In a Name

Otherwise known as the post where I convince you to help me rename my character.  I know, I've a one track mind, don't I?
Names are important, though. They have power, in fiction, just like they do in magic.  They give you power. More so in fiction than in real life. Don't believe me? Okay, go to your bookshelf. Take Harry Potter down. Which came first? Lupin's condition, or his name? Okay, that was a less-than-subtle example, I know, but you get the idea. In real life we are only influenced a little by the names our parents gave us.  Okay, with a name like Martha, is anyone really surprised that I grew up pretty much looking like a hobbit with glasses? (my feet aren't furry, but the rest of it...) But my point is, I could have been something different, but I wasn't.
Names have power. Over the character that owns them, over the writer that chooses them. And here is where I'm in trouble. I need to change Ziggy's name. We all agree (real people, and the voices in my head), but I've lived with that name for an embarrassingly long time. I have a hard time thinking of him as anything but Ziggy. That's why I'm begging for suggestions. If the name comes from outside the world in my head, I don't have to risk changing Ziggy along with his name. I can keep him pure in there, and still share him with the world. 

So once again, a ten dollar bn gift card to whoever suggests the right name.  Keep trying. You get up to three guesses. Here's a hint, don't worry about the last name, but the first should have two syllables.
So there it is. My pitch. 
mart

Always Crashing In the Same Car, an exerpt.

Word of warning. This being a story about Rock n Roll in the '80's, there is language, there are drugs and  sex. Just about in that order. If that doesn't put  you off, read on, and tell me what you think Ziggy's name should change to!

1983, Los Angeles

Ziggy stands in the wings backstage at the Refugee Club, a narrow shadow. He lights a cigarette, shielding the flame with his hand to protect the darkness. In the full house beyond the curtain, Ziggy counts dozens of reflections of himself. Boys or girls, hair cut spiky with spaghetti-o colored dye-jobs, all waiting for him. He exhales a lungful of smoke. Every night there’s more of them, but it’s not enough, not yet.
"Ziggy.” Asia Heyes, the Spider’s bass player calls him from the doorway to the basement dressing room the band shares. “Weird’s real sick."
“No he’s not.” Ziggy says, turning.
“Yeah, Zig, he is. He’s not gonna be able to play the show tonight. He should be--”
"He should be shootin’ the hell up, Asia. He’s the guitar player, and this isn’t fuckin’ Charity’s Place back in Ann Arbor anymore. It’s the Refugee Club where somebody important could be listening.” Ziggy moves farther backstage, past Asia, down the rickety stairs. He smells it, bitter on the air before he hits the bottom step. Then he hears Weird choking.
Asia is right behind Ziggy, protesting. “He’s almost clean. Don’t fuck it up for him.”
Ziggy doesn’t answer. Instead of going down the short hallway to the bathroom, he heads into the dressing room. Weird’s guitar case is propped against the broken down leather couch that sags in one corner. Tucked inside, along with the instrument are Weird’s works, just like Ziggy knew they would be. He grabs the pouch and steps around Asia to cross the hall. Without knocking, Ziggy opens the bathroom door.
It’s a re-modeled storage closet, too small for three people. Gilli, their drummer, hovers, worry lining his pretty face.
Weird’s on the floor, back against the wall, arm draped around the toilet seat, like it’s his best friend. In the buzzing fluorescent light, his skin is the color of spoiled milk. His face is covered in a thin sheen of sweat, long red-blond hair stuck down with it. He wipes a hand over his beard, looks up at Ziggy through slitted eyes and grins. “Hey Stardust, you gonna hold my hair while I puke some more?”
“Are you’re gonna? I mean, you are gonna be okay, aren’t you?” Gilli’s face turns even paler as he squeezes himself against the sink to let Ziggy all the way in.
“Oh sure.” Weird groans, sucks in some of the sour air. “Yeah, I’m great.” Then he looks up at Ziggy again. “Gimme my damn smack.”
“No.” Gilli gasps. “No, Weird.”
Weird stares hard at Ziggy. “Gimme m’ works, Stardust. Neither one of them will.”
Ziggy nods. He hands the pouch over and turns away.
Asia is leaning against the hand railing of the stairs, shaking his head as Ziggy exits the bathroom. “So let him go back to killin’ himself, and you don’t even care, do you?”
“You think he can play clean, Asia?” Ziggy says. “You wanna take that away from him?”
“That’s bullshit. You don’t really think that.” Asia laughs. “You get what you want, and that’s all that matters.”
Ziggy looks into Asia’s eyes, rust/green, and takes a breath. All he ever gets from Asia anymore is anger and disappointment. Ziggy won't apologize for telling the truth. He reaches up to brush a stray lock of wavy ginger hair back from his face, but Asia flinches.
“Whatever you wanna think.” Ziggy says softly. “It’s done. Get ready for the show.”
He goes back upstairs without waiting for Asia’s answer.
Asia shakes it off. He moves to stand in the doorway. “Wait, Weird. I can play your shit tonight and Zig can play bass.”
Weird is up, unsteadily leaning against the sink, already cooking his shit, Gilli looking on, stricken. Weird snickers. “How you think he’s gonna do that? Faggot can’t even walk and chew gum.”
“I don’t care.” Asia knows he’s pleading. He wants to knock the smack out of Weird's hand, shake him. Don't make Ziggy right, he wants to say. But he goes back to begging instead. “We can do it.”
“Asia, look, Stardust’s a bastard, but he’s right.” Weird says. His hands don’t shake at all when he pulls the plunger back on his syringe to suck the liquefied drug up. “You think that bein’ a junkie’s ruinin’ my life, right? That I'm tryin' to kill myself? See, no, because it’s all I am, Asia. No junk, no music. I'm not giving that up.”
Weird is tying a piece of tubing around his upper arm. He looks from Asia to Gilli. “You guys got shit to do before we go on, right?”
Not really, Asia thinks, but feels himself give in. He turns away and Gilli follows him.
                                                                           ***
Ziggy returns to the shadows behind curtain. Weird will come through. He always does. No matter what his condition, he lives for the moment the lights hit the stage almost as much as Ziggy himself. Onstage, they always speak the same language.
Ziggy pauses before he lights another cigarette. Asia and Gilli come up from the dressing room to go out back. Ziggy stays hidden. He knows Asia needs his space. Once the stage door swings closed, he pulls his lighter out. Disappointment, anger, Ziggy thinks again. But it was all right if Asia didn't understand. As long as he didn't leave.
Ziggy takes a long drag on his fresh cigarette and pushes off from the wall. He sees the small slim form of Sammy appear from the other side of the curtain. She locates him by the glow of ash. He gives her a wide smile. “Are you my fifteen minute warning?”
“Just about.”
She tilts her head up to kiss him and he feels the sticky exchange of their lip gloss. Her hands are at the zipper of his jeans. Ziggy is still thinking of Asia when she slides her hands inside.

CONTEST!!!!

So it's David Bowie's sixty-sixth birthday today, and I had been thinking of doing something special to mark that. I mean I usually take the day to write a Bowie influenced story, so that's nothing special. I've missed him, you know, over the past decade. I've gotten used to the build-up of rumours everything year around this time, "Bowie's in Berlin and he's recording--he tweeted it last night!" Riiight.  But not really. I had come to the same conclusion that everyone else had. He'd retired, and was enjoying his retirement. But I still wanted more music.
So I was pretty skeptical when I woke to a bunch of texts about there being a new single and video. No, that can't be true, I thought.
Turns out I was wrong. It's totally true. Single, video, album.  You guessed it.  I cried.  And I also couldn't help thinking about Ziggy. 
I'd given up on anybody wanting my novel "Always Crashing In the Same Car." But today, hearing Bowie's voice again, in new words, Ziggy came back to me.  And I realize that I'm way too close to the thing to do what's necessary to make it suitable for publishing. So I decided that I would ask for help.
Here's where the contest comes in, ready?
I need to rename Ziggy, in the novel.  Now, wait, because it's already a fake name, it's not as easy as you might think to replace it with something that works. Still, I have faith in all of you. So here's the deal:
I will mail a ten dollar Barnes and Noble gift card to the person who, in replying to this blog post, gives me an alternate name for my Ziggy as he appears in "Always Crashing In the Same Car." I'll give you all up to three tries. And I have faith in all of you, but if none of the names turn out to be suitable, I will draw names for the gift card.  The contest will start now and end March 12, 2013. Simple right?  See the next blog post for a little taste of the character if you wish.

Knives

This is a new short story, or the beginning of a new short story that I'm working on for my workshop. It's a little bit out of my comfort zone.....  But not as far as I'd like. Oh well.  So, tell me what you think. I'm hoping that something happens in the story to explain the title, which I like, but don't know why yet.



                                                                              Knives

I light a fresh cigarette off the butt of the dying one before crushing into the tray set in the door of the car. My companion's sigh is so complex at this that I don't bother with an attempt to divine it's true meaning. I simply take a long, cleansing drag and exhale the smoke out the window. I mask the sodden desperate air of the ruins we've left with the taste of nicotine, but it is only temporary. Since the war, every corner of Europe smells and feels like the sodden aftermath of a fire. The air is heavy with drown smoke, land with charred dirt.

As usual, Marcella begins the conversation in the middle. “He's such a reputation, you know, Albrecht. They say he's the devil.”

“If I was the devil, I wouldn't be holed up in a drafty old mansion in Scotland.” I murmur. I suppose I should be cheered by the breathtaking green of the rolling land we travel through. Perhaps not every corner of Europe has been blacked after all. But it is still bone cold. My hands ache from it, and it is as though I'm still in winter, no matter the season around me. Scotland could be no different.

Marcella smiles her cat-sharp smile and says, “I'm curious to see what you make of him.”

My eyebrow raises at her tone. “Is that all?”

“Herr Christian, whatever can you mean?” Behind her lilting teasing tone hides a bully. 

“I'm not your escort, Marcella, not really. I know that. I want you to stop playing with me and tell me what my task will be once we arrive.”

“You're no fun at all, Albrecht, are you? I told you, we were invited. To watch you puzzle him out, what more could I want?”

She snuggles against me, and I feel my own body steal warmth from hers. Warmth, and nothing more. I shan't ever dare feed from Marcella, the only being alive that knows my secret. She is as precious to me as she is repulsive. 

Our relationship started as business. I was cast adrift by war, my family's fortune had crumbled, and I was on the street as a young man. Marcella was a seller of such young men.

In time, as I became aware of my special talent, she also became aware. And she saw an opportunity where I only saw a monster. 

Yes. I am the monster in this tale. I was the Prince, when I was very young, but survival made me a monster. 

Macella gives another sigh, this one more contented. “You may as well close your eyes, Leibling, it's a bit farther.”

But I don't. I don't need sleep, not when I'm well fed, and the boy I had in the hotel last night was sufficient to see me through. I can feel him in my blood, my skin, but I can not remember what he looked like now. Sometimes they come back to me, angry, or still in love, or pitiful and sad, but he did not seem so sorry to give me his life. Perhaps he was looking for darkness. 

He had nothing in his pockets for Marcella, which did not please her. I feel the rhythms of her body slow, her muscles slacken and I smoke my cigarette to the filter, and then another, and another, watching the beautiful, lush green of the countryside spin by. I play my favorite game with myself, wondering what I would have been if it had been this land that had shaped me, and not the ravaged fortunes of Austria. It is a useless endeavor, since I am the hard and dark creature I am, and will never be changed, but it passes the time. 

“Your first time to the Loch, then?” 

I start, and it takes me a split second to realize the driver is speaking to me. I take my eyes from the scenery. “Yes. First time. It's beautiful here.”

He gives a snort. “It's an evil place.”

“Because of Herr-Mr. Crowley's activities?” I prompt. For all I pretend indifference, I'm a bit interested after all. It's so rare to find evil instilled in another. Most evil I've found is imposed upon men. I begin to allow myself to wonder if this “Devil” could be....

“What? Him? Playin' dress up and buggerin' anything that wanders by?” Another snort. “Faker, that one is. No, sir. The real evil's in the land, in the water. It's black as pitch.”

My scalp prickles, the sunlight outside fails, curtained by a thick gray cloud. “Everyone has heard the story of the monster in the Loch, yes.” I smile, just a fraction. “But no one truly believes such things in this day and age, surely.”

“Have it your own way.” the man retorts. 

Rain begins to spatter the windshield and I roll up my window. We take a turn off the main road to a narrower one, that is barely wide enough for the car. The ruts jounce Marcella awake again and she stretches prettily. “Goodness, that was a lovely nap.” She leans forward to speak close to the driver's ear. “We're nearly there, then?”
“Yes, Miss.”

She grins at me now. “Perhaps we'll go straight down to the Loch. They say it's ever so much more likely to see the monster in the rain.”

Despite everything, I begin to relax. Was the monster her real interest? Was that too much to hope? I feel myself leaning in that direction anyway. I let my smile become less guarded. “Marcella, won't you ruin your dress?”

“Be adventurous, Albrecht.” She giggles and it's such a foreign sound from Marcella that I start a bit. She is still playing with me, and I steel myself, determined not to fall into the game. If she would only stop using me as a tool, I think, before I can stop it. To wish Marcella different is as useless as wishing it for myself. 

We turn into a graveled courtyard. There is a fountain in the middle that only holds rain water, and the house, a lodge of sorts, sprawls around the drive.

Wednesday's regrets

The workshop went really well, last night, and we had more writers, which was exciting. I love the different things each writer brings to the table. I am excited to see their stories take shape as we talk and write.  The only thing I wish I could have done better was to explain the difference between description that only describes and description that evokes. I thought I had all the words down in my mind, but I'm pretty sure I didn't do a good enough job of it. I'm hoping we can talk about it again in the next session. Using words to describe things that have no words? Arrg.  You see what I mean. It's not really an exact science. I'll obviously have to think about this more.

Anyway, as promised, here's my ten minute timed writing from last night.  This one's a little more guided than the last one, and you may recognize the characters. Yes, I've decided to take the plunge. The story I'll be working on is a Ziggy story.

The sweat collected under the guitar strap across Asia's back as they waited. Even poor Gilli's Flock of Seagulls hair had melted into a sodden pile on his head. What was it, a hundred and five out here?

Weird and Ziggy were unaffected. Weird was propped against a wall, eyes closed, hands on his guitar, light, waiting, like he was in cryo-freeze. Not far from t he truth, Asia thought. And Ziggy stood behind the thin curtain. Bone white against his black jeans and the dark curtain. He looked like ice, his face as perfect as a Nagel girl, like a music video that hadn't been made yet.

Yep, sorry. We picked a painting from the gallery and wrote down three words we got from looking at it.  Mine were Patrick Nagel, girlfriend and heat.  yeah, I'm still working on the girlfriend part.
m

Modern Love

I've been watching a lot of old videos lately, as a result of trying to re-write my novel about a rock band in the 80's. I miss that time. It seemed that life was less lethal, but then I think that's how everybody views their childhood.

But the videos. I learned everything from MTV back then. I learned how to dress, how to act, how to talk. It was a window onto a world that I wanted to be out in. Instead I was stuck in the basement of a friend, just watching. No MTV at home, so I was rarely there. I've always thought that movies taught me how to write. Star Wars, in particular, and true, I did go straight from that theater to buy a notebook for myself. The first I'd ever bought. But MTV taught me something else. I think in some ways watching the world in two and a half minutes clips made me an observer. It made me an expert at spinning people and places and actions out into whole lives, make them go in the direction I wanted them to go. And I could do it all while lying on the clammy floor in front of the TV. Those videos, "Love is a Battlefield," Let's Dance," "Melt With You," taught me how to spin a story. Make fiction out of just a flash of something.

It was so limited. Now you can watch TV on your TV, your phone and laptop all at the same time. We can control what we see to the second. Now there is no VIDEO. There's no sharpeness to the images. No specialness. People look.... Ordainary now. Effects can be added, but they're effects. We all know those dudes in 300 didn't really look like that. And sticking Brad Pit's face on a baby was just.... It was not really magic. It was a mistake. In the end what we see on screen now is pretty much how the world looks.

In the novel, the main character sees himself on his TV at home, and thinks, "Who is that? Is that really me?" Onscreen he is pristine and sharpe and beautiful. Lying across his bed, watching himself, he is worn and used. He knows that he never looked like that.

No, the world never looked like that. But it does now, in my memory.

Yay!

Luckily, the waiting is over. The first chapter of Ziggy is sold as a short story. I made the changes I offered, and that was it. More details when I get them....

good news and bad news

Well, it's been pretty okay for the week. It's Tuesday and I sold chapter one of Ziggy to an anthology. True, it's only for 25 bucks and a free book. But that's okay. I assume somebody will read it.

Now the bad. The editor emailed me within about a half hour of my accepting and asked me if this was about the "real" Ziggy Stardust. If so, they can't print it because they would be sued. I'm not sure that's true, but I didn't argue. I simply explained, that, no, it's not about Ziggy Stardust and the Spiders From Mars from the album. Here are the differences. You know, my Ziggy's from 83, not 73, he's from Ann Arbor, not London.... He's not spreading the false message of peace from space aliens and the audience doesn't kill him. And certainly not all in the first chapter of the book. Then I changed the name of the band from "The Spiders" to Black Light. Lame, I know. Sorry. Then I took out Ziggy's last name, and changed Gillli's to Ronnie. Yep. Blick. But I'm desperate not to be unpublished. What should I do about the book? Is this the way it's going to go now? I'm really happy that somebody wanted the story. In less than 24 hours, no less. Very nice. But now I don't want it to fall apart because of missconceptions..... The truth is I wrote the book because I missed the '80's. Still do. I wrote the book because I spent so much time lying on my bed staring at the liner notes on albums sleeves, memorizing, and letting the lyrics make up stories in my head. I wrote the book because of Asia, and because I know there are other people out there like him, and I want them to read it. It's the kind of book I really wanted when I was a kid. That's all.