Inspiration: My Novel

So I'm writing a novel.

I know I've mentioned this many times before, but I thought I would elaborate. I've been working on the same novel for about three years now. Although I keep saying I want to finish the first draft, the truth is I've changed a main part of the novel and am re-writting almost all of it, so technically I'm on my second draft. This is also the second novel that I've started (though the first one hasn't been finished yet).

So what is it about? Well, I'm not going to say. A writer (I think J.K. Rowling) once mentioned that you shouldn't give away your story idea, and it kind of stuck with me, so I really only tell friends and people that I have to tell (like those in my workshop classes). Nothing personal. It's just that right now this story is like my baby and I want it to be protected.

But I can tell you that the two main characters are Henry Bell and Samuel Caden and that they live in what used to be New York City. Henry wants his life to remain exactly how it is. Samuel on the other hand is on the run; he wants his life to go back to how it was. One day Henry comes across Samuel and their lives are changed forever.

I like using Pinterest to collect inspiration for what I think Henry and Samuel would wear. Somehow it helps me envision them better. Plus, it's also fun!

Henry Bell

Henry Bell, 28, is a history teacher. He's quiet, kind, shy, empathetic, he's very neat, patient, stubborn, and wants his life to remain exactly how it is, with the possible exception of finding a nice girl to fall in love with. Every morning, he drinks a cup of hazelnut coffee while reading the newspaper.

Henry's style is classic and somewhat preppy (think English professor). To work, he likes to wear gray blazers, blue and white collared shirts, striped ties, sweaters, dark wash jeans, and sometimes nice shoes, though mostly he just wears beat up Converse. On the weekends, he still wears button ups, but sometimes worn in t-shirts.

In my mind, he looks most like the guy on the bottom left, but clean shaven.

Samuel Caden

Samuel Caden, 27, owns a small construction company with a friend. He's friendly, laid back, compassionate, loyal, likes to laugh and joke around, he's messy, angers easily, and wants his life to go back to how it was before he became a fugitive. Every morning, he hums the same tune (which annoys Henry to no end). He always wear a bracelet with a carved stone bear on it.

Samuel's style is rugged and casual. He wears plaid button up shirts, t-shirts, black hoodies, brown jackets, dark wash jeans, Converse, lace up workman boots, and baseball caps.

He looks most like actor Michael Rady on the bottom right.

What do you think?

Is your interest piqued? (I really hope so!)

If you're a writer, do you also gather inspiration?

P.S. -- If you have any questions about writing or me or anything,
I would love to hear them and get back to you!

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(Images via: Henry: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 & 6 // Samuel: 1, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6 & 7)

My Writing: History Story

In my Writing for the Culture class, our assignment each week is to write a poem, prose, play/screenplay or non-fiction piece based on a broad theme. Each week there's a new topic. This short story was based on the third week's theme -- history.  

 

Enjoy and thanks for reading!

 

♥♥♥

He was running, running up a hill. No one was around. Over the top of the hill, he could see an old war plane on the ground, one wing broken and smoke rising. He was too far away, but the smoke was everywhere. The air grew foggy. Dark. He choked. 

Wilson coughed himself awake. It was dim in his bedroom, but there was a faint smell of smoke. At first he thought it was a remnant of his dream, but the room was hazy. And it definitely wasn’t because he wasn’t wearing his glasses.

He jumped out of bed so fast he made himself dizzy. He grabbed his thick, green-framed bifocals, put on his slippers on out of habit, and ran downstairs to his shop.

There were benefits to living above his place of work – he didn’t have to drive, didn’t have to pay rent for two places, and he could go home for a bite to eat at any hour, even if it meant annoying his wife while she painted. He missed the smell of those paints.

He tripped down the steps in the dark. This was not one of those benefits. Besides the late nights and early mornings, the risk of fire meant both work and home would be devoured.

Wilson opened the door and immediately found it hard to breathe. He started to sweat, not because of the fire, but because his life’s work was burning away. His heart raced, his mouth felt dry, he was so shocked that he wasn’t sure he could move.

But if he didn’t he would lose everything. He couldn’t lose the shop when he had already lost his Lizzy. But at least she wasn’t there to see this.

The idea spurred him forward. Wilson covered his mouth and nose with his shirt and dove in. The antique shop was so dark and smoky that he had trouble figuring out what was what. His eyes started to water. He knew that since the front shop was filling with smoke and he couldn’t see any fire that it must be the stock room in the back that was burning. There was no saving those antiques.

He knocked into a table of folded up American flags, one that dated back to the Civil War. Next to that was the table of glassware and British teacups. The thick smoke had turned them black. Old brass pots and pans hung from the ceiling. A small canon lived in the corner. He passed the table of globes and history books. The sound of the pendulum clocks on the wall weren’t helping the situation; they kept reminding him that time was running out.

Finally, Wilson reached the counter. He couldn’t stop coughing. Through his teary eyes he could see the empty bullet casings he sold to kids and his coffee mug, still full from yesterday. He desperately wished he could take the 19^th century cash register, which had been a gift from his long-gone father, but it was too heavy. Instead he reached over to the wall and took down a painting of him and his beautiful wife. She had painted it from a picture that had been taken on a pier many years ago before she got sick.

He could let the whole shop go, he could let all these once-precious antiques melt away, but he would rather die than let this picture burn.

Before he turned to leave, he took off the head of a porcelain owl and scooped out Lizzy’s wedding and engagement rings. While in the hospital, she had told him to try and sell them after she died, but he never had the heart to actually do it. He placed them in his pajama pants pocket.

The window in the back of the stock room blew out. It was too loud, too close. His throat felt raw. The smoke and all the coughing made his lungs hurt. Holding the picture protectively, he sprinted around the corner, unlocked the door, and ran outside into the fresh, cool air. People who lived in the nearby residential streets were standing on the opposite sidewalk, cell phones in hand, robes wrapped tightly around their bodies. A man rushed over and helped him to the bus bench.

“Are you all right, sir? Was that your shop?” he asked.

“We’re”—cough, cough—“fine. I mean, I’m”—cough, cough—“fine,” Wilson responded. “Yes, it’s my shop.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Not soon after, the firefighters arrived. Wilson watched them rain down water onto his beloved little shop as he clung to his picture and couldn’t stop coughing. Since the fire was only in the back room and didn’t get a chance to reach the front or second floor, the blaze went out quickly. Or so the chief said. But most things would have to be thrown out, the walls would have to be repainted, he would have to restock, and the smell would take ages to disappear.

His wife would say, “Things end, things begin.” Maybe it was time he closed up shop and started something new. Lizzy had always wanted to see Niagara Falls. He would wear a rain poncho and get drenched for her. And he would imagine her laughing and, most of all, smiling.

 

 P.S -- I've got a lot to do, so I'll be taking the next two days off.

See ya on Monday with a fresh post!

 

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Story: Three Scenes in a Life

This is a very short story I wrote that is going to be critiqued in my fiction class tonight.

1.                  The new kid, Spencer, had moved in next door. Little Sammy was excited that he

would be able to play with someone his age, though he found it weird that he hadn’t seen the family move in and that his grandma hadn’t met his new friend’s parents.

All his information came directly from Spencer. He told Sammy that they had moved into the house in the middle of the night; that they had a big dog, though there was never any barking; that inside his home all the walls were black, but Spencer never invited him to come over and look. Spencer also said that the reason Sammy had never met his parents was because they worked at night and slept during the day.

Being a quiet kid, Sammy took in everything Spencer said, never doubting, never disbelieving.

After all, it was nice to make a friend after “the incident.”  

2.         Spencer was always the more outgoing one, telling Sammy, the other guys, and any girl that would listen all these stories of his trips around the world before moving here. He went on and on about how he had gone to see the Eiffel Tower, how he had floated in the Dead Sea, that he had once fed a camel in Saudi Arabia, how he had smoked with friends in Amsterdam, and that he was learning to fly a plane to go on more adventures.

Though Sammy knew Spencer had moved in at eight and could not possibly remember all that at such a young age, he never questioned his friend. Spencer’s stories sometimes overshadowed their relationship because all Spencer wanted to do was talk about his Indiana Jones-like adventures to girls, but Sammy, being a loyal friend, never complained.

It was nice and refreshing to finally be able to walk around school without the other guys calling him names, without the girls shying away from him, even if everyone still remembered what had happened to his parents when he was a child.  

3.         Sammy looked at his sickly orange bottle of pills, his name imprinted on the label around the middle. On the yellow paper his therapist had given him was something much more distressing – his diagnosis.

He had been going to his therapist since his junior year in college for stress, but only recently had she realized that there was something else entirely wrong with him. Sammy glanced at the sheet to see the capital letters of SPLIT PERSONALITY DISORDER.

He couldn’t believe that Spencer hadn’t been real. All those years, his friend had just been inside his head. And all those years ago, Spencer had manifested, according to his therapist, because he had seen his parents murdered.

Sammy stared into the mirror across the living room and could almost see Spencer in the reflection.

(Found via Flickr)