Another new, rough section furthering the relationship between Margot & her sister, Syracuse. I need to work on the mother character, who’s gone through various transformations, none of them all that concrete or interesting. The sisters are stronger, I think: Continue reading
I’m immersed in the slow, necessary march of revising, fine-tuning the hell out of bits and pieces or doing my damnedest to solve plot and character inconsistencies. I could go into further detail but frankly, I’d rather spend the time working on the book as opposed to talking about working on the book.
News from other shores…Ivan Infante has finished his second book in the “Mike Chance” series, a presumed trilogy of brutal Los Angeles noir dripping in blood and no-bullshit writing. I’ve only just purchased Book Deux but I can happily affirm the fine qualities of both the first book and Infante as a prose stylist. Check them out here.
And now, here’s a new section. It needs some blowing up, especially a few of the ideas put forth. In the recent stretch of new writing, I’ve been introducing moments, memories & scenes before moving on before they’ve been fleshed out. Apologies in advance if this piece feels rushed…: Continue reading
Here’s a long section (about 3700 words) that will require more shaping, editing & additions (it’s quite rushed at the moment) but should at least offer you an idea of what I’m aiming for in the last quarter of the book. If you’ve read the last few updates, you’ll recognize some of the paragraphs below but I’ve written quite a bit more:
More novel…This section’s part of a long, significant overhaul to the most recent draft, one requiring considerable time and finesse. I may post the whole section to replace these smaller bits when it’s rounded into decent form… Continue reading
I’ve spent little time on autobiography in any of my fiction, which now amount to two drafts of a book, three dismal screenplays and a few dozen short stories scattered across the last 10 years. Autobiography interests me little. MY autobiography, I mean. The autobiographies of Keith Richards, Tina Fey and Robert Evans proved quite compelling. But I live my live, I revisit my life, I run my life through my brain and post occasional moments from it on these pages. I’d rather not spend further time within myself spinning actual happenings into fiction. It’s far more thrilling to invent or at least take the light elements of reality and transform them into something new, vivid and experienced for the first time on the page. Continue reading
I’ve begun another draft of my book, the third major revision (though virtually every existing section has undergone a dozen passes and edits). A primary change will involve reshaping the characters of Margot’s parents. Here’s a new section (about 5 pages) featuring Margot’s mother. Continue reading
By Jesse Crall
They scream “retard” and “faggot” and “fatass” and “faggotass” and “fucktard,” cries and shouts from yards away landing blows with every pass across field and hallway. Clark turns to find gathering masses disengaged and whispering amongst themselves. He isn’t used to the malice. His mother, Calliope, is a kind woman, too kind in Clark’s estimation. She calls him “Clark Bar” and treats every letdown with a grinning optimism divorced from logic or her son’s wishes. Clark is her late bloomer, her gentle giant, her sweet boy with brilliance residing in his heart, his soul. After tense hours spent laboring over times tables or wading through clunky sentences to spot the endless nouns, Clark winds up in Calliope’s bosom, always in her bosom, her plump arms wrapped tight around his back as she sways them both. Only when they part does Clark find the day’s first relief as he hurries to his room to be finally, gratefully alone. Continue reading
Martha called him her Dandelion. Dandelion. Called him Dandelion when he’d roar his little roar with widened eyes and mouth stretched to brandish fangs he didn’t have.
Martha bled on The Old Road. Tripped over something hard, something round, and her knee skidded across the rough blacktop. In her mind she imagined minutes of high flight before the brutal descent but she knew her fall was insignificant, inglorious. She was a 6-year-old girl who tripped and that was all. Tears weren’t necessary; the pain receded quickly enough and there weren’t any people around she could provoke into pitying questions and small gifts of tenderness offered in the relief of a body unscathed. She brushed away the dark bits of road and rock mixing into the streaks of fast-drying blood and continued on home, hopeful her mother wouldn’t find enough severity in the wound to warrant a sting of alcohol dabbed with cotton. Continue reading
In August of 2014, I made my first trip out of the United States in order to see Kate Bush perform her first live concert in 35 years. For devotees of Kate Bush, the prospect of flying 7000 miles for a 3-hour show is but a trifle. I’d have taken a steamship across various capes to see it.
I decided to open the trip with a 3-day run up to England’s Lake District, a national park region in Cumbria County known for its rustic settings, quaint villages and arresting hiking paths. Plus, the Lake District offers inexpensive lodging and I really couldn’t afford 10 days in London. No one without a finance degree and lax business morals can.