The story behind the story – Echoes from the Past

The novel ‘Echoes from the past’ started out as a short story I wrote about 30 years ago, titled ‘The birthday’.

My idea was to take a normal person out of their comfort zone and led on a short but very frightening journey to a place where a surprise birthday party had been arranged.

Thus the very large man with a scar and a red tie was created.

So was the friend with the limousine who worked as a pilot.

So were the two women, Wendy and Angelina, who were Flight Attendants that the pilot friend asked to join the conspiracy.

I was going to rework the short story, then about ten pages long, into something a little more.

And like all re-writes, especially those I have anything to do with, it turned into a novel.

There was motivation. I had told some colleagues at the place where I worked at the time that I liked writing, and they wanted a sample. I was going to give them the re-worked short story. Instead, I gave them ‘Echoes from the past’

Originally it was not set anywhere in particular.

But when considering a location, I had, at the time, recently been to New York in December, and visited Brooklyn and Queens, as well as a lot of New York itself. We were there for New Years, and it was an experience I’ll never forget.

One evening we were out late, and finished up in Brooklyn Heights, near the waterfront, and there was rain and snow, it was cold and wet, and there were apartment buildings shimmering in the street light, and I thought, this is the place where my main character will live.

It had a very spooky atmosphere, the sort where ghosts would not be unexpected. I felt more than one shiver go up and down my spine in the few minutes I was there.

I had taken notes, as I always do, of everywhere we went so I had a ready supply of locations I could use, changing the names in some cases.

Fifth Avenue near the Rockefeller center is amazing at first light, and late at night with the Seasonal decorations and lights.

The original main character was a shy and man of few friends, hence not expecting the surprise party. I enhanced that shyness into purposely lonely because of an issue from his past that leaves him always looking over his shoulder and ready to move on at the slightest hint of trouble. No friends, no relationships, just a very low profile.

Then I thought, what if he breaks the cardinal rule, and begins a relationship?

But it is also as much an exploration of a damaged soul, as it is the search for a normal life, without having any idea what normal was, and how the understanding of one person can sometimes make all the difference in what we may think or feel.

And, of course, I wanted a happy ending.

Except for the bad guys.

Get it here: https://amzn.to/2CYKxu4

newechocover5rs

In a word: Saw or Sore or Soar

In the first or second instance of the word Sore, we all know this malady can sometimes fester into something a lot worse.

Or that a person could be a sore loser

Or after spending an hour on the obstacle course, they come off very sore and sorry. I never quite understood why they should be sorry because no one ever apologises to an inanimate object. Or do they?

Or perhaps he was sore at his friend for not telling him the truth.

Then, there’s another meaning, saw, which can mean the past tense of seeing, that is, I saw them down by the pool.

I could also use a saw, you know, that thing that cuts through wood, steel, plastic, almost anything. And yes, it’s possible someone might actually saw through a loaf of bread.

There are hand saws, electric saws, band saws, coping saws, and even a bread knife, all of these have one thing in common, a serrated edge with teeth of different sizes, designed to cut, smoothly or roughly depending on the size.

Add it to bones, and you have Captain Kirk’s description of his medical officer on the Enterprise. I’m not sure any doctor would like to be addressed as saw-bones.

But then, confusingly in the way only English can do, there’s another word that sounds exactly the same, soar

This, of course, means hovering up there in the heavens, with or without propulsion or oxygen.

Yes, it’s difficult to soar with eagles when you work with turkeys. I’ve always liked this expression though most of the time people don’t quite understand what it means.

Betwixt metaphorical houses

It’s like working in two offices, one uptown, and one downtown.

I have two blogs, this one, and another which is purely for writing, and generally, a lot of starts and not a lot of finishes. I get ideas, and it’s a place to store them, and give a few people some amusement at my, sometimes, improbable situations and far-fetched stories.

Here I try to be more serious.

I have the ceiling, the cinema of my dreams. Here anything is possible, like jumping from a helicopter about to explode, and survive, and get out of a sinking ship, like Houdini. Of course, there is always one time when it doesn’t work, and Houdini knows that all too well.

Over there, I have a series which I started here, long ago, where I take a photograph and write a story inspired by it. The interesting thing about that is I could probably use the same photograph over and over, and it would inspire a different tale.

I know, if I was running a writing class, everyone would see that photograph differently.

But what amazes me sometimes is the fact the story is not directly related to the theme. It got me thinking about how we view our experiences, and what triggers memories. I’ve discovered that it doesn’t necessarily happen by correlation, say, for instance, a memory of being in New York might be triggered by a visit to a cafe in Cloncurry.

I try to do one of these every day, but sometimes it’s hard work. Writing itself can be some days, particularly when the words are lurking there, behind that invisible, impenetrable, rock wall.

OK, so I’m stuck in the middle of writing a piece over there, and I’ve come over here to whinge.

But, enough. I’ll let you know what the cinema of my dreams is showing, later.

The cinema of my dreams – I always wanted to go on a treasure hunt – Episode 89

Here’s the thing…

Every time I close my eyes, I see something different.

I’d like to think the cinema of my dreams is playing a double feature but it’s a bit like a comedy cartoon night on Fox.

But these dreams are nothing to laugh about.

Once again there’s a new installment of an old feature, and we’re back on the treasure hunt.

…

We have a situation

…

Home wasn’t home anymore.

I stood inside the front door, as I had many times in the past, but this time it was different.

Maybe it was the near-death experience, maybe I hadn’t been there for a few days, maybe I had irrevocably changed in those few short days.

It seemed that I was someone else, that the old Sam had gone away, and a new version had replaced him. Had I finally grown up, or was I still reeling from the ordeal and, more likely, mourning the loss of what had been my one true friend.

Right then, it felt like Boggs had never existed, and that Nadia had invaded that space.

Nadia.

Until now, right this moment, I hadn’t really thought about what I was about to do. Since being in the hospital, every movement I’d made felt mechanical, and someone else was manipulating the controls.

Wanting to leave was a knee-jerk reaction, and one that failed to recognize others may have a role in what happened, like my mother. I gad completely discounted her because of her association with Benderby, but what if that was no longer the case.

With Alex off the hook, they no longer had to worry about Nadia or what I might say or do, not that there was anything we could do. I felt for Charlene who literally was between a rock and a hard place, having to compromise her principles to uphold justice and her disappointment in her father.

To be honest, his actions came as a surprise, despite the rumors of corruption. It didn’t occur to me that it might have been the lesser of the evils, getting Vince off the streets, nobbling the Cossatinos, and to a lesser extent, using the situation as a bargaining chip with the Benderby’s.

But all of that was moot. Another rumor circulating, according to the newspaper I’d seen at the hotel, was that a third term for the current sheriff was looking unlikely. It was joined by an interview with Benderby on the construction of a new resort on the mall site. Noticeably absent were any reports on Boggs, the treasure, or Cossatino.

I considered briefly whether I should go to the newspaper and tell them the whole story. If he considered it had any element of truth, he’d publish it and be damned, but the thought of how his wife, an Ormiston, would take the news of finding her father, only for the body to disappear, would serve no purpose. If there was a body, I would not hesitate.

But, now, it was enough to make a decision on what I would do next. Pack a bag, tell my mother I was leaving, and call Nadia.

It was impossible to fit a lifetime into a bag. It was fortunate, perhaps, that my situation had not afforded me the luxury of too many possessions, or anything of value.

Even so, what fitted wasn’t much. I wanted to believe it was going to be a new start, but it seemed like I was just running away, that the problems I was running from would just come with me.

And, then, there was Nadia. I was today’s flavor of the month, but would I be in a month, or two?

That thought was interrupted by the sound of the front door opening. I stepped onto the passage just as my mother closed the door.

“Sam. Where have you been? I’ve been calling, and leaving messages.”

She wasn’t angry, but there was an edge to her tone. I should have at the very least sent a message to say I was OK. It didn’t help my phone battery had died. I’d put it in the recharge, and minutes later continually dinged with missed messages

“I had to get away. Either that or I would have done something I regretted. I thought you’d moved in with Benderby.”

“You thought wrong. This business with Alex. I remember you told me he was responsible for what happened to you and Nadia, and when I overheard him arguing with his father, I realised you were telling me the truth, and neither of them could be trusted. I just told him I needed some time to sort out some issues.”

“You’re not going back?”

“No. What are you going to do?”

“There’s nothing for me here. I’m not going back to the warehouse, nor do I want to be here anymore. Not while Alex is put and about. It’s only a matter of time before he comes after Nadia and I.”

“Then you’re still going to Italy with her.”

“For a while, see how it works out. You should come too, at least for a holiday, think about what you’re going to do. Personally, I think you should also leave, start fresh somewhere else.”

“Maybe you’re…”

We both heard the screeching tires of a car coming to a sudden stop outside, followed by the slamming of doors.

Alex not waiting to clean up his mess?

A sudden pounding on the door revised that assessment, if anyone was here to do us harm they would have kicked the door down.

I moved my mother behind me, and the protection of the door as I opened it.

The sheriff.

“We have a situation,” he said in his most serious tone

Warning us the Benderby’s were coming for us?

When neither of us responded, he added, “Elsie Boggs has the Benderby’s at gunpoint at the Blue Circle, and she will only talk to you.”

…

Memories of the conversations with my cat – 28

As some may be aware, but many are not, Chester, my faithful writing assistant, mouse catcher, and general pain in the neck, passed away some years ago.

Recently, I was running a series based on his adventures, under the title of Past Conversations with my cat.

For those who have not had the chance to read about all of his exploits, I will run the series again from Episode 1

These are the memories of our time together…

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This is Chester. He thinks it’s still winter.

It’s not, but how do you tell a cat who thinks he knows everything.

Today, we are having a battle over his bed. The blanket needs washing. I tell him, in as polite a manner I can muster,m there is an aroma that is bordering on unpleasant.

He tells me he can’t smell anything, and refuses to budge.

I suspect not since he is now used to it.

Not even the tempting offer of stretching out on the end of our bed has any effect.

I guess it’s the time from Plan B.

I give him one last chance.

It’s outright defiance now.

I go down to the laundry, fetch the green bucket, half fill it with hot water, and return.

He’s looking warily at me now, knowing something has changed since he last saw me.

Ah, yes, what’s that bucket for?

Call me mean, I tell him, but nothing moves faster than a scalded cat.

Not that I would, but I think he now understands the subtle art of compromise.

Short Story writing – don’t try this at home! – Part 1

This is not a treatise, but a tongue in cheek, discussion on how to write short stories. Suffice to say this is not the definitive way of doing it, just mine. It works for me – it might not work for you.

Everyone has one in them, possibly more, and me, well, it’s how I keep the wolves from the door.

Yes, I read my stories to them and they fall asleep.

Or maybe not, I’m never quite sure what effect anything I write has on anyone. And, reading a lot of the posts on how to handle bad reviews and rejection, such a recurrent theme, I don’t think I want to.

Ignorance is bliss, is it not?

Well, one day I’m sure something will happen. It’s probably in the seven stages of writing:

Euphoria

Planning

Research

Writing

Failure

Search for the guilty

Distinction for the uninvolved

I guess you don’t fail if you don’t put it out there. Searching for the guilty, well, there’s only one person to blame, the editor, and distinction for the uninvolved, didn’t your friend, relation, confidente, significant other, say it wasn’t going to work?

But, despite everything, I like writing short stories and try to produce one in a single sitting. I try to keep the word count down, but the stories, somehow they just evolve in my head and don’t want to end the main character’s story.

In reality, there is no end to the story unless they die, and then, of course, the story branches off, just like a family tree,

Some stories are so intricate, they need another story to fill in the gaps, and then another because the plot is running through your head at a thousand miles an hour and your fingers won’t stop typing, because if you do, it will all dissipate into thin air like smoke.

Stories can, you know, dissipate like smoke, one minute your mining a rich vein the next, you’ve hit a ton of worthless quartz.

Then all the constraints come into play, nagging at the back of your mind, and you find yourself waking up in a bath of sweat crying out, I didn’t do it, the crime that is, not lose the best 2,000 words you’ve ever written.

But that’s all of those words you write, isn’t it?

But I digress, and I’ll write some more on the subject, what was it again?

Writing a book in 365 days – 191

Day 191

Is writing a solitary experience?

…

I can see how it is that a writer’s life can be a lonely one. That’s why, I guess, so many writers have an animal as a pet, someone to talk to, or just feel as though you are not alone in this quest.

I’m often sitting in front of the computer screen, or in a large lounge chair with my trusty tablet computer, writing the words, or staring into space!

Sometimes the words don’t make any sense, sometimes the thoughts leading to those words don’t make any sense.

Sometimes the most sensible person in the room is the cat.

I’m sure his thoughts are not vague or scrambled, or wrestling with the ploys of several stories on the go, getting locations right, getting characters to think and do their thing with a fair degree of continuity.

The cat’s world is one of which chair to lie on, where is that elusive mouse, be it real or otherwise, and is this fool going to feed me, and please, please, don’t let it be the lasagna. I am not that cat!

Unlike other professions, there is no 9 to 5, no overtime, no point where you can switch off and move into leisure time. Not while you are writing that next masterpiece. It’s a steady, sometimes frustrating slog where you can’t just walk away, have a great time, and come back and pick up where you left off.

Then there are those moments when you are staring off into space, contemplating the loneliness of it all.

Except you’re not.

There are what I call the sounds of silence, which for some reason are much easier to hear than during the daylight hours.

The bark of a dog.

The rustle of leaves in the trees.

The soft pattering of rain on the roof.

The sound of a train or truck horn from a long way away.

The sound of a truck using its brakes on the highway, also a long way away.

The sound of people talking in the street.

The thing is, you are never quite as alone as you might think or try to be.

Searching for locations: Shanghai, China, by night.

When we arrive at the embarkation site we find at least 100 buses all lined up and parked, and literally thousands of Chinese and other Asians streaming through the turnstiles to get on another boat leaving earlier than ours.

Buses were just literally arriving one after the other stopping near where we were standing with a dozen or so other groups waiting patiently, and with people were everywhere it could only be described as organized chaos.

Someone obviously knew where everyone was supposed to go, and when it was our turn, we joined the queue. There were a lot of people in front of us, and a lot more behind, so I had to wonder just how big the boat was.

We soon found out.

And it was amusing to watch people running, yes, they were actually running, to get to the third level, or found available seating. Being around the first to board, we had no trouble finding a seat on the second level.

I was not quite sure what the name of the boat was, but it had 3 decks and VIP rooms and it was huge, with marble staircases, the sort you could make a grand entrance on. The last such ornate marble staircase we had seen was in a hotel in Hong Kong, and that was some staircase.

But who has marble staircases in a boat?

We’re going out across the water as far as the Bund and then turn around and come back about 30 to 40 minutes. By the time everyone was on board, there was no room left on the third level, no seats on the second level nor standing room at the end of the second level where the stairs up to the third level were.

No one wanted to pay the extra to go into the VIP lounge.

We were sitting by very large windows where it was warm enough watching the steady procession of the colored lights of other vessels, and outside the buildings.

It was quite spectacular, as were some of the other boats going out on the harbor.

All the buildings of the Bund were lit up

And along that part of the Bund was a number of old English style buildings made from sandstone, and very impressive to say the least.

On the other side of the harbour were the more modern buildings, including the communications tower, a rather impressive structure.

I had to go to the rear of the vessel to get a photo, a very difficult proposition given here was no space on the railing, not even on the stairs going up or down. It was just luck I managed to get some photos between passengers heads.

And, another view of that communications tower:

There was no doubt this was one of the most colourful night-time boat tours I’ve ever been on. Certainly, when we saw the same buildings the following day, they were not half as spectacular in daylight.

I never did get up to the third level to see what the view was like.

The first case of PI Walthenson – “A Case of Working With the Jones Brothers”

This case has everything, red herrings, jealous brothers, femme fatales, and at the heart of it all, greed.

See below for an excerpt from the book…

Coming soon!

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An excerpt from the book:

When Harry took the time to consider his position, a rather uncomfortable position at that, he concluded that he was somehow involved in another case that meant very little to him.

Not that it wasn’t important in some way he was yet to determine, it was just that his curiosity had got the better of him, and it had led to this: sitting in a chair, securely bound, waiting for someone one of his captors had called Doug.

It was not the name that worried him so much, it was the evil laugh that had come after the name was spoken.

Doug what? Doug the ‘destroyer’, Doug the ‘dangerous’, Doug the ‘deadly’; there was any number of sinister connotations, and perhaps that was the point of the laugh, to make it more frightening than it was.

But there was no doubt about one thing in his mind right then: he’d made a mistake. A very big. and costly, mistake. Just how big the cost, no doubt he would soon find out.

His mother, and his grandmother, the wisest person he had ever known, had once told him never to eavesdrop.

At the time he couldn’t help himself and instead of minding his own business, listening to a one-sided conversation which ended with a time and a place. The very nature of the person receiving the call was, at the very least, sinister, and, because of the cryptic conversation, there appeared to be, or at least to Harry, criminal activity involved.

For several days he had wrestled with the thought of whether he should go. Stay on the fringe, keep out of sight, observe and report to the police if it was a crime. Instead, he had willingly gone down the rabbit hole.

Now, sitting in an uncomfortable chair, several heat lamps hanging over his head, he was perspiring, and if perspiration could be used as a measure of fear, then Harry’s fear was at the highest level.

Another runnel of sweat rolled into his left eye, and, having his hands tied, literally, it made it impossible to clear it. The burning sensation momentarily took his mind off his predicament. He cursed and then shook his head trying to prevent a re-occurrence. It was to no avail.

Let the stinging sensation be a reminder of what was right and what was wrong.

It was obvious that it was the right place and the right time, but in considering his current perilous situation, it definitely was the wrong place to be, at the worst possible time.

It was meant to be his escape, an escape from the generations of lawyers, what were to Harry, dry, dusty men who had been in business since George Washington said to the first Walthenson to step foot on American soil, ‘Why don’t you become a lawyer?” when asked what he could do for the great man.

Or so it was handed down as lore, though Harry didn’t think Washington meant it literally, the Walthenson’s, then as now, were not shy of taking advice.

Except, of course, when it came to Harry.

He was, Harry’s father was prone to saying, the exception to every rule. Harry guessed his father was referring to the fact his son wanted to be a Private Detective rather than a dry, dusty lawyer. Just the clothes were enough to turn Harry off the profession.

So, with a little of the money Harry inherited from one of his aunts, he leased an office in Gramercy Park and had it renovated to look like the Sam Spade detective agency, you know the one, Spade and Archer, and The Maltese Falcon.

There’s a movie and a book by Dashiell Hammett if you’re interested.

So, there it was, painted on the opaque glass inset of the front door, ‘Harold Walthenson, Private Detective’.

There was enough money to hire an assistant, and it took a week before the right person came along, or, more to the point, didn’t just see his business plan as something sinister. Ellen, a tall cool woman in a long black dress, or so the words of a song in his head told him, fitted in perfectly.

She’d seen the movie, but she said with a grin, Harry was no Humphrey Bogart.

Of course not, he said, he didn’t smoke.

Three months on the job, and it had been a few calls, no ‘real’ cases, nothing but missing animals, and other miscellaneous items. What he really wanted was a missing person. Or perhaps a beguiling, sophisticated woman who was as deadly as she was charming, looking for an errant husband, perhaps one that she had already ‘dispatched’.

Or for a tall, dark and handsome foreigner who spoke in riddles and in heavily accented English, a spy, or perhaps an assassin, in town to take out the mayor. The man was such an imbecile Harry had considered doing it himself.

Now, in a back room of a disused warehouse, that wishful thinking might be just about to come to a very abrupt end, with none of the romanticized trappings of the business befalling him. No beguiling women, no sinister criminals, no stupid policemen.

Just a nasty little man whose only concern was how quickly or how slowly Harry’s end was going to be.

…

Searching for locations: The Lingering Gardens, Suzhou, China

The Lingering Garden

These gardens are very tightly put together and are interspersed with buildings that you can go in and look at as distinct from just looking in from the outside.

There are lots of paths that wind around interspersed with rocks which may or may not be sculpted, and equally interspersed with trees, bushes, and small plants. In the middle is a lake which usually has lotus plants in bloom, but they are not in season.