So the tale goes,
“he writes characters before he writes plots”
That’s what he does. Creates great characters.
Fully fleshed out. Bound up in tomes.
Tombs more like, some will never get a look in – such is the worth of the character, the plot they’d further require just wouldn’t warrant their release.
I asked my own for a disclosure of himself. He is a young man that i’ve tried to capture:
It is me. Jon. Lord of the cantankerous cheese loving gypsy folk. I travel the lands offering sage advice and guidance. I enjoy wit, intelligent turn of phrase and phrasing. I believe in honesty and reaping what you sow. I like hats. I think the most wonderful thing is being around people who make you smile. I have decided to take up yoga and perhaps ballroom dancing. I think it is important to continue acquiring new skills and knowledge. I would like to learn to paint as well but I may wait until I move to Italy for that.
That’s his effort. His work, that may or may not have otherwise gone un-seen, unwritten, undiscovered. My brother. A beautiful soul. Big brother. Someone for me to fight, wail against, rail, revile, revel with. Someone to grow old with. Spend time with. Wonder at. Think about. Hug. Hit. Hail or high five. Punch it. Dance with. Back to back. Games, sport, time well spent. Night or day. Side by side, room next to room. Hated and loved. Big brother.
My goal to write every day.
I could do instalments for a book. A novel.
In-stall-ments. stall, stall, stall. Local, cheap, organic, fresh.
Come on down to salamanca. Hobart town. Small and sweet.
Jack of all trades, master of none.
A famous critique of shakespeare that has outlasted the critic.
“every man has to cut some thing” – Bob Dylan
Paul Kelly recycles this line; when talking in song about Donald Bradman.
He turns a word there like nobody’s business. All masters.
Novels. Books. Literature. Writing. Prose. Poetry. Verse. Scripts, scrolls, scribbles and drafts. Jots and plots and who’s and what’s. How. And Ho. Lo and behold. Paperback. Hardback. Dog-ears and folds. Ebooks and glasses. Sat, studied in classes. Written on plasters. To shakespearean masters. Greedy speedy read-y. Steady, heady, ready. Write left to right, right you are. Easter or western or further afar.
After you’re done, lend me the first. I’ll never return nor read it, forget that series. I’m the first book collector. To answer your queries. My shelves are laden, all them unread. I’m better than the wheel, and greater than sliced bread. I’m the pizza cutter. Far more advanced. I steal your beginning. The stuff “may well, never have existed”. Just look at the space. One empty spot, le premiere of waste.
An now you know, the one wish never come true. “To have ever existed is not a fault as much as its true”.
-Fore life, life can be pain.
Fiction (first invention?)
Non-Fiction (how is there not a better word for this).
Which was invented/written first I wonder.
Novel With No Title:
“There’s cum on the walls”
“That, there, its cum”
“That is cum on the wall”
Her colour was rising. He’d asked her earlier if she was wearing makeup and she’d said no.
“You look red”
And then hastily, “In this light I think, perhaps”
One small breath of frustration escaping out his eyeballs.
He wondered at that as he stared at the walls with a blank faced apprehension.
I mean who’s is it, not mine”
“How’d it get here? Who the hell!”
“Ghastly darling” he said weakly with an upturned grimace cum smile.
“Might I ask how you know?” His smile turned more genuine.
She walked out, fists clenched by her side.
Shaking his head gently to her turned back he caught sight of her ponytail shuddering with rage.
“No fury, a woman scorned” He exhaled softly.
Pots and pans. Anything sharp. That dish rack was surely first to be upturned and thrown across the grim kitchen floor.
“That’ll make it better”
Batten down the hatches, a gale was about to take full flight within the quiet confines of 32 Boteuille Street. Nobody was home. Nobody in their right mind.
He slicked his finger through the patch on the wall.
“Mmh, tastes cummy” he mused.
“weird” he said to himself, eyes lit up with glee. Glassy almost.
The crashing hadn’t started. She must be shaking still.
Then the pom-pom-pom beating fists on the cement walls began.
“cum on the walls Watson, what do you make of it ol’ chum”
He looked to his left and jumped when he saw no-one. Quickly he turned to his right. Then a complete circle. Alone in the room.
He stuck out his tongue.
“haaaaaaayah taaaaaaa han-ha-haaaa”
He licked his cracked lips.
Sniffed back the drops of snot threatening to roll continuously down his nose. They’d have won over him and rejoice indeed if they hit the floor at his feet and he wouldn’t have it. Not today.
While rubbing his thumb, middle and index together he looked for clues.
“Furtively now, look, look, look”
Tongue now back in his mouth “and functioning perfectly” –
Well I wouldn’t say perfectly
“Well I would say it, and did”
He looked up at the roof in the room.
“No i’m not”
Well he did, for a second, he WAS looking around furtively after all. He was diligent, and thorough to say the least.
“To say the least!”
The drumming stopped from the other room.
“damn you man”
That’s what you get if you try to be the narrator. When she returns I want you to have solved this case detective.
“Keep banging on the walls darling, its helping me think, but leave the plates alone would you. Lunch later you know”
The plates could be heard moments later hurling across the room. The drumming on the walls started again.
He felt the beat. He got to thinking…
“Poor girl will be black and blue by the end of this, can’t you give her something else?”
“yes a roll”
The drumming stopped.
“thanky..”Only to start again with greater force and renewed frenzy.
“Maybe if you let me think back?”
“yes, yes think back, let me think about the day before please. Ah Mr. Sir. Yes if we go back she’ll be ok, and i’ll solve this for us”
That moment freezes.
Like glass cracking. A chill on the nose hairs. Arm hairs rigid. Toe curling cold. Nothing moved.
Almost nothing moved.
She stood, one hand poised ready to rain down another fury filled, bruised fist on the unmoving wall.
He sat on the foot of her bed, eyes still furtively looking, as if to prove a point. The snot of his nose the only thing un-frozen.
A drip fell between his knees onto and between the floorboards.
It was disgusting.
The moment began to change, hazy at first. Then the wobble like water on a polaroid photo. Blotting out with white and grey. Was it clouds. The cold from the room?
Character’s smudging. Greying with the growing fog, steam or… something.