteps.

This helps to sustain the illusion that only polished, beguiling prose drips from the authors fingertips, like nectar. (Yeah, right!)

By choosing to post these drafts, I’ve effectively deprived myself of any such cover and that leaves me feeling rather exposed. I’m a bit of a perfectionist you see, and I have a bit too much tied up in maintaining that particular illusion.

So it’s probably healthy for me to push through this barrier, despite the fact that this pithy rationalisation is not doing much to calm my intemperate emotions.

Anyway, here is more of the introductory chapter which continues from where the previous post left off.

Please ignore the man behind the curtain.

Chapter 1: Not Waving, but Drowning [continued]

Cassandra is standing in the the hospital by a nurses station. Her hand aches from Rita holding it too tightly. The hospital has a disconcerting sterile smell. A nurse kneels down in front of her and puts a hand gently on her shoulder.

“Hello, it’s Cassandra, isn’t it?” she asks.
Cassandra nods mutely.

“My name is Beth and I’m looking after your mother.
“She’s in that room over there.” she says, glancing back over her shoulder at a pair of doors.
“You can go in and see her when you’re ready. Would you like that?”
Cassandra nods again.

“She’s been in an accident and she got hurt so –”
“Is this really necessary?” interrupts Rita.
The nurse keeps her eyes on Cassandra and calmly continues.

“So I’m going to tell you what you’re going to see, OK?”
“…OK …” says Cassandra, hesitantly. Rita is squeezing her hand even tighter now.

“Your mother’s head and arm got very hurt.” the nurse says.
“There are some tubes in her mouth connected to a machine which is helping her to breathe.”
“She’s… asleep… now but she was asking to see you before.”
“Do you want to ask me any questions?”
Cassandra shakes her head.

“Would you like me to take you in?”
Cassandra nods.

The nurse stands and takes Cassandra’s other hand and together, they walk through the doors. Her mother is lying on the bed in the centre of the room. Just like the nurse said, her left side of her face is an angry, swollen mess and tubes run from her mouth to a machine which wheezes and sighs mechanically. Her father is sitting by her bedside, with his head in his hands. He stands as they walk in, revealing tears streaked down his cheeks. This is the first time Cassandra has ever seen her father cry. It won’t be the last.

Blink

Cassandra is back at the hospital with her father. Her father is looking haggard and unshaven. It’s been over four weeks and her mother has still not woken up.

Her father looks over at the doctor, swallows, and then nods. The doctor reaches behind the machine and clicks a switch. The bellows in the machine sigh one last time, and are then still.

Suddenly filled with panic, Cassandra breaks free from her father’s hands and runs over to the doctor, hitting him in the back.

“No! Turn it back on!” she screams.

Her father catches up with her, wrapping his arms around her struggling body. She twists in his embrace, pounding futilely with her fists on his broad chest. He holds her firmly about the waist, letting her hit him.

“I’m so sorry.” he says, his chest shaking, racked with sobs.

“I’m sorry.” he says again, repeating it over and over, a mantra of guilt.

After countless blows, growing ever feebler, Cassandra strength fades. She goes limp in her father’s arms, her tears mingling with his.

Blink

]]> http://sparkintheumbra.com/writing/novel/more-of-the-same/feed/ 0 http://sparkintheumbra.com/writing/novel/enough-already/ http://sparkintheumbra.com/writing/novel/enough-already/#comments Thu, 08 May 2008 14:47:44 +0000 Paul http://localhost/wordpress/?p=7 I can’t get to sleep. Too much coffee, too late perhaps. But I can usually get away with that for some reason. Maybe I metabolize coffee differently from normal humans. Whatever.

A swirl of ideas and images seem to clamor for release from the prison that is my head. Triggered perhaps by the clemency shown in finally freeing the prologue earlier. They too are crying out to be committed down to electrons for others to read and will give me no peace.

After much tossing and turning, I have finally yielded. Maybe once they’re out, they’ll let me alone. Don’t they know I have work in the morning? Writing is supposed to be a relaxing (hah!) night time hobby, not a torment in the wee hours, damnit!

After all, I still have to keep my day job.

Chapter 1: Not Waving, but Drowning

And it seems to me you lived your life like a candle in the wind
Never knowing who to cling to when the rain set in
- Elton John

Cassandra wakes up, startled and disoriented. She is four years old. It’s dark. Rain rattles against the window. The bed feels different and the door from her bedroom is in the wrong place. We must have moved again for Daddy. Different job, different city, different house. But the rising and falling rhythm of the raised voices from below is all too familiar.

Her mother and father are yelling at each other. She can’t make out the words through closed doors but anxiously, she feels sure that they’re arguing about her. Did she do something wrong, today? She groggily tries to remember, but can’t.

Curling up, knees tucked in to her chest, she starts to cry softly, wetting the thin pillow she clutches against the side of her face. Despite her attempts to hold it in, it builds into a loud wail of distress and despair.

Suddenly, the shouting downstairs stops.

She hears a door opening below and then soft steps coming up the stairs. Her bedroom door opens slightly and light spills in from the hallway across the carpeted floor.

“Are you all right, darling?” her mother asks, voice gentle now. “Did we wake you?”
“Uhh.. uhh..” is all she can utter, trying to still the heaving sobs.
“Shh…. it’s all right.” Her mother sits on the edge of the bed and pulls Cassandra up into her lap.
“Mummy and daddy were just talking” she lies, stroking Cassandra’s hair.

The familiar scent of her mother’s fading perfume fills Cassandra’s nose as she nestles into her mother’s shoulder. The towelling bathrobe starts wicking away the tears from her cheek. Her mother begins rocking her gently and starts to hum.

Heavier footsteps ascend the stairs and a taller figure looms silhouetted in the doorway.

“Wassmmatterrr babeee girrrl.” her father slurs, lurching awkwardly into the bedroom.

He leans over Cassandra and she can smell a familiar but less comforting aroma on his breath.

“Look, just go to bed, John.” her mother says, tightly.
“Awrrright thennn.” he mutters as he shambles out, waving his hand in the air absently.

Blink

Cassandra is swimming at the beach. She is six years old. The surging tide is pulling her out into deeper waters as she struggles to get in to shore. She is tiring and beginning to panic, obviously caught in the riptide. As she comes up for a breath, she can see the wide expanse of her father’s sunburned shoulders a ways ahead of her, rising out of the surf like a human lighthouse. He has his back to her.

Why won’t he turn around?
Why can’t he see me?

She goes under again, struggling frantically, against the urgent pull at her ankles. Nearing exhaustion, she comes up and takes in another mouthful of seawater. Gasping, choking, her vision is starting to shrink inwards, narrowing until even her father disappears. As everything starts to fade, stilling the ache in her lungs, she has the vague sense of something tugging at her upper arm.

Darkness.

She comes to lying rolled onto her side, her father’s large hands on her shoulder and hip. She is spluttering and coughing up water into the sand. Her lips and cheeks feel a little sore where they have rubbed against the stubble on her father’s chin and upper lip. He hasn’t shaven for a couple of days. It must be the school holidays then. Daddy always shaves for work. Work is important.

She looks up, a little dazed and sees her mother standing there silent, hands near her chin, clasped together as if in prayer. Her face is pale, worried, and her eyes glisten with tears.

“You gave us a bit of scare there, baby girl” her father says. Woozily, Cassandra rolls to face him.
“See, I told you, you’ve gotta look out for that rip.” he continues, smiling weakly.

Blink

Cassandra wakes up in her bed. She is seven years old. Someone is talking loudly downstairs. Pauses mixed with sobbing intervene between each exclamation. Are her parents back already? No. It must be Rita, her mother’s older sister talking to someone on the phone. The phone is in the hallway so the words are less muffled and she can make some of them out.

She’s sure Rita and the caller are talking about her. Rita is a stern, hunkered down sort of woman, fiercely loyal to her mother, but with no love lost for her father. Cassandra feels sure Rita doesn’t like her much either. She always sends her to bed early when she babysits and will only ever read her one story. She usually reads very quickly, not letting Cassandra linger and look at the comfortingly familiar pages. And she skips pages sometimes too, on purpose. Cassandra says nothing and pretends she doesn’t notice. It’s easier that way.

“… No … No …. Bastard! … your fault!”
sobbing
“… asleep … wake her.”
pause
“… for Anne! … You!”
sobbing
“… Alright! … my car … hospital.”
click

There is a moment of pregnant silence and then footsteps come up the stairs. Another pause and then the door is opened and Rita stands in the hallway light, breathing deeply, trying to compose herself. Sitting up and blinking in the sudden light, Cassandra anxiously waits for her to speak.

Deep down, Cassandra knows something is terribly wrong.

Blink

]]> http://sparkintheumbra.com/writing/novel/enough-already/feed/ 0 http://sparkintheumbra.com/writing/novel/and-so-it-begins/ http://sparkintheumbra.com/writing/novel/and-so-it-begins/#comments Thu, 08 May 2008 11:09:40 +0000 Paul http://localhost/wordpress/?p=6 After a bit of a hiatus which included a crisis (or two) of confidence, I decided to take the plunge.

For real.

With no net. (Well, except the obvious one. You know what I mean.)

So this is the first piece of writing for what may someday vaguely resemble a novel. Or maybe a novella. Or perhaps I should aim for just a short story. Sigh.

It’s a prologue. After all, I’ve got to start somewhere. Don’t expect too much.

Writing beginnings is actually pretty hard. In fact, this little piece has haunted me for quite a while. So I figure it’s time to let this particular ghost wander the battlements.

Prologue: A Candle, Guttering

Dark.

Cold. So very cold.

A soft hissing of gas, ebbing away, like a child’s balloon deflating, life leaking out of a jar. A mechanical whirring, dim and low, at the edge of hearing. A mind stumbles, fragmented. Synapses fire chaotically. Neurotransmitters ebb and sputter.

Spark.

A sudden tightening, spasming. Chest heaving, lungs straining, full of fluid. A mouth gurgles, obstructed and hopelessly struggling for the air that will not come.

Pain.

Chest burning, ribs acheing, temples pounding. Eyes flicker open, wide and frightened. Consciousness tentatively reforms and hovers on the brink of nothingness. Memories begin tumbling and twisting together, trying to put themselves back to make the person they once belonged to. Things that have happened, or might have happened, or maybe things that are yet to happen.

A cold, thin layer of plastic covered cushioning nestles against calves and thighs. Someone lies prone staring upwards, random flickers of phantom phospherescence playing across straining retinas.

A thought recurs. A name returns.

Cassandra. My name is Cassandra.

Hands fumble around in the blackness to find themselves hemmed in closely on both sides by chilled metal and fabric. Reaching up now, mere inches above her face, a subtly curved surface squats over her, unyielding. Her mouth and nose are masked, connected to tubes which snake off into the inky depths, joining others which pierce her right side, just beneath her armpit.

The distant whirring changes pitch. The tubes twitch and pulse as they fight to suck away the cold viscous fluid that threatens to drown her. Snatches of air rasp in her throat, teasing her with the promise of life.

There. Up there.

A weak flashing redness, at the corner of vision. As her head twists up and to the left to see, it tugs against a pair of unseen obstructions which pierce the top of her skull.

A sense of panic builds, rising up from her stomach, cresting on waves of nausea. A stream of frantic questions, pleading.

Where am I?
Why is this happening to me?
Won’t someone please help me?
Am I going to die here, alone?

The icy darkness sits mute and suffocating. A swirling river of memory is playing her life back before her eyes.

Deep down, Cassandra knows something is terribly, terribly wrong.

Somewhere, someone is screaming.