Posts from the Author -- On Giving Up

I almost gave up yesterday. 

Something strange happened. Between a sick kid, sick spouse, sick in-laws and a sick self, and then dealing with a lot of other life issues, I kinda sorta let myself NOT think about my story for a while. I had four days off of work, and they all went by in a blur of cartoons and trips to the grocery store where we didn't actually come home with anything to eat.

There was one day, though... Valentine's Day, which was amazing. I actually got to go out on a date with hubby, to a fantastic restaurant, and talk. Of course I talked about my novel, told him that I was struggling with the re-writes, and how, if I only had time, I could really do something special with this thing. And then the conversation went on to something else, and I just stopped thinking about my story.

Flash forward, two days later, and there I was still not thinking about it, and feeling pretty damn good with all that clean head space. I actually got to thinking about other stories, other projects, that I've been setting aside so I can work on the novel. I'd just gotten off the bus and was walking home (this is where I do my best story thinking), and I realized I had no idea where I'd left off my novel edits. I knew I had a big change that I need to go back and make, to fix a major mistake in character motivation. But, after that... total blank space in my head. White noise.

And, I thought, What if I just give up?

I could, you know. This thing is a bear, and I'm not even sure if it's a good bear or an interesting bear. Maybe this isn't the story that pans out and gets me published. Maybe I just need to let this one go...

Ah, that's better. 

For an entire day, I let go of the story, let the string on the balloon slip from my hand and fly off into the ether. Clean head space.

Today, while vacuuming (my second best place for story thinking), I knew where the problem was, and how to fix it. I knew where I was in the story, how much further I needed to go back, and what exactly I should change to make the whole thing that much better. Just like that, I'm back in the game.

One more scene is finished, now. One more step. I'm shuffling forward like a zombie on this story, but at least I'm moving.

And I'm going to finish this thing. Dammit.

All the advice to aspiring writers that I've read lately can be boiled down into two things:

1. If you want to be a writer, then write
and
2. Finish things


Good luck, little story,
LLH

"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 -- Part Three

Welcome back. 

Here's the third installment of my Web serial. I'm having so much fun reading over it again; it reminds me of how much fun it was to write.

This past week, I've been reading a lot of literary journals (mostly horror and sci-fi, as that's where my genre seems to fall), and coming up with fun ideas for short stories to submit.

This! Only with, you know, vampires and stuff.

The lit journals are hard on me. Many of the stories I've read are good -- really good. Done by MFAs with lots of experience and publishing cred. It's hard not to be envious of their writing abilities. It's not that I think I can't get there, it's just that I'm not there yet. But those feelings of inadequacey made me start to think that I should write "differently" or adjust my entire writing style to suit something more literary.

What happened? I lost my muse. You know, that voice in your head that tells you the story? My writers brain completely shut down, and I had the damnedest time just trying to describe an abandoned warehouse (which, turns out, is completely cliche and had to be scrapped). The flow was gone, and so was the love.

So now I'm trying to go back and remind myself why I started writing in the first place. Not to impress literary magazines -- I'm not really a literary writer. I am a noir writer, a lover of pulp fiction. Supernatural, weird, creepy, sometimes terrifying pulp fiction. For me, it doesn't have to be good, it just has to be fun.

And that's what Jefferson Davis is. Supernatural noir. Pure fun.

Enjoy,
LLH



Jefferson Davis, Part I
Part II

“The Demented Non-Life of Jefferson Davis”

By L. L. Heberlein

CHAPTER THREE:

So I guess I was committed. I had to take the job now that I’d given Horseface the money.

I watched him walk up the stairs with the cash and almost cried myself. There goes all the money I had in the world, minus the twenty in my pocket, which was going toward coffee, dammit.

It was the right thing to do, though. I couldn’t help but feel John’s money problems were my fault. Well, not all my fault, but I hadn’t helped any. And now he was in debt to Barry, the asshole underworld loan shark. Barry was some kind of flesh-sucking creature out of those nasty old-world legends that no one remembers. And, oh yes, he will take his pound of flesh literally if you don’t pay him back. The fact that John had gone to Barry for a loan really meant things were desperate. Shit was going to hit the fan if I didn’t come through for him.

I picked up the now empty envelope and read the number again. Again, I thought of calling right away, but then decided to wait until morning. The sun would be up soon, and I didn’t want to fall comatose mid-conversation. Besides, vampires probably didn’t answer their phones after a certain hour either, for the same reason.

I settled in on the couch and wished I had my evening cup of hot coffee before bedtime. The demon inside me grumbled, but I settled him down, assuring him that coffee was coming tomorrow. Tomorrow, I would call that dame-vamp, and celebrate with a double-tall Americano and a new bag of fresh-roasted Italian beans. I pulled the blanket up around me and positioned myself to look like I was sleeping. Though when the sun rises, I’m not really asleep. I’m dead.

I closed my eyes and waited for the moment. Thoughts whirled through my brain. Money troubles. Friends in trouble. My own wasted existence. And then the never-fail flash of red hair from this one girl I used to know. She dances through my head, every night, try as I might to forget her.

The thud hit my chest, and my heart stopped. Then nothing.

Then, wham! Awake. Heart racing like someone had shocked me, and I bolted upright, throwing the blanket off. I looked around, expecting to find someone standing there, but I was alone, still in the dark. Coming alive at night never fails to surprise me.

I walked over to the light switch, and was surprised again when everything lit up. Nice. Horseface must have paid the bill.

After showering, shaving one more time with hot water, and choosing the appropriate clothing – dark jeans, tight black shirt, black boots, and a slightly-dressy-but-not-too-dressy shirt buttoned to mid-chest – I headed out in search of sustenance.

Back again with my double Americano in hand and now only $17.50 in my pocket, I ran upstairs to John’s office. The main part of the building is centered around the living room, where there’s a desk with a laptop computer and real actual phone plugged into the wall. No one has landline phones anymore. Everyone has cell phones, except me. It was on the list of things to get once I had some money again.

The stairs came up through the back kitchen area, where there’s a coffee maker which used to have coffee in it when Lucy was making it. It’s been empty lately.

The main room had a little sitting area for clients, plus a few shelves with books that make Horseface look smarter than he is. A few lamps, some pictures of flowers and landscapes. A nice area rug. Lucy had added the decorative touches. Without her, it’d just be the desk and chairs.

John was out, but the lights were on. The sign on the door said “back in twenty.”

I called the number on the envelope, and a woman with a smokey voice answered. She sounded like a dame. I got an address in an older, nicer neighborhood that would take me two buses to reach. I had a car, once. I had a lot of things once. Car, nice place to live, money. A lot of it went away after the red-headed girl left. I try not to think of it much.

It’s hard not to think of what you used to have when you’re walking up the steps of a gorgeous hundred-year-old mansion surrounded by luxury cars and you only have $15.25 left in your pocket. (My bus pass expired and I had to use cash. Yet another thing I needed to get when I came into some money.) Inside the mansion was just as intimidating as the front. The foyer was hard white marble with a crystal chandelier hanging overhead. Off to the right was a sitting room, with thick white carpet so plush it was like walking on marshmallows. A real-live butler offered to hang my leather jacket, but I declined to let him. He offered me a drink, which I also declined. I took a seat on giant white couch and waited.

Then she entered. A dash of red in a sea of white. She practically poured through the room, hips swinging in a tight dress of red satin.  Her skin was as white as the room. Her hair was as red as the dress. I paused for a moment. Not my red head. Still, the memory of her made me worry. Red heads are trouble.

“Mr. Davis, I assume.” Her voice flowed through the room.

I stood as she spoke. “Please, just Davis.”

“Davis.” She extended a long-gloved hand, which I took, offering the expected kiss across the knuckles. Sometimes the old southern gentleman in me kicks in and it’s hard to resist the pleasantries. “Davis, I have a very important job to offer you. It is an easy one, but of vital importance to me. And it requires the utmost secrecy. Are you equal to the task?”

She spoke like butter melting. The accent was American, but her words sounded old-world. She was either an old vampire trying to come across young, or a very young vampire trying to come across old. My guess was the latter. But I gave her all the deference of an old vampire, because that’s what she expected. Must keep the customers happy.

“Of course, my lady,” I said. “I am at your service.”

A smile crept over her lips, revealing a glint of fangs. The formality had been appreciated.

“Very well. Have a seat,” she said, draping herself over a pillowy white lounge. I sat across from her, my butt almost swallowed up by the puffy sofa. “No no,” she said. “Sit over here with me.” She patted the space next to her on the lounge. I hesitated for a moment, then got up and moved next to her. As I sat she draped an arm around my shoulders and spoke into my ear.

“Davis,” she whispered in my ear. “I want you to promise me you’ll keep this all a secret.” She breathed in, like she was sniffing the area behind my ear, then pulled back. “You’re dead.” Her arm dropped to her side.

“Not dead,” I said, spreading my arms as if to say obviously. “Just not exactly living anymore.”

“And yet you are a not a vampire.” She spat the staccato words at me. “You have none of the blood in you.”

“Um, no,” I answered. “Is that a problem?”

She looked at me dead-on for a moment, her blood-red vampire eyes staring into me. Her jaw locked so tight I thought she’d grind down her fangs. She seemed to be sizing me up, really deciding on something. After a moment, she spoke. “No, Davis. Not a problem. Just not at all what I expected.” She sat up straight, business-like. “This is the situation. I have recently been notified that I am the highest acceptable bidder on a certain object de arte, which has been shipped from China and delivered this week. I require someone to go and retrieve it for me. It has already been paid for, so it should be a simple delivery job.”

“And you can’t go pick it up yourself, because…”

Her eyes shot wide. “Because I would be recognized!” Her voice boomed, then dropped to a normal level. “As I said, it is a highly valued object. There are… others… interested in acquiring it through dishonest means. For me to retrieve it would only invite them to attack. There might be… an incident.”

Ah. By incident, I could tell she meant a big-ol’ bloodbath involving powerful supernaturals. And, believe it or not, we actually have laws against that. You’d think it would be a big free-for-all with the supernatural creatures. Big guys beating up on little guys and all that. But it’s not. Oh, it was that way for thousands of years, as I understand it. But the world has turned, and dominion belongs to modern humans, requiring us creepy-crawly things to restrain ourselves so as not to draw too much attention.

There are actual underworld police. Sheriffs, and the like. Councils of creatures who decide laws, mostly concerning killing each other. Go ahead and lie, cheat and steal all you want, but start killing, and the other supernaturals will gather en masse to kick your ass. The law of the council is brutal, and absolute, but it’s designed to keep little guys from getting stepped on and the whole human world from finding out we exist.

Sometimes it even works.

“Where is the object now?” I asked.

“It is being held at a shipping facility at the Port of Tacoma,” she said.

“Tacoma, eh?” I said, rubbing the smooth chin where the beard had been. “That could be a problem. I don’t have a car.”

“One will be provided for you.” She went back to oozing her words, somehow assured that I would come through. “If you leave now, you can retrieve my property from the all-night holding center. Bring it back before daylight, and your fee will be doubled.”

It was my turn to go wide-eyed. I agreed to the deal, kissed her knuckles one more time, and was out the door before she could change her mind. The vehicle provided was a BMW 3 Series, luxury model, black as night and fast as sin. I hit the freeway, pushed the pedal down, and was gone. The demon inside me roared. The only thing we like better than coffee is speed. Speed and loud music. I tuned into a satellite radio station playing nothing but death metal and cranked the sound system to eardrum bursting levels.

The demon and I were in heaven.

Thoughts Too Long For Twitter (2) -- The Problem with the Blog

The problem with the blog is that, while I want to use this site to share my writing with you, whatever I share on my blog suddenly becomes "published material." Even though I'm the one publishing it, even though no one will probably read it except for you and my mother (Hi, Mom!). Even still, it's suddenly published, and no longer acceptable for submission to most publications. Bummer. Because I want you to read my latest short story. It is so good! It's called "Nessun Dorma," and it's about a young lady who smells just a little too enticing to werewolves. I can't post it, but I can email it to you! Send me a request in the comments... Until then, here's some Pavarotti for you:

Thoughts Too Long For Twitter (No. 1)

image from westseattleblog.com

I think when I dump off some of these awful YA/paranormal books I've been reading at one of those little free libraries in my neighborhood, I'm going to pick one a block or two away -- so the neighbors don't known what absolutely twaddle I've been reading. Anyone else guilty of this? (You know I'm keeping the good ones...)
#BooksSoBadTheyreEmbarrassing