In a video on his current blog, Paulo Coelho equates inspiration with breath; he gets inspiration from, well, inspring, breathing in: from living.
I'm with him--after the initial spark, that is, and I never, never know where that comes from. The combination of facts and factors that make up 400 pages of fiction has been argued by better minds and better writers than I. The actual execution of an idea, for me, is like scratching a mysterious itch until it goes away. The spark for my novel 'No Reservation' came from a visual; a woman watches a battle at moonrise on the Navajo reservation; it's the end of the world. 'Forcible Entry', a short story, began with a vision of a spinning trash-can lid and a horrible sense of loss.
Writing may be more a matter of respiration, breathing in and out. There's inspiration, then respiration; and (ahem!) the writing is what transpires. All right, maybe it expires. One hopes not.
Here's the next installment of Dead on Dutcher's Mountain. It's Chapter Three.
----------
Dead on Dutcher's Mountain
Chapter ThreeYou could hardly tell where the mine had been unless you remembered the original layout. The installation overlaid a 19th-century homestead, and the first building along the drive was the huge, restored barn. Both it and the house, which was now the office, were floodlit. The barn was Altstock’s quarters. Early partygoers crammed the porch carved into its near corner. Hillary stopped beside it so Brian and Karen could get out. Karen made eye contact from between the front seats and said, “See you later, Aunt Hill! Don’t forget where we are!”
Hillary bussed the girl and reached awkwardly to smooth the ruffled hem of her tee. “I’ll remember, honey. I’m just going to find our beds, then meet Ms. Burns. After that I’ll come right here.”
She reentered the line of arrivals searching for their assigned cabins. Their headlights gilded raw-looking prefabs and deepened the blackness between. Orange yard lights obscured whatever lay beyond. Hillary fought disappointment as she idled through, filling gaps in her memory with phantom sheds or pulleys long buried. What had she expected? she wondered. What was missing? The mud smelled the same; it was always muddy here.
It took a circuit of the whole, scattered installation to find her cabin--soon to house workers--two chilly rooms with linoleum floors, propane wall heaters and a tiny bath between them. She hauled in the suitcases, distributed them onto beds, one for her, one plus child cot in the other room, and turned on the heaters.
“All right, lighten up,” she told her image in the bathroom mirror. “Everything has changed. What you just saw is a company town. It’s not a collapsed nickel mine, and this is not 1988.” She brushed her curly hair until it became distinguished curves over her high forehead, knowing it would spring back before midnight. “You’ve changed, too. Bri needs you, and you love him, so ignore his weakness. Just help him raise the kid.”
McCoy’s face reappeared. With pleasure and alarm she saw the lines on the forehead and the contained, vivid life. “Earl and Bri are the same age, right? Thirty-four?” Absently she applied blusher, then tissued it off; applied and removed eye liner. Cursed the ineradicable smudge beneath her eyes. Thought about McCoy. Scolded herself again about Brian. She gave up, got her camera from the only chair, put a flamboyant, full-length cape over her retro Little Black Dress, and stepped outdoors.
Three cabins were to her left, like hers all facing south, peak-roofed and deeply porched with yards scraped raw to prepare for lawns. A much larger prairie-style house had its back to them, its roof line darkened by an overhanging oak. Its floodlit carport spread shadows toward the mountain. Even shadowed, she recognized the silver fender where it dipped to an oxygen-gulping cowl. That car; the splendid thing from the gorge. She crossed the yard and walked to it, fingered it, admiring the seamless coachwork.
There was a low, deep-chested growl. Hillary froze, tasting panic; the growl approached on stiff legs. In the half-light she saw a large-headed, short-coupled brute with an eerie spine of standing fur. Seconds, or minutes, later a curtain stirred in an unlit window. The dog growled again and came closer.
Prickles danced across her scalp. The owner must be watching; why didn’t he stop the dog? “Sit!” she said. The dog did not sit. “Stay!”
“Lout! Sit!” The curtain dropped and a light came on around the corner. The dog sat; Hillary turned.
He was probably the largest, most attractive man she had ever seen. He was buttoning a frilled formal shirt. His belly was ridged with muscle. A single, impressive diamond solitaire nestled in the fur of his chest and emphasized its meaty breadth. “That was a near thing for you, miss,” he told her.
She pulled her attention to the man’s face. “I wanted to see your car.”
He peered at her more closely and smiled. He stopped buttoning his shirt. “The little driver in the big SUV!”
“The same,” she admitted.
“I apologize again. Driving brings out the boy in me and I become arrogant.” He resumed the business with his shirt. “It is apparently our fate to become acquainted.”
“Indeed.”
“You handled that large car well, sliding on gravel.”
His formal language was catching: “Thank you,” she said. “I received the same impression of your own skill.” She reassessed the wedge of him from shoulders to hips, then the depth of his chest. She approved his long hair, swept straight back from his odd forehead. She was grinning at the second man that evening. “My name is Hillary Webster.”
“The journalist! I was told you might come. I am Karl Voerst.” They shook hands. He had an accent which sounded maybe South African. “And this is Lout, my only friend in northern California. May I show you the Accordo?”
“I’d like that, but even better in the light of day.”
“Tomorrow, then. We will reserve tonight for dancing and becoming friends.” Swiftly he raised her hand and kissed her fingers. “I look forward to it; you are a formidable woman, I think. You report wars, you drive well, and Lout does not frighten you.”
She did not contradict him about the dog. “I too look forward to our friendship,” she told him. She turned, secretly giving her cape an extra twitch to make it swirl.
One of the prefabs had old-fashioned venetian blinds which leaked gray light onto the porch. Canvas butterfly chairs flanked the door. There was a much-sloganed van. Hillary, suddenly animated, darted onto the porch and rang the bell.
“Hill! My Gawd Almighty!”
Rosalie Burns, six feet tall to Hillary’s five-feet-two, hugged, bussed, then hugged her again as she would a child. She was--Brian’s description--a zoftic gorgeous uppity redneck woman. Her satin dress was tight, her auburn hair loose behind a high pompadour. She drew her guest into the living room. “Why haven’t you called me? I was about to phone Bri, just to be sure you came home! Here, sit over here; it’s the best seat in the house.” Rosalie plumped a pleated pillow and inserted it between Hillary and the naugahyde back of a turquoise Jetsons armchair. “Drink? How about a Margarita? Some brandy? Never mind, I was going to make some Margaritas so I’ll mix a double batch. How are you? You look tired. How short were those Mayas, really? Did you ever buy me a huipil? Love that cape! Aren’t those fox skins illegal or something? No, it’s fake, isn’t it? Put your camera on the floor, I don’t have any cocktail tables yet. God, you look good. No, I said you look tired. Well, you look good anyway. And tired.” Rosalie stood with her arms akimbo and regarded her friend. “You’re sick. Why haven’t you called?”
Hillary chuckled. “Rosie, I tried for a month to find you, then I met Mr. Gunderson in The Herald morgue room. If he hadn’t mentioned you, I’d still be looking. Make some drinks and let me talk.”
Rosalie trailed a heavy cloud of jasmine toward the kitchen. She called, “It’s been a lifetime! Since...” A blender clattered, chopping ice. “Since...”
“Since Arizona,” Hillary yelled. “Two summers ago.”
The blender stopped. “Yes, Douglas, then I drove you in to Mexico for the train. Do you still have your place in San Francisco?”
“Yeah, sure. I like the view of Twin Peaks.”
“Rotten town,” Rosalie claimed. “Everyone ignores everyone else. Everyone looks miserable.” She emerged, handed Hillary a drink and stretched her length on a chartreuse couch which matched the unlovely style of the armchair. Her expression was sober. “Tell me why you’ve lost weight.”
Hillary sipped and shrugged. “Overwork, bad water; you know.”
Rosalie frowned. “Again! Dysentery?” Hillary shook her head. “Damn! Dengue fever!” Hillary nodded. “Adventure!” Rosalie declaimed. “Excitement! Sleeping in the open! Swatting jungle mosquitoes, eating char-broiled iguana and vomiting black puss as rebel bullets whizz, unremarked, over your valiant head!” Disgusted, she gulped her drink.
Hillary was apologetic. “Nevermore, Rosie.”
“Liar! God damn it, Hill, you swore off after Iraq. But then you started writing as well as taking pictures. And now that you’re up for the Pulitzer...”
“It’s final. Doctor’s orders.”
Rosalie sat up slowly. She set her glass on the floor. “Kidneys? Liver?”
“Both. This was my body’s next-to-last straw. The fever wasn’t quite fatal, but its complications still could be. I spend most of my time strung out. On edge. So I’ve quit traveling.” Hillary paused, regretting the change in mood. “I had a long-enough career, though; everything since 9-1-1. And I’m burned out.”
“Have you told Bri? Probably not.”
“He has problems of his own.”
“So you pretend to be strong.”
“No.” Hillary raised her eyes to stare Rosalie down; failed and relented; picked at the rock salt on the rim of her glass. “I’m researching a book just to get out of the house; Bri suffers so nobly it makes me crazy.”
“Jesus. All is forgiven.”
“Sometimes he’s like before, sure: my big brother. But he jokes all the time and won’t shut up and basically he’s composed entirely of self-pity. And he’s spoiling Karen; he’s hesitant when he should be decisive and talky when he should be quiet.”
“Yuk.”
“It’s nerve-wracking.” Hillary set her glass on the floor beside her camera. “Let’s not talk about it; he’ll snap to. Tell me something about Mr. Gunderson. Gun.”
“Why?”
Hillary gave a deliberate smile. “Lady, you know if anyone does how he’d stimulate my urge to ask questions. Even overweight and one-handed, he’s the very essence and core, the apotheosis, nay the quintescence of a--how shall I put it?--force of nature? No. Mountain man? No, I can’t...”
“Try ‘hero,’ Hill.”
“Hero; yeah. Sure. Joshua Gunderson, flaccid right hand and all, reeks of adventures sought and challenges met. And I can’t pin it down, the thing that tells you. I mean, before he even spoke, and you know I’m not patronizing him because of that hand, but it’s ugly...”
“He’s not everyone’s favorite person, but he’s the kind you and I seem to pick up on. Gun and Jessica are already my lifelong friends. And I met them only last week.”
“I believe you.”
The women paused. Hillary said, “I saw Earl for a minute on the way up. He looks tired.”
“Overworked, underpaid. He tilts at windmills.”
“Married?”
Rosalie grinned. “No.”
Hillary countered before she got teased. “Do you have a love life? Aha! Yes! You’re blushing!” Rosalie was fussing with her skirt. “Let’s see....It’s Altstock, the manager! You’re his secretary and he’s swept you off your feet! No, you look too sure of yourself. It’s...” Hillary began snapping her fingers, rehearsing other names which she had heard. “Gunderson...”
“Puleez!” Rosalie interrupted, “I’m the Project Administrator!” She indicated Hillary’s glass. “Another?”
Hillary shook her head, her fingers still working. “Let’s see. It’s not Gunderson, he’s married. Then there’s Llewellyn Jones, the hotshot chemist...”
“And others too numerous to mention,” Rosalie supplied, but too quickly. She stood up. “And as the Project Administrator I should already be at that party.”
Alert and amused, Hillary demanded, “What others too numerous to mention?”
“They’re too numerous. Come on, here’s your cape.”
Hillary whirled it onto her shoulders. “Well, there’s Karl Voerst...”
“Haven’t met him. He’s one of the original stockholders, so he’s got to be old. Don’t kick your glass.”
“He’s not old, he’s an Adonis! Drives a race car, seven feet tall, blond, ponytail, has an accent!”
Rosalie perversely under-reacted and gulped the last of her drink. “Huh. When’d you meet him?”
“Just now, before I found your place. We’re going to dance tonight and become good friends. He said so.” She waggled her eyebrows.
“Braggart. I’m stuck with Llewellyn, and he’s about your height. What’ll a pip-squeak like you do with a giant?”
“I’ll think of something.”
No comments:
Post a Comment