"The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis" -- Chapter Eleven

Another chapter! Things are really heating up for our friend Davis. He's got the thing, everyone knows it, and now he has to figure out what to do with it.

This was only a writing exercise, but after going back through it, I can see parts of the story that could have easily been expanded to make this a longer, fuller novel. Keep in mind, this really is a first-draft. For instance... Barry? The "pound of flesh" money-shark? What's up with him?

In the pocket of the dead guy...

Hubs and I recently watched "The Maltese Falcon" again. I'd forgotten how Sam Spade hid the bird. In the book/movie (which are basically the same), he puts the bird in a safety deposit box, then mails the claim check to himself. So, he has it, but it's locked away, and even he can't get to it for the next few days. Nice. When I was writing this story, I was trying to think of places to "hide the thing." The pocket of the dead guy seemed like a fun idea...

Chapter Eleven is a shorty--one of those regrouping chapters without a lot of direct conflict, but we see our hero setting things up, and learn more about him in the process. Really, it should have maybe been one scene of a larger chapter, and would be in a longer story.

Here's my favorite line:
When you live forever, with all the money in the world, things just turn to dust. It’s an emptiness that can never be filled.

I told a friend once that I wanted to write "Interview with the Vampire meets The Great Gatsby." That line there, that's what it would be about. I'm still trying to find that story, and when I do, I'll write it for you.

Thanks for stopping by. And, as always...
Enjoy,
LLH




Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
 

"The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis"

By L.L. Heberlein

(copyright 2015, all rights reserved)

CHAPTER ELEVEN:

If I could pull this off, I'd be a freakin’ genius.

If I couldn’t, I’d be dead. For real, probably. Or I’d get others killed. Or I’d get run out of town. Or I’d get dismembered, my body parts shoved in different boxes, and left dismantled in some storage closet somewhere for the rest of eternity.

God, I hate my imagination sometimes.

I made a quick phone call, this time to McGuffin. I got his answering service. Not an answering machine or voicemail, but an actual person on the other end who took the message and said she’d deliver it exactly as I’d said it. I told this person to tell McGuffin “Fuck you very much for the drugs in my coffee. So nice of you to redecorate my office. I have the item you’re looking for. Meet me at Purgatory after sundown.”

I jumped back in the BMW, which I was mentally starting to refer to as the Batmobile. Vampires, bats… get it? I recalled that Clara, while mad about the stone, had said absolutely nothing about the car. It didn’t surprise me. These uber-rich supernaturals often find little value in such things. They like the shiny, and the new, but once it’s purchased or used, things lose their luster. Magical objects, that’s what gets them. Things will real power, real oompf. When you live forever, with all the money in the world, things just turn to dust. It’s an emptiness that can never be filled.

I remember. My life was like that, once.

I wanted cars, more cars, faster, shinier, and I got them. I wanted girls, hotter, with tighter asses, and I had them, too. Clothes and stereos, guitars and television sets. Rolex watches and Prada shoes and jeans that cost five hundred dollars. More, more, more… and all it left me was empty.

Then there came a girl, all fiery red and full of energy, and that filled me up. But dumbass me couldn’t figure out I had everything; I still thought there was more, more, more. The girl left, and everything burned down. Literally. It all burned down.

So now, these days, I make do with little to nothing. Though I could use a little more something. Just enough to cover debts… mine, and now John’s… would be nice. Pay off Lucy’s mortgage, maybe buy the office from her and fix it up for myself. Get that freak Barry to go away… far away.

Shit. Barry. I got that nasty feeling in my stomach again. When would Barry come around?

My heart stopped beating. It does that sometimes when I’m super scared and my body is trying to play dead. My head, however, seems to stay disconnected from such things. Clear. Focused. The demon takes over, and sorts things out. The body shuts down, and lets the demon do its thing. Which is why, I’m sure, when I get the most scared is when I get the most evil. I don’t like my head when it gets that way.

I pulled into the parking garage of the tall downtown building. Hidden underneath is one of the best kept secrets in Seattle. Purgatory, an appropriately named establishment, was once a night club for those in the supernatural community. It was a place everyone could go – good, bad, and indifferent. You could meet up there and know that you were safe, the establishment worked hard to keep it that way. It had begun years ago with the need for a neutral ground. It has since spread from just a night club. There’s meeting rooms, a nice hotel, a fancy restaurant for those with unusual appetites. There are all-night shops for the daylight impaired and a bank for those who prefer to keep their finances in the dark.

It was also the new home of Butterworth’s mortuary… the undead branch of the establishment, that is. It was also the underworld police station. Purgatory was where the council met, and had its beginnings.

Schwartz would be there. India would be there. Out of principle, I never went there.

And yet, here I was, about to drop off a suit for a dead man, hide the stone, and see if I couldn’t pull off what was sure to be the biggest, dumbest idea of my non-living life. Oh, I’d done dumber things, but not on purpose like this.

The first thing I did, being that the hour was so late, and sunlight was coming soon, was to check into the hotel. I got a room using an old credit account from way-back when. I was amazed it was still good. The room was simple, windowless – of course, with black bedding and beige walls. It had a very modern hotel feel, with all the amenities. Shower, soap, mini fridge. And a coffee maker, with a blessed unending supply of those little coffee pods. The demon was thrilled, and decided to let my heart beat for a bit out of pure joy. We’re home, it said! Not really, I told it, recalling the lump in my belly.

I thought of what I had to do. My heart stopped again.

Next up was the mortuary, located two floors up and down a narrow hallway of dark walls, red carpets and dim mood lighting. In the outer world, as I recall, mortuaries are purposely done up in neutral colors, to give a calming effect. Not quite cheerful, but almost. Comforting.  Optimistic may be the word. Down here, the contrast was striking. These beings lived in death and darkness, and so to them, the business of death was more darkness, more bleakness. Nothing optimistic about it.

Butterworth’s lobby was strangely modern. Somehow, I’d expected old world furniture and gothic touches. Maybe red velvet curtains and a gargoyle in the corner. Instead, I got polished concrete floors and a high countertop finished in black marble. Modern furniture with clean lines formed a little seating area to the side, and the whole room was backlit from an opaque glass wall. It had the feel of a fancy spa, only it wasn’t at all relaxing.

I dropped off the suit, making sure my little package was left in the pocket, and made a hasty retreat. Checking the time again, it was almost zero hour. Almost. Any minute now, I’d drop dead. I ran like hell down the hall, waited an eternity for the elevator, floated down a few more floors, ran to my room, shut and locked the door behind me.

I didn’t make it to the bed.

"The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis" -- Chapter Ten

Serial Friday!

Couple of thoughts on this chapter:

1. The idea for checking the invoice came from the part in The Maltese Falcon where Sam Spade checks the newspaper for ship arrivals from Hong Kong.

La Paloma? I hardly know her!

2. Ken is based on a guy I once knew, or maybe more of an amalgamation of this group of guys I once knew, which is why he's so fun. I should stop making up characters and just mush together people I know. Note to self, get to know more people...

3. Turns out you can schedule blog posts to drop when you're not around. I'm writing this from three days in the past! Spoooky. Note to self, story idea: blogger in past reads blog posts from future, hilarity ensues. (Note from future me: Hilarity did ensue. I did something wrong, and the post didn't publish. Oh, well. I tried!)


Enjoy the pancakes!
LLH






Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9 
 

"The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis"

By L.L. Heberlein

(copyright 2015, all rights reserved)

CHAPTER TEN:

“I’m Japanese, not Chinese, ya fucker!” Ken Wang glared at me over a plate of pancakes. I’d offered him breakfast in exchange for some information. We met at Beth’s Café, famously open all night. Ken ordered two pancakes, two eggs, two slices of bacon, and a huge glass of orange juice. He’d threatened to order the 12-egg omelet, but I begged him not to draw attention. I had coffee.

I glared back at him. Ken smacked my arm. “Just joshin’,  ya fucker!” Ken called everyone fucker. It was like a term of endearment. He laughed as he read over the pieces of paper. “Yep, just a shipping invoice. Cargo left Hong Kong around the third of last month, just arrived here on a cargo transport. Unloaded in Tacoma.”

“Does it say what the item is?” I sipped my coffee while I waited for him to swallow down another shovel full of pancakes and syrup.

“Says here ‘unspecified,’ which means it could be anything. Drugs. People. Anything.”

“People?”

“Yeah, some people hitch rides in cargo containers. They pay a lot of money to get smuggled into the country.”

“How do they do that? Don’t they starve? Suffocate?”

“Yep,” he said. He spread his arms and did that Eddie Murphy pseudo-African voice. “Welcome to Ameer-EE-Ca!”

“Grim,” I said, taking another sip of coffee. “So no clue what this thing is?”

“Nope,” Ken said, turning the stone over in his hands. Ken is the dumbest smart guy I know. A genius idiot. He worked all day designing computers for aerospace companies, and all night playing video games. He made more money than a kid his age deserved, and spent it all on toys and candy. Ken didn’t have a girlfriend. Not that he wasn’t a good-looking guy. He dressed well, nice clothes, cool haircut. Girls just didn’t seem very high on his priority list.

Ken was probably my only friend not involved in the supernatural. He was just a guy I knew, someone I’d helped out of a jam once. We exchanged email jokes. That sort-of thing.

“You know, if you ask me, I think this thing looks like an ashtray.”

I took the stone back from him, and examined it. “It does look like an ashtray,” I said. “For all I know, it could be. I have no idea what this thing is, or what it does, but everyone seems to want it.”

Ken used a slice of white toast to sop up the last of the syrup and egg residue on his plate. “Beats me. I’ll give you twenty bucks for it!”

I smirked. “Tempting. I could use twenty bucks,” I said. “But you really don’t want this ashtray. It comes complete with a load of bullshit and a lot of problems.”

“So what are you going to do with it?” The check came, and he grabbed it. I protested. “No, let me. You’re hard up for twenty bucks and stuck reading shit in Chinese. You get it next time.”

I sighed. “People keep offering me a shit-ton of money for it,” I said. “When they’re not trying to steal it.”

He shrugged. “Why not just auction it off to the highest bidder? Put it on eBay or something?”

“Ken, you are a genius,” I said, slipping the thing back in my pocket.

“That’s why they pay me the big bucks.” We shook hands and exchanged some bullshit pleasantries about getting together soon and recreating that one night with the tequila and girls. He got into his car and I followed him for a few blocks to make sure he wasn’t followed. The last thing I wanted was to get anyone else killed over this ashtray.

Ashtray. Why hadn’t I seen it! The thing looked exactly like a cheap quartz ashtray you’d pick up from some stoner gift shop. Or it could be some magical item with enough power to blow a hole in the world. I still had no clue.

But I liked the auction idea. I mulled it over a bit as I made my way back to the office. I think it’d been long enough.

Yep. I got there, and the front door had been forced open, the lock broken. As if the key wasn’t just hidden under the doormat.

Someone – gee, I wonder who – had broken in and made a brand new mess of things. Shelves had been knocked over, their contents spilling across the floor. Couches overturned, torn cushions and bits of fluff all over the place. The desk had been overturned, and the little door to the locked compartment had been torn off its hinges. I told him the key was under the blotter, sheesh.

McGuffin had probably gotten pretty mad when the stone wasn’t there and decided to throw a “trash the office” party. The mess was spectacular.

“What happened!” Lucy stood in the doorway right behind me, looking over my shoulder.

“Isn’t it late for you?” I asked, looking at my watch. Almost magic time for me. “Don’t you sleep?”

She shook her head. “Can’t sleep. Bad dreams.” He face was still all red, nose all puffy. “I’m trying to decide on a tie.” She held up a gray suit with a pink shirt underneath.

“What’s the suit…. Oh.” Yeah. For the funeral.

“I thought the pink shirt was appropriate,” Lucy said, with a sniff. “John always thought it made him look metro… what’s the word?”

“Metrosexual?” I raised an eyebrow. John so hadn’t been a metrosexual.

“Yeah,” she sniffed. “That’s it. Anyway, I need to pick out a manly tie to balance it all out. Here.” She held out the suit for me to hold as she tried out ties against the color of the shirt.

Which is what gave me the idea. A horrible, awful idea. The best idea I’d had in a long time.

“Hey, Lucy? Are you taking this suit over to the mortuary tonight?”

“No,” she said. “I was going to wait until tomorrow. Why?”

“Oh, no reason,” I pretended to look the suit over as I reached into my own pocket for the stone. I slipped it into the inside breast pocket of the suit when Lucy wasn’t looking. “I just thought I’d drop it off for you tonight, if you want me too. They’re open all night, right? Butterworth’s?”

The Butterworths had been in business here since the Yukon gold rush and, as vampires, they continued their mortuary work under the same owners. “Yeah,” Lucy said. “Creepy as hell, those guys. I hate the whole vampire-thing, but they’re the only ones you can call on for… you know… your world stuff.”

She said your world like it was something dirty, and probably it was. “Here, Lucy. Let me handle it. It’s the least I can do,” I said, taking the chosen tie from her. “One less thing for you to worry about.”

She nodded, and gave me a quick hug before she left. I turned back to the messy room and decided it was pointless to pick it up. Someone would just be back, tearing it apart again. I was about to leave when the phone rang.

“John Horesman’s office,” I said, choking on the words. “I’m sorry, but we’re out of business.”

“Davis, WHERE the hell are you!” It was Clara.

“Oh,” I breathed. “Oh… hi, Clara. I… uh… ran into some trouble.”

“TROUBLE!” she spat into the phone. “You’re skinny little undead ass had better…”

“I prefer non-living. And I ran into some trouble with the stone. Turns out, you’re not the owner.”

“WHAT!” She screamed. “Davis, bring me my property. NOW!”

“Okay okay, hold on. Sheesh,” I said. “You’ll have it. Just not tonight.”

“WHAT! Davis, if you do NOT bring me MY STONE right this second, I WILL KILL YOU!”

The dramatics were starting to get ridiculous. “Can’t. Non-living, remember?”

She let out an ear-piercing shriek and hissed, actually hissed, into the receiver.

“Now now,” I said. “No need to get all catty on me.”

“You’re trying to make me angry, aren’t you?”I heard her gasping on the other end. “What is it you want, Davis? You want more money, don’t you? You know what you have now, and you want more money!”

“Well, yeah,” I said. “Money would be nice. I also want you to get those other two off my back.”

“What other two?”

“You know,” I said. “The lizard-guy. And McGuffin.”

“MCGUFFIN!!!” She was back to screaming. “WHEN DID YOU SEE MCGUFFIN!”

“Tonight,” I said. “Went over to his house. He mixed me a drink.”

“THAT’S IMPOSSIBLE!” She took a few breaths to recover herself. “That’s impossible, as Mr. McGuffin is in China at this time.”

“Nope,” I said. “Older-looking guy. Cool glasses. Tweed suit.”

She hissed into the phone again.

“I take it you know him?” God help me, but I was having fun provoking her. I guess it’s always been a problem of mine. I can never leave shit alone. Always gotta be provoking people, kicking over hornets’ nests and the like. My mother used to say something about not poking sticks at snakes, but I can’t remember now. Apparently, I never learned.

I heard growling on the other end of the phone. Honest-to-gosh growling. I’m not sure if it was Clara, some pet of hers, or something else entirely.

I had a thought. I was thinking a lot tonight. High points for me! “Listen, why don’t we all get together and straighten this out.”

“Whennnnnn,” an unearthly voice growled.

“Uh… next sundown?”

“WHERE!”

“Uh…” good question. “Purgatory. Private meeting room.”

There was a long silence. Just as I was about to say “hello?” there came an answer.

“And you’ll bring it?” The voice was again Clara’s. “You’ll bring the stone?”

“Of course!” I said.

“Fine.” The line went dead.

"The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis" -- Chapter Nine

Serial time!
I've been lazy with the posts, but not any more. Let's do this. Every Friday, until the end.

This story has made me realize that I love this character, that he's worth writing about, and that my best ideas have come from following his lead. Best, most interesting ideas. So he's getting his own book, maybe for my next NaNoWriMo project.

The McGuffin... It’s only value is what it could become.

Here is where the story leans heavily on "The Maltese Falcon." You get characters and plots right from the original story, but with the supernatural twist. I love this. Unabashed fan fiction and pure fun.

Enjoy,
LLH

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8 
 

"The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis"

By L.L. Heberlein

(copyright 2015, all rights reserved)

CHAPTER NINE:

I’m not sure what had possessed me, but I wore a suit to Mr. McGuffin’s. It turned out it was the right thing to do.

McGuffin’s place was a castle. Not a mansion or one of those mini-mansions they used to build, with twelve rooms and five baths for a family of four. No, this actually was a castle, built of stone and wood, filled with ancient tapestries and oriental rugs. I sat in the drawing room, as the butler had called it, and sipped very fine coffee from a delicate china cup. My old manners kicked in. Napkin over one knee. Cup held just so. McGuffin walked in, and I resisted the urge to bow and offered my hand instead.  

“Davis! So good of you to come,” McGuffin said. He was an older gentleman, but there’s no telling exactly how old in the circles I run in. Maybe he was a human, pushing 80 years old. Maybe he was some sort of ancient supernatural who only appeared that way. Either way, he was older-looking, pleasantly plump, with a scruff of white hair at the temples and nothing on top. He wore thin glasses with those space-aged lightweight frames that you just knew were really expensive. His suit was gray tweed, and probably something he wore every day.

I liked him right away. He had that sort-of old fashioned charm and sensibility that makes you feel like everything is in its place, just as it should be.

He sat across from me in a huge chair closest to the fireplace. He smiled, hands in his lap, looking at ease. “Now, let us get right to brass tacks, shall we?” he said. “Have you the item in question?”

“Well,” I coughed a bit and readjusted myself on the couch. “It’s like this. I don’t exactly have the item at this moment.”

“You don’t?” The smile fell from his face, replaced with a look of concern.

“No. Well, I mean… I still have the item, I just didn’t bring it with me.”

“Didn’t bring it with you!” He sat on the edge of his chair. “Good god, man! Why ever not?”

Truth? I didn’t trust this guy. I didn’t trust anyone in this. Not McGuffin, not the lizard guy, and not Clara. The situation was all messed up, and I had too many questions.

“I need some answers, Mr. McGuffin,” I said. “This thing… the Eris Stone, you called it. What is it?”

“Why, the Eris Stone is…” he spread his hands, “it’s everything!”

I squinted. “Could you be more specific?”

“I’m afraid not, my boy,” he said. “The Eris Stone is not easily defined. It is, in some cases, a very powerful object. In some hands, it’s absolutely useless. But, nevertheless, the stone has a value that is inestimable. It must be returned to its rightful place, in my collection, where it can do no more harm.”

“No more harm?” I asked. “What does this thing do?”

McGuffin rose from his chair and walked toward the fire. “It’s not what the object can do, Davis, so much as what people will do for this object. Violence, death. Wars have begun over such things as these. I’m beginning to regret having ever created it.”

“You created it? But it’s a stone. How could you create it? Do you mean you carved it?”

“No, Davis,” he said. “I created it.”

I shook my head. “Why? I still don’t get what this thing does.”

“On its own, virtually nothing.” McGuffin gestured toward the clock on the fireplace mantel. “Do you see this clock, Davis? This clock is made of a series of bits and bobs, springs and wires and little cogs, all working together. Ask what one piece does on its own, and the answer is it does virtually nothing. But together….” He checked the time on his wristwatch, then adjusted the mantel clock. “Together, they spin and whir and keep the time of day, setting the activities of mankind in motion. When to eat, when to sleep, to wake, to work. They do amazing things together, do they not?”

“So what you’re saying is the Eris Stone is some piece of some bigger thing? A cog in the wheel?”

“Yes, my boy! Exactly! The Eris Stone is only a piece. It’s only value is what it could become.” He walked over to the little table in the corner that held the tray with the coffee service, and poured himself a cup. “Would you care for a refill?”

“Yes, please,” I said, and brought over my cup and saucer. “So where’s the rest of the pieces?”

“Ah! Good question!” McGuffin said. “The rest of the pieces are in hiding. I have them secured, far away from where anyone or anything can find them. They only await the return of the Eris Stone to be complete.” He took my cup and filled it from the matching china coffee pot.

“What is it they become when they’re complete?” I asked, accepting the refilled cup.

“Now, Davis, it’s my turn to have a few questions answered,” McGuffin said, gesturing toward the couch. “Let us sit and discuss things. Where is the stone now?”

“Safe,” I said, taking a sip. “I put it somewhere safe.” The coffee tasted funny. I can’t say how, maybe a bit more bitter than it had just a while ago. I looked down into my cup. It looked the same, except for an oily sheen on top. I didn’t take sugar, or cream. Something was different. I put the cup down.

I watched McGuffin’s eyes go from the cup, to my face, then back to the cup. “Is it at your home?”

“Yep,” I said, deciding I’d play along. “It’s… at home. Safe.” I blinked a few times and shook my head vigorously. I slumped on the couch a bit, sat up straight again, and slumped again. “I locked it in the desk. No one can get at it there.”

“Oh good!” McGuffin said, watching me with intense interest. “And where’s the key?”

“Key?” I slurred. My head bobbed a few times. “Keysss on the dessskk, unner the blotter.” My head drooped. My eyes shut. I relaxed my whole body and slumped into the couch. My mouth fell open, and air flowed easily, slowly. Little noises rolled out of my nose.

McGuffin rose, and kicked my shins, hard. My body fell forward off the couch. I smacked into the coffee table on the way down and heard the crash as the china cup fell to the floor.

He kicked me again. “Stupid git.” I heard his footsteps across the rug. The door opened, then shut. I waited another beat or two before opening my eyes. I was alone in the room.

“I’m stupid?” I whispered to myself. I stood up, straightening my suit, adjusting my tie. “I’m not the one trying to slip a mickey to a dead guy.” Whatever drug he’d given me had no effect on me. I don’t metabolize drugs that way anymore. I can’t even get drunk. Not even the caffeine in the coffee affects me the way it should. It’s just the demon that loves it.

I searched the room for a moment, looking through desk drawers and over bookshelves, trying to find anything that would help me piece all this together. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary. I didn’t know what I was looking for, in any case. Maybe I’d know it when I saw it? The only things that even piqued my interest were a few sheets of paper with what looked like Chinese writing on them. They looked recent, not unlike the shipping invoice the lizard guy had. I shoved the paper in my pocket, then took a second to pat my breast pocket. Yep, the Eris Stone was still there. Talk about not trusting people. I had to find a real hiding place for this thing, before something else happened.

(Posts from the Author) There are no words...

I'm taking a break from writing.

Something terrible has happened in my family, pretty much the "worst thing, ever." It's like a death, but not, but worse in some ways, and now a black curtain has fallen over everything. It is hard to think; in many ways, I've had to shut down the creative side of my mind, because it hurts so goddamned much.

The world is burning. Everything tastes like ashes. Words, when I write them, mix with tears and turn to mud on the page. I've written nothing good in a week and a half.

For a moment one night, in the solitude and safety of my quiet kitchen--husband out playing soccer, baby put to bed--I allowed it all to come rushing out in words, which I saved on paper, because I'm learning the value of these things. A poem formed out of it, lyrical and heart wrenching, beautiful because it's honest. It would be an amazing poem, if only I had it in me to work on it. But, honestly, I don't have the heart. I have had to shut it down to keep moving through the world, and I can't bear to touch those words. Not yet. Not now. Maybe someday.
 
What's more, all of my make-believe worlds feel trite right now. Ridiculous. Childish and naive.
Mentally, I'm shoveling all of it into the guest room of my mind, piling it on the bed, and shutting the door with the pledge that I'll sort it out, later. I'll go through it all, later. Right now, I just need to shut the door and walk away.

I'd like to say something beautiful about life right now, but I can't bear that, either. So, I'll just say, please, hug the one you love most in the world, then write down for them your passwords and pin-numbers, just in case. Then go see your doctor for a checkup.


Love you, Ian. Come back to us soon.
LLH

Thoughts Too Long for Twitter: I am making rookie mistakes

I realized this, just the other day, when I was studying a new magazine as a potential place to submit stories. From the look of it, it seemed like the exact place that would take my short story. Dark, edgy. Loves traditional monsters. But then I came across something interesting in the submission suggestions. 

Basically, it said “Do not send me any stories about (exactly what my story is about, almost as if she’d already read it). I don’t like them.”

Wow. Okay, knowing that she hasn’t actually read my story, I can only believe that she gets stories exactly like mine, a lot. A lot. Meaning that other people are writing what I’m writing, exactly. Exactly! And that tells me that my story isn’t new.

Nice... but we've seen it.

My reaction? I can’t even begin to describe it. But it wasn’t sadness or frustration or anger or any of those you’d expect. No, this was closer to elation. I was, in a way, overjoyed to know this, because I’d finally figured something out!

I’m writing the same damn story everyone else is writing. Everyone else is writing this, too.

Do you understand? I am not alone! That’s wonderful!

And it’s not to say that I’m a bad writer… I’m just now learning what people are writing about.

It’s like, say I drew you a picture. Of a flower, because I like flowers. It’s a beautiful red rose. And then, upon turning it in, I see that ever other picture submitted is also of a beautiful red rose. Yes, my picture is beautiful. Breathtaking. It’s very well done, and my mother would be proud to hang it on her fridge. Yes yes, lovely, but every other picture is also of a red rose.

Yawn. Draw something else. Paint something else. Come up with something else.

I’m not saying I'm going to stop drawing flowers, because I love flowers, and that’s all I want to draw. But there are so many other flowers out there that are just as beautiful. Try a dahlia. Try an orchid. Try a plumeria. That’s what I need to find. I need to find something other. I need to find my plumeria.

Now THAT'S what I'm talking about.

And it made me smile, because I am a rookie. It is good to be reminded of that. I am going at this with little to no formal training in fiction writing, and I will inevitably fall into the mistakes and misdeeds that all writers fall into when the first start out.

I am pushing myself now to write a bunch of short stories. Ten, I figure, is a good number. Ten stories, about whatever, just pump them out. Try hard, get those ideas going, write them all.

Because, I tell you, that story No. 11? That’s going to be my plumeria.


Enjoy,
LLH