Writers Of The Lost Arc: Perpetrating Pesky Prequels

 

I’ve been feeling a little bit guilty lately. Recently, I had a tiny bit of motivation to write from a friend of mine. It sometimes happens when I least expect it. This time it happened in the form of revisiting one of my two books I had written. When I least expect it, I get an idea for writing whether I like it or not. Why feel guilty though? Well, I’ve already written both stories to where I wanted them. Now, I’m sort of regurgitating a past nobody will ever know about for my characters or tiny snippets of chopped out “scenes.” I should stop  procrastinating and get to writing my third book. That one is taking me some time because I’m not fully enamored to the story yet. Maybe that’s why I keep coming up with these mindless, frivolous, meanderings of useless tripe. Um, sounds like the thought which goes into prequels. It’s truly insane and a self-serving purpose to stay in a comfort zone, or in the movie world, for monetary gain through oodles of merchandizing.

Maybe it’s just a time killer, but for me, it’s not so much about the narrative as it is a way for me to stay in shape. That’s why these are parts, not an entire back story. Sort of like when you need to sharpen a dull knife for that culinary delight. The mind works in a very similar way. It stays sharp and focused for that next proverbial culinary delight, in this case a new story. I personally love to write dialogue and sometimes awkward situations. I don’t like my characters to be in stagnant surroundings or atmosphere. Some folks like to write love scenes for the upteenth time. I can’t do that without a reason. I just don’t get off on it. I like the innocent, every day chatter, but mix it up with something on-topic for my characters to talk about. In my case and the two books I wrote, it’s got to be about music in one way or another. What shocks me in the end is no longer a mindless, frivolous, meandering of useless tripe, but a true blue, honest to goodness interesting bit of dialogue. One that shows characters in thought, expressing their inhibitions, giving insight to their fears, frustrations, letting go with humor, allowing themselves to bare all. When I get that close to my characters, it almost feels voyeuristic in a sense. I don’t “talk” with them, but I’m watching them do everything. It’s a strange feeling I get because it seems so normal. The dialogue doesn’t feel forced, neither do their reactions. It’s something effortless, perhaps due to the comfort of knowing who my characters are and I’m simply stretching their stories out into near fan-fiction territory. (That’s another whole subject in itself.)

I need to learn that there is nothing shameful about writing odd material which doesn’t fit anywhere and that nobody will ever read it. Here’s the way I see it, it’s kind of like standing naked in front of your mirror. Nobody knows you’re doing it (unless you document it). Others probably do it, and there’s nothing shameful about the human body. We all have one, everything from skin, bones, muscle, organs. Writing has it’s own body. There’s thought, paper, pencil/pen, (or computer and keys). It’s all a matter of what one thinks of it. To me, it’s all about process and the idea I have the ability to create something out of thin air. I can get self-conscious all I want about what I write, but not everybody can do it. That’s the part I haven’t yet been able to concede to.

 

Coincidence: The Collision of Direction

 

I don’t know exactly how many people this has happened to, but for me it’s a strange phenomena that goes with writing sometimes. A curious part of being an author is going through a sort of Twilight Zone. I can hear Rod Serling giving some prophetic prose about how things are meant to happen. I had a chat with another writer, Jonnie. She told me, “There are no such thing as coincidences.” I wished I could have been a little more vocal about the subject, but I began to think, maybe she was right. Maybe it’s simply fate which leads to things that run parallel to our own thoughts. Then, it happened again only a week later. That old feeling of my thoughts getting tangled with the mysterious fate of having art imitate life. I write fiction, and I’m willing to resign myself to the idea that some things simply happen where I’ve touched on a part of my story that will run right into somebody’s real life experiences. I can understand it happening once. OK. Maybe twice, but to keep on happening? It kept and keeps (present tense) happening with my first novel Marlboro Blues. Maybe it’s a first book occurrence? A reminder from a higher power saying, “Yes. You ARE a writer! You will NOT be meant to forget it!” Sometimes though, it feels like a curse as opposed to a blessing.

Take for instance, when I was first writing this story. I was trying to figure out the name of my lead female character. I thought “Evelyn” was a really nice name. Then, I was reading about the inspiration of who I based her off of. I had no idea in reality it was her middle name! How did that happen? I could have had it way deep in my subconscious files from several years prior, underneath all those other ones. Stranger things have happened. I could live with the parallel though process. Oh, but wait. There was that search for who would be another lead character, a protagonist. I had a large bunch of magazines. I didn’t even read the articles on who I was going to base this guy off of. I knew exactly the personality I was looking for and his treatment of Evelyn. I thought he looked the part. When I finally decided to read an interview about him, I was in for the shock of my life. Not only did he look the part, he acted like it too! He had a nearly parallel neanderthal way of viewing women as my character. Whoa! What do I do with that twist of fate? That’s two things which happened. I would listen to the radio (preferably iTunes, because the artists I like, they don’t play on regular radio). Because many of my characters for this particular story were very much influenced by musicians, what do I hear on these odd stations? Yep. You guessed it. It happens to be that one musician I based a character off of. Oh great. With anguish, I stop writing and question, “Why me? Why do these things keep happening to me?” I mull it over in my mind. There is a slight possibility they’ll play something different on internet radio, but when does anybody ever play them? So, I’m left playing psychologist, picking apart why fate has been bestowed upon me and my little story. By the time I finished writing the story nine months later, I figured that was it. No more coincidences, twists of fate, parallel though, whatever you want to label it as.

Nine years later, I reread my story figuring I could make it better. This is after I had already released the first edition which I grew to despise. I began to feel something for the story again and thought, there was certainly a story in all of it underneath the fluffy writing I subjected myself to. Actually, a very good story. A little cleaning up and I could be happy with it finally. I had some inspiration from a few people and got the opinions of others who thought the story was good in the first place. I began reworking on things. Tossing out some, cringing at other written parts, fusing together new parts meticulously. All those things a writer goes through. What I didn’t know, dummy me was the curse would follow me still. I turned on iTunes. I’ll be damned. They were on. One of their songs. Here we go again! Checking out an interview with one of my muses/inspirations, I discovered that he was the only person who referred to something a very specific way. I had put the specified referral in my story, not knowing this. I simply thought it was interesting. A little back alley knowledge. A song I had referenced turned out to be one of my favorite inspirations. I thought, “Oh great. I’m going to be labeled as something after all this. Somebody’s going to recognize this, and I’ll be dead meat.” Further along in my rewrite I’d find more of the parallel though process in a sentence. A paragraph. An emotion. An action. All over again. This time though, I was going to jump through it, thumb my nose and dare any more twists of fate. Bring it on!

Fast-forward to a year later, I’m very happy with the revised second edition of Marlboro Blues. I can safely shut the door on this project and move on. Until…just yesterday. All of my pride and Twilight Zone vortex which I thought was closed off for good, decides to come back and bite me. Bite me hard. I’m reading on the internet about someone. Amusing picture that makes me smile. Then I look down at the caption. Right then, it’s “Holy sh**.” I can’t believe it. I don’t want to believe it. It’s a nearly perfect parallel thought process collision of fact meets fiction. One of the inspiration for my characters had this actually happen to him. Although, he is not the recipient of the action, he’s in the scene. The fact hits me even harder. The caption reads 1975. The year I was born. At this point my jaw is on the last setting of its hinge, it can’t drop any further down. I don’t know whether to laugh or cry. I’m in shock and wonder how should I handle a cease and desist order which will surely come my way. How was I to know ten years after writing the first edition, that something like this would be revealed? I only thought of the part while I was cleaning the bathroom of an office. You know how your mind kind of wanders. You don’t have a piece of paper, but you think, “Hey, I’m gonna add that to my story. It adds humor, cuteness, an exploitation of awkwardness to one character while introducing another, and it makes sense!” I wasn’t thinking, “I wonder how close to reality I can truly get.”

Luckily, my second novel, The Freedom To Rock has slipped through the strange hands of fate or collision of parallel thought process. One thing is for certain, I’ve learned that perhaps Jonnie was right about there being no such thing as coincidences. Perhaps it’s more about direction than fate. These signs I’ve gone through. Maybe it’s like road signs when you think you’re lost. A way to say, you’re on the right path. Those collisions are actually crossroads, the four-way stop to go north, south, east, or west. Twists of fate that lead to the next intersection of uncertainty. I can pass by that lit up construction sign that gives directions. I’ll turn and look at it. What’s written on it says, “YOU’VE GOT IT NOW.”

 

Words of Wisdom (unknown)

“Main Characters: You do everything you can to raise them right, and as soon as they hit the page they do any damn thing they please.”

Words of Wisdom (Ernest Hemingway)

“A novel should create living people – people, not characters.”

Words Of Wisdom (Eugene Ionesco)

“A writer never has a vacation. For a writer, life consists of either writing or thinking about writing.”

I Idolize You: Musical Essence Of Building Characters

 

This is a confession. When I like something, er, someone, I’ll take them. It’s my job as an author to have well rounded characters. It so happens that along with writing music fiction that a music idol, or two…or three…or eighteen will seep into a story I’ve written. I won’t say who exactly. That’s for me to write, and for you to find out. Such is the case in how I wrote Marlboro Blues. That was my first novel. Well, it’s about music and I needed music related characters. I did use some actors. (counts on fingers) Four of them to be exact. One totally made up character. The rest were all inspired by musicians.

Now why in pray tell would I use musicians as inspiration? Here it goes. Actors pretend to be somebody else, they immerse themselves in a world which is not their own. In creating a character from an actor, you have to go through every film (including the torturous turkey) just to get a smidgen of who they really are. Try and pinpoint the similarities they bring to each role. Sometimes their interviews are better, but I tend to find many of the actors dull. All of the attraction is in their acting or the character they play. Musicians on the other hand, don’t pretend. They usually write songs from the heart. There’s nothing to hide behind. They are fully exposed (so to speak) and share their music, their art, their words and most of all, feelings with the world. An interview with them can be incredibly revealing, so can the lyrics they write. They can try to lie about certain subjects, but the truth is in their albums. I find musicians to be extremely fascinating. Not in a stereotypical rock star quality, but in human value. It’s in their character of where they’ve been, the past they had, what they have seen, and the things they can tell. I set the story in ’87 because by then, many people had survived the turbulent ’60s and excessive ’70s. By the late ’80s, these people were veterans of life, somewhere in their 40s. By then, one would hope to gain a little more maturity. Plus, they aged like fine wine.

I wanted to write about a singer who had survived her tumultuous past. With that would have to be a cast of characters which takes us from London to New York. Like her, they too have grown a little bit. The sarcastic Scottish bartender. The willing friend who lends an ear and advice. The willing friend’s husband who is nobody’s fool. The talented although iron and brick guarded music producer. Another producer who is doubly talented in both music and amusement. A third producer who provides comfort. A producer’s wife who shares a past of regret and redemption. The engineer’s suspicious wife. A poet who exudes cool cruelty. A salesman/fan who accepts the singer for who she is and the music she made in the past. A younger singer who has a sugary sunny disposition. A bass player who doesn’t mince words. Factory workers who push their luck. Sound guys, record store operators, airport personnel, various other singers. All were inspired by musicians, and/or pertaining to music in one way or another. They fit. When I was writing the story, I felt like I was shopping for characters. “I’ll take this one. I’ll take that one. Oh, that one would fit perfectly.” I just liked all of these people for their looks, attitude, style, and outward honesty of who they are or were. God willing, if I were to get stuck with a character, I could easily punch in the name of their matching inspiration on YouTube and watch one of their interviews to see if I could get a better grasp on them. If there’s one thing I’m a total stickler in making a character of any kind is, can I see them saying that? I never want to make a character that’s so far out of bounds to who they are from. I’m a cheater. I need a blueprint sometimes. I admit it. For Marlboro Blues being my first ever novel, I needed all the help I could get, and I truly love writing. I’ve seen other people who have claimed to be inspired by somebody they idolized, but when reading their story, I just couldn’t see it. Knowing who they fashioned a character after, to me fell flat. There is no right or wrong way in how to develop a character. This is only me and how my mind works. Maybe I’m a little too much of a realist and I need an exact match. There are other times I’ve seen stories get judged on lack of character. I am determined to never get stuck in that rut. Perhaps that exactness helped me finish my story in about nine months!

Dick Clark had the immortal words of “Music is the soundtrack of our lives.”

Can’t we say, “Music can also be included in the stories we read?”

Act of paper dolls: Keeping It Real

 

OK. So, I’ve got two books out.

“Ooh! With all these hot guys you’ve written about, you get to put yourself in these stories!”

NO.

People figure they know the writer has included themselves in a book. Some authors like to live out their fantasies through the stories they write. It happens quite often with that little genre of make-believe we call fan fiction. Only, that follows in the pattern of somebody else’s characters. When you come up with your own stories and characters, anything goes. This includes indulging in the act of pretending or role playing in the story, living the life of the character. Somebody once said they liked my first story, but my characters were too vivid. They informed me that some readers like to put themselves in the place of a main character. I said, “Oh, you mean like switching stuff on paper dolls?” Thus, I thought of it as the paper doll effect. I know it’s fiction I like to write, but I do like to keep it on a realistic level. Although, some people might say, “So what? It’s your story.” Yes. It is. I’m not a narcissist, I don’t need me in any of my stories. What you get are my beliefs interpreted through my characters, but not me or who I am or what I look like in them. Aren’t my words enough on paper?

I need to explain why it wouldn’t work for either of my stories. They are time specific, from the past. Marlboro Blues takes place in 1987. I was eleven for nearly seven months, and twelve the rest of the year. It wouldn’t make any sense to stick in a twelve year-old anywhere in the story. No way would it work as me being a main character. Can you say, jailbait? If that doesn’t work, then how about the next story? The Freedom To Rock. No. I wasn’t even born yet in 1966 (when the story first takes place.) “Aw, but you could be Tina! I can see you as her!” No. It wouldn’t work. I couldn’t see myself as her. I might share some of her same thoughts, but that can be said for any or all of my characters. I created them. I feel that’s enough.

Hey, but if the reader wants to kick out a character and pretend to be them, then be my guest. This is just for those who might say, “You lucky dog! You get to be (insert character) in the story!” Nope! Don’t want it. Don’t need it.

Forsake Thy Follicle Fallacy!

Stop, OK. Just stop. Put the razor down now. There is much to much of this going on. Can we just stop kicking hair to the curb? I’m looking at you Mr. Perfect Body on the cover of that romance novel. Yes, you with the six pack that looks like it’s lumpier and smoother than a Styrofoam egg bottoms carton! That goes for you Fabio worshippers!

I recently came across a review for a book. The big gripe? The reader was unhappy with the blaring character faux pas. No hair. The character in the book was a fuzzy chest haired Paul Bunyan-outdoorsy type guy who wore flannel, blue jeans, and work boots. The cover? The torso of what looked to be a 20 year-old hairless model fit for Abercrombie & Fitch advertisements. The reader alleged this issue got in the way of her vision of the character. Shame.

It shocks and saddens me how women choose to see hair as a nuisance or a male body has to be defined as being smooth as a baby’s bottom with abs that stick out like mutants, pectoral muscles which look like they were inflated with an air pump, and arm veins looking more ominous than images of lightening strikes. What is with this hatred of hair? Maybe it’s just me. I was born in the ’70s and grew up in the ’80s. I was one of those kids who appreciated Tom Selleck’s fuzzy carpet of a chest on Magnum P.I. There’s countless other male specimens who passed my eyes feasting on their furry or partly furry bodies. Do you really think I was a gal who dug Don Johnson in Miami Vice? No. Philip Michael Thomas in those nice half done shirts did it for me. I am the type who, when getting the past issue of a ’70s magazine would check out the ads, say something like Playboy (not too often in my case). Yes. The interviews are incredible. So are the ads. Those nice beverage ones, cigarette, fashion, cologne, you name it. A favorite of mine are rock stars (no surprise). These would include many guys who could rock the fuzz, shirtless, half unbuttoned, all the way open, with leather jackets, velvet jackets, jeans, wearing just a robe, shorts. I’m not too discriminating in taste. That’s not to say I like a man thoroughly covered in hair, or back hair. Abs? No. Never cared much for those. That little fuzzy belly? Mmmmm! Just a nice slender body with hair would do for me.

              Mr. Selleck and his fine attributes to P.I. work. Ladies eyes all over him and that’s no crime!

Far too many times I’ve read in romance novels (not that I look at too many) how there’s this fascination in writing genital related musings in love scenes. I personally don’t like to go that far. What about the chest? No love? That’s where his heartbeat is. Shouldn’t that count for something?

I think manscaping is a true evil. It’s a crime against all man-kind. Why wax that hot body? Is he going to be the next Gerber baby? Metrosexual. Ughh. Don’t. Don’t go there. The Merriam-Webster Dictionary defines it as, fastidious grooming, among other things. That’s an obsession to be as hairless as possible and shaping eyebrows without a single hair out of place. Hey, I hear artist, Frida Kahlo laughing beyond the grave. She wasn’t afraid to rock the unibrow in all of her paintings. Rebel!

Do you really think the reason Sean Connery claims THE true James Bond title is because he was debonair? His Scottish accent? The way he used gadgetry? How he wore a tux? How he romanced women? No!! It’s because he was a manly man. A virile specimen sporting a cornucopia of chesty follicle pride. Now, can you imagine somebody having a character that resembled Mr. Connery in his prime, but then showing the cover of a baby-bottom soft, wax and lacquered in oil fellow with beaming pecs and washboard abs (On a side note, I still don’t get how they associate a washboard to human male abs. I can only think of the underbelly of snakes, male or female resembling this texture.)

                Yesssh! James “Fuzzy” Bond to you. Connery and his fluffy tuxedo.

Don’t you dare tell me the manscaping is a ritual of gay men. Anybody remember George Michael. When he came out of the closet, he still had his body fur intact. How about bi-sexual indian-english sex god, Freddie Mercury. He of Queen, blessed with an operatic voice, epic presence at Wembley Stadium, beautiful dark eyes, charming overbite, and sporting a vast spread of dark haired body goodness. That argument is null and void.

          The only thing Freddie didn’t have to come out of a closet for was a shirt!

Another thing, and yes, you were probably waiting for me to say something about writing since this is a writing blog. Besides baby soft book covers, reviewers, especially male ones seem to have a problem with men who have hair. Maybe it’s folicle envy. These pelt pushers having something the reviewers were not blessed with. So, what do they say? “He’s sporting more chest hair than Austin Powers.” Duh! Obviously, this non-blessed hairless cretin can’t seem to understand that the guy he was picking on was naturally born that way. Austin Powers is about making fun of people in the ’60s and spy films. A made up character. For shame if it was directed towards Mr. Connery and his dark angora physique. The actor who played Austin, Mike Myers, is hairless like a naked mole. End of story. End of rant.

A fine blessed fellow of fur. He could be found within the pages of Playboy. Don’t let the lighting fool you. Ah, the’70! Glory thy be!

Let’s talk about the other stereotypes. . I can do without the chains, large gaudy gold or silver medallions, and definitely NO tattoos. It gets in the way. You remember that guy with the nice mermaid tattoo. She once used to look pretty, then the hair was choking her. Hair all over the place. Out of her mouth, fins, gils, body. Drowned in hair. Poor pretty mermaid. She didn’t have a chance. The war of hair and tattoos should not be an issue. It’s one or the other, never both.

Arm hair is another thing. Hello, Paul McCartney? Bruce Springsteen? Two guys of the furry limbs. Don’t touch it…with a razor that is (petting may be permitted).

A huge pet peeve of mine is the constant need to call a mustache a pornstache. What are you, a five years old watching Boogie Nights as your sex education? I won’t even question people’s parenting skills, because I’m not a psychologist. It’s a mustache. Plain and simple. Above the lip hair. Yet beards get lots of love. Like the chest hair, some guys can look good with mustaches and others can’t.

Saving the best for the last. Here in our literary world of Shakespearian prose and Steinbeck imagery, we have our sexy beast. I give you…Mark Twain!! Hirsuted hottie!

So, now that you know my feelings on the fuzz, don’t be overly surprised if a character in any of my stories rocks the fur. You will know. That’s a guarantee.

Happy trails to you!

Judging A Book By Its Gender: Stop Calling Me “Chick Lit!”

How many times must this happen? I was asked by a book store to pass along my bio and synopsis of my story, Marlboro Blues for the media. I must have e-mailed about two dozen newspapers and TV stations. What did I get for it? Labeled. I need to explain that the reason I use my initials for my books is to be taken seriously. You don’t need to know the gender of an author to enjoy a good story. Well, not long after the book shop event, I took a look on-line and Googled myself. Come on, you all have done it too! It’s not a narcissistic thing. It’s a curiosity factor. In my case, I was looking up my short formatted synopsis because I was going to need it again and it sounded good. What do I come across, but one of my media letters to a newspaper. They modified it. What did they use as a genre?

Chick lit.

Really. I know for certain I never and would never be caught dead writing “Chick Lit” as a category in my PR. You know, most of us self-published indie authors don’t have our own agents. Why couldn’t have this publication written the category what it was…fiction? If you really want to get picky and need a sub category then (begrudgingly so) call it romance? For some other idiotic media outlets, they decided that T.L. was a he. You know, because if it doesn’t exactly sound like a romance novel then obviously a man wrote it.

I’ve told specific people about what I’ve written. For me, it’s music related fiction. No big deal. For some guys though, it gets dismissed. “Oh, you mean Chick Lit!” I feel like a furnace with a raging fire contained in it. I want to say some of the most harsh things about their gender.

Let’s talk about that other gender for a moment. Do male writer’s get a similar name bestowed upon them for what they write? Are they stereotypical in genre that a woman can pick up a book, poo-poo it and say, “Pfft! Dick lit!” Are we going to start measuring a man’s work in millimeters? How would they like it? Books about sports, mechanics, automobiles, tools, plumbing, occupational hazards are vastly written by men.

Where does it stop? Do we call a book by a lesbian, “dyke lit?” How about someone who is transgender, “trans lit?” Let’s break it down not only to gender/orientation. How about ability to write. “Smart lit?” “Dumb lit?” Somebody who has an unfortunate handicap, “handi lit?” I do know some dyslexic authors who are very capable of telling a great story. How about an egotistical slob, “pig lit?”

The answer to all of these insulting stereotypical names is, NO. It is just literature. Chick lit is truly insulting. It pigeonholes women writers to the point a reader will want to avoid a book. I know I don’t write like Candace Bushnell’s novel, Sex and the City. Is that what it comes down to? When one person of a specific gender becomes famous, everybody else is seen as writing the same? I’ll be honest with you. I’ve written far more male characters in my stories than female. The two books I have released are music related fiction. Just because there are elements of relationships doesn’t mean it’s all romance. There is far more about music than anything. I think characters and people in general contain a little more substance than one subject in their lives. Some folks though believe it doesn’t matter. All girls write about is gooey gossip, painting their nails, talking about their biological clocks, what their kids did or whether they want any, how to lose weight, obsessing over guys, blah, blah, blah.

Famed author, Sydney Sheldon always featured a strong female character in his stories. Does that make him an author of “chick lit?” Analyzing the likes of Ann Rice and her passion for writing gothic themed books, should she have stuck with her birth name of Howard Allen? Would that be odd in calling her “chick lit?” I wonder if any of the 99 rejections J.K. Rowling got before she became successful, was she dismissed as writing “chick lit?”

In the end, I don’t care about gender, orientation, political affiliation, lifestyle, religion, health discrepancy, race, or even if you’re an alien… (I’m told they walk among us. Hey! Maybe they can write a good story!)

There now. I’m taking off my boxing gloves.

Gray matter: the not so perfect character

Such as Nabokov so eloquently stated, “The writer’s job is to get the main character up a tree, and then once they are there, throw rocks at them.” Well, I’ve got a bit of one-upmanship on Mr. Nabokov. Try this one out. I like to be a little more sadistic with my characters. Can’t make things too easy on them. Chase a character up a tree, throw rocks, pour gasoline around the base, light a match. Then see what your character can do before the fire department sends over a rescue helicopter. Yep. That’s the way I like it!

Okay, but after this hyperbole of epic proportions, we have what is known as a “gray character.” It is defined as a character who is neither good or bad. I can’t exactly call my own main characters “gray,” but they have some big flaws. I want to go over two of them. Two guys I created, Jaime Weston of Marlboro Blues, and Jerome Dagmar of The Freedom To Rock. In no way is this meant to be a blueprint in how to create characters. Do whatever you want with yours. I just like to make mine frustrating…frustratingly maddening at times. They are both male characters who have a strong presence, good looks, charm, talent, and you might think everything goes right for them. Sometimes circumstances create a state of upheaval and confusion.

Not so.

I created Jaime as a very complex guy. One of his buddy’s says later in the story, “You’re more guarded than the Berlin Wall, my friend.” I don’t know if that’s how I meant for him to come out, but that’s the result. Jaime though is in a quandary over life itself. He’s going through some big changes, and sometimes doesn’t handle them too well. He’s old enough to know better (in his mid-forties), but when things happen, it doesn’t matter the age a person is, because emotions can get in the way. Due to the circumstances of newness he’s put in, he treats it like a sixteen or twenty year-old rather than the dignity or sophistication of a forty-something. This creates a frustration in the reader of “Am I really supposed to root for this guy?” Think of it this way, nobody in real life is perfect. If we didn’t have flaws, there would be no distinction, nothing memorable to character traits. As Jaime has to figure things out on his own, he does get some help from others in advice, but nobody is going to change someone if they can’t see things for themselves. A character should be able to turn hot and cold whenever the mood arises. Not only should conflict happen within a story line, but also the characters themselves. I found Jaime to be quite interesting to write. I let his journey of self-discovery and overall personality dictate his outcome. One can only beat themselves up for so long over choices of either not acting on their emotions, or saying the wrong thing. That’s the inner turmoil. Jaime does plenty of it. He can be extremely charming, very wicked, shy, crude, serious, engaging, passionate both personally and professionally, annoyed, pissed off, puzzled, patient, gracious, warm, etc. You get the idea.

On the other side of the spectrum we have Jerome Dagmar. I think… No, I know he’s far more frustrating of a character than Jaime Weston. The reader might like him in some ways, but others they’d want to slap him. In all seriousness, Jerome is one very spoiled brat. I’m sorry to break it to people, but he is. I loved writing him for that exact reason. He’s unlike anything I’ve ever written in any form. Jer, as many call him, has temper tantrums of a ten year-old. He is a guy who went to college, but quits. He’s never had to work for anybody. His Norwegian father, Kare is a bank investor and his mom is a doctor of Kenyan-India descent. So, he’s got money. He later discovers like everybody else, he’s got problems. He’s a big time dreamer, but with that goes some big time let-downs and he doesn’t handle those well at all. Jer has some substance abuse issues, the story being set in the late ’60s with rampant drug use and all. His friend/business partner, Brendan hasn’t had such an easy life (Vietnam veteran drafted, Caucasian, middle class, disowned by his family, lots of tragedy). He can’t understand why Jer has these problems. Through it all though, Jerome sometimes keeps things to himself to fester. This holds very true in his personal life, which he unfortunately passes along his philosophies on relationships to others.) His company is successful, but not enough in his eyes. He tells Leslie at a Christmas party in the mid-’70s about what he wants. “Acceptance.” His frustration in not being able to schmooze with industry bigwigs bothers him greatly. Who doesn’t want to show off to others? It fires up competition. To Jerome though, it makes him throw things in the office. He doesn’t get why they don’t like him, and that the bands he has love him. He runs the gamut of emotions, too many to mention. Jerome sometimes uses his multiracial upbringing to gain sympathy, but it never works. Sometimes, you just want to tell him, “Shut up, you crybaby!” There is a big turn of events that happens in the middle of the story. It’s other characters who judge him where things change in emotion. What was I saying about flaws and not being memorable? That is huge to Jerome’s character and story. It was a very different and challenging way for me to write about him. He’s gray in a sense of, “I don’t know if I can learn to like him.” In the end though, you will have a feeling about him. I can’t say what it is as it’s up to the reader in their perspective or what they walk away with. It’s akin to the feeling after leaving a movie theater. You’re busy soaking up every detail of that 90 – 120 minutes or longer film you just saw.

What is it about people that creates a strong emotion? Especially one we have never met? Maybe it’s similar to somebody you have met. Maybe their character or personality traits remind you of a person who does exist in real life. Somebody who makes you think. Somebody’s circumstances you can see happening for real. Sometimes it can come from a person in your life that has passed away and you miss all of those quirks about them, the ones where they ran the gamut of emotions, those not always pretty.

We all have gray in us. The complexities of Jaime, and the temper tantrums of Jerome. It’s just the way we’re built. Books are no different. Words strike us just like personalities. Keep in mind that some characters don’t like being stuck up in that tree. It’s getting a little hot up there with the flames licking at their heels that were set and they don’t particularly care for the cramped room of of two-person helicopter. It’s not exactly roomy and there is no first class amenities they might be used to. Plus, it’s that height thing. They’ll be somewhat cranky, but don’t worry. Eventually, when they cool off, they’ll be thankful that you let them live for another story.