Blogger Knowledge: Blogging Your Novel Part One

Intriguing idea.

"Some say the hardest part about writing your novel is just getting started, others say sticking with it is what breaks them."

I know how I approach writing, and neither of the above are problems for me. I have a very long story I've been writing since 1992. Why it's still not done is a long story in its own right, but suffice it to say: I haven't abandoned it. In fact, it's getting to be that time again when I pick it back up and write another 200 (or so) pages. I haven't shared it on this blog mostly because it is so long. It's a first novel, and it still has problems I am loath to fix. (Think ankle bone connected to leg bone type of problem.) But I like the characters, even if my readers won't, and there are many aspects to the story that I think are important. I want to finish it (all 600,000+ words), then see. I have told people that it isn't something I think can be published as a first novel.

Whatever. Doing it is the important thing. I've learned a lot about myself, too, which has also been worthwhile.

This sentence no verb.: Writing Advice Articles

Just gleaned this from This sentence no verb. The article Writing Advice Articles pointed me to a web site containing a series of articles written by Caro Clarke, providing writing advice for all us "novice" writers. (I include myself, of course!) I haven't read all of the articles, yet, but just the first few paragraphs of the first article was enough to convince me to post the link.

This Sentence No Verb

I have been using some of the useful links provided by the kind soul at This Sentence No Verb. One site that I've joined is Critique Circle. In particular, they have a nifty character worksheet. They seem to want money, too, but then, don't we all?

Once I have recovered physically (from the flu), and can think rationally once more (as if!) I will be posting some revised/rewritten content. Can't happen soon enough for me! (The thinking rationally part, that this.)

Stay tuned, if you dare.

... Reagan Wilcox, post #4

For those who might want to catch up, read the first 3 posts first by following the links under "Links to Content" on the right.

This is a not-quite-rough draft. That is to say: the 'ink' isn't quite dry on it, yet. I do plan to edit the previous posts to fix things, but I'd rather get something new out (and so therefore infinitely more exciting) before I tend to the editing tasks at hand.

Chapter 3: House of Cards

1

Saturday evening there was a phone call. Leah was in the bedroom getting dressed for their usual weekly 'date', and answered the bedroom extension before Reagan had a chance to pick it up.

It was a woman's voice: "Hi." Leah didn't recognize it. "Is Reagan there?"

Leah was immediately worried, but almost as quickly she scolded herself for being so paranoid. Voice wavering slightly (which dismayed her) she asked: "May I ask who's calling?"

"Yes. Tell him it's Barbara Hutchinson from Grainger Industries." There was a pause, during which Leah tried to connect the dots. "In Cleveland," the woman said after a few seconds of uncomfortable silence.

Oh, that made sense. Leah then felt rather foolish (and relieved) since it was obvious that Grainger was the company where Reagan was consulting. It was where he went every Monday through Friday. She should have known that. Where's my brain? She asked herself. "Oh, OK! Just a moment, I'll get him."

2

Reagan took the call downstairs. When she was sure he was on the line, Leah hung up in the bedroom and tried to go back to getting dressed. But of course she was curious as to why anyone from the company in Cleveland would be calling—here—on a weekend. That she could remember, he'd never been called at home, before.

3

"Hi," said Barbara once Reagan had said 'hello.' She didn't identify herself.

He was surprised, but he knew who it was. "Barb," he said, a half question, and waited for a reply. When one didn't immediately come he filled the void. "What's up?"

"Can you talk?"

It seemed rhetorical. He was talking. "Sure, Barb." He repeated, "What's up?"

She cleared her throat. He heard a TV in the background, and sounds like dishes clinking. It was around dinnertime, so … she must be at home. That made sense, he reasoned, she was married. She had two kids. "I'm calling you," she said, "because I wanted you to have a heads up."

A heads up? "About what?"

She cleared her throat again. "Are you sure you're able to talk?"

"Sure, I'm sure," he said. "What do I need a heads up about?" Now he was worried. This was intrigue, what with all the 'are you sure you can talk' bullshit. And coupled with her calling on a Saturday night … well, he immediately reached the conclusion that it couldn't be good.

"They found out about us," was all she said.

So, it wasn't good. "Who?" was all he said.

"Fisher. And Roberts."

Fisher was the division vice president at Grainger, and Roberts was Fisher's boss. Essentially, they were the two guys who'd hired Reagan. Barbara was the director of the department, and Reagan's closest contact in the company. Very close, as it happened.

"When did they find out?" he asked, since he was mentally doing the math since he'd left their offices on Friday. It had been more than 24 hours. Why now?

She sighed, "I don't know. Friday. I think."

All he could think to ask was: "How?"

4

She laughed. It seemed incongruous.

But Reagan was irritated by her response. "Why are you laughing?"

"Buddy boy, they're going to fire you, and all you can ask is how they found out?" She laughed again.

He found it hard to keep an even demeanor. But she was right; the shit had apparently hit the fan. Things were about to change. Then he corralled his thoughts into a more coherent pattern. "What's going to happen to you?"

She laughed again, but the tone had changed. "How sweet of you to think of someone else, for a change." He didn't think he deserved the shot. He wasn't that selfish. She went on, "I'm fine." She paused, "They're more worried about what I'm going to tell my husband, than anything." She explained, "You see, I know some things about Roberts that you don't know. My job is safe."

Reagan looked around to be sure that Leah wasn't within earshot. "You're not going to tell your husband, are you?"

She sighed, "No." Then her tone changed. Hardened. "Don't worry about Tim, buddy boy. I think you got bigger problems than him."

"So," he asked, "what am I supposed to do?"

"They're still expecting you here on Monday, as usual. I don't know when they plan to talk to you, exactly, or what they're going to tell your company about what's been going on, but I wouldn't necessarily count on being here past Monday." Her tone softened. "I'm sorry, Reagan. Really, I am."

5

After hanging up, Reagan found it difficult to concentrate on the here and now. The here was his home in Atlanta with his wife, and the now was the fact that they were planning to go out for their usual Saturday night thing. Habit. Routine.

Comfortable. Safe.

That seemed about to change.

Reagan didn't know what Grainger was going to say to his own company, but he doubted anything bad would come out of it. He probably wasn't the first consultant to have ever had an affair with a client, and he was doubtless not to be the last. He wasn't considering the effects that company policy might be about to have on his ass.

But that was all something to worry about, some other time. Leah, in particular, could not be allowed to find out what had happened. Losing Grainger—losing Barbara—those were serious considerations, perhaps, but nothing compared to the shit-storm he was sure would erupt if his ditzy, doting wife Leah ever found out he'd been unfaithful to her.

He gave her a lot of credit, apparently, and more than she would have given herself. But, he still didn't trust her, or feel the need to be honest with her. Because being honest with Leah meant he had to first be honest with himself.

No man wants to see himself for what he is.

6

"Who was that on the phone," said Leah once she'd come downstairs. Of course she knew who it had been, but she didn't know who that Barbara Hutchinson person was. Or why she would be calling Reagan at home. On a Saturday.

His first inclination was to say 'no one', and leave it at that, but he sensed that that would not be the answer she would be wanting, and so would not be closing the subject from further enquiry. He was forgetting how incurious Leah seemed most of the time. He was no longer counting on her apparent lack of critical thought or her complete, utter trust in her husband.

He was missing an opportunity to have the whole thing blow away without a trace. Of course, he didn't know how he would explain getting fired from Grainger, but that seemed the easiest lie to tell. A thousand plausible explanations existed, and he had plenty of time to sort through them. Now, about that phone call …

"That was Barb Hutchinson with Grainger."

"I know. She said who she was. What did she want?"

"I dunno," he sniffed, "something to do with the report I wrote last week." He shrugged, smoothly hoping he would convince her that the call was inconsequential.

"And she had to call you at home on a Saturday night?"

He shrugged again. "Yeah. I dunno. Some people don't know when to stop working, I guess."

"I see." Leah smiled, seeming satisfied. "What was that part about her not going to tell her husband?"

7

The question seemed innocent, but he wasn't sure. He almost asked 'you heard that?' but kept it inside at the last instant. He decided to play dumb, instead. "What part?"

"You asked her if she was going to tell her husband." Leah walked to the front closet to get her purse. She always kept it hanging on the doorknob. She slung it over her shoulder, "I'm sorry I was eavesdropping. I just hope it's not a problem, or something."

"No," Reagan said, relieved. He smiled, "Everything is fine." He came forward to take her by the arm, "C'mon babe," (he'd never called her that, that she knew) "let's go."

But she did like the sound of it.

... Reagan Wilcox, post #3

I've been debating (with myself) over whether to post this "chapter" or write something that might move the plot forward a bit. This part is still mainly character and story development, and though it's short, I'm not sure it necessarily makes the reader want to keep turning pages.

I'm not worried, though; I know what the next chapter will be about. I haven't written it, yet, but it's right here on the tip of my fingers.

If you haven't read posts 1 and 2, yet, read post #1 here. Then read post #2 here. This is post #3, as the title suggests.

Chapter 2: The Thing with the Car

1

"There's was a problem with the car, yesterday," she told him the next morning.

"What kind of problem?" he asked.

"It quit on the way to the grocery store, and I had to have it towed to the dealer."

"Uh-huh. What did the dealer say?"

"I'm not sure what's wrong with it, but they said it would cost $600 to fix."

"You don't know what's wrong with the car, but whatever it is it takes $600 to fix?"

"That's what they said."

"And you paid it?"

"I had to." She sounded plaintive. "I have to have my car. Yours was at the airport, and besides, I can't drive a stick."

"Aren't you the least bit curious what could be wrong with your car that it would cost $600 to repair?"

"Of course I am." Now she was getting defensive. "They told me what it was, I just don't remember. That's all."

"Do you have the repair receipt?"

"Somewhere, I think."

"Can I see it?"

"If I can find it."

2

Her lack of attention to detail had irritated him since the wedding. Not enough to do anything about, just enough send him off that Saturday with a chip on his shoulder at her ditziness over the thing with the car.

But there was grass to cut, as there always was on any given Saturday between April and November, so he took his frustration out on the front lawn. Leah did whatever Leah did while he attended to chores; he didn't know. Worse, he didn't care enough to wonder.

3

When Reagan came in for lunch she met him in the kitchen with the repair bill in hand. He tried to look it over, but she invaded his space and wrapped herself around him, thus preventing his discovery of the car's 'sickness.'

4

Leah felt Reagan's anger when she couldn't recite the exact nature of the car's illness. It was an illness, and not her fault since she kept such good care of the car.

She'd had to keep the car running since Reagan had told her they couldn't afford two new cars at one time. She knew enough about the finances to agree that it was true, but still he shouldn't be so upset with her when there was a problem with her old car.

She'd found the bill—and it really wasn't that hard, it hadn't been that lost—and made sure he saw it as soon as he came in. But when she saw him she had such a sudden, disquieting pang of unworthiness that she pushed aside the receipt to reassure her most privileged position: inside his arms.

He smelled of freshly cut grass and some of gasoline, too. After the familiar scent of his brand of soap, his masculine presence was so strong she felt herself suddenly become wet. She wanted to hike her short skirt up around her hips and have him take her right there in the kitchen. Standing up, if necessary. But she couldn't bring herself to do it.

Reagan's arms went around her, strongly and warmly, and she sighed and relaxed into his embrace. Seconds dragged by, and he seemed to relent, kissing her on the forehead. He pushed her away, but gently. Leah, afraid to express anything like disappointment or (even) anger, decided instead to change the subject:

"You want lunch?"

He looked the repair bill over. Seemed to ignore her question.

"You hungry? I got some soup on the stove, if you want. There's ham for a sandwich…"

He never looked up. "Sure." He frowned then, but though her breath caught in her throat, he said nothing about the car. "What kind of soup?"

And Leah was relieved, for no damn good reason. "Campbell's bean with bacon. Is that OK?"

"Sure," and as Reagan walked to the breakfast nook table, he laid the car's repair bill on the kitchen desk.

It never came up again.

... Reagan Wilcox, post #2

If you missed part 1 of this, start reading with this post, first.

6

Leah never believed that money was more important than education, despite the fading wails of her mother, but though mama had always wanted a doctor for a daughter, Leah knew that the doctor in the family could never have been her. 'I want to get married and raise a family, mama, like you did,' she'd told her, but only half of that had come true.

They'd tried almost everything medical science could offer, but after fifteen years of marriage and ten years of trying, Leah and Reagan had resigned themselves to the fact that they were not going to have any children. Adoption, as far as Reagan was concerned, was out of the question, so after all the tests, and the surgeries, and the inseminations, and the indignities suffered at the hands of nearly every fertility specialist in the United States, Leah had to satisfy herself only by being able to say: 'Well, at least we tried.'

Maybe the twenty-five pounds came from that. Who knows?

What an ego crusher it was, though. Leah's sister, Ellen, could drop them (babies) like puppies. She'd had seven in only ten years, and when asked whether they'd figured out where babies come from, could only smile sheepishly. They were good Catholics (unlike Leah, apparently—Reagan's family was Methodist) and only counted all their fecundity as a blessing from God. Surely God delivers common sense, too, but not, apparently, to the Ellen and Stanley Krynchik household.

Leah was usually successful at keeping thoughts of her sister Ellen out of her mind. She did her volunteer work, painted her landscapes (and the occasional seascape) and wove her macramé rugs, and tried to think of pleasant, non-baby things.

On Fridays, she thought of her wonderful husband, Reagan, coming home.

7

Reagan walked through the door only a few minutes behind schedule. Actually he came in from the garage, but even that had a door, so he did walk through the door only ten minutes later than he usually did. The lights were dim, only the fluorescent over the kitchen desk being on, as usual, so he set his two-suiter down next to the desk chair, looked briefly at the week's mail laying in a neatly stacked pile, then turned the light off.

No sense in stalling, Leah would be waiting upstairs. Leah was always waiting upstairs Friday nights, and Reagan knew how he'd find her.

She wasn't so bad, really. He felt it was his own singular pleasure to be able to come home to a woman in a sheer black negligée, lying in his bed. The fact that it was always the same sheer black negligée was an annoyance, but a minor one. It's the thought that counts. Maybe I should break with 'tradition' tonight, he thought, and rip the damn thing off her before we have sex. That way she'll have to buy something else for next Friday night. Actually, that seemed like a pretty good idea. A little roughness; a little harmless 'violence'; a little more excitement before plunging in. It couldn't hurt, and would very likely help.

After all, he was still pretty tired, even if she happened to be in the mood for a blowjob, tonight.

8

Reagan arrived at their bedroom door to find Leah in the bed (of course) but not wearing that tired old negligée. She was still in her bra and half-slip, and was propped up with the television on and reading a magazine.

He announced his arrival with the usual 'honey, I'm home' joke, but instead of going right to the bed, went directly to the bathroom. He was taking off his tie when she came in and put her arms around him from behind.

"How was your trip, sweetheart?"

"Same as always."

"You look tired."

"I am."

"Your mother called."

"What did she have to say?"

"She wants you to call her."

"OK."

Like that. It went on for some moments, but later neither would remember what they said to each other.

9

Leah studied herself in the mirror while Reagan relieved himself. Too much around the waist, she thought, too much Leah. She liked what the extra pounds did for her boobs, but only a relatively small portion of that excess ended up there. The rest, what wasn't wound around her waist, padded her behind.

"Do you think I'm fat?" she asked, removing her bra.

"I don't think you're fat," he replied without hesitation or inflection. He had taken off his pants and was hanging them up in the closet. "I've always liked well-padded women."

"I'm well-padded, all right." She held her boobs up with her hands, presumably weighing them.

"If it bothers you, why don't you do something about it?"

"I might." She weighed her boobs some more. "I like what it's done to my boobs, but of course most of it has ended up on my butt."

He smiled, "I like your butt."

"Do you, really?"

10

Reagan always wondered why Leah continually felt the need to 1) point out all the excess weight she was carrying, and 2) ask him if he still liked her that way. As far as he could remember her questions rarely varied, and his responses were always the same. She'd say she was fat; he'd have to tell her he liked her that way.

He threw his shirt in the dry-cleaning pile, she removed her panties, and he followed her back to the bed. Minutes later they consummated, and minutes after that he was asleep.

Only Leah remained awake. As she always did.

Oh, and another thing ...

In that little blurb about me (look over to the right, no, the other right, yeah, there at the top) I forgot one word.

That word is: "Maybe".

I'm just honing my qualifications, in case I need 'em.

The Midlife Crisis of Reagan Wilcox

or, "Dreaming Blowjobs in the Park"

Chapter 1: One More Homecoming

1

Reagan Wilcox was normally tired as he boarded the plane to Atlanta at the end of each week. He'd made this same commute many times—always exhausted from having been 'on' all week—but tonight he felt an unusual calm. A quiet, alert peacefulness. So rare. So rare that he noticed it.

His wife, Leah, would be waiting at home for him, as usual. She had been some time getting used to his absence, itself a marked change from the routine of the past few years, but gradually had adapted to his being gone. Thankfully, she had not also grown disinterested in his return each week. Every homecoming felt to him as if she had surely lain awake all night, simmering with breathless anticipation; anxiously awaiting the firm-sure embrace of her man.

At least, he liked to think that way.

2

Reagan pushed back into his seat and positioned the diminutive synthetic fiber pillow in the small of his back. All the other regulars (he swore he could even recognize a couple) were likewise settled in, each snapping their USA Today's open with enthusiastic purpose. Everyone read the damned thing, though Reagan thought it was about as fluffy as his favorite sweat socks. Not worth a second glance. He was preparing to crack his latest book, a paperback about two inches thick—the latest by an astonishingly popular author—and settle into something more substantial than graphs of basketball players 'dunking' basketballs, each a little taller than the last, indicating the rise of professional teams' salaries over the last five years. As if anyone cared about such things, other than just about every other traveler on this 727 out of Cleveland. They were airborne soon enough, however, and Reagan was once again spouting muttered sarcasm as the flight attendent gave her rote, tired spiel:

"… Your seat cushion may be used for flotation. Simply place your arms though the straps on the underside and grasp firmly …" And smell the stink of your own ass, he added to himself.

3

But Leah would be there when he got home.

During the week Reagan rarely thought of her. He told himself it was because he was too busy, but it was nothing more than simple rationalization. Rationalization and the fact that Reagan had something else to keep himself occupied. On the plane, though, he first acknowledged his slightly guilty conscience for not having called her, then dismissed it with a shrug. She didn't seem to mind he didn't call; didn’t seem to mind he had to be gone all the time; seemed as excited as ever when he finally walked through the door.

4

The last two years had marked a gradual change in Leah Wilcox. She wanted to think it was due to age, since she was no longer a 'kid,' and therefore no longer expected to remain so trim and young-looking, but deep down inside she knew it for what it was. That she was patently incapable of admitting it to herself, she didn’t find a problem. But, time was taking its toll, and 125 pounds had become 130 had become 135 to become 145; Leah no longer found weighing herself to be such a joy. I can live with it, she would tell herself. Reagan doesn't seem to mind, so why should I?

Wrinkles, too, and those shockingly gray hairs amid her raven tresses becoming more and more common. Next month I'll get my hair colored, she always promised herself; but she never did. After all, Reagan didn't seem to mind.

5

Leah looked forward to Reagan's coming home on Friday nights. She always did her best to make sure he felt welcome, and besides, she really did look forward to having him home, again. He was her husband, her man, her provider, and he (she still reminded herself) had been practically the only boy to ask her out that year in college. Her sophomore year. She had been so shy, she told herself, and Reagan had been so nice. He hadn't given up on her despite her continued refusals.

She'd eventually said 'yes,' and six months later they were engaged, and then six months after that they were married. Quitting college had really been no hardship for the short, dark-haired, and almost (italics hers) pretty Leah Frankowski. Never mind her parents had sacrificed their life savings to send her there. Never mind she was the first in their family to even get to college, let alone have the chance that she'd had.

Leah never felt like she had short-changed herself on the way to becoming Mrs. Reagan McDowell Wilcox. The Wilcox name meant money, even though Reagan really didn’t have it (yet, she would always add). His mother, a McDowell, and thrifty Scot of the first water, had (literally) saved every penny old Roy Meriweather Wilcox had ever made, and since Reagan—dear, sweet, persistent Reagan—was their only child, Leah knew she had only to keep things status quo, and it would eventually be hers/theirs.

Reagan, then, wouldn’t have to work so hard, and then they could have all their time to spend together.

What do it mean?

If you read my posts in my "other" blog, you would likely already know what this blog's title means. That is, you would know that it doesn't mean anything in particular.

Which is the point. One man's fish is another man's bicycle.

When I get the chance, I'm going to post some content here. Real soon now. It may not be new, exactly, but it will be new to you.

Welcome to Fish All Intransigence

I am Robin L. Ashwood. I am a writer, as yet unpublished. This blog is my vehicle to write and get my writing out on the everywhere/nowhere web, where perhaps someone will find it and read it. There's nothing here at the moment, but everyone needs to start somewhere.

Here is what I promise. I will write clearly, and in complete sentences (and even paragraphs!). I will not knowingly permit misspellings or grammatical errors to cloud my writing, because correctness is one way of indicating intelligence (and secondarily, education). Our writing should be an example for others, not an impediment. Others may have better developed vocabularies, but good writing isn't always about using sesquipedalian words.

Let's see how this goes. Talk to me if you feel compelled. I will return the favor and answer (if I feel so compelled).