WIP
Yes, yes. Very busy. Baby, work, life, etc. All to be reported on very shortly.
In the meantime, I’m once again involved in the Clarion West writeathon, and have promised a bunch of people I’d post a bit from my work in progress. I’m hoping this is part of something that will turn out to be much, much longer. I always hesitate to use the word “novel” because that denotes commitment, and as any painfully earnest self help guru will tell you, commitment is scary. So, I’m just taking one baby step at a time, embracing my inner buddha, or something.
This is still in first draft form, so it’s relatively unpolished. Here goes…let me know what you think.
Doctor Husainey’s office was not a place one walked into expecting an emotional lift. It was dark, with the tiles and wall colored a pale, sickly green. Even the steel instruments, lined neatly next to the exam table, seemed to lack the requisite shine of sterilization. This ten-by-ten hole had a medieval feel, like the good doctor should be performing bloodlettings in some dungeon, not neurological tests on the fifth floor of a government facility.
“Anomaly 24 reports no signs of identity recognition.” Doctor Husainey dictated to his antiquated voice recorder. “Physically, she remains in good condition.”
Thirty Eight. It was a good number, Eve always thought. Enough cases to make it more than a coincidence, enough that those afflicted felt a certain affinity for one another, that they, if they really wanted, could form a little secret club of memory wipers. Maybe wear creepy rings like the masons. Plus, they got a cool name: ‘The Kindred.’ It could have been a lot worse; some lousy, characterless acronym assigned by the white collared hypochondriacs that were always breathing over their shoulders.
Not that the all-powerful ‘they’ couldn’t find a way to put a damper on things.
“Christ, Doctor, that makes me sound like some engine up on the blocks.” Eve rustled around in her cheap paper gown, fighting the urge to jump up from the examination table. Husainey always kept the window in his office closed, sending inklings of unwarranted adrenaline up Eve’s spine. She’d spent so much time staring at the ceiling over the past two years that it was starting to stare back, threatening to come down there and show her what’s what.
Monthly check ups and tests with the Assigned Medical Practitioner were part of the agreement of her release from observation. Tests, to the government, were everything. The lifeblood of bureaucracy that kept the status quo pumping. If you test something long enough, keep poke, poke, poking it, anything unique or strange or interesting about it will eventually be explained. Most of the time.
Doctor Husainey had swapped his recorder for a blood pressure band. He wrapped it roughly around Eve’s arm, and shrugged his shoulders. “I’m sorry Eve,” he said, pumping the ring tight, “it just comes with the territory, you know? “ The band tense, he looked over to read the result and gave a quick nod. “No headaches?”
“Nope.”
The doctor grabbed the shoulders of her gown and ripped them down. What was the point? Did he think it was somehow more dignifying to have a cheap piece of blue material unceremoniously ripped off than for her to just strip naked in the first place? Once someone’s seen inside your head, you’re pretty much laid bare anyway.
Husainey had mapped every inch of her cortex. Had poked at the insides or her skull with electrodes. At this point, clothing was nothing more than a social formality.
After feeling around her breasts and stomach. Doctor Husainey giggled like a schoolboy. “It’s just all so random, you know? I mean, why you?” For a scientist, he had a decent philosophical streak.
“Why the thirty seven others?” Eve encouraged.
“We’re thinking now you’re all just amateurs.” He rustled through his slew of illegible findings. “Just figuring out what you’re really capable of, still clumsy with your synapse. Like toddlers.”
Eve sat up, not bothering to cover herself with the flimsy remains of her gown. “Does that mean I get a lollipop?”
Husainey shook his head. “We’ll have answers in the near future, I believe.”
“You should come by my office sometime, Doctor. It’s light, breezy. Not suppressive, like this place you’ve got here. I’ve got nice chairs. And a sign over the door, the first thing my clients see when they walk in. “
He looked up from his notes. “What does it say?
Eve stood up and opened the blinds uninvited, squinting in the late afternoon sun.
“Peace lies in the past.”
Mouse
The well-used vanities in the back room at Mamba’s were smeared with red lipstick. Hairspray-slathered mirrors trapped flies that had hoped to find relief from the dry East Texas heat inside the dark, wet jungle of the strip club. There was only one dressing station, Ruby noticed, in the far corner by the washroom, which was pristine. Almost swelling with the slow pulse of a white-hot glow.
“Whose place is that?” Her voice came out as little more than a peep. She felt her cheeks flush. Maybe she was, like her old boss at the roller rink had said, just a little too small-in-the-world to be one of the featured girls at the classiest joint in town. I can see your ribs under yer skin, Ruby. That ain’t beauty, he’d said, wiping fat palm over sweaty upper lip. That’s weakness.
“Shit, girl, don’t even dream about getting that spot.” Mindy May, Ruby’s guide to the underbrush of Mamba’s spoke in a deep growl, perfected over years of howling at and smoking with her clientele. “That’s Adder’s spot. She’s kind of the queen around here. The type of dancer that makes the rest of us seem not so lethal.” Mindy looked over to Adder’s station and gave it a quick nod of respect. “The longer you stick around the further back towards the washrooms you get.” She popped stale-smelling cinnamon gum against glistening white teeth, looking Ruby up and down. “Best take the spot closest to the stage.”
Mindy clomped away in her platforms, leaving Ruby to place her outfits, still in plastic from their trip to the dry cleaner, down on the little empty dresser in front of her filthy mirror. The clothes smelled fresh. Awkwardly virtuous against the musty backdrop of drugstore perfume and clumping, sweat-soaked mascara.
She wandered down the aisle of vestibules, seeking out an identity. Maybe a place to hide. All the girls’ spots were draped in the same glitter, cluttered with the same rusted curling irons. Rhinestone leather slips. Empty boxes of blister-sized bandages.
Except Adder’s. Hers was a nest carefully carved out from a different world. Radiant like Hollywood. Moving like Manhattan. Ruby slinked quietly towards it, tentative steps falling in time with the music on the nearby stage, booming through thin chipboard walls.
Your cruel device
Your blood, like ice
One look could kill
My pain, your thrill.
Adder’s chair was hard-backed, slippery steel. Ruby glided into it.
I want to love you but I better not
Touch (don’t touch)
I want to hold you but my senses
Tell me to stop
It was cold against her sweat-soaked back. She sunk deeper in, hypnotized.
I hear you calling and its needles
And pins (and pins)
I want to hurt you just to hear you
Screaming my name
Don’t want to touch you but
You’re under my skin (deep in)
Ruby slipped out of her jeans. Shook out of her milk-stained tanktop. Heat seared her skin, wanting to slide off, onto the floor. She picked up a boa that sat on the dresser. Wrapped it around her neck. It coddled her veins, squeezing them until her pulse pumped boldly in her ears, falling in time with the beat pounding through the floor, through her hips. She closed her eyes.
She was up on stage in legs that would never be hers, the bass thump, thump, thumping in her chest. Her hands slipped around the cool pole. Like vine after the rain. The crowd called for her. Caws and catcalls and guttural worship from somewhere deep. They were bullfrogs; fat and still, waiting.
I want to kiss you but your lips
Are venomous poison
You’re poison running through my veins
You’re poison, I don’t wanna
Break these chains
An unfamiliar strength rose up through her calves as she twisted them around the metal, suffocating her prey: They stared from the front row frozen. Their mouths opened, sucking in desperate breaths.
Tight in her clutches, they were helpless.
One hand over another, holding tight, she curled up the pole until she was at the top, and then twisted her body backwards. She held there shivering with cool calculation, surrounded by the hot sweat of sin rolling around in the dirt. One last smile, the fangs coming out…
Pain. Digging at her throat.
Ruby opened her eyes. The music had stopped. There was a sharp plastic fingernail at her jugular. Her neck exposed, her body open, she was trapped in a chair that wasn’t hers.
The woman was tall. Black-ice eyes and thick brown hair straight and shining over her shoulders. She traced a line down Ruby’s neck, hand steady. The breath on Ruby’s throat was strong, slow, controlled. Her own was strangled out by fear.
“Christ, honey.” The woman whispered in her ear. “You’re going to get eaten alive.”
This was a freewrite exercise in which I wanted to write a scene involving a character who was mostly absent. How it came to be about strippers, I have no idea. Oh, and the song lyrics are from “Poison” by Alice Copper. Apparently the girls like to dance to it.
A year of freelancing
So, today is worth noting for two reasons. First, it’s the official start of my unofficial Maternity Leave. (Being self-employed, the government doesn’t give me squat) Second, it marks the one-year anniversary of me quitting my job and starting to freelance.
It’s been an interesting year, for reasons both personal and professional. A lot of what’s happened was, at least in part, made possible because of my desicion to work for myself.
Freelancing gave me the freedom to pick up shop and move to Waterloo, to spend more time doing my own writing, and to learn how to pay more attention to finances. Also, on what probably seems like a less relevant level but really is equally important, it has allowed me to take my dog on walks at lunch time, and take a half hour nap in the middle of a Tuesday.
It’s not all roses though; freelancing does have certain drawbacks. It took me a long time to get used to sitting in a room by myself all day. I did (and still very much do) miss the social aspect of working - chatting with coworkers (face-to-face, not over the internet), having more opportunities to share ideas, etc. It’s also taken awhile to develop the adequate self-discipline needed to be my own boss. The aforementioned Tuesday afternoon nap is actually a rare occurrence. But in the beginning, it was undoubtedly difficult to fight off the constant urge to sleep in, wear jogging pants, take long breaks and watch a lot of midday cable shows.
After a short while I guess you just kind of figure out that unless you put in the hours, the cheques don’t show up in the mail. And I’ve been fairly lucky in that even during these supposedly trying economic times, I’ve been able to find work. There have been a few dry spells, but nothing significant.
As of today, I’m taking what I hope is only a month-and-a-half off. I’ve never had a baby before, so I have no idea how much effort and time a newborn requires, but I imagine it’s a lot. Regardless, starting in June, I’m hoping to slowly start taking on projects again, just to keep myself in the loop. We’ll see if baby cooperates.
Speaking of which…I’m just over 38 weeks. Here’s hoping the kid has inherited his father’s penchant for punctuality vs. his mother’s inklings towards fashionable lateness.
Interlude
As of today, my due date is exactly one month away.
Damn, that’s soon.
I say that, and yet there will be moments (more like minutes, or hours) each day where I forcefully wish the time away. I guess it’s a delicate balance between enjoying your last weeks of relative irresponsibility, and yet desperately looking forward to no longer carrying a basketball in your belly.
Regardless, dan and I took some time out this weekend to get away. We didn’t go anywhere exotic, just downtown Toronto, where we stayed at The Sheraton Centre right across from Nathan Phillip Square. I think I chose that hotel not only because it was centrally located but because it had what sounded like a good quality breakfast buffet. Ahem, not that that matters.
It was a good weekend. We got to meet up with friends, do some shopping, some eating, some chilling.
On Sunday, I went to a baby shower, where lots of cool ladies brought me lots of cool things. After a couple days of wandering blissfully around the town however, the shower was a definite reminder that life is seriously about to change.
At least now I have ample receiving blankets.
(Oh, the photo was taken from our hotel room on the 35th floor. Decent view.)
On Rejection
I’ve received a lot of short story rejections lately.
This is not, however, a post about how my stories are being undeservedly shot down by markets left right and centre and how no one understands who I am as an artist and why don’t people realize how awesome my writing is blah blah blah.
All of the rejections I’ve received in the last couple months have been along the lines of “This was really good, but we’re saying no” or “We almost bought this, but didn’t have room in our magazine”. While I’m sure there are a thousand micro-reasons why editors are saying no, I think the main issue is that what I’m submitting is just not quite good enough. “Almost” is the word that’s causing me the most frustration these days. My writing is good. It’s not great.
So what’s going to push it over that line? As with most things in life I suspect a lot of it comes back to the old adage of 10% inspiration, 90% perspiration. I probably just need to work harder. I recently read a great quote from Jack Nicklaus, which was “The more I practice, the luckier I get.” My only worry is that by practicing more, there’s a chance that I’ll just perpetuate any bad habits that I have, ingraining them deeper into my process. I’m trying to counteract this by reading more, and more widely, hoping to subconsciously pick up on What It Means To Be A Good Writer and learn a little about story structure in the process.
Anyway, I suppose this is a lot of time and energy spent writing about writing, when I should just actually be, you know, writing.
Hypocrisy, you’re a nasty little minx.