Tag: Challenge

Writing about writing a book – Day 14 Continues

Whilst Davenport’s backstory is now coming together, I’m back with the main character, and working on a bit of his backstory too, mainly what he is about to remember of his past, locked away for many years, most likely caused by the trauma he suffered at the hands of the enemy, though the definition of ‘enemy’ here will have a number of different meanings.

These first dreams are disjointed but point to one certainty, Bill was, for a time, a prisoner, whether it was as a prisoner of war, or something else, he is yet to discover.

Another certainty he will learn in time is that he holds a secret, a secret several people would like to find out about, and who will go to extreme lengths to get it from him.

This memory fragment confirms he was a prisoner, despite the assurances to the contrary:

 

I woke suddenly, tense, eyes open, and alert.  I could feel the fear coursing through my veins, every nerve end tingling.

I had only one thought in mind.

Escape.

Now.

Before it started again.

I moved my hand and found it strapped down as was my other hand and my legs.  I was barely able to move.

A sudden jolt of pain went through me, starting at my shoulder where the knife had been dug in and twisted, the memory of which was very clear in my mind.  It increased as I struggled against the restraints, the fear of it happening again stirring me to try harder.

I’d been here before and the result was bad.

Very bad.

I struggled harder.

I looked around and saw no one or anything else.  The room seemed different from the one I last remembered, more closed in, claustrophobic.  The light came on, bright neon lights, blinding me.  The flash I got before I closed my eyes, it was a hospital room.  I was captive, and it was after the torture session, where the doctors put me back together just enough to last the next session.

Torture, recovery, torture, recovery, over and over, night, day, light, dark, warm, cold.  I had no idea where I was, what day, week, month, or year it was, when I’d last eaten, or eaten at all.

And I didn’t know why.

Why they didn’t kill me and get it over with.  I didn’t know anything.

The door opened and I opened my eyes, now a little more adjusted to the bright light.  He came over and looked down at me.

Chinese.

The enemy.

One of the insidious men keeping me alive.

I kept my eyes on him as he looked at the folder beside the bed, and checked my vital signs.

“How are we this morning?”

English, with only a trace of a Chinese accent.  They all spoke nearly perfect English, confusing me, making me think I was safe.  That I would talk to them.  Confide in them.

I didn’t feel safe and I had nothing to say.

“You had a very bad night.”

Tell me something I didn’t know.  I struggled against the restraints.

“They’re for your own protection.  You tried to get out of bed and reopened your wound.  I’m sorry, but we have had to restrain you.”

“Let me go,” I hissed, “or kill me.”

“I assure you no one wants to kill you.”

I didn’t believe him.  He was trying to trick me.  Trying to allay my fears.  I knew all of their tricks now.

I had to escape.  I had to get away or die trying.  I could not take another session.  Not in that dark, dank, evil room.

I tried harder to escape, felt the restraining hands of his friends, holding me down as he administered another injection, silence, and darkness closing in once again.

 

Still not sure where this is going, but it’s defining the past of our main character, and will become a lot clearer as the story progresses.

I am intending for these dreams, if extracted and put in order, will be the basis of the missing past the main character has not been able to remember, and given how horrific some of them are, it’s no surprise they’ve been buried very deep in his subconscious.

 

© Charles Heath 2015-2020

Conversations with my cat – 77

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This is Chester.  He’s not happy we’re cleaning the office.

I guess I’m not either.

But…

It’s school holidays and it’s natural that while parents are working grandparents take up the slack as childminders.  The trick is keeping them amused, and away from computers or being planted in front of the TV.

Of course, knowing the level of fear the grandchildren can bring to the cat, he views their arrival with some apprehension, keeping his distance.

Based on previous experiences, he is assuming they will remain out of the office on the computer for one, and on the smartphone for the other, so he slinks down the passage and quickly runs into the office.

Is this going happen often, he asks.

They’re on holidays, it’s here or daycare, and I’d rather it be here.

Then they appear at the doorway.  “OK.  We’re here to clean the room.  Where do we start?”

Chester’s cornered.  He knows it.  I know it, and worse still, they know it.

He disappears under the desk, safe for the moment, but it’s going to be a long morning.

A Private Investigator’s tale lends itself to being a serial

The write a private detective serial has always been one of the items at the top of my to-do list, though trying to write novels and a serial, as well as a blog, and maintain a social media presence, well, you get the idea.

But I made it happen, from a bunch of episodes I wrote a long, long time ago, used these to start it, and then continue on, then as now, never having much of an idea where it was going to end up, or how long it would take to tell the story.

That, I think is the joy of ad hoc writing, even you, as the author, have as much idea of where it’s going as the reader does.

It’s basically been in the mill since 1990, and it finally came to an end last year.

 

Now it’s time for the second book or the second case.

It’s starting off with Harry’s father going missing, but it has more sinister consequences, perhaps relating to an event that occurred to Harry during his first case.

The first episode will appear very soon.

 

But some information to get your heads back into the PI world,

My private detective, Harry Walthenson

I’d like to say he’s from that great literary mold of Sam Spade, or Mickey Spillane, or Phillip Marlow, but he’s not.

But, I’ve watched Humphrey Bogart play Sam Spade with much interest, and modeled Harry and his office on it.  Similarly, I’ve watched Robert Micham play Phillip Marlow with great panache, if not detachment, and added a bit of him to the mix.

Other characters come into play, and all of them, no matter what period they’re from, always seem larger than life.  I’m not above stealing a little of Mary Astor, Peter Lorre or Sidney Greenstreet, to breathe life into beguiling women and dangerous men alike.

 

Then there’s the title, like

The Case of the Unintentional Mummy – this has so many meanings in so many contexts, though I image back in Hollywood in the ’30s and ’40s, this would be excellent fodder for Abbott and Costello

The Case of the Three-Legged Dog – Yes, I suspect there may be a few real-life dogs with three legs, but this plot would involve something more sinister.  And if made out of plaster, yes, they’re always something else inside.

But for mine, to begin with, it was “The Case of the …”, because I had no idea what the case was going to be about, well, I did, but not specifically.

The first case is called ‘A case of working with the Jones’ brothers’, which of course didn’t follow the original title concept.

The second will fall into place once a few episodes have been written.

 

Hang in there, it’s not long to wait now.

 

Writing about writing a book – Day 13 supplemental

I was going to say ‘Captain’s log supplemental’ and add a stardate, but the analogy might get lost because not everyone is a Star Trekker.

Needless to say, there’s always more to say about an event, especially when the mind is casting about for ideas to add or enhance a story.

It comes down to, does art imitate life, or does life imitate art?  It’s an interesting question because, in this instance, art will be imitating, to a certain extent, life.

Perhaps what is lost in the telling is the inability of newly divorced people in working out where the boundaries are, whether or not they are entitled to know about the other person’s private life, and how that will make them feel.

I’m guessing when a marriage breaks down, there’s always a cause, and while the word amicable gets bandied around a lot, it’s said, but quite often not meant.

Does mummy have a boyfriend?

Does daddy have a girlfriend?

What generally happens is the children are the only ones who know what’s really happening to each of the parents, because they get transported between the two, as neither parent would want to be seen stopping the other from seeing them/

Of course, where the children are grown up and leading their own lives, the situation should be a lot easier.

But, where does this fit in with the story I hear you asking.

 

Marriages fall apart for many reasons.  In the story, Bill acknowledges that it is largely his fault, and one suspects it’s probably an undiagnosed case of PTSD that back in the sixties and seventies was not really understood.

It led to both he and Ellen leading individual but separate lives whilst keeping up appearances for the sake of their children.  There’s no doubting who brought them up, Ellen, and who had the greater influence over them, although, for the sake of this story, both couldn’t wait to leave home and live somewhere else.

They do, and together.  They are not married and do not have children.  They were not the cause of the breakup, and fortunately, neither of the girls blame one or the other parent.

But that doesn’t mean, over the years, that either parent hasn’t tried to use them to glean information about the other.  It is how Bill discovered, some time ago, that Ellen had ‘a special friend’.

Yet, neither of the daughters have seen him, and not surprisingly, he had made sure that Bill has never seen him.  It’s for a particular reason, one that will become obvious later in the story.  It is, I think, a rather clever twist.

Also, Ellen is not a bad person and certainly wasn’t bad to Bill, perhaps more long-suffering.  She did stay with him for a long time, mainly for the children, but also because she genuinely cared for Bill.

And Bill had not had another woman friend, not until he discovers his feelings towards Jennifer and even then, he keeps that to himself, even when he really doesn’t have to.

Sigh.

Time to return to my fictional world.

Writing about writing a book – Day 13 extra

There’s nothing worse than an interrogation by children, particularly when they are brutally honest.  To make matters worse, I had two inquisitors, and it was clear they had spent some time before getting in the car to organize a coordinated plan of attack.

But, first, a little history.

Back in happier times, in other words before the eventual separation and divorce, we were known as nanna and poppy. I was, most of the time, referred to as grumpy poppy, and the two, girls adored their nanna.

She always had a way with children, and, it was also the case, with our own two sons.  They preferred her to me, for obvious reasons, I had to be bad cop all the time.

When we separated, and this was an eventuality that we both agreed on, and it was, I thought, quite amicable.  There was no underlying reason, like one or other of us cheating, but that we had, over time, simply drifted apart because we had separate ideas about life.

Since I was the nonpreferred grandparent, I decided to see less of the children and allow them more time to be with their nanna.  Sometimes we appeared together, like at birthdays and Christmas, but normally I kept my distance.

No one seemed to complain about my absences, least of all my own children, which spoke volumes, to me, about what they thought of me.

Now, out of the blue, I get this call to pick up my granddaughters from school. It was not as if their nanna was as so overloaded with things to so, so it seemed to me it was some sinister plot, but to what end, I could hardly imagine.

I’d find out soon enough.

The girls were waiting in the drop zone and got in the car.  It didn’t phase them that it was me, and I had thought they may have a problem since I was in a different car. But they seemed to know what to look for.

There was silence until we exited the school grounds, they went to a church primary school and perhaps they didn’t want to risk God’s judgment on me.

The older child fired the first salvo, “Nanna says you have a girlfriend.”

Ok, not the first question I was expecting.

Then the younger girl followed up with the second salvo, “is she going to become our new nanna?”

To them, these were serious questions.  But had they been inspired by their current nanna, and they were to get answers.  She’d know I wouldn’t lie to them.

I stopped at the traffic lights.

“If your nanna saw me with a friend having lunch the other day, then it’s quite possible it may have looked like that, but, no, I don’t have a girlfriend, and for what it’s worth, I’m not ready to embark on that journey again for a while.  As for the other question, there will never be a new or any other sort of nanna other than the one you have already.”

Speech timed to perfection.  The lights changed to green.

I let that sink in and then after a minute asked a question of my own.  “How come your nanna is not picking you up today?”

I notice the two give each other a look and wonder how young does a child have to be to understand what a lie is or be able to keep a secret.

“We were told that you would be collecting us today, that’s all.”

A question then for whoever is at home when I drop them off.

I notice a rather prolonged look from the younger girl, perhaps searching for a truth of her own in my expression, or that she was trying to read my thoughts.  Whatever she saw, she asked, “Do you still go to work?”

“In a manner of speaking.  I work for myself these days.”

“With computers?”

“Not anymore.  I thought I might try writing a novel.  Before, there never seemed to be enough time in a day to do anything, but now things are a little easier.”

Then the older girl chimed in, “Nanna says that it’s a bit late for you to become a writer.”

Yes, I can see it now, the rest of the family sitting around the dinner table saying that I’d finally lost my marbles doing what I always wanted to rather than what I had to.

And my ex had always said I would be wasting my time from the very first time I’d mentioned it to her.  So much for confiding your hopes and dreams in your so-called lifelong partner who is supposed to support you.  I know I had supported her through various career changes, no matter what the consequences.

“What do you think I should do?”

It would be interesting to get their perspective.

“If you don’t have a real job, how do you pay the bills?”

A practical question.  Just the sort my ex would have posed if she was here.

“You’d be surprised what you can do when you put your mind to it.  I manage.”

There was no doubt a dozen other questions to be asked, but the capacity for a child to remember was about three or four.  And then they had to remember my answers so they could relay them.

Hopefully, the interrogation was over.

Writing about writing a book – Day 13

Life impinges on the idyllic

There’s the expectation and then there’s reality.

My idea of shutting myself away in my lonely garret and writing, coming out into the fresh air every now and then, just to make sure neither North Korea or the United States haven’t turned the world into a nuclear holocaust, was simply a pipe dream.

Being single again doesn’t abrogate you of the same responsibilities you have before you became single.  You still had children, and those children have children, and, yes, you can see where this is going.

The mobile phone, so silent for the past few days, makes the unusual sound it makes when a message arrives.

Thank heaven for tech-savvy granddaughters!

And before you say, quite casually, that I would be better off without technology, after all, all Hemingway had was a typewriter, I’m afraid to say there is no Luddite in me.

In fact, do Luddites still exist?

So, as I said, the phone dings, and as I’m not expecting anything, I try to ignore it.  Three minutes later it dings again, and it’s a warning.  The Gods are getting impatient.

It’s a message to pick up the grandchildren from school and deliver them home.  It’s something I haven’t done in a while, but it’s an opportunity to see them, and they always have words of wisdom as only a thirteen and ten-year-old can.

It’s a while since I have.  I suspect my involvement had been curtailed somewhat because their nanna had been available, and the more preferred option.

Or maybe they had just asked their mother to get me to pick them up so I could see them.  I had said, a while back, I was relatively reluctant to go around to see them because of how awkward it might be, and to give them time to adjust to the new arrangement the divorce had brought about.

And since I’ve been spending all my time recently immersed in conspiracies, was this one perpetrated by my daughter in law?

I’ll soon find out.

Past conversations with my cat – 38

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This is Chester.  We’re back to discussing topics of interest on the internet.

I’m not sure why, because yesterday, after a few minutes he yawned and went to sleep.

Today, it seems, he’s prepared to show more interest.

There seems, I said, a lot of discussion around writer’s block.

You mean, those lumps of wood you keep putting on the fire, he says.  And, while we’re at it, why haven’t you got one going today.  It’s cold.

I thought we were on the same page, injured elbow, can’t use the axe.

A slight shake of the head, as if to say, I can’t remember everything you say.

OK, moving on.  Writer’s block is not about wood.

Come to think of it, haven’t we got a shed full of wood, you cut it up last year.

Enough with the wood already.  Writer’s block.  The only block I can see that’s preventing me from writing is you.

Yawn.

Yep, conversation over.

Time to make some tea.  He doesn’t like that.  I wonder if the makers of the tea would want to know it makes an excellent cat repellant?

Conversations with my cat – 76

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This is Chester.  He’s resting after a rather traumatic morning.

He came down sometime during the morning, into the office, and found me asleep in my chair.

After a long night last night, working on one of my stories, the plotline stretched well into the night and the creative juices were flowing.

It was very late when I got to bed, and I was surprised that he was not on the bed waiting for me like he usually is.

He’s one of those cats, very hard to move, and very difficult to work around when you try to stretch your legs,  And, being summer, he tends to jump around thinking it’s prey, and bites.

However…

He came down, saw me asleep and decided that I might be dead or something worse.

First, he jumped for the desk to my lap.  I didn’t move.

Second, he used a paw to tap on my arm.  I didn’t feel it.

Third, he did one of those hideous cat screams, and that nearly did give me a heart attack.

What is it they say, the cure is worse than the disease?

“What the hell is the matter with you,” I ask when finally my heart rate is back to under 200.

“I thought you were dead.”

“Isn’t that what you want, to become master of the house?”

“I’m already that, I just need a servant.  Don’t do that again.  Good servants are hard to find.”

With that, he jumps down and goes back to his lair, plotting, no doubt, the next lot of mischief he can get into.

 

Writing about writing a book – Day 12

Today, I’ve decided on doing a little research, and this means giving the internet and Google a good workout.

I need some information about the Vietnam War.

So, as a start, I type in the words ‘Vietnam War’ into Google.

This returns: About 699,000,000 results (0.83 seconds)

Wikipedia says “The Vietnam War, also known as the Second Indochina War, and in Vietnam as the Resistance War Against America or simply the American War, was a conflict that occurred in Vietnam, Laos, and Cambodia from 1 November 1955 to the fall of Saigon on 30 April 1975”

OK, so this gives me the broadest outline.  What I need is details, so it’s a matter of where to start.  This means to start with, when did troops get sent from both Australia and the United States for service.  It seems the US sent troops from 1964 to 1969, and Australia between August 1965 and March 1966.  This gives me a starting point, because our main character is Australian, and somehow gets seconded to the Americans.

January 1972, the war ends.

Now we need to know

  •  where the bases were
  • where the battle zones were
  • methods of transportation
  • what happened to prisoners of war
  • rest and recreation points
  • CIA involvement (which will no doubt be impossible to find evidence)
  • what happened to soldiers injured in battle

It’s a list that will get longer and may require a reading list, and first-hand accounts.

It looks like it’s going to be a long day.

The thing about ‘must read’ lists

And that is, you don’t have to read any of the books on it.

Who really cares if you do or if you don’t?

It’s just a list of books that a particular writer, journalist, or editor puts together simply because they liked them and think you might also.

And sometimes weight of sales numbers will dictate popularity, and therefore some basis to any particular list.

Of course, this doesn’t work if all you read is comics or romance books like Mills and Boon.  Hey, that’s fine.  You’re reading and this is one of the most important aspects of life, to read, and sometimes, to learn.

I know that my life changed dramatically when I read books, lots of different sorts of books.  I’ve never recommended anyone read the dry, dusty tomes about neurosis for psychiatry, or a history of the Roman Empire simply because of it something I was interested in after I saw the film, Ben Hur.

In a similar manner when we go to school, the curriculum sometimes dictates we read certain books, whether this is to give us an understanding of life centuries before, or that there is some deeper, more sinister, meaning to it all, but some of those books I had to read, back then, the meaning was lost on me.

But should I not read them?  I know most of the kids in the class didn’t because they considered reading a waste of time.  There were more important things to do like chase girls and play a sport.  And torment the teachers.  From what I hear, little has changed.

But the point here is, in my case, I’m just giving you the drum on what I read to improve my literary understanding, of life, and of the world, and perhaps in a small way, help with my writing.  After all, writers must read, particularly in their genre so they have some idea of what readers want.

But again that two-word phrase ‘Must read’ is an unfortunate and often misused heading.  We do it all the time.  Ten films you ‘must-see’, ten things you ‘must-have’, ten places you ‘must go’ usually before you die.

It amuses me to see books with a 1000 somethings you must do before you die.  I will no doubt be well and truly dead before I get halfway through even one of those lists, that is, if I actually took any notice of them.

But, what’s more interesting is that I like to see how many I haven’t done, which is probably the reason why we buy the book, usually off the sale table.