Lists

Lists

I’m always making lists.  Sometimes its story ideas, or scenes I want to work on. Other times it’s related to work or teaching or even a run to the grocery store. I don’t always follow the lists and get exactly what’s on there, but they can be a form of guidelines. Or a nudge in the right direction.

Recently I picked up a copy of “Broken Prey” by John Sandford. He always has a way of creating the kind of characters that you’d feel comfortable dropping in on for a cold beer or three. A subplot in this story has his protagonist, Lucas Davenport, trying to create the top 100 rock and roll songs of all time to load on a IPod his wife gave him.  Throughout the story, various characters bombard him with their recommendations.   

Since I’m always listening to music, especially when I write, that’s the kind of list I can relate to.

Here's a link to Sandford’s number one rock and roll traveling song. 

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=WAzTO8GMZhk 

 ***

Winter is definitely upon us.  Thoughts of freezing temperatures, icy conditions, and blizzards are part of every conversation. Which got me thinking about “Vanishing Act” which takes place in the dead of winter.  Jamie’s best friend Linda has caught the attention of a stalker.  Here’s an excerpt I hope you enjoy.

Talking quietly, trudging through the clumps of snow and ice, neither one of us heard him at first.

“It’s getting to the point where I just want to stay home,” she said quietly.

“You can’t hide, Linda. If you become a prisoner in your own home, then he wins. And you are much too strong a person to let that happen.”

She gave me a wan smile. “I know, Jamie, it’s just…”

“Hey!” a gruff voice snapped at us from only a couple of feet away.

Linda let out a shriek of surprise. She lost her footing on the ice and crashed to the pavement. Looking over my shoulder, I saw a blocky shape, hidden in the shadows beyond the reach of the overhead lights, gliding close to the back end of a parked car. He took a menacing step forward, one hand clutching something tightly and extending it towards us.

“Run!” I screamed at Linda for all I was worth.

“Hey,” he snapped again, still reaching for us.

I took a step toward him and planted my left foot on one of the few dry patches of pavement. Then I swung my right foot as hard as I could, as if I was about to nail a fifty-yard field goal to win the Super Bowl. Without realizing it, I braced for the impact. To this day, I’d swear I was aiming for his crotch. But I missed.

Maybe the pavement wasn’t dry after all. Or maybe suddenly shifting my weight to make that kick caused me to lose my balance. Or maybe subconsciously I couldn’t really kick a guy in the balls. Or maybe he sensed what was happening and he took a step back. I’ll never really know.

In my peripheral vision, I could see Linda scrambling to her feet, already racing toward her car, clicking the remote control to unlock the doors. My leg continued its arc and just before making contact, my left foot shot out from underneath me.

My right foot slammed into the bulky guy. I caught him square in the chest. With my body going horizontal, it must have looked like some kind of ninja move. Whatever it was, it was enough to take him off his feet, and he went down with a thud. I couldn’t be sure, but it looked like his head bounced off the pavement.

I landed on my side and scrambled immediately to my feet. I was crouched in a fighting stance, anger and adrenaline churning in my gut. The guy let out a low groan. He made no move to get up.

Suddenly lights flared around us. Linda managed to start her car and pull it into the aisle. She lay on the horn, a long deep throated wail that cut through the night. A few people who had been moving across the parking lot came running over.

Illuminated by the headlights, I looked down at the attacker. He was an older man, with a couple days’ worth of stubble across his face. His left hand was pressed against his chest, roughly in the spot in which I’d kicked him. Slowly he raised his right hand in my direction as our eyes locked. His voice made a throaty rasping noise as he spoke.

“She dropped her glove.”

Snowy Nights

It’s the new year and in many parts of the country, Old Man Winter is making his presence felt.  There was even a blurb on the national news the other night that Atlanta Georgia was bracing for three inches of snow, which might even lead to the schools being closed.  Up here, we call that a dusting.

But all this winter weather got me thinking about my favorite redheaded character, Jamie Richmond.   Here’s a scene from “Devious” where a snowy night captures her attention.

I piled the pillows on the floor by the bay window and watched the snowfall. Something about the way snow shines as it falls pleases and depresses me at the same time.  Fresh snow always seems so clean and fragile, as if it's giving the city a gentle bath. Here's a chance to hide all the filth and debris we leave behind, buried under a lily-white blanket. For some reason, tonight I felt like getting pleasantly buzzed. I warmed some apple cider in the microwave and added a healthy shot of Southern Comfort. Sitting like a sultan on the pillows, sipping my potent brew, I watched the snow. The heat from the booze warmed me and my thoughts turned to Malone.

I'm my own worst enemy when it comes to men. I meet a guy and my weird sense of humor tends to scare him off. Or it’s my career. Or it’s my body. I have always been slender and I don’t have fabulous curves. I’ve got a small chest, narrow waist, small hips. There is nothing about my physique that would set the world on fire.  Romance is something that happens to other people. I write about it only if I can work it into a story.  But Malone… 

Geez, what a difference he was. He seemed to like my body just fine. And he had me so wrapped up, I couldn't think straight. The other day I was doodling while on the phone with Shannon. When I hung up I almost screamed. I'd written "Mrs. Jamie Malone" half a dozen times in a notebook and circled it with little Cupid hearts.  High school shit.  Hell, it was more like grammar school shit. But it scared me nonetheless. How had I let myself fall so quickly, so completely, for this guy I had just met? A guy I really knew very little about.  Maybe it was part of my genetics, passed down from my crazy mother.

When I finished my cider, I slipped off the pillows and went for a refill. Was I blowing this relationship too? Like every other one worth mentioning in the last ten years? Was this courtship doomed from the start?  I resumed my perch and watched the snowflakes perform their gravitational dance.

Shortly after midnight the snow stopped. Everything outside my window appeared pure and freshly made. There were no wrappers stuck in the bushes, no cigarette butts or used condoms visible. Everything was brand new. A row of pine trees in the park across the street made me think of the holidays. Light from the street lamps and the stars above reflected in the white powder. There were no tire tracks or footprints to mar it. I was looking at a new creation, a world untouched by human hands. It was beautiful.

Malone would be here soon. Could I keep the relationship feeling brand new? Could I roll it in snow and keep it from falling apart? I didn't want to lose this guy, but I didn't know how not to drive him away. I felt like shit. My cider was gone. I fixed another one, put some Earl Klugh on the stereo and resumed my perch. The pillows were softer now, tempting me to stretch out. I did. Even the branches of the giant elms lining the street were thick with snow. Twinkles of reflected starlight reminded me of Malone's eyes.

 Buy Links:

Amazon http://www.amazon.com/dp/B017Y9XMHC

B&N http://www.barnesandnoble.com/w/devious-mark-love/1114977114?ean=2940157874810

Hope For The Best

Greetings and Happy New Year.   

The other day I happened to see a clip from Mel Brooks when he received the Kennedy Center award a few years ago. There was a musical tribute to many of the songs he’s written.  One line goes “Hope for the best. Expect the worst.”  So naturally that got me thinking.

When I write, I have the very best of intentions. Some people may plot the story out step by step. Others may get started with a glimmer of an idea and just run with it. But like Brooks says, you hope for the best. But you should also expect the worst. 

What happens when I write my characters into a corner?  Do I give up?  Do I wait for divine intervention?  I won't take the path that one writer has done frequently, and write himself into the story to miraculously save his troubled characters. That’s not creativity. It’s laziness.

For me, the uncertainty is part of it. I don’t know what’s going to happen next. When my characters seem to be out of ideas, it’s up to me to give them a nudge. I’ll bat ideas around and try ‘what if’ until something clicks in. Often one idea will trigger another. So when it comes to writing, that’s the approach I've had the most success with. 

Hope for the best, but expect the worst.  

Or at the very least, have a back-up plan.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zJn8hu00Gao