To compensate for Long Hard Road (see below) I am re-reading the MS of my novel Rictangular Lenses, title intentionally misspelled, started six years ago, dropped inexplicably after 56,000 words, still unfinished. Yes, re-reading drafts for no good reason is pathetic; a form of self-abuse.
And “unfinished” is inexact. The story, as is, follows an upward trajectory. A woman living dully in the UK Midlands, takes male-dominated management by the scruff of the neck, succeeds on character, is now paid a lot. A free-ranging investment agent, she identifies commercial opportunities and gives their existing (male) managers hell. The last written page has her arriving in Paris to check the “true” viability of a company that may profit from more cash.
Unusually for me, Rictangular lacks a plot outline and is based entirely on the appearance and behaviour of a woman I watched for an hour in a Birmingham restaurant. Accompanied, but he a mere cipher. Much observation posted in November 2015 . An extract:
SHE. Hair imperfectly dyed blonde (irregular dark streaks) swept up from neck with largish bun on top, deliberately loose strands of hair, petite face with pink/white makeup, black mascara, prominent convex cheeks, glasses with slot-like lenses and black and white sidebars (tapering towards the ear), white tight-fitting knitted pullover/blouse buttoned up to scalloped collar detailed in red, thin upper body with prominent, seemingly spherical breasts, hands with coloured nails regularly in motion.
Speaks conversationally yet – paradoxically - assertively, even occasionally shrilly but not unpleasantly. Not in charge but talking/acting with conviction. Ate salad.
So what happens next? I think Paris was to be pivotal, otherwise it’s a blank. Tiny hint suggests a huge change in direction. Also that the novel will be – must be – much longer. Temptation re-tickles my creative glands. Have I time enough?
Surely you have time to cover her lower half…
ReplyDeleteMikeM: It seemed as if Tone Deaf had fallen into a Well of Silence. Posts on varying subjects had brought few responses. My fault, of course. And then your shortie, proving you had read right to the end of that extract I put together all those years ago in Birmingham.
DeleteI was still recovering from a bad night and was lying slumped on the couch, post lunch, devoid of imagination. So how about Rictangular Lenses? I needed a first step that might point me towards a second step. I detached the combined harvester from my tractor and let it roam randomly (Yes, I know, in the real world they have no means of propulsion. Or so I imagine). As is often the case useful ideas rarely arrive as such, more often it's only an image.
Thirty years ago I'm alone in southern Paris attending France's national logistics exhibition. I've left the event and am scouting out lunch in a fairly unfashionable part of the city. I come upon a restaurant that possibly dates back to the turn of the century, somewhat scruffy in a narrow street, dark wood facings, heavily sculpted. Crowded with Parisians (not tourists) cheerfully shouting to each other. The waiter guides me to a tiny solo table. I take out a novel, prepared to wait.
Given her high-level financial work it's strange that Lindsay (RL's central character) should find herself in this rundown area. She herself is surprised and her surprise gets me going, explaining why. I take liberties with the real restaurant imagining it backing on to a tiny courtyard typical of many Paris suburbs. In that courtyard a very expensive car is parked, quite out of place. The first wisp of skulduggery blows in.
A foothold and the faint promise of a succeeding handhold. I must now leave you be and start thinking/writing fiction..
What is it about the random individual or visual that imbeds in your mind. I still recall sitting in a tent over night at an art show in Bloomington, Minnesota in the 70's, conversing with an animated individual, in a group huddle---it was cold outside. Older than myself or my partner, he spoke with such conviction and clarity, he reminded me of the promise of a Messiah that I didn't even believe in.
ReplyDeleteThe next day he was dead---a probable an overdose or suicide. The venue swarmed with police and detectives all day. I still remember his eyes penetrated. everything, and I clearly remember 50 years ago.
Sandi: It's as if you'd read my mind. Elsewhere and offline I'd just fashioned a reply to MikeM and was about to post it here. And lo!, a second response. I'm afraid you'll have to share my re-response to him on this occasion. Other fish need frying.
ReplyDeleteGot it...yes, that's the way the mind works. I can't remember my guy's name, but everything else is etched fiercely in my brain. I never thought an art show at a Balloon fest was a good idea for a novel, and the 'death' really damned the whole thing. I do remember packing up early like everyone else, despite lovely late Spring weather.
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