Ruminations concerning the writing process.

I imagine most writers have bits and pieces of stories, articles, etc., squirreled away in drawers or lurking about in various recesses of their computers' hard drives. I certainly do. It's startling for me to stumble across these collections of words, especially when they turn up on one of my computers. Everything on the computer carries a date stamp and it's disconcerting to realize how long it's been since I've touched (or even thought about) a project. While I tend to lean more to science fiction/fantasy projects, the truth is that I have rather eclectic tastes as a writer. Nothing demonstrates that more than rummaging through my 'story idea' folders.


For instance:


“Penny for your thoughts,” The words caressed the back of Harry Chavet’s neck and floated playfully toward his ears.
Without lifting his eyes from the delicately gilded plate on the table before him, Chavet snorted, “Go away, I’m eating.”
Undaunted, the speaker, a strikingly beautiful woman named Monica as it so happens, glided around the table and slid into the chair opposite him. Smiling broadly, she pulled the sequin encrusted cap from her head and shook out her hair.
“My God. What have you done to yourself?” Chavet asked.
“It’s called a Pageboy. Everybody’s having their hair bobbed this season,” she informed him. “Like it?”
"No.”
He stopped chewing. His primary source of sensory intake shifting from taste buds to optic nerves, his gaze traveled southward from the fringe of Monica’s new hairdo, bounced off the tip of her elegant nose, flowed along the line of her neck and shinnied down some seven and a half inches of gold braided necklace until it skidded to a stop at the ”V” of her dress’ plunging neckline. A look of apprehension on his face, Chavet raised a corner of the tablecloth and peered beneath.
“Go home and put some clothes on,” He commanded.
“Oh, Harry –“
“And don’t pout.”
They leaned menacingly across the table at one another and exchanged narrow-eyed stares for a good thirty seconds. Then, at the very moment when an onlooker might well have surmised that they were about to come to blows, Monica yawned, sat back in her chair and smiled prettily at him. Chavet acquiesced. A wise man recognizes when the odds are overwhelmingly set against him. Far better to accept defeat straightaway and preserve one's dignity rather than suffer the ignominy of public humiliation, not to mention the probability that the steak tart tar on his plate would rise to room temperature as he fought a loosing battle. With a sign of resignation, he beckoned the waiter to their table.
“Oui, Monsieur?”
“Happily, Mrs. Chavet has consented to join me for lunch. Please see what she’s having.”

- from "Chavet" (2005) - a story set in Chicago in the roaring 20's, and centered around a filthy rich couple who, as it so happens, are werewolves


Here's another one -


The man in the black flannel coat moved with his head down, choosing his path with as much care as was practical, stepping on the ground that looked most solid, hoping to avoid soiling his walking stick. Cold water, rolling off the back of his head and dribbling past the nape of his neck, passed inside the stiff, white collar of his black shirt and converged into a rivulet that flowed the length of his backbone. His name was Kenneth Blake and he cursed himself for forgetting an umbrella.
“Up here, Father.”
Blake stopped. He tilted his head toward the ruins at the top of the mound, pretending not to notice the dim silhouette sheltered among the stones. Making a show of it, Blake wiped his glasses dry with an embroidered handkerchief pulled from an inside pocket and peered back at the ruins.
“Up here, Father.”
“Oh, there you are,” Blake waved his walking stick in acknowledgement and walked toward the shape hunched in the shadows.
Thirty yards above, Robert Nichols huddled against the weather, the collar of his cheap windbreaker turned up against the wind, gloveless hands thrust deep into the nylon pockets.
“Oh, it’s you, Bobby,” Blake said, recognizing a face he had not expected to see. “Where’s your old man?”
“Been sick since yesterday morning, so he asked me to come up and meet you.”
“Sick? What’s the matter with him?” Blake asked.
“Flu. I brought the package for you,” Nichols bent down and retrieved a plastic wrapped backpack from behind the stone. “Dad says you can go ahead and pay me now, instead of waitin’ for when you see him. If that’s okay by you, that is.”
Blake studied the boy’s face.
“Haven’t seen you at services for a long time. You still in school, Bobby?”
“Quit. Didn’t see much point to it.”
“Oh?” Blake reached for the pack. It was heavier than he expected. He guided his arms into the straps and pulled it onto his back. “Your dad told you what’s in here, I’d expect,” He slipped his right hand into his coat pocket.
“Told me it’s important. That’s all,” The boy smiled. “My dad says we’re partners.”
“That’s why you decided to quit school, then, I’d expect,” Blake returned his smile, deeply sorry for the path the boy had chosen. “You know this can be a risky business, though, don’t you? Not the sort of thing that you can hang your hat on.”
“My dad says…”
There were two soft sounds and Blake heard the air gush from the boy’s lungs. Nichols fell backward with a look of utter astonishment on his face. Massive spasms shook his body. Once. Twice. His right leg twitched and he lay still, a pool of blood widening about him. The rain began in earnest, blown by an eastern wind that fanned the bright red stain on the stone path and swept it away from the temple stones.

Blake unscrewed the silencer from the gun’s barrel, wiped the weapon clean and put it back in his pocket. He said a prayer for the boy’s soul. Then, after a moment’s vigil, he turned and walked back down the hill.


- from "The Shroud" (2002) - concerning shenanigans surrounding some purported religious relics


And another -


“Where is she?”
“In there. In Mama’s bedroom. We’re supposed to be quiet so she can sleep. Go back downstairs.”
“You’re up here. Who said you can be up here?”
“Shhh. Go back downstairs. You’re going to wake her up.”
“You’re not Mama. I can be here if I want to. This is my house, too.”
“Don’t talk so loud –“
“You’re not Mama. Who said you can be up here? If you can be up here, I can be up here. Besides, I’m not talking loud. You’re talking loud.”
“What are you two doing? Both of you go downstairs this instant.”
“Yes, Mama.”
“Yes, Mama.”
Maria had not been asleep. The bed was too comfortable. She tried lying on the floor, sitting in a chair. She closed her eyes, but nothing happened. When she heard Theresa’s voice in the corridor, she decided to stop fighting it. She would sleep when her body was ready.
“They weren’t bothering me,” she said, opening the bedroom door. “I enjoy hearing their voices.”
“I’m sorry,” Theresa said. “I was in the kitchen. I’m sorry they woke you up.”
“I wasn’t asleep. May I help you with something?”
Theresa looked at her. Maria’s eyes told her than an afternoon nap was out of the question. Most likely, her mind would not leave her alone.
“There’s nothing much to do, but you can keep me company,” she said.
“I’d like that.”
“I’m just waiting to take the bread out of the oven,” Theresa explained.
They went downstairs, past the closed door of the library where Ricardo spent his afternoons, past the music room and the formal dining room and walked out into the courtyard, crossing to the kitchen on the far side of the house.
“How are the shoes?” Theresa asked.
“Fine. They fit as though they were made for me,” Maria said. “I should have thanked you properly.”
“They chafed my heels. Pinched when I walked up and down the stairs. That’s why I asked,” Theresa said. “You let me know if they start bothering you, Maria. I have another pair that might fit you a little better. They’re not so good in the street, but they’re very comfortable for around the house.”
The smell of fresh bread wafted out into the courtyard. It was a wonderful sensation, comforting and delicious. These days, Theresa prepared the family’s meals on a wood-fired stove and baked bread in a traditional open-mouth oven. There had been no electricity in Sevilla for five weeks, but the essentials of day-to-day life had not been overly affected by the war. The markets were open, as were most businesses. Ricardo had suspended normal operations at his insurance firm, but he went to the office at least once a week.
There was no petrol for their car, as General Franco had diverted production to the military, but Ricardo had purchased horses for everyone and they converted part of the outer court into a corral. Theresa told her that, lately, he had been wearing an Argentine caballero’s fringed hat whenever he rode. According to her, it made him look quite dashing.
“He reminds me of Gilberto Roland, the movie actor,” she said.


- from "El Viento Del Lobo" (2003) - a novel set in 1937 Spain during the civil war


I can't possibly tell you how many more examples are strewn over my computer network; some no more than a few hundred words, some nearly completed works. What to do? What to do? Maybe I should have stayed with music. The Beatles, after all, did pretty well stitching together snatches of songs and coming up with a brilliantly flowing side of the White Album. Try as I might, however, I just can't think of a good way to accomplish the same thing with the written word. Unless, of course…. possibly I could turn the whole messy business into some sort of existential verse. Yeah! That's the ticket. Maybe I'll become a poet. Let's see, now. What rhymes with 'Gilberto Roland'?