The Right Stuff

Stephen King tells us we must have a place to write, even if it’s the laundry room in a mobile home. As it turns out, artists need a place to draw and paint.

What do these things have in common?

A green leather Barcalounger

Before you assume I’ve followed Randy Quaid into madness, let me explain. About ten years ago when we had our house built, I promised my wife I would build her an art studio in the backyard. So far, all we have is a concrete slab (poured at the same time as the foundation of the house). Meanwhile, Dawn has converted one of the bedrooms into a rather long-term temporary studio.

We recently decided to do some renovations to the homestead and in the process laid the groundwork for me to complete the long neglected backyard studio. A fringe benefit for doing this will be that I get to have the old studio room for my writing place.

My imagination was set to work immediately. I’m a big fan of the type of study you might see in old horror movies or Holmesian mysteries. Of course, the room in question is much too small to do credit to a Hollywood production, but I have every intention of trying. I’m thinking paneling, leather chairs, a wooden knee-hole writing desk with a red leather insert, and of course a decanter of single malt and a couple of glasses on a tray. I don’t think I can squeeze in a fireplace, but I sure would love to give it a go.

Now as to the Baraclounger. I enjoy hitting antique and resale shops. Years ago in Tomball I came across a beautiful knee-hole writing desk. I didn’t get it right away and anguished over it for a couple of weeks or so before venturing back to put it in layaway; to my dismay it was gone. Recently I went with Dawn and my mother to a local resale shop in Conroe called Riverside Resale. While ambling through what seemed like miles of consignment furniture I happened upon a nice green leather recliner. It had very clean lines and was in great shape. I flipped over the cushion and saw the brand name of Barcalounger.

Now I’ve wanted to have something (anything) named Barcalounger ever since I heard Rodney Dangerfield use the word in a stand-up bit. The fact that this one was green, visually appealing and comfortable was simply icing on the cake. So quite naturally I didn’t buy it. Instead I anguished over it for about a week. When I came to my senses I called my mother to see if she knew whether the store did layaway. She was unsure, but said she would check and put a deposit down on the chair for me if they did. She consulted with my stepfather and they decided instead to buy the chair for me as an early Christmas gift. I was extremely pleased and as it turned out the store did not do layaway, very fortunate. Thanks Mom and JD!

So this wonderful gift will be the first addition to my writing place and will serve as my reading (and probably napping) chair.

The point of all this verbal legerdemain is to encourage you to surround yourself with things you really love and don’t let those important ones get by you.

(Yes, you are allowed to read into that)

Return From Avernus

The following is a rough draft. It is the beginning of Chapter One. Feel free to make comments.

- 1 -

“Pretty motley crew,” grunted Thorne.

“At four in the morning I’ll take what I can get,” said Jake.

He piloted the unmarked car into a dark strip center and stopped. Another pulled alongside. Two patrol cars stopped behind them and shut down. Jake got out with a handful of papers and a Stinger flashlight, and walked to the rear of his vehicle. The other officers began to walk up.

Jake looked them over and agreed with Thorne’s assessment. In addition to the two of them, he managed to get four night shift patrolmen who probably hadn’t run a search warrant in years. They were supplemented by the only two members of the Tri-county Major Offenders Task Force not sharp enough to be included in a training exercise in Houston this weekend. Jake sighed and handed out packets to each officer. He opened his own packet and spread the pages on the trunk. He turned on his light. It had taken Jake four hours to get his warrant in order. Judge Parker had signed it in his underwear while standing at his front door, using Jake’s back as a table.

He began the briefing.

“Okay. This is a murder warrant. The suspect is armed and probably still drunk. I want to catch him before he sobers up and heads to Mexico. You’ve each got copies of the search and arrest warrant, and a booking photo of Vasquez. We picked him up on a DWI last year, so it should be reasonably close. My intel says there are three other people living in the house, a female and two children. I don’t have a diagram of the place, but it looks like a typical shotgun-style program house from the outside.”

“What’s the order?” asked Tiny Lipton, one of the task force guys.

Jake had already decided the task force members would be his front men. They were the best trained in terms of an entry team. Both were big, no-nonsense guys. The other one, Gabriel, was fluent in Spanish; which was good because Vasquez was a Mexican national.

“Tiny and Gabe are first in. I’ll be right behind you with Johnson; he’ll be our uniform. Thorne and the rest will do perimeter. None of you guys on the outside come in until one of us signals you”

There were murmurs of assent all around.

“When we did the drive-by earlier the suspect’s pickup was in the driveway” said Thorne “It’s a red piece of shit F-150. There’s a fence so it’s a good bet there are dogs, but we didn’t see any. There’s trash and crap all over the place so watch your step”

“Let’s gear up,” said Jake “Put your cell phones on vibrate and turn your handhelds off. Everybody goes home”

He retrieved his papers and opened the trunk. He handed Thorne a vest and began strapping one on too. Tiny and Gabe donned their bulkier entry vests and broke out a pair of tactical shotguns. The patrolmen were already set. Vests were required equipment for them. They stood by and talked nervously among themselves.

Jake was nervous, too. He figured anyone who wasn’t nervous before running a search warrant was probably psychotic. His stomach fluttered freely as he checked his weapon. The Colt 1911 had seen him safely through 20 years of police work. It had only been fired once on duty, while he was in patrol. A hijacker fired a blind shot at him when he’d surprised him during a robbery. The hijacker went to the hospital, Jake had gone home.

He and Thorne pulled out as lead vehicle. The others fell in line behind. They drove three blocks and turned into a dismal little neighborhood. Washington Heights had been a low income housing project in its heyday, now it was a sanctuary for the city’s growing illegal alien population.

The mayor had a “don’t ask don’t tell” policy regarding undocumented workers, so the cops generally ignored them and they usually kept their trouble to themselves. Jake had worked six homicides in this area in the past four months, including this one. The Heights now looked like a few Mexican border towns he had frequented in his youth.

When they reached Vasquez’s street Jake killed his headlights. The other vehicles followed suit. They rolled up in front of the house next door and stopped. Their target house was dark. Everyone got out and gently pushed the car doors closed. Thorne lead his group up to the house and the men clambered over the remains of a low cyclone fence. A neighbor’s dog began to bark.

The perimeter team fanned out, taking the corners of the house while Jake and the entry team slipped up to the front door. They moved quickly and silently. Gabe looked back at him and Jake nodded once. Everyone turned on their flashlights. The big man reared back and kicked in the front door while simultaneously yelling “Police, policia!”

Jake watched the two task force members swarm into the house, continuing to yell. They broke right. He and the patrolman followed them inside, then broke left. Satisfied the living room was devoid of threats, he made for a short hallway. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Gabe and Tiny flank a small door. He and Johnson eased down the hallway. There was an open door to a bathroom on their left and a closed door on the right. Jake flashed his light into the bathroom; it was empty and offered no concealment. He could faintly hear Gabe yelling something in Spanish at someone. It sounded like he was demanding to know where Vasquez was.

When he turned his attention back to the closed door he was horrified to see Johnson standing in front of it. He shoved him aside just as gunfire erupted from behind it. Neither of them was hit, but the other officer was caught off guard and went down to one knee. Jake was low, but in front of the door when Vasquez snatched it open. He fired two quick shots from his .45 into the gunman’s chest, knocking him backward and down.

He pounced on Vasquez, rolled him over and cuffed him. There was no resistance. Johnson appeared beside him.

“Thanks,”

“No problem. Help me turn him over,”

They manhandled him around and Jake inspected his wounds. Vasquez’s breath was coming in soft wheezing gasps. He looked up and saw Gabe make a quick peek into the room.

“You guys okay?”

“Yeah, get Thorn and call an ambulance,”

“Will do. We got the female and kids in the living room,” the big man disappeared.

“Shit,” said Jake. He noticed one of the bullet holes was frothing up bright, bubbly blood. He could hear a faint sucking sound.

“He’s fucked,” muttered Johnson.

“Give me your hat,”

“Huh?”

“Your hat, give it to me,”

The patrolman frowned, but removed his hat and handed it over. Jake dug around inside and ripped out the card holder. He tossed the hat aside and slapped the square piece of plastic over the bullet wound. The sucking noise stopped, but Vasquez’s breathing was slowing down.

Thorne appeared in the doorway and took in the situation. He told Johnson to go and help Tiny in the living room then crouched beside Jake. He fished a set of purple surgical gloves out of his pocket and gave them to him.

Jake wiped blood on the carpet and put them on quickly, then resumed holding pressure on the wound.

“Who shot?”

“Me,” said Jake “where’s that fucking ambulance?”

“It’ll be here. That his gun?” he nodded toward a pistol lying partway under the bed.

“Yeah,”

Thorne made no move toward it. He looked at Vasquez and shook his head.

“Stupid fuck,” he said.

Jake could hear the ambulance. He heard the siren cut out and knew they were close. He looked down as Vasquez’s breathing hitched. His eyes fluttered open. He worked his mouth slowly as blood seeped from the corners. Then he stopped breathing.

Jake heard the paramedics asking for directions just before they came in. He and Thorne moved aside and let them go to work. Thorne called Johnson back into the room and briefly instructed him to make sure nothing got disturbed. He guided Jake through the living room, past the sobbing woman and her children, who Tiny and Gabe were doing their best to comfort. They stepped out into the dark morning air.

“You okay?”

“I think so,”

“Shooting team will be here soon. Let’s get you out to the car,”

Jake paused and looked back at the remains of the front door. “I’d better… I’ve got things I need to do,”

“Not anymore,” said Thorne. He placed his hand on Jake’s shoulder, “They’ll want your weapon.”

Jake sighed and looked around. The lights from the ambulance bounced everywhere in red, white, and blue. It gave the scene a surreal look. He checked the thumb safety and handed his 1911 to the other detective. He knew the procedure, he’d been through it once before.

The Woods are Lovely, Dark and Deep . . .

 

. . . and the promises I have to keep are to myself.

 

Over the years I have faced death a number of times and seen its handiwork far more often than I care to remember. You may have noticed my absence in recent weeks and for this I apologize. Suffice to say I dodged a metaphorical bullet; an event which shook my confidence more than any real projectile has ever done. My lovely wife was there at my side and lent me her strength, love and caring; an irresistible trifecta that helped me win the day. But enough about all this. For as King Richard might query, “… shall we sit upon the ground and tell sad stories of the death of kings?”

 

Absolutely not! My confidence is renewed and the storm has passed, so shall we press onward? The promises referred to above are merely selfish ones about having something  worthy to publish before the end of the year. Neglecting my blog was a small concern, but one to which I have now thankfully turned my attention. For your patience, I have decided to let you view what Stephen King refers to as “closed door writing” and we mere mortals call a rough draft. If you’ve been keeping up, I am in the throes of completely re-writing and updating Return from Avernus. In my next post I will give you the new opening sequence and I would really appreciate any feedback. This is not the final version, but as usual I get close the first time through.

Cutting the Apron Strings

There is a certain point in every budding author's career where he or she seeks out the advice and approval of other authors. In this age of the Internet, this usually occurs on writing forums. These forums are fantastic places to network and learn some of the tricks of the trade. They are also a great place to get bogged down if you're not careful. I'm speaking specifically about the critique sections of these places.

The problem with having other writers critique your work is that we (yes, I include myself) tend to be somewhat hypercritical in terms of style. If you are starting out, this is not a bad thing because your own style is still in the embryonic stage. Exposure to pedantic rules of writing applied by writers to writers will give you a solid grounding in the craft. Things like POV shift, passive voice, show-don't-tell, and author intrusion are quickly pointed out to you with a fervor that matches that of any mother educating their child about the dangers of touching a hot stove. It's important to remember that this is exactly the type of information you should receive in a writers critique area; it's what you signed on for, after all. The trick is knowing when to quit.

If I can borrow an analogy from my other (paying) profession, the writer's critique is akin to the Police Academy. You learn everything that should be done. Every tactic, every procedure, every law -- and the right way to apply it. You cannot function as a cop without this information, just as you cannot function as a writer without knowing about the rules. It won't matter how brilliant your plot if you can't get the style and basic presentation right. It would be like someone with a fear of public speaking stuttering through a ghost story around a campfire.

When a rookie leaves the academy, the first thing he hears from his field training officer is to "forget what you learned in the academy, kid". He doesn't mean that literally, of course, he's simply letting you know that in the real world you have to be able to adapt. Why? Because the best academy in the world could not cover every possible scenario. It's a controlled bubble that deals mostly in black and white. The real world is a dirty, messy business that doesn't always follow the rules. The rookie will eventually adapt and become a good cop, or he'll go down in flames and find some other job.

It's the same with writers. We have to find our own style and our own way of pleasing the real critics, the readers. In order to find our voice, we must learn to modify the procedures so that our stories can be told the way we want them delivered. I received a writers critique a while back on a piece of flash fiction I'd written called Problematic. One critic was actually pissed off because I'd fooled her with the way I'd manipulated the language, another pointed out that at the end of the story there was an abrupt POV shift. I actually read these critiques with some satisfaction, because those things were absolutely intentional and necessary for the story to work. Readers of the story loved it. Since readers are the real target group (they actually will pay to read your stuff) I felt the story was a success.

My style is my own, and I've come to the point where I no longer care about the minutia of rule keeping. I see writers, successful writers, bending the rules all the time. They may not win any Pulitzer prizes, and I'm sure a few ivory tower academics wonder why the masses buy such drivel, but their stories sell and their fans eagerly await their next offering. And that's what it's all about, getting your story out there to those who appreciate it. I don't give a damn if a Nobel laureate ever reads one of my books. I'm not writing it for him. I'm writing it for those readers who enjoy a great tale and who love to be surprised and entertained by the language - not enslaved by it.

So what am I saying? Simply put, if you've graduated the Academy it's time to hit the street. Put yourself out there and win some fans. Go to the forums to network, help the budding authors if you have the time and inclination, but keep your stuff out of the writer's critique unless you are truly stumped. You know you're work is good and there's no longer a need for second guessing your style by comparing it with that of another writer. Vive Le Difference!