Coming to an End and a Beginning

Goodbye 2011!

The New Year is upon us.    

The year 2011 has signaled a new challenge for me -- writing.   My therapy.  My cleansing of the soul.  My creative outlet.   My goal is to make 2012 all about writing -- the craft, character and plot development, vocabulary building, different styles of narration, etc...   I hope to take a few classes this next year as well.

I have new short stories in the works.   As part of my new year's resolutions, I am planning to edit/revise/expand my previous short stories.

In regards to my book, I am almost done editing the second half.   The editing process feels more like writing than the initial process of getting the chapters and storyline written.

 Hello 2012!

General Thoughts

So, my book is finished in the sense of telling the story.  While I am editing the second half, I got two very eager volunteers to read the first half.  Only one has commented so far and I am anxious to hear what the other one has to say.

Writing has been a real experience for me.   As I keep chuggin' away on this blog, I do wonder "Is anyone out there reading this stuff?"   But, that doesn't seem to matter.   I am writing.  It has taken my life down a whole new path.  And it feels like a great one to be on.

I have several short story ideas in mind and have a few new ones started.   One of my New Year's resolutions is to go back and edit each of them.   My goal has been write and post it with little editing.  After re-reading the second half of my book, now I know I really need an editor.  I have gained much appreciation already for them and what they do.

Cheers!

The Piano Teacher -- Part Five

And now the final part of...

The Piano Teacher -- Part Five

"That is correct.  Now let's play it again..."  The nimble fingers of Sarah Hart glided over the ivories perfectly. 

"Sarah, that was excellent."   Frances praised her 10-year old student.  David and Angela sat quietly in the back of the room watching.

David whispered.  "Looks like this one will be spared the Mozart whack."  Angela agreed with a nod.

"That will be all for today.  Keep practicing the pieces that I gave you and I will see you next week."  Sarah gave Frances a hug and said goodbye.   Frances was bright and happy.

"Frances," called Angela.  She and David walked over to her.

"Good morning, Angela.  And you are...  Oh wait, you're David.  I meet you the other day."

"It's good to see you again, Ms. Fitzherld."

"Please call me Frances."   David was surprised at the completely different composure from their previous meeting.

"David wants to talk with you about your music.  He wants to record your playing and make it available to everyone."

Frances' eyes lite up with delight.  "Oh... that would be wonderful.   Will you be using Edison cylinders?  We have one at home."

"Well, no, we'll use something like a gramophone to record them."

"Oh... whatever.  I'm just excited about my music being enjoyed." 

 David and Angela both thanked her and left just as her next student, Johnny Watkins entered the room.

"As you can see, she is very different today," said Angela.

"Yes, I noticed that.   Well, I will be back in a few weeks with my recording devices and we begin."

David shook Angela's hand and they parted company.

The Piano Teacher -- Part Four

The Piano Teacher -- Part Four

"August 14th was the day Frances lost almost everything except for three things.   Frances' parents and younger brother died in an horrific house explosion and fire.   She was at a piano practice when it happened."  

"How awful.  To lose your family all at once."

"Movers had just left with their piano.  It was in need of minor repair before Frances' first east coast tour as an American protege.  She'd planned on using it on the tour.  The bust of Mozart was sitting on the front porch.  Apparently, her mother had taken it out there to clean it.   The bust served as an inspiration to Frances, so it would be traveling with her.  The story made many of the major newspapers."

David refilled his cup as well as Angela's.  He added more cream while she continued.

"So, Frances still has the piano and the bust, but the third thing that she kept... or gained maybe is a better term... wasn't visible at first.  It's only been recently... in the past 5 years... we have noticed that Frances' ability at the piano is still very strong... if not stronger.   She can sit and play music without sheet music.  And not just the classics but new songs as well.  Somehow she has become a living encyclopedia of music."

"Really.  From your notes, I understand she can play any piece of music composition."

"Yes.  She even can play songs that are on the radio right now.   She refuses to listen to one, but can play current hit songs of any genre.  Just the other day, I heard a new song on the radio.  I came in and she was playing it. I asked her how she new it.   Her response was 'It just came to me.'"

"Has someone being smuggling music in?"

"No.  We've watched and limited the staff that sees her."

"And what about the students?

"No, they aren't allowed to take anything in with them."

"Very strange..."

"And how about this delusion that she's killed her students?"

"As you read, it's all in her head.  No students have died.  She just imagines it.  We think it's a form of anger release.  Johnny Watkins left the other day after his lesson fit as a fiddle."

"So, in order to support her care, you have allowed her to provide music lessons to kids."

"Yes, parents pay big bucks and all are very satisfied with her teaching ability."

David scratched his head.  "Strange.  Very strange.  Have you ever thought of letting her... go out on her own?"

"Yes, in fact, we tried to release her, but no family member would take her.  They were afraid she really would kill a student.  Plus, she likes it here."

The Piano Teacher -- Part Three

The Piano Teacher -- Part Three

The next morning, Angela arrived a little late to work. She put her winter coat on the peg board near her office door. The weather man had promised a warmer day, but she wasn't sure that would happen.  Sitting down at her desk, she flipped the calendar to the next day. Tuesday, January 9th, 1937.

As she began to look over yesterday's notes, there was a knock on her office door.  She could see the glass window it was David.

"Come in." said Angela as she motioned with her hand.

"Good morning.  Cold isn't it?  I thought it was supposed to be warmer."

"That's what I thought.   Weathermen can only predict so much.  Did you get the chance to look over the file I gave you yesterday?"

"Yes, absolutely amazing information.  I think this has story major potential.  Imagine one of America's piano proteges here."

"Yes, we've taken very good care of her.   In fact, we've spent more time with her than any other."

"So how many of her students has she killed again?"

"Let's see. After yesterday's count, it comes to 17 all together."  Angela chuckled with a grin.

"Really.  That's a lot.  All the same way?  With her bust of Mozart?"

"Yes.  She won't use any of the others.   We gave her Beethoven and Liszt, but she says they don't have the same weight."

"I see.  She's very particular.  Well, if you're going to use a master of the piano, it might as well be Mozart."  David and Angela laughed over the witty comment.

"Frances is stuck on August 14, 1923.  It's been that day since she arrived here at the institution."  Angela sipped her coffee as she began to tell the tale.

"So what exactly happened that day?"  asked David as he stirred his own cup of coffee.

The Piano Teacher -- Part Two

The Piano Teacher -- Part Two

Angela never flinched as she scribbled her notes.   David glanced at her then over to Frances who smiled and nodded at him.

"May I ask a question?" said David to Angela.

"Sure, be my guest."

Turning to Frances, he said:  "Are you saying that you killed a man today?"

Frances, momentarily closing her eyes, shook her head.  She became fixated completely on David.  "No, I killed one of my students.   Johnny Watkins.  He's ten years old, you know.  I told him once... twice... and finally a third time...  Damn that boy... Just didn't listen...   No hitting the B flat...  Plain and simple...  The music clearly says C sharp..."

Looking stunned, David didn't know what to say. 

"So, Frances," said Angela.  "How many does that make this month?"

"I believe Johnny makes..." Frances rolled her eyes up counting in her head.  "That makes nine all together this month... No wait..."  She recounted.  "No... I'm sorry..." She smiled.  "Only eight..."

David's mouth hung open.   Angela remained stoic.  Frances seemed to enjoy the announcement of her achievement.

David's mouth dropped open. Frances enjoyed her achievement.

Already aware of David's shock, Angela remained stoic and quizzing Frances. 

"What's today?"

Frances snickered.  "Why that's a silly question...  It's August 14th.  I believe it is Friday."
   

"And the year?"

Frances snickered again.  "Why, 1923, of course."   She turned to David.   "I just turned 19 one month ago.  July 14th."

Angela finished a few notes.  "Thank you Frances.  David and I should check on the body."

"Oh yes, do." France fanned herself.   "In this warm weather, it'll start to smell.  Plus the blood will need to be mopped up."   Frances waved nodded as if to say goodbye as they left the room shutting the door behind them.

The Piano Teacher -- Part One

This week has been a whirlwind of writing.   I have completed two short stories and more on my book.  My short stories have very little editing other than spell check.  At some point, I am going re-read these and do some editing! 

This story has 5 parts. 

The Piano Teacher -- Part One

Frances Fitzherld perched perfectly in the chair, wringing her slender hands at the plain wooden table.  Beads of sweat rolled down her temples plastering hairs to her pale skin.   Her teary eyes darted from the two vacant chairs across the table to the door with a single window.  The nervous tension she emitted could have blown the door right off its hinges.   Her thoughts swirled like a tornado.  

I have to tell them...  I must confess...  I did it...  I killed him... I told him if he hit the wrong note one more time that was it...

Finally, a shadow appeared in the window cutting off the light.  Angela Harvey, stepped into the small room followed by a man in a grey pin-striped suit. Frances stood up.  Her thoughts flowed from inside her head out of her mouth into the air.

"I have to confess...  I must... I did it... I killed him... Just like I told him I would..." 

Immediately, Angela took command in a calming, yet stern, fashion.  "Please sit down, Frances.  We'll talk about that in a moment.  Right now, I'd like you to meet a friend of mine.  His name is David Templeton."

Frances, despite her intensity, returned to acting like a respectable lady.  Her hand wringing and her desperation dissipated as if Hyde had let Jekyll return in an instant.

David smiled at Frances.   "It's a pleasure to meet you. I've heard a lot about you, Ms. Fitzherld."

In a prim and proper manner, she replied in her New England accent.  "That's very nice.  Unfortunately, I cannot return the compliment since I have not heard about you."

"Most understandable."  David was gracious and charming.  She liked him.

Angela laid her notepad on the table.  While jotting the date, she asked:  "So Frances, what did you want to tell me?"

Remaining calm and collective, yet confident, Frances said:  "I killed Johnny Watkins this morning.  I struck him in the back of the head with my Mozart."  

David raised his eyebrows at Frances' statement remaining there through Angela's casual explanation to him.

"She's referring to her bust of the classical composer sitting on her upright piano."    

Frances turned to David.  "Yes, I told him if he hit the wrong note one more time I would hit with my Mozart.  And that's what he did and I whacked him good."

The Bearded Men’s Society – Part Two

The Bearded Men’s Society – Part Two

Finally, the silence was broken.

“What would happen if we all resigned?” said the Canadian. “We could do it. I don’t see why we couldn’t.”

“Ach du himmel! Ve could not resign,” said the German. “Ve have very important job. Millions rely on us. Zink about the global markets… Ze economics… Ze broken hearts…”

The other three just stared at the German. He raised his voice: “You must understand. Ze change would destroy ze whole world economy!”

The door flew open and in stepped Bob, the society’s attendant, followed by a sharp bitterly cold wind.

“Blast! Shut the bloody door.” Shouts came from the group. Bob slammed the door behind him.

“Gentlemen, the last two have arrived. They are getting changed in to more comfortable attire and should here shortly.” Bob walked around the room picking up empty bottles and straightening as he went. “Dinner will be ready shortly.”

The Russian perked up. “Dinner! Great! I almost forgot.” The group agreed dinner would be great.

Bob rolled his eyes and said under his breath: “As if any of you had forgotten.” Overloaded with bottles, he managed to open the opposite door and exited.

The men went back to drinking. Just as the warmth returned, the door flew open again letting in the same cold rush of air. Two men walked into the room.

“Blast it again! Shut zat damned door. We’re not Eskimos.”

The Canadian spoke up: “Finally! We’ve been waiting for you.”

The American and Italian had arrived with the latter speaking first: “Ciao, everyone. We have arrived.”

“La-dada. We were done hours ago. What’s your excuse?” The Russian got up and stood in front of the fireplace to warm his hands.

The American rolled his eyes. “We may have small territories to cover, but we have larger populations.”

The men turned to chatter of comparison and who has the most work cut out for them.

Bob entered and announced. “Dinner is served, gentlemen.” With that they all began to stir from their chairs. In the corner, the grandfather clock started to strike six. They all stopped and turned to look at it.

The American spoke: “Gentleman, the hour has arrived. Our job is done. May I propose a toast?” He had poured himself a glass of whiskey. “To another year of delivering presents and a job well done. I wish us in the Bearded Men’s Society another Merry Christmas. Until next year!”

The Bearded Men’s Society – Part One

Guess where I got the inspiration to write this one...  It's a two part story.


The Bearded Men’s Society – Part One

Four men sat around the large round table, all in their stocking feet with shirts untucked and looking very relaxed. Each drank their choice of liqueurs. They came from different countries. Their individual characteristics could been seen in their mannerism. Yet, they had one thing in common – beards. Each had a beard and each were different -- long, short, full, stubble.

“Ahhhhh… dis vodka really hits de spot,” said the Russian who had the longest beard in the group. His accent resounded from the bottom of his pot belly which hung over his belt with a plain square buckle.

“And I just can’t get enough of this wine,” raved the one with the British accent as he poured more from the bottle. “You know… these nights are getting longer. It’s so bloody difficult to satisfy everyone these days.”

The Canadian stroked his short white beard adding: “I know. I am so tired I just want to go somewhere warm and lie on a beach. You know it’s always winter in the Upper Yukon. And I am so tired of this damned beard... and the cold… and the snow!” He tugged on the end of his whiskers making a face of pain.

The last one just sat there looking at the other three. He lifted a medium-sized beer stein to his lips. After a long swig of beer, he banged the stein back down on the table. In his German accent, he spoke: “Zere is no satisfaction anymore. In fact, zat eez it… more… more… more. Especially those swinehunde in America… Zey just get so greedy.”

“Do dey have any idea of the vork we do?” said the Russian in a demanding voice. “Ve vork all year and vhat spasiba do ve get?”

The Brit added: “Perhaps if the buggers knew there were seven of us that actually do the work!"

Before taking another big swig from his stein, the German said: “Speaking of seven, vere eez zat Italian and zat American?”

“Probably finishing up their rounds,” said the Canadian. “The American has the largest population. And of course, Mario’s taking care of everyone not assigned to a region.”

“Thank god there isn’t a chap for China!" said the Brit. Could you imagine what that would be like? I would be afraid one of us would be reassigned to that area."

“Or even wurse… have it added to our own!” said the German.

“Yeah, not everyone needs us,” added the Canadian. “Some large areas of the world don’t need us. And I just have to say thank you god!”

The room fell quiet of conversation as they relaxed and drank. Now only the sound in the room was the crackling logs burning bright in the fireplace.

New York City!

There is nothing like being 10 feet aware from Alan Rickman!  I saw the most riveting play called Seminar while I was in New York City.  Absolutely riveting!  The play centers around a group of writers who enroll in a private seminar with Leonard (played by Rickman), who is a well-known writer who has fallen from grace.   Each students presents their writings to the group who in turn critics them.  Leonard is the most critical.  I almost saw it again.   It gave me lots to ponder about writing.  But overall, it was just RIVETING!

While in NYC, I wrote one short story in long-hand, so it will be a week before I get my scribblings into a word-format to post.   How about a piano teacher who kills her students for simply hitting a wrong note...

I also had time to ponder two multi-part questions:  

What is a writer and when does one become a writer?   When you write something?  Or when you get published?  Who decides if you are a good writer?  How do you know if you are a good or bad writer?   Is it based on your choice of words?  Sentence structure?  Ability to tell a good story?   Keep the reader's interest?

What is the role of an editor?   Are they allowed to take your work and rework so that it sounds better?  If so, based on whose opinion?   Theirs?   If they do that, does it matter whether you are a good writer or not and it's all idea based?

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 7

I will not be posting for the next several days while I take time to ponder, wonder, hither and yon...

And now the conclusion of...

The Tale of Oliver T. Horsephat -- Part 7

Oliver T. Horsephat and Mrs.Olive Treehousen parted company vowing to search their ancestral past for clues to the curse's origin.  Both spent many hours, days, and weeks exploring boxes, papers, journals, clippings, and letters searching for clues.  For Oliver, many boxes were kept in attic, dusty and unorganized.  It wasn't until the forth week of their search that Oliver T. Horsephat found himself standing on the doorstep of the Treehousen mansion, ringing the doorbell, with a small parcel in hand.

Shown to the front parlor by the house servant, he was joined by Mrs. Olive Treehousen.  At once, they both started talking about their discoveries.   Oliver, being polite, stopped and asked her to continue.   She told him of Horatio P. Treehousen's, her great-great grandfather, attempt to marry a young lady who he refers to as "sweet Virginia."  Olive read from an July 27th, 1872, entry from his red-rot-diseased journal where he writes of his sweet Virginia being taken from him.   No last name was given; however the next line provided information about paying a local witch and using her abilities.   Olive Treehousen rested assuredly that the curse began with her.

At that point, Oliver T. Horsephat excitedly opens his parcel to reveal a few letters and proceeded to unfold an July 28th, 1877, letter, from Oleander V. Horsephat, his great-great grandmother.  She speaks of the man she was to marry.  His name was Paul.  The next letter also mentions the same local witch and her curse abilities.  Olive sat stunned.  She informed Oliver that her great-great grandfather's middle name was Paul.  Oliver confirmed his great-great grandmother's middle name was Virginia. 

All at once, a hurried wind blew through every open window.   The journal and the letters both flew about the room.  Oliver T. Horsephat and Mrs. Olive Treehousen both squinted their eyes until the wind died as quickly as it arrived.  They agreed the wind was strange.   After gathering the letters and journal, they had no idea how to proceed and called it a day. 

The next morning, Oliver T. Horsephat brewed tea in the kitchen and had just sat down when the door bell rang.   Upon opening the door, he was surprised by the most angelic face he had ever seen.   He immediately felt his heart strings twinge.   She smiled back at him.

"Hello, are you Oliver T. Horsephat?  My name is Virginia Paulette Treehousen.  I've came to inform you that my great-aunt Mrs. Olive Treehousen peacefully passed away last night.   I stopped by this morning for a visit and she had left me a note to come and tell you personally.  I had no trouble finding you."    For no reason at all, she blurted out that she was 28 and single.   He invited her to tea.

One year later, their son, Oliver Paul Horsephat was born.  Curse-free.