Michel watched Sarah over the table. She was looking at his first chapter. She looked up.
“Well?”
“Well, they’re colorful characters. Sort of stereotypically gay, though.”
“First chapter. Plenty of room for character development.”
“Not a very long first chapter.”
“Faulkner has short chapters in As I Lay Dying.”
“Well, you’re no... anyway, let’s deal with what we have here . . . All things considered, I kind of like it.”
“Really?” It was the first positive thing Sarah had said about his fiction.
“Yeah. So far, no women -- though one was mentioned -- so I have nothing to complain about. Interesting choice of characters, though. Why gay?”
“Trying to go for as eclectic as possible.”
“You’ll end up alienating a lot of readers that way -- though you will also pick up another distinct group.”
“Fine with me. Most of the people who read are educated and have money. That’s a perfect description of gay men.”
“Well, it’s a definite market. Still, I think you need to get away from stereotypes.”
“I will. Admittedly, these two are sort of like Jack on “Will and Grace,” only stranger, as you’ll soon see -- especially Bernard. But I’ll try to have some other characters who are more “normal” - more like Will in “Will and Grace.” That’s what I had in mind, anyway -- to balance things out and set up a contrast to Bernard and Marcus.”
“Okay. Good luck. I hope you do that. It should be interesting to see how your book comes along.”
Michel smiled as he took his chapter from Sarah. “Thanks. I appreciate the help and feedback.”
“That’s what I’m here for.”
“I hope that’s not all you’re here for.”
“Oh, do you have something in mind?”
“Sure. You want to go rent a movie tonight?”
“Oh. Yeah. Sure. I guess.”
Michel feigned surprise. “Or did you have something else in mind?”
Sarah smiled at him. “You’re an asshole, you know that?”
“Yeah. What about it?”
“Just thought you should know. So, are you going to fuck me or what?”
Michel looked at his watch. “I think I could fit it into my busy schedule.”
Sarah leaned forward. “You better or else you won’t be getting any for a very long time.”
“As much as I like it, I’m not dating your pussy, Sarah.”
Sarah sat back, surprised. “Oh? What happened to you?”
“Nothing,” Michel said. It was the truth. Nothing had happened to him. As far as he was concerned, he was dating her pussy. All the dinners and movies and entertainment were merely ways of making her pussy more accessible - though he did also appreciate her help with his fiction. But he was getting that before he started dating her. So where did the comment come from? Michel was a misogynist, but he wasn’t stupid. He knew Sarah well enough to know what she wanted to hear -- and that it was the surest way to continue having sex with her in the future.
Sarah was pleased. She thought she had finally made some progress with Michel. She would have to think of some way to reward him for it.
Monday, October 10, 2011
Chapter 14
Recently, I have been doing a lot of writing. Not on this novel, obviously, but on short stories. I have been reading from a collection of Donald Barthelme’s short stories, and they have been very inspiring. I’ve noticed that the truly great writers have the ability to inspire other writers. Thus, Milan Kundera, Andre Gide, and Andre Breton (who gave me automatic writing) contributed to this novel. Donald Barthelme now joins this list, since I have written several short stories this week while I have been reading his stories. He, as Gide and Kundera, has actually given me a new way of thinking about how to write stories, which has opened the gates of my creativity.
I don’t doubt this happens with other writers. Homer inspired Virgil, who inspired Dante. Thus, we can expect Sarah and Michel to have inspirational writers as well. I think Sarah and Michel are both influenced mostly by modern writers - writers of the Twentieth Century in any case. They both have in common Kundera, James Joyce, Faulkner. But the differences are interesting as well. Sarah likes Virginia Woolf, Henry Miller, Anais Nin, and Toni Morrison. Michel prefers William S. Burroughs, Nabokov, Andre Gide, and Oscar Wilde.
It was during the time he was seeing Sarah that Michel decided to start writing a novel. He decided, between having the time, and having a girlfriend who was a writer and who could help him, that it was a good time to start writing his first novel. He didn’t know what it was going to be about, but he decided if he was going to make money as a writer, short stories would not do it. He had to write a novel. He decided to tell Sarah.
“Well, you have to know what you’re going to write about before you start it,” Sarah said. She sat forward on her couch, looking at Michel. He had come over quite unexpectedly, so she had clothes on the floor that had previously been on the couch -- moved when she offered Michel a seat.
“Why do I have to do that?” Michel asked. “Why not just start it?”
“You have to have a plot. You have to have characters.”
“So I’ll make up characters. I’ll let them decide where the plot’s going once I make them up.”
“This is stupid. It’ll never work. What will hold it together?”
“Character. Plot doesn’t have to be the only thing holding a novel together. Kundera uses his own experiences to hold some of his novels together.”
“But he still has a plot. Even Gide has a plot in The Counterfeiters, no matter what his intentions.”
“I’ll think of something. Something will come to me as I write it. You want to see it as I write it?”
“You know I’d love to. Let me see your first chapter if you can pull one out of the air using this method of nothing you plan to use.”
“I think you underestimate me.”
“You forget, I’ve read your stuff. And while I must admit, you have gotten better since that awful story “Reciprocation,” you still have a lot of work to do.”
“You know, I was thinking, maybe short stories aren’t my genre. Maybe novels are. Maybe I’ve been thinking too small. I need to think larger. Besides, you gave me the first line of “Reciprocation.” It’s your fault it’s so bad.”
“I’m not just talking about the misogyny.”
“Thanks.”
“Just being honest. That’s the only way we’ll be able to help each other with our writing, remember?”
“You’re right. I just have to remember you’re both my girlfriend and my critic.”
Michel went home, undaunted. He believed he could write a novel without having to worry about the plot. Character development. If you had really great characters, who needed plot? Or, if you have a really cool idea. How about if he wrote a novel about a novelist writing a novel about a novelist, ad infinitum, ad absurdum? Now that would be interesting. You’d still have to have character development in order to drive it - that is, the writers themselves would have to be interesting and quirky and strange in order for you to want to read about them or their books or their characters in their books.
Then Michel had an idea. He went home and began writing.
Bernard Lochs sat in front of his typewriter, staring at the blank page. Nothing. Nothing was coming. He thought if he had a computer, this would not be happening. No. He knew better than that. He hated computers. He was uncomfortable. That’s what it was - he was uncomfortable. It was the damn clothes he was wearing. He stripped. There, that was better. He was free now. Aired out. He sat in front of the computer, placed his fingers on the keyboard, and . . . the insistent pounding on the door made him jump, then stand to open the door. Marcus had his arms crossed, his lips pouting. He looked at Bernard. Marcus had not expected to see him naked.
“What do you need, Marcus? I’m trying to write.”
“Trying to write naked, huh? I’m so sure. Who are you showing off to in the window?”
“Anybody who wants to look. You think I care?”
“No. No, I don’t. I don’t think you care. I don’t think you care a thing about anyone or anybody but yourself.”
“What? What’s this all about?”
“Where were you last night? You promised. I was lying in bed all horny, waiting for you, and you never came home.”
“I came home.”
“I was asleep. You didn’t even wake me.”
“You looked so adorable there, baby, I couldn’t disturb you.”
“You know you can always disturb me if you’re gonna give me some dick. Where were you?”
“Out with Megan. We went to hear a band play at Molier’s. You didn’t want to go, remember?”
“Still, you didn’t have to come home so late.”
“You’re always on the computer chatting with every guy who says he’s gay, so I’m surprised you even notice when I’m not here. You never want to do anything or go anywhere with me anymore. How am I supposed to feel? You prefer those people in the chat rooms and Facebook over me...”
“I do not!”
“Oh please. You do so. The only time you care what I’m doing is if I want to go out. Then you go on about how we never spend any time together. It’s so convenient. I don’t know why you want me to sit around the house bored when you’re in the other room with the door shut, chatting with people you’ll never meet.”
“Look, I’m not having this discussion right now,” Marcus said, turning to go down the stairs.
Bernard huffed, and said, “Of course not. You never do. Now I suppose you’ll go sit in front of the computer for the next ten hours...”
“They at least don’t bore me. And you can forget about getting any tonight.”
“I don’t need you, bitch. I’ve got myself.” With that, Bernard slammed the door, sending echos past Marcus, descending the stairs.
Bernard sat in front of his typewriter again. Nothing. It was worse than before. How could he write after getting into a fight like that? If anything did come to him, it would only be vindictive, pure poison aimed at Marcus. Not that he thought Marcus didn’t deserve it. He did. But that was another story for another time, when he was calmer and could see things in a clearer light. Right now, he wanted to start his next novel. He didn’t know where to begin.
I don’t doubt this happens with other writers. Homer inspired Virgil, who inspired Dante. Thus, we can expect Sarah and Michel to have inspirational writers as well. I think Sarah and Michel are both influenced mostly by modern writers - writers of the Twentieth Century in any case. They both have in common Kundera, James Joyce, Faulkner. But the differences are interesting as well. Sarah likes Virginia Woolf, Henry Miller, Anais Nin, and Toni Morrison. Michel prefers William S. Burroughs, Nabokov, Andre Gide, and Oscar Wilde.
It was during the time he was seeing Sarah that Michel decided to start writing a novel. He decided, between having the time, and having a girlfriend who was a writer and who could help him, that it was a good time to start writing his first novel. He didn’t know what it was going to be about, but he decided if he was going to make money as a writer, short stories would not do it. He had to write a novel. He decided to tell Sarah.
“Well, you have to know what you’re going to write about before you start it,” Sarah said. She sat forward on her couch, looking at Michel. He had come over quite unexpectedly, so she had clothes on the floor that had previously been on the couch -- moved when she offered Michel a seat.
“Why do I have to do that?” Michel asked. “Why not just start it?”
“You have to have a plot. You have to have characters.”
“So I’ll make up characters. I’ll let them decide where the plot’s going once I make them up.”
“This is stupid. It’ll never work. What will hold it together?”
“Character. Plot doesn’t have to be the only thing holding a novel together. Kundera uses his own experiences to hold some of his novels together.”
“But he still has a plot. Even Gide has a plot in The Counterfeiters, no matter what his intentions.”
“I’ll think of something. Something will come to me as I write it. You want to see it as I write it?”
“You know I’d love to. Let me see your first chapter if you can pull one out of the air using this method of nothing you plan to use.”
“I think you underestimate me.”
“You forget, I’ve read your stuff. And while I must admit, you have gotten better since that awful story “Reciprocation,” you still have a lot of work to do.”
“You know, I was thinking, maybe short stories aren’t my genre. Maybe novels are. Maybe I’ve been thinking too small. I need to think larger. Besides, you gave me the first line of “Reciprocation.” It’s your fault it’s so bad.”
“I’m not just talking about the misogyny.”
“Thanks.”
“Just being honest. That’s the only way we’ll be able to help each other with our writing, remember?”
“You’re right. I just have to remember you’re both my girlfriend and my critic.”
Michel went home, undaunted. He believed he could write a novel without having to worry about the plot. Character development. If you had really great characters, who needed plot? Or, if you have a really cool idea. How about if he wrote a novel about a novelist writing a novel about a novelist, ad infinitum, ad absurdum? Now that would be interesting. You’d still have to have character development in order to drive it - that is, the writers themselves would have to be interesting and quirky and strange in order for you to want to read about them or their books or their characters in their books.
Then Michel had an idea. He went home and began writing.
Michel’s Novel
The Novelist
Chapter 1
Bernard Lochs sat in front of his typewriter, staring at the blank page. Nothing. Nothing was coming. He thought if he had a computer, this would not be happening. No. He knew better than that. He hated computers. He was uncomfortable. That’s what it was - he was uncomfortable. It was the damn clothes he was wearing. He stripped. There, that was better. He was free now. Aired out. He sat in front of the computer, placed his fingers on the keyboard, and . . . the insistent pounding on the door made him jump, then stand to open the door. Marcus had his arms crossed, his lips pouting. He looked at Bernard. Marcus had not expected to see him naked.
“What do you need, Marcus? I’m trying to write.”
“Trying to write naked, huh? I’m so sure. Who are you showing off to in the window?”
“Anybody who wants to look. You think I care?”
“No. No, I don’t. I don’t think you care. I don’t think you care a thing about anyone or anybody but yourself.”
“What? What’s this all about?”
“Where were you last night? You promised. I was lying in bed all horny, waiting for you, and you never came home.”
“I came home.”
“I was asleep. You didn’t even wake me.”
“You looked so adorable there, baby, I couldn’t disturb you.”
“You know you can always disturb me if you’re gonna give me some dick. Where were you?”
“Out with Megan. We went to hear a band play at Molier’s. You didn’t want to go, remember?”
“Still, you didn’t have to come home so late.”
“You’re always on the computer chatting with every guy who says he’s gay, so I’m surprised you even notice when I’m not here. You never want to do anything or go anywhere with me anymore. How am I supposed to feel? You prefer those people in the chat rooms and Facebook over me...”
“I do not!”
“Oh please. You do so. The only time you care what I’m doing is if I want to go out. Then you go on about how we never spend any time together. It’s so convenient. I don’t know why you want me to sit around the house bored when you’re in the other room with the door shut, chatting with people you’ll never meet.”
“Look, I’m not having this discussion right now,” Marcus said, turning to go down the stairs.
Bernard huffed, and said, “Of course not. You never do. Now I suppose you’ll go sit in front of the computer for the next ten hours...”
“They at least don’t bore me. And you can forget about getting any tonight.”
“I don’t need you, bitch. I’ve got myself.” With that, Bernard slammed the door, sending echos past Marcus, descending the stairs.
Bernard sat in front of his typewriter again. Nothing. It was worse than before. How could he write after getting into a fight like that? If anything did come to him, it would only be vindictive, pure poison aimed at Marcus. Not that he thought Marcus didn’t deserve it. He did. But that was another story for another time, when he was calmer and could see things in a clearer light. Right now, he wanted to start his next novel. He didn’t know where to begin.
Tuesday, October 4, 2011
Chapter 13
Yesterday I heard from the agent who was reading my first novel, Malthusian Cockroaches. He didn’t like it. He said my characters didn’t sound like high school Freshmen, that he didn’t believe any high school offered Economics (even though mine did, and since it was a rural high school in Alaska, I figured an urban high school in a middle-classed suburb of Chicago surely would, but whatever) and that it didn’t hold his interest. I don’t care if they’re going to an economics class or a history class, so that can change. And I can make them sound less mature. I guess I’ll have to get to work on that.
Still, it was disappointing to hear someone say they have no interest in representing something I have worked three years on and have had many others tell you they can’t wait to see it in print because of what it’s about. I wish I knew more about what the problem was, but the agent said he had a lot of other things to work on and so he didn’t have time for me. I guess that’s what I get for being introduced to him by a mutual acquaintance rather than working my ass off like other new writers. The other explanation is that I sent out the work before it was ready, which is likely, since I’ve only had one person read it. I had planned to get others to read the book and help me with it before I sent it out. Now I definitely will. Still, it’s disappointing.
Writers live in a world ruled by disappointment. We wouldn’t have become writers if we hadn’t been disappointed by something. Life, lost loves, lack of love. And then, when we decide to become writers, we are disappointed to hear in workshops that our characters are too flat, the plot unbelievable, the symbolism too symbolic, the dialogue too stiff, and any number of other problems you would have never thought of outside workshops. Then let’s suppose you have the story “finished.” First of all, you rarely have a story finished, so you are disappointed every time you pick up the story to see it is not as good as you want it. Then you decide it is “good enough” - usually by having a number of people say it’s finished, that it and you are genius, etc. -- and you send it out to a half dozen magazines (if it is a short story) only to receive a half dozen rejections. Then you look at it again, try to figure out what’s wrong with it, fix a word or two, then send it out to another half dozen places. To be rejected. Repeat as instructed.
Then the glorious day comes when you finally get your short story published in a tiny literary magazine that can only afford to pay you three contributor’s copies, and when you get it, your name is wrong in the table of contents, and the editor has revised the story, changing dialogue and dialect, altering description, making the story as much hers as it was yours -- all without your permission, destroying what you perceive to be the integrity of the piece. This disappointment is almost as bad as having never been accepted at all.
That’s why Michel and Sarah both knew about disappointment. They were both writers, and so had experienced all the disappointments peculiar to writers, as well as the disappointments of life. Sarah was disappointed by every boyfriend she had -- except one (forget about Kim -- he’s in the future) -- and she disappointed herself by letting him get away.
She was in love with Robert, but did not think Robert was in love with her. He had never said he loved her, though they were friends and went places together -- dinner, the movies, the occasional bar. She had told him she loved him, and he always smiled, reached out his hand for her jaw, and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Frustrated, Sarah began dating other people.
That’s when she met Matthew. He was handsome, went places with her, and told her he loved her. She still went places with Robert, but he never seemed jealous when she wanted to go out with other men. But when she started seeing Matthew, he went to her apartment and told her he loved her.
How could he do this to her? There had been so many opportunities before she met Matthew, and now he had to come over her apartment and tell her he loved her? Where was he before Matthew? She had loved him -- still loved him, though she would never tell him that -- but he was too late. She was with Matthew, and it wouldn’t be fair to him -- especially since she loved him. Robert hung his head, and tears trickled down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said, and walked out of her apartment. Sarah wanted to run after him, but felt it would be too much like a romantic movie if she did, so she let him go.
A month later, Robert was seeing someone else. Sarah saw him with his new girlfriend at the movies. She was now alone, having broke up with Matthew after he crashed into her parked car while driving drunk to her apartment. Robert smiled and waved. Sarah returned the favor, but didn’t say anything, turning away as she stood in line.
Michel mostly disappointed himself. He didn’t understand women and didn’t care to. He lost every girlfriend he had because of it. He kissed a guy once, to see what it was like -- if he could make anything come out of it -- but the man’s mustache tickled his lips when he kissed him, and that bothered him, so he didn’t go any further. Whenever he was in a new relationship with a woman, he wondered if he should have gone through with it. He was a man. He understood men. Surely he could get along with them better than he did with women. But then, he always heard his gay friends saying how they wished they were straight, because they didn’t understand men, so he decided nobody understood anybody, so you might as well fuck who you like. But most of Michel’s disappointments came in being unable to has sex with someone he was really attracted to. Until he met Pat and Jessie. Until he was given permission to sleep with Jessie, he had never realized he was attracted to little girls. Once he had been with Jessie, though, he found he could not get enough of her. Pat didn’t care. She had plenty of other lovers.
Still, it was disappointing to hear someone say they have no interest in representing something I have worked three years on and have had many others tell you they can’t wait to see it in print because of what it’s about. I wish I knew more about what the problem was, but the agent said he had a lot of other things to work on and so he didn’t have time for me. I guess that’s what I get for being introduced to him by a mutual acquaintance rather than working my ass off like other new writers. The other explanation is that I sent out the work before it was ready, which is likely, since I’ve only had one person read it. I had planned to get others to read the book and help me with it before I sent it out. Now I definitely will. Still, it’s disappointing.
Writers live in a world ruled by disappointment. We wouldn’t have become writers if we hadn’t been disappointed by something. Life, lost loves, lack of love. And then, when we decide to become writers, we are disappointed to hear in workshops that our characters are too flat, the plot unbelievable, the symbolism too symbolic, the dialogue too stiff, and any number of other problems you would have never thought of outside workshops. Then let’s suppose you have the story “finished.” First of all, you rarely have a story finished, so you are disappointed every time you pick up the story to see it is not as good as you want it. Then you decide it is “good enough” - usually by having a number of people say it’s finished, that it and you are genius, etc. -- and you send it out to a half dozen magazines (if it is a short story) only to receive a half dozen rejections. Then you look at it again, try to figure out what’s wrong with it, fix a word or two, then send it out to another half dozen places. To be rejected. Repeat as instructed.
Then the glorious day comes when you finally get your short story published in a tiny literary magazine that can only afford to pay you three contributor’s copies, and when you get it, your name is wrong in the table of contents, and the editor has revised the story, changing dialogue and dialect, altering description, making the story as much hers as it was yours -- all without your permission, destroying what you perceive to be the integrity of the piece. This disappointment is almost as bad as having never been accepted at all.
That’s why Michel and Sarah both knew about disappointment. They were both writers, and so had experienced all the disappointments peculiar to writers, as well as the disappointments of life. Sarah was disappointed by every boyfriend she had -- except one (forget about Kim -- he’s in the future) -- and she disappointed herself by letting him get away.
She was in love with Robert, but did not think Robert was in love with her. He had never said he loved her, though they were friends and went places together -- dinner, the movies, the occasional bar. She had told him she loved him, and he always smiled, reached out his hand for her jaw, and gave her a quick kiss on the lips. Frustrated, Sarah began dating other people.
That’s when she met Matthew. He was handsome, went places with her, and told her he loved her. She still went places with Robert, but he never seemed jealous when she wanted to go out with other men. But when she started seeing Matthew, he went to her apartment and told her he loved her.
How could he do this to her? There had been so many opportunities before she met Matthew, and now he had to come over her apartment and tell her he loved her? Where was he before Matthew? She had loved him -- still loved him, though she would never tell him that -- but he was too late. She was with Matthew, and it wouldn’t be fair to him -- especially since she loved him. Robert hung his head, and tears trickled down his cheeks. “I’m sorry,” he said, and walked out of her apartment. Sarah wanted to run after him, but felt it would be too much like a romantic movie if she did, so she let him go.
A month later, Robert was seeing someone else. Sarah saw him with his new girlfriend at the movies. She was now alone, having broke up with Matthew after he crashed into her parked car while driving drunk to her apartment. Robert smiled and waved. Sarah returned the favor, but didn’t say anything, turning away as she stood in line.
Michel mostly disappointed himself. He didn’t understand women and didn’t care to. He lost every girlfriend he had because of it. He kissed a guy once, to see what it was like -- if he could make anything come out of it -- but the man’s mustache tickled his lips when he kissed him, and that bothered him, so he didn’t go any further. Whenever he was in a new relationship with a woman, he wondered if he should have gone through with it. He was a man. He understood men. Surely he could get along with them better than he did with women. But then, he always heard his gay friends saying how they wished they were straight, because they didn’t understand men, so he decided nobody understood anybody, so you might as well fuck who you like. But most of Michel’s disappointments came in being unable to has sex with someone he was really attracted to. Until he met Pat and Jessie. Until he was given permission to sleep with Jessie, he had never realized he was attracted to little girls. Once he had been with Jessie, though, he found he could not get enough of her. Pat didn’t care. She had plenty of other lovers.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Chapter 12
We live in a political age, and thus we live in an age of lies. So, since lying is now acceptable, I can't make any promises about the truthfulness of anything I may say from now on. Of course, Nietzsche called into question the importance of telling the truth before the turn of the century, since we don't know whose truth you are talking about, but I'm not entirely sure he meant the kinds of political lies we hear all the time. Or perhaps he did. After all, Plato talked about the noble lie politicians had to tell, so there is a philosophical tradition of the "necessity" of politicians lying. Machiavelli also recommended lying to the people. I would argue that many politicians are certainly Platonists and Machiavellians, but not really Nietzscheans. So I don't think they are doing what Nietzsche was talking about in regards to lies. On the other hand, successful politicians are great manipulators of language. But that may also be the same thing Nietzsche was talking about.
In any case, this is a novel full of lies. In fact, what is fiction but one long lie? None of this is true (unless I say it's true), and you wouldn't want to read this if it were true, or you’d have gone out to buy a biography or some other form of nonfiction. We tell our children not to tell "stories," but turn around and spend $20 (for hardback, $7 or so for a paperback) for a novel. We elect the liars whose lies we most want to believe and pay to read a four-hundred-page lie. We want to be lied to. We elect people to do it, and we pay people to do it. So what's wrong with lying again?
Since we now see fiction-writing is really professional lying, we must also realize that Michel and Sarah are both aspiring professional liars. The only difference is, Sarah treats her writing as a purge for any temptation she may have to lie, whereas for Michel, it's only the beginning. Michel's life is so full of lies, he doesn't know what the truth is anymore.
For their first real date, Sarah picked Michel up at his apartment. They were going to a movie - "Shakespeare in Love." It was the first time she had been to his apartment. Sarah was not surprised to see how messy his apartment was, with the couch pulled out to make Michel's bed, but she was surprised to see Jackie standing in the hall wearing only a pair of blue jean shorts and a nipple ring as Michel held the door open for her.
"I'm ready when you are," Michel said. "I'd show you around, but we don't want to be late."
"Fine. Let's go." Sarah was back out the door, darting for her car, a red Nissan. Michel told Jackie bye as he shut the door and turned to chase Sarah to the car.
"Slow down. We're not late."
Sarah opened her car door and slid in, putting her key in the ignition. Michel opened the passenger door and got in.
"What's your hurry?" Michel asked.
"Shut the door," Sarah said. He complied. She turned to him. "What the hell was she doing walking around your apartment topless?"
"It's her apartment too. She pays half the rent."
"What are you doing? You still fucking her?"
"Hell no! I broke up with her, remember? I'm going out with you now. Why would I want to fuck her?"
"I'm not stupid, Michel. I saw her. If I was a guy, I'd want to fuck her. You're telling me you don't want to fuck her?"
"I said I wasn't fucking her, okay? Why won't you believe me?"
"Why's she comfortable walking around topless, then?"
"Honey, we used to date, remember? When we did, we fucked. We lived together. She's used to walking around naked with me there."
"Naked?"
Michel dropped his head just short of the dash. "Shit."
"Can't you see how this looks? You’re still living with your ex-girlfriend."
"I told you why. It's cheaper. And we don't hate each other -- we just don't love each other anymore. But I'll talk to her about walking around half-naked if it makes you feel better."
"You do what you need to do, okay?"
Michel wasn't sure what that meant, but he decided to agree. "Can we go to the movies now?"
Sarah started the car, turned the wheels, and pulled away from the curb.
In any case, this is a novel full of lies. In fact, what is fiction but one long lie? None of this is true (unless I say it's true), and you wouldn't want to read this if it were true, or you’d have gone out to buy a biography or some other form of nonfiction. We tell our children not to tell "stories," but turn around and spend $20 (for hardback, $7 or so for a paperback) for a novel. We elect the liars whose lies we most want to believe and pay to read a four-hundred-page lie. We want to be lied to. We elect people to do it, and we pay people to do it. So what's wrong with lying again?
Since we now see fiction-writing is really professional lying, we must also realize that Michel and Sarah are both aspiring professional liars. The only difference is, Sarah treats her writing as a purge for any temptation she may have to lie, whereas for Michel, it's only the beginning. Michel's life is so full of lies, he doesn't know what the truth is anymore.
For their first real date, Sarah picked Michel up at his apartment. They were going to a movie - "Shakespeare in Love." It was the first time she had been to his apartment. Sarah was not surprised to see how messy his apartment was, with the couch pulled out to make Michel's bed, but she was surprised to see Jackie standing in the hall wearing only a pair of blue jean shorts and a nipple ring as Michel held the door open for her.
"I'm ready when you are," Michel said. "I'd show you around, but we don't want to be late."
"Fine. Let's go." Sarah was back out the door, darting for her car, a red Nissan. Michel told Jackie bye as he shut the door and turned to chase Sarah to the car.
"Slow down. We're not late."
Sarah opened her car door and slid in, putting her key in the ignition. Michel opened the passenger door and got in.
"What's your hurry?" Michel asked.
"Shut the door," Sarah said. He complied. She turned to him. "What the hell was she doing walking around your apartment topless?"
"It's her apartment too. She pays half the rent."
"What are you doing? You still fucking her?"
"Hell no! I broke up with her, remember? I'm going out with you now. Why would I want to fuck her?"
"I'm not stupid, Michel. I saw her. If I was a guy, I'd want to fuck her. You're telling me you don't want to fuck her?"
"I said I wasn't fucking her, okay? Why won't you believe me?"
"Why's she comfortable walking around topless, then?"
"Honey, we used to date, remember? When we did, we fucked. We lived together. She's used to walking around naked with me there."
"Naked?"
Michel dropped his head just short of the dash. "Shit."
"Can't you see how this looks? You’re still living with your ex-girlfriend."
"I told you why. It's cheaper. And we don't hate each other -- we just don't love each other anymore. But I'll talk to her about walking around half-naked if it makes you feel better."
"You do what you need to do, okay?"
Michel wasn't sure what that meant, but he decided to agree. "Can we go to the movies now?"
Sarah started the car, turned the wheels, and pulled away from the curb.
Saturday, September 10, 2011
Chapter 11
It's one in the morning, and I left Donna at work so I could come home and work on this novel. We have a new computer, though it's been disappointing so far. It's already locked up, though it was only a few days old and it has a Pentium Processor, and the place we bought it from did not give us the memory they said they would or put the latest version of Word on the computer for us. Hopefully, we'll take care of all that this week.
I'm glad Donna is working. She's doing something at the hospital here in Richardson. To be honest, I already like her a lot better. And it's not just because she's finally working, either. No, her working has helped turn her back into the confident, pleasant, strong woman I fell in love with.
I like strong, confident women. They have character. That's why I like Sarah and Jackie. Both are extremely strong women, although they did fall in love with a very weak man. Of course, Jackie did break up with Michel, which shows she learned enough about him not to want him anymore, though at the same time, she has chosen to keep living with him and start having sex with him again. One could argue, I suppose, that she has simply started using him, relegating him to a sort of Hegelian slave position, but the fact is, as Hegel points out, the slave in these situations can oftentimes gain so much power over the master, who relies too much on the slave's presence, that the roles are reversed. Thus, Jackie is putting herself in a potentially dangerous position by trying to gain sexual power over Michel. While it is true they both said it would not affect their dating or having sex with other people, how could it not? Even someone as strong as Jackie cannot help but look upon every woman Michel brings home as someone who is using her penis. It’s a form of jealousy - a form of jealousy possible because, truth be told, she really did love having sex with him. She did not care much for Michel himself, but she was fond of his penis.
But you know, I'm sitting here writing all this, thinking about the relationship between Michel and Jackie, which is anything but romantic, on a day when I'm feeling far more romantic toward Donna than I have in a long time, and I'm thinking I should write about something more romantic, something befitting my feelings.
I'm thinking, too, that I should probably listen to something far more romantic than Pearl Jam's "Yield" if I really want to write about something romantic, but I don't know if I have anything you could call romantic in my CD collection. I have lots of 90's grunge and 60's psychedelic, but not much romantic music. The closest thing I have is The Beatles, since they did often write about love. Maybe I'll go find something by The Beatles after I finish listening to "Do the Evolution."
I just put on "Let It Be." I love the song "Two of Us." It's such a pretty song, and should put me in the proper romantic mood to write about something more appropriate to Valentine's Day.
I'm thinking, but I don't think it's possible to do anything sweet with any combination of characters I've already introduced -- unless I want Sarah and Jackie to hook up. I don't -- I don't see either of them as lesbians or bisexual (though Jackie would come closest) -- so I'll have to come up with someone else.
I've already said Michel and Sarah aren't going to work out -- or else he would not be living by himself and sleeping with his neighbor and her daughter, so I suppose I could introduce the man Sarah eventually does marry. I told Donna I used to have a male Readings in Fiction professor named Kim, and she told me she used to date a man named Kim too, so I think I'll name Sarah's future husband Kim. It's an unusual name for a man, but there's nothing wrong with that. It will help him stand out in your mind. How many of you will be able to forget a male character named Kim -- at least, one who is white and not Chinese.
I think Kim is a nice-looking man - he wouldn't remind you of a Greek god or anything, but he's not hard on the eyes either. He should exercise, but doesn't, so he has a tummy, not that Sarah cares. Sarah is not the kind of woman who notices things like tummies. No, Sarah is the kind of woman who notices the kindness of his blue eyes, the intelligent smile he has when talking to her, the gentleness of his touch as he comforts her. Sarah notices the joy he has in being with her, the joy he has in talking with her about all the things she likes that he does and even those he is indifferent to (things you would never know he was indifferent to, he looks so interested in them). I can see them sitting in a restaurant - perhaps the same one Sarah and Michel frequented when they were seeing each other - only there is a tangible difference here. Sarah is not questioning why she is attracted to Kim. There is no question why she would be attracted to him. Any woman in her right mind would be. Sarah concludes, therefore, that since she is the one sitting with him, that most women aren't in their right mind. He is leaning forward, listening as she talks, interested in everything she says or thinks or believes. Michel could never show that kind of interest in her or any woman. No one was as interesting as he was to himself. Kim did not hold this opinion of himself. True, Kim was self-confident, but it was never at the expense of others. He felt he could learn from every person he met. He felt he could love whoever was in front of him by simply listening.
It took Sarah a long time to learn to love someone like Kim. In order to love someone who could love you as much as Kim was capable of loving, Sarah first had to learn to love herself enough not to settle for someone like Michel. Kim was the kind of man who could bring her to the point where she could allow herself to love him. His every word was encouragement, telling her she was beautiful, intelligent, fascinating, interesting, everything he could want. It took him three weeks to talk her into loving him. They had been dating for three months by the time we see them.
Kim and Sarah are sitting at the table in the restaurant. The restaurant always had dim lights, but Sarah was convinced they were more romantic now. There was a little candle on the table, flickering against the wall, light dancing up the wall, on each of their faces, a dance of shadows even more romantic than the dim lights. Their drinks were sitting on the dark wood table, making sweat circles around their bases. Sarah was talking about the problems she was having getting published.
"I don't understand it," she said. "I've read dozens of literary magazines, and to be honest, if that's any indication of what they consider to be good stories, there's no reason why they shouldn't be publishing me. I've never seen so much garbage in my life. How can they publish some of that shit?"
"It's all a matter of taste, honey. Publishing is a game. You have to get your story to the right editor when he's in the right mood when he hasn't published or read anything like that recently before it's going to be accepted. That's not very good odds, even if you are the next Chekhov."
"I wouldn't say I'm the next Chekhov..."
"I'd say you're definitely a brilliant writer, and if you haven't been discovered, it's only because the right editor hasn't read you yet. Sometimes the world's not ready for a certain writer, you know, and it takes a while before you're recognized or even published."
"Yeah, but that doesn't get the bills paid."
"You writing for the money?"
"No, but a woman's got to eat."
"I understand. But don't worry about it. You're a genius. You'll be discovered soon enough, and then everything will be easy."
"I wish it were that easy. But enough of that kind of talk. We're on a date, remember?"
"I see nothing wrong with talking about our future over dinner." They were interrupted by their salads arriving. Kim looked down at his salad to discourage a response. He wanted her to think about what he'd just said. He wanted it to sink in.
Sarah looked down at her salad, then back up at him, contemplating his crown before deciding to go ahead and say, "I didn't realize we were talking about our future."
Kim looked up at her, his blue eyes gazing into hers. "Why else would I want to hear about your dreams if I didn't expect to make them mine?"
"Are you asking me something?"
"If I had a ring, I would. But I don't. Would you settle for being engaged to be engaged?"
Sarah giggled. "Are you asking me now if you can ask me later to marry you?"
"Sure. It's safer than actually asking you to marry me."
Sarah frowned. "Why?"
"Because if you say 'yes' now, there's almost a hundred percent chance you'll say yes when I do ask you to marry me. But if you say 'no' now, it won't hurt as much, because I won't have asked you to actually marry me, but to allow me to ask you later to marry me."
Sarah's frown cracked. "I think I kept up with all that."
"So what do you say?"
"Yes. Of course you may ask me to marry you. Shall we set a date?"
"No, let's not set a date. Let's keep it open so I can surprise you when I do ask you to marry me."
"I don't think it will be much of a surprise."
"I don't know. I think I could still make it a surprise."
"Of course, I could just surprise you and ask you to marry me."
"There's nothing wrong with that," Kim said, taking his first bite of salad. "I'm modern and all that. I'm liberated."
"Whatever," Sarah said. "I don't care how we do it, so long as we get to stay with each other."
"We will," Kim said. "I won't let you go."
Sarah leaned halfway across the table. "I love you," she whispered.
Kim met her across the table, kissing her. "I love you, too."
Sarah moved in with Kim three weeks later, before either got around to asking the other to marry them. The night she moved in was the first night they made love. It was the first night either thought of the other as someone sexual, and it made them see each other in a new light, giving their love new facets for that light to reflect from, to illuminate new aspects of being between the two that neither could have known, absent their making love. Sarah was not a virgin, but that night she felt like it was the first time any man had ever made love to her. Kim had literally and figuratively touched her in ways no man had ever touched her before. As she lay next to him for the first time that night, half-covered by his dark blue sheets so her breasts lay exposed to the cool air of the room, running her hand across his chest, she became determined that their mutual pleasure was to become her primary concern. He was the first man she ever loved enough to want to make the center of her world. Kim felt the same way about her.
I can think of no better place to leave Sarah and Kim - lying together in bed, more in love than either had been before. Over the next few months, both fell further in love, until Kim could wait no longer and asked her to marry him. Being sentimental -- and, unfortunately, not very original in this case -- he asked her to marry him on Valentine's Day. Of course, she said “Yes.” Within the year, they were married, and shortly afterwards, they settled into love together. It lost its sharp edges, its brilliant sparkle, its vital turbulence, and settled into something deeper, something that would nourish and hold them together -- not without conflict, of course, since no two people can live (or love) without conflict -- in a way their former love, as strong and beautiful as it was, never could. In addition to being in love, they finally learned, after their first year of marriage, to also love each other.
And so, I finish this chapter at almost 2:45am, listening to Fiona Apple while Donna's at work. I thank The Beatles, Fiona Apple, and Donna, who has become again the woman I fell in love with, for making me able to write this chapter and talk about the most dangerous, most painful, most heartbreaking, most wrenching, most beautiful thing in the world. Thank you, my love, for allowing me to experience love for the first time in my life so I can actually write about it and not just wonder on paper what it's like.
I'm glad Donna is working. She's doing something at the hospital here in Richardson. To be honest, I already like her a lot better. And it's not just because she's finally working, either. No, her working has helped turn her back into the confident, pleasant, strong woman I fell in love with.
I like strong, confident women. They have character. That's why I like Sarah and Jackie. Both are extremely strong women, although they did fall in love with a very weak man. Of course, Jackie did break up with Michel, which shows she learned enough about him not to want him anymore, though at the same time, she has chosen to keep living with him and start having sex with him again. One could argue, I suppose, that she has simply started using him, relegating him to a sort of Hegelian slave position, but the fact is, as Hegel points out, the slave in these situations can oftentimes gain so much power over the master, who relies too much on the slave's presence, that the roles are reversed. Thus, Jackie is putting herself in a potentially dangerous position by trying to gain sexual power over Michel. While it is true they both said it would not affect their dating or having sex with other people, how could it not? Even someone as strong as Jackie cannot help but look upon every woman Michel brings home as someone who is using her penis. It’s a form of jealousy - a form of jealousy possible because, truth be told, she really did love having sex with him. She did not care much for Michel himself, but she was fond of his penis.
But you know, I'm sitting here writing all this, thinking about the relationship between Michel and Jackie, which is anything but romantic, on a day when I'm feeling far more romantic toward Donna than I have in a long time, and I'm thinking I should write about something more romantic, something befitting my feelings.
I'm thinking, too, that I should probably listen to something far more romantic than Pearl Jam's "Yield" if I really want to write about something romantic, but I don't know if I have anything you could call romantic in my CD collection. I have lots of 90's grunge and 60's psychedelic, but not much romantic music. The closest thing I have is The Beatles, since they did often write about love. Maybe I'll go find something by The Beatles after I finish listening to "Do the Evolution."
I just put on "Let It Be." I love the song "Two of Us." It's such a pretty song, and should put me in the proper romantic mood to write about something more appropriate to Valentine's Day.
I'm thinking, but I don't think it's possible to do anything sweet with any combination of characters I've already introduced -- unless I want Sarah and Jackie to hook up. I don't -- I don't see either of them as lesbians or bisexual (though Jackie would come closest) -- so I'll have to come up with someone else.
I've already said Michel and Sarah aren't going to work out -- or else he would not be living by himself and sleeping with his neighbor and her daughter, so I suppose I could introduce the man Sarah eventually does marry. I told Donna I used to have a male Readings in Fiction professor named Kim, and she told me she used to date a man named Kim too, so I think I'll name Sarah's future husband Kim. It's an unusual name for a man, but there's nothing wrong with that. It will help him stand out in your mind. How many of you will be able to forget a male character named Kim -- at least, one who is white and not Chinese.
I think Kim is a nice-looking man - he wouldn't remind you of a Greek god or anything, but he's not hard on the eyes either. He should exercise, but doesn't, so he has a tummy, not that Sarah cares. Sarah is not the kind of woman who notices things like tummies. No, Sarah is the kind of woman who notices the kindness of his blue eyes, the intelligent smile he has when talking to her, the gentleness of his touch as he comforts her. Sarah notices the joy he has in being with her, the joy he has in talking with her about all the things she likes that he does and even those he is indifferent to (things you would never know he was indifferent to, he looks so interested in them). I can see them sitting in a restaurant - perhaps the same one Sarah and Michel frequented when they were seeing each other - only there is a tangible difference here. Sarah is not questioning why she is attracted to Kim. There is no question why she would be attracted to him. Any woman in her right mind would be. Sarah concludes, therefore, that since she is the one sitting with him, that most women aren't in their right mind. He is leaning forward, listening as she talks, interested in everything she says or thinks or believes. Michel could never show that kind of interest in her or any woman. No one was as interesting as he was to himself. Kim did not hold this opinion of himself. True, Kim was self-confident, but it was never at the expense of others. He felt he could learn from every person he met. He felt he could love whoever was in front of him by simply listening.
It took Sarah a long time to learn to love someone like Kim. In order to love someone who could love you as much as Kim was capable of loving, Sarah first had to learn to love herself enough not to settle for someone like Michel. Kim was the kind of man who could bring her to the point where she could allow herself to love him. His every word was encouragement, telling her she was beautiful, intelligent, fascinating, interesting, everything he could want. It took him three weeks to talk her into loving him. They had been dating for three months by the time we see them.
Kim and Sarah are sitting at the table in the restaurant. The restaurant always had dim lights, but Sarah was convinced they were more romantic now. There was a little candle on the table, flickering against the wall, light dancing up the wall, on each of their faces, a dance of shadows even more romantic than the dim lights. Their drinks were sitting on the dark wood table, making sweat circles around their bases. Sarah was talking about the problems she was having getting published.
"I don't understand it," she said. "I've read dozens of literary magazines, and to be honest, if that's any indication of what they consider to be good stories, there's no reason why they shouldn't be publishing me. I've never seen so much garbage in my life. How can they publish some of that shit?"
"It's all a matter of taste, honey. Publishing is a game. You have to get your story to the right editor when he's in the right mood when he hasn't published or read anything like that recently before it's going to be accepted. That's not very good odds, even if you are the next Chekhov."
"I wouldn't say I'm the next Chekhov..."
"I'd say you're definitely a brilliant writer, and if you haven't been discovered, it's only because the right editor hasn't read you yet. Sometimes the world's not ready for a certain writer, you know, and it takes a while before you're recognized or even published."
"Yeah, but that doesn't get the bills paid."
"You writing for the money?"
"No, but a woman's got to eat."
"I understand. But don't worry about it. You're a genius. You'll be discovered soon enough, and then everything will be easy."
"I wish it were that easy. But enough of that kind of talk. We're on a date, remember?"
"I see nothing wrong with talking about our future over dinner." They were interrupted by their salads arriving. Kim looked down at his salad to discourage a response. He wanted her to think about what he'd just said. He wanted it to sink in.
Sarah looked down at her salad, then back up at him, contemplating his crown before deciding to go ahead and say, "I didn't realize we were talking about our future."
Kim looked up at her, his blue eyes gazing into hers. "Why else would I want to hear about your dreams if I didn't expect to make them mine?"
"Are you asking me something?"
"If I had a ring, I would. But I don't. Would you settle for being engaged to be engaged?"
Sarah giggled. "Are you asking me now if you can ask me later to marry you?"
"Sure. It's safer than actually asking you to marry me."
Sarah frowned. "Why?"
"Because if you say 'yes' now, there's almost a hundred percent chance you'll say yes when I do ask you to marry me. But if you say 'no' now, it won't hurt as much, because I won't have asked you to actually marry me, but to allow me to ask you later to marry me."
Sarah's frown cracked. "I think I kept up with all that."
"So what do you say?"
"Yes. Of course you may ask me to marry you. Shall we set a date?"
"No, let's not set a date. Let's keep it open so I can surprise you when I do ask you to marry me."
"I don't think it will be much of a surprise."
"I don't know. I think I could still make it a surprise."
"Of course, I could just surprise you and ask you to marry me."
"There's nothing wrong with that," Kim said, taking his first bite of salad. "I'm modern and all that. I'm liberated."
"Whatever," Sarah said. "I don't care how we do it, so long as we get to stay with each other."
"We will," Kim said. "I won't let you go."
Sarah leaned halfway across the table. "I love you," she whispered.
Kim met her across the table, kissing her. "I love you, too."
Sarah moved in with Kim three weeks later, before either got around to asking the other to marry them. The night she moved in was the first night they made love. It was the first night either thought of the other as someone sexual, and it made them see each other in a new light, giving their love new facets for that light to reflect from, to illuminate new aspects of being between the two that neither could have known, absent their making love. Sarah was not a virgin, but that night she felt like it was the first time any man had ever made love to her. Kim had literally and figuratively touched her in ways no man had ever touched her before. As she lay next to him for the first time that night, half-covered by his dark blue sheets so her breasts lay exposed to the cool air of the room, running her hand across his chest, she became determined that their mutual pleasure was to become her primary concern. He was the first man she ever loved enough to want to make the center of her world. Kim felt the same way about her.
I can think of no better place to leave Sarah and Kim - lying together in bed, more in love than either had been before. Over the next few months, both fell further in love, until Kim could wait no longer and asked her to marry him. Being sentimental -- and, unfortunately, not very original in this case -- he asked her to marry him on Valentine's Day. Of course, she said “Yes.” Within the year, they were married, and shortly afterwards, they settled into love together. It lost its sharp edges, its brilliant sparkle, its vital turbulence, and settled into something deeper, something that would nourish and hold them together -- not without conflict, of course, since no two people can live (or love) without conflict -- in a way their former love, as strong and beautiful as it was, never could. In addition to being in love, they finally learned, after their first year of marriage, to also love each other.
And so, I finish this chapter at almost 2:45am, listening to Fiona Apple while Donna's at work. I thank The Beatles, Fiona Apple, and Donna, who has become again the woman I fell in love with, for making me able to write this chapter and talk about the most dangerous, most painful, most heartbreaking, most wrenching, most beautiful thing in the world. Thank you, my love, for allowing me to experience love for the first time in my life so I can actually write about it and not just wonder on paper what it's like.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
Chapter 10
A lot has happened since I began work on this novel. One of our neighbors (who was noisy in the first place, always playing her music so loud we could hear it through the walls - and always after midnight, when we wanted to go to bed) got into an argument with her boyfriend at three in the morning. We couldn't hear what was being said, only that it was being said extremely loud. And it continued through the night and well into the morning. When I left to go somewhere (I forget where), my upstairs neighbor said they were outside arguing at eleven that morning. When I found out what it was about, I understood why. In a strange account of real life unknowingly imitating fiction, she had caught her son, who looks to be maybe six or seven, in a similar sexual act as Michel cause Jessie in with man who lives in one of the other apartments in our complex. And her boyfriend knew about it. Donna tells me the cops were at the man's apartment later that night.
I'm sure if you asked the guy, he would claim he wasn't homosexual. And, except for liking little boys, he's probably not. He has probably had several girlfriends. But what possesses him to be into little boys? I'm not going to claim to know. Most homosexuals I know would find him disgusting. So it seems his sexual perversion goes far deeper than homosexuality, which I don't consider a perversion, but a natural desire found in all people, as can be seen from the ancient Greek and Roman cultures, where bisexuality was the norm. In fact, the term homosexual wasn't even coined until the late 19th Century.
But all of this brings us back to the problem of Pat and her daughter Jessie. At the same time Michel was trying to see Sarah and had asked Jackie to start sleeping with him, Pat was fifteen, seeing her boyfriend Mark, and sleeping with every man possible. This is when Pat became pregnant with Jessie, and though she was dating Mark at the time, it is unlikely he was the father.
I learned from the Discovery Channel (or maybe it was the Learning Channel) that when women are unfaithful, there are various mechanisms that work to make a woman more or less likely to become impregnated by any given man. For example, this is what happened when Pat got pregnant:
Pat was unusual in her ability to have an orgasm at a very young age. Three days before she got pregnant, she had sex with a guy she met at a football game. He had a condom, so the only consequence was an orgasm. But having an orgasm make a woman's uterus more acidic, a condition which destroys sperm cells.
The next night, Pat went out with Mark, and as happened with every date they ever went on, they had sex, and she had an orgasm. This, as well as the sex from the night before, caused the acidity of her uterus to increase even more, killing a large number of his sperm. But Mark believed she was unfaithful, so, due to an unconscious mechanism we don't understand, he ejaculated twice the number of sperm into her than usual, though most were either slower sperm that act as a net to slow foreign sperm or killer sperm that killed any other sperm it ran into. Thus, his sperm and her own acidity protected her for the next five days from any other sperm.
But late that night, one of her friends, Jim, came over to her house, snuck in through her window, and had sex with her. Her uterus wasn't nearly as acidic by then, and she orgasmed at the same time he did, pulling his sperm deeper into her before it made her uterus acidic. He, too, produced a large number of killer sperm, which went to work against the sperm from Mark, killing many of them.
The next night, she had sex with yet another of her friends, Robert, again orgasming at the same time he did, pulling more of his sperm into her, where his, Mark's, and Jim's killer sperms tried to destroy as many of each others’ fertile sperm as they could find that had made it past the barrier Mark's sperm had created.
I don’t need to go into any greater detail about the other times she had sex with Mark, or who else she slept with that week, because it was sometime during that day that one of the fertile sperm from one of the three boys (at sixteen, they were all still boys) made it to the egg traveling down her fallopian tube, broke through the protein barrier surrounding it, and fertilized the egg, which continued traveling down the fallopian tube as it began dividing over the next few days before reaching the uterus and embedding itself there to finish developing into Jessie.
Two months later, she told Mark she was pregnant and that it was his. He told her he'd help take care of the child, but he didn't want to get married. They had already broken up and were dating other people. Mark's new girlfriend didn't take it too well, though, and broke up with him a week later. Pat's new boyfriend took advantage of the situation, knowing she couldn't get pregnant, and only broke up with her after he thought she had become too unattractive with her bulging belly.
I'm sure if you asked the guy, he would claim he wasn't homosexual. And, except for liking little boys, he's probably not. He has probably had several girlfriends. But what possesses him to be into little boys? I'm not going to claim to know. Most homosexuals I know would find him disgusting. So it seems his sexual perversion goes far deeper than homosexuality, which I don't consider a perversion, but a natural desire found in all people, as can be seen from the ancient Greek and Roman cultures, where bisexuality was the norm. In fact, the term homosexual wasn't even coined until the late 19th Century.
But all of this brings us back to the problem of Pat and her daughter Jessie. At the same time Michel was trying to see Sarah and had asked Jackie to start sleeping with him, Pat was fifteen, seeing her boyfriend Mark, and sleeping with every man possible. This is when Pat became pregnant with Jessie, and though she was dating Mark at the time, it is unlikely he was the father.
I learned from the Discovery Channel (or maybe it was the Learning Channel) that when women are unfaithful, there are various mechanisms that work to make a woman more or less likely to become impregnated by any given man. For example, this is what happened when Pat got pregnant:
Pat was unusual in her ability to have an orgasm at a very young age. Three days before she got pregnant, she had sex with a guy she met at a football game. He had a condom, so the only consequence was an orgasm. But having an orgasm make a woman's uterus more acidic, a condition which destroys sperm cells.
The next night, Pat went out with Mark, and as happened with every date they ever went on, they had sex, and she had an orgasm. This, as well as the sex from the night before, caused the acidity of her uterus to increase even more, killing a large number of his sperm. But Mark believed she was unfaithful, so, due to an unconscious mechanism we don't understand, he ejaculated twice the number of sperm into her than usual, though most were either slower sperm that act as a net to slow foreign sperm or killer sperm that killed any other sperm it ran into. Thus, his sperm and her own acidity protected her for the next five days from any other sperm.
But late that night, one of her friends, Jim, came over to her house, snuck in through her window, and had sex with her. Her uterus wasn't nearly as acidic by then, and she orgasmed at the same time he did, pulling his sperm deeper into her before it made her uterus acidic. He, too, produced a large number of killer sperm, which went to work against the sperm from Mark, killing many of them.
The next night, she had sex with yet another of her friends, Robert, again orgasming at the same time he did, pulling more of his sperm into her, where his, Mark's, and Jim's killer sperms tried to destroy as many of each others’ fertile sperm as they could find that had made it past the barrier Mark's sperm had created.
I don’t need to go into any greater detail about the other times she had sex with Mark, or who else she slept with that week, because it was sometime during that day that one of the fertile sperm from one of the three boys (at sixteen, they were all still boys) made it to the egg traveling down her fallopian tube, broke through the protein barrier surrounding it, and fertilized the egg, which continued traveling down the fallopian tube as it began dividing over the next few days before reaching the uterus and embedding itself there to finish developing into Jessie.
Two months later, she told Mark she was pregnant and that it was his. He told her he'd help take care of the child, but he didn't want to get married. They had already broken up and were dating other people. Mark's new girlfriend didn't take it too well, though, and broke up with him a week later. Pat's new boyfriend took advantage of the situation, knowing she couldn't get pregnant, and only broke up with her after he thought she had become too unattractive with her bulging belly.
Sunday, September 4, 2011
Chapter 9
Last night Donna and I got into a huge argument. The origin of the argument was bizarre. We were over a friend's house and had finished watching this movie called "Pi," which was about a numbers theorist who comes up with the numerological name for God while he's looking for the way to figure out the pattern behind the stock market. Throughout the movie, images of chaos were used, so I made some comments about chaos theory and about how people are using it to try to understand things like the stock market. On the way home, she said she didn't believe there was just one number that could describe everything, so she didn't believe in chaos theory. I said I agreed that there wasn't just one number, but that there was probably a mathematical formula that could describe everything - we just hadn't found it, and that what she described wasn't chaos theory at all.
When I tried to explain that chaos theory said that things that appeared to have patterns were actually chaotic in nature, while things that appeared random actually had strange patterns underlying them, she said she didn't care about chaos theory and didn't believe in it. I wondered how she could refuse to believe in something she didn't understand, and she repeated that she didn't care. So I told her I didn't care to be with someone who preferred to remain ignorant her entire life.
Now, Donna is almost finished with her B.A. in nursing, so she's not exactly stupid, but at the same time, she's never shown much interested in learning anything she hasn't had to. I'm addicted to learning new things. I suspect she feels inferior to me for that reason, so that is a sore spot for her, and she started yelling and I started yelling back and she slapped me and I returned the favor, for which I immediately apologized, explaining if she hadn't slapped me, I wouldn't have slapped her. In the argument, I accused her of being a liar, of misrepresenting herself for, among other things, refusing to get a job after she said she would when we moved down here. (I'm working 40 hours a week and attending Graduate school full time while she sits around the house and watches T.V. or plays on the computer while not keeping the house cleaned or the dishes washed or doing the laundry in time for me to have clean socks (most recent), which is the least she could do since she's not going to work and only going to school). After accusing her of sponging off of me in retaliation against the other men she's had to support all her life, she went through this ridiculous, childish litany of things she "must" be lying about, ranging from past boyfriends to her mother dying, then finally admitted to what I'd accused her of by saying she wanted to see what it was like to have someone take care of her. I told her the truth and said I would love to take care of her, but that I can't. I'm behind on my credit card bills, my phone has been shut off for months, and I'm lucky if I can pay the electricity bill every other month - all because she wanted to see what it's like to have someone take care of her. She's ruined my credit to be spoiled.
By the end of the argument, she had a list of things I had accused her of lying about, and she had only managed to find one thing I had lied to her about: I had promised to never hit her. And I had promised. Because I despise abusive people. But I never expected to live with a woman who would make the Dalai Lama want to hit her. Now don't get me wrong -- I never actually hit her until last night, after she slapped me first, but I had thrown a plastic spaghetti scoop at her when we were cooking and she was mad and throwing the spaghetti in the water like a spoiled child. I was actually throwing the spaghetti scoop to her, telling her to cook the meal herself if she was going to act that way, but it hit her arm instead, and I instantly apologized.
There was also another thing I told her last night. She asked me if I loved her, and I said, Yes, I did love her. But I didn't like her, and the fact that I loved someone like her was a bad reflection on me and the kind of person I was. That was about the only thing she didn't get mad about last night. I would think most women would have gotten mad if they were told something like that. But it's true. I don't like her. On so many levels she represents the very things I like least in people. So why am I sleeping with her? Why do I love her? I don't know. I wish I did.
So what does this have to do with this novel? I hate to say it, but I can see Michel and Sarah acting the same way if they moved in together. Only, Michel would be the one acting childish.
When I tried to explain that chaos theory said that things that appeared to have patterns were actually chaotic in nature, while things that appeared random actually had strange patterns underlying them, she said she didn't care about chaos theory and didn't believe in it. I wondered how she could refuse to believe in something she didn't understand, and she repeated that she didn't care. So I told her I didn't care to be with someone who preferred to remain ignorant her entire life.
Now, Donna is almost finished with her B.A. in nursing, so she's not exactly stupid, but at the same time, she's never shown much interested in learning anything she hasn't had to. I'm addicted to learning new things. I suspect she feels inferior to me for that reason, so that is a sore spot for her, and she started yelling and I started yelling back and she slapped me and I returned the favor, for which I immediately apologized, explaining if she hadn't slapped me, I wouldn't have slapped her. In the argument, I accused her of being a liar, of misrepresenting herself for, among other things, refusing to get a job after she said she would when we moved down here. (I'm working 40 hours a week and attending Graduate school full time while she sits around the house and watches T.V. or plays on the computer while not keeping the house cleaned or the dishes washed or doing the laundry in time for me to have clean socks (most recent), which is the least she could do since she's not going to work and only going to school). After accusing her of sponging off of me in retaliation against the other men she's had to support all her life, she went through this ridiculous, childish litany of things she "must" be lying about, ranging from past boyfriends to her mother dying, then finally admitted to what I'd accused her of by saying she wanted to see what it was like to have someone take care of her. I told her the truth and said I would love to take care of her, but that I can't. I'm behind on my credit card bills, my phone has been shut off for months, and I'm lucky if I can pay the electricity bill every other month - all because she wanted to see what it's like to have someone take care of her. She's ruined my credit to be spoiled.
By the end of the argument, she had a list of things I had accused her of lying about, and she had only managed to find one thing I had lied to her about: I had promised to never hit her. And I had promised. Because I despise abusive people. But I never expected to live with a woman who would make the Dalai Lama want to hit her. Now don't get me wrong -- I never actually hit her until last night, after she slapped me first, but I had thrown a plastic spaghetti scoop at her when we were cooking and she was mad and throwing the spaghetti in the water like a spoiled child. I was actually throwing the spaghetti scoop to her, telling her to cook the meal herself if she was going to act that way, but it hit her arm instead, and I instantly apologized.
There was also another thing I told her last night. She asked me if I loved her, and I said, Yes, I did love her. But I didn't like her, and the fact that I loved someone like her was a bad reflection on me and the kind of person I was. That was about the only thing she didn't get mad about last night. I would think most women would have gotten mad if they were told something like that. But it's true. I don't like her. On so many levels she represents the very things I like least in people. So why am I sleeping with her? Why do I love her? I don't know. I wish I did.
So what does this have to do with this novel? I hate to say it, but I can see Michel and Sarah acting the same way if they moved in together. Only, Michel would be the one acting childish.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
Chapter 8
Michel eventually puts down his story and lies down on the couch. The couch was also his bed, and he had not put it up, so he figured Jackie must have had company over earlier. He wonders who it was, but finds his thoughts turning instead to wondering if he could get Jackie to have sex with him. It had been two weeks since he had had sex with anybody, and that was the day before he and Jackie broke up. He decides he needs to either get together with Sarah soon, or else he and Jackie were going to have to discuss whether they could become fuck-buddies. She didn't have a boyfriend yet. He may be able to talk her into it. He decides to go discuss it with her.
Michel knocks on Jackie's door. The T.V. is on. "What?"
"You busy?"
"I was fixing to watch Babylon Five."
"They’re just DVDs."
"I haven't gotten to see them all."
"Look, I'm horny."
"What do you want me to do about it?"
"When was the last time you fucked anybody?"
"I got toys."
"And I've got my hand, but it's not nearly as much fun or enjoyable."
"We broke up, remember?"
"What does that have to do with fucking?"
"So, what? You just want to fuck or something? No relationship?"
"No relationship. Just sex."
"What about your girlfriend, Sarah?"
"She's not my girlfriend. We’re a writers’ group."
"What if that changes?"
"Then we'll stop fucking."
"No."
"No?"
"That's not fair. Why should I stop getting dick just because you started getting pussy? You're the one who approached me, remember?"
"Won't you want to stop fucking me if you get a boyfriend?"
"Not if I can help it. But if worse came to worse, then yes I would. But I didn't approach you with this proposition. You approached me."
"So if I start fucking you, I have to keep fucking you?"
"So long as we're roommates."
Michel thinks for a few seconds. "So when can we fuck?"
"Right after dinner and Babylon Five."
"I'll be in the living room when you're ready."
I can understand Michel's position. If you are used to having sex and are suddenly cut off, you miss it. It's Saturday and I haven't fucked my girlfriend since Monday. Before that, it was the Saturday before, over a week. Most men probably wouldn't complain (well, they probably would, but wouldn’t actually mean it), except that I have an extremely high libido. Most men say they want to have sex every day. I really do. Twice a day, or more, if Donna would let me. I sometimes want to more than I’m able to in any given day. But recently the amount of sex with Donna has gotten less and less, despite her claims before we moved in together that she was a nymphomaniac. If she is, she's the worst excuse for a nympho I've ever seen. Before now, I could not understand how men could cheat on their girlfriends or wives. But after only having sex once in a two-week period, I'm beginning to understand. Before we moved in together, all she wanted to do when we were together was have sex. Now, nothing.
Another thing that has been bothering me is her constantly talking about what her next boyfriend is going to be like. She quickly qualifies it by saying, "If we don't work out," but I'm not that naive. I'm beginning to wonder when she's going to decide she doesn't love me anymore. She won't let me touch her, she won't let me fuck her, she's always talking about other men and what her next boyfriend is going to be like. I'm afraid she's trying to figure out a way to leave me. I wonder if she weren't so far from home if she wouldn't have left me by now. She's been talking about moving in with that girl Maddy she's friends with -- could that be her plan, to move in with her and move out? Then why has she been talking about the three of us moving in together? Donna's always said she was bi, but I never saw any actual evidence of it. Maybe Maddy as a transition out? Is she cheating on me with Maddy even now? I never thought of that until now.
In any case, Jackie solved that problem by breaking up with Michel, but not leaving him. She had started doing the same things to Michel before she finally told him she wanted to break up. It did not surprise Michel that she immediately started dating someone (something I don't fear from Donna), though she broke up with that boyfriend after only a week. Michel and Jackie had agreed to continue being roommates to save on rent, and because both their names were on the lease, and it was not going to be up for another eight months. Neither wanted to lose their deposit. It was not a perfect arrangement, but they mostly stayed out of each others' way. Until they agreed to start having sex again. Avoiding each other seemed ridiculous after that.
Michel knocks on Jackie's door. The T.V. is on. "What?"
"You busy?"
"I was fixing to watch Babylon Five."
"They’re just DVDs."
"I haven't gotten to see them all."
"Look, I'm horny."
"What do you want me to do about it?"
"When was the last time you fucked anybody?"
"I got toys."
"And I've got my hand, but it's not nearly as much fun or enjoyable."
"We broke up, remember?"
"What does that have to do with fucking?"
"So, what? You just want to fuck or something? No relationship?"
"No relationship. Just sex."
"What about your girlfriend, Sarah?"
"She's not my girlfriend. We’re a writers’ group."
"What if that changes?"
"Then we'll stop fucking."
"No."
"No?"
"That's not fair. Why should I stop getting dick just because you started getting pussy? You're the one who approached me, remember?"
"Won't you want to stop fucking me if you get a boyfriend?"
"Not if I can help it. But if worse came to worse, then yes I would. But I didn't approach you with this proposition. You approached me."
"So if I start fucking you, I have to keep fucking you?"
"So long as we're roommates."
Michel thinks for a few seconds. "So when can we fuck?"
"Right after dinner and Babylon Five."
"I'll be in the living room when you're ready."
I can understand Michel's position. If you are used to having sex and are suddenly cut off, you miss it. It's Saturday and I haven't fucked my girlfriend since Monday. Before that, it was the Saturday before, over a week. Most men probably wouldn't complain (well, they probably would, but wouldn’t actually mean it), except that I have an extremely high libido. Most men say they want to have sex every day. I really do. Twice a day, or more, if Donna would let me. I sometimes want to more than I’m able to in any given day. But recently the amount of sex with Donna has gotten less and less, despite her claims before we moved in together that she was a nymphomaniac. If she is, she's the worst excuse for a nympho I've ever seen. Before now, I could not understand how men could cheat on their girlfriends or wives. But after only having sex once in a two-week period, I'm beginning to understand. Before we moved in together, all she wanted to do when we were together was have sex. Now, nothing.
Another thing that has been bothering me is her constantly talking about what her next boyfriend is going to be like. She quickly qualifies it by saying, "If we don't work out," but I'm not that naive. I'm beginning to wonder when she's going to decide she doesn't love me anymore. She won't let me touch her, she won't let me fuck her, she's always talking about other men and what her next boyfriend is going to be like. I'm afraid she's trying to figure out a way to leave me. I wonder if she weren't so far from home if she wouldn't have left me by now. She's been talking about moving in with that girl Maddy she's friends with -- could that be her plan, to move in with her and move out? Then why has she been talking about the three of us moving in together? Donna's always said she was bi, but I never saw any actual evidence of it. Maybe Maddy as a transition out? Is she cheating on me with Maddy even now? I never thought of that until now.
In any case, Jackie solved that problem by breaking up with Michel, but not leaving him. She had started doing the same things to Michel before she finally told him she wanted to break up. It did not surprise Michel that she immediately started dating someone (something I don't fear from Donna), though she broke up with that boyfriend after only a week. Michel and Jackie had agreed to continue being roommates to save on rent, and because both their names were on the lease, and it was not going to be up for another eight months. Neither wanted to lose their deposit. It was not a perfect arrangement, but they mostly stayed out of each others' way. Until they agreed to start having sex again. Avoiding each other seemed ridiculous after that.
Chapter 19
Michel returned as Sarah finished the last page. “Where do you want me to put these?” Michel asked, holding up the bags.
“Put the milk in the ‘fridge. Put the rest on the cupboard, and I’ll put it up.”
Michel complied, and asked as he returned, “You finish it?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty good. Good exposition. I learned a lot in this chapter. What are you going to do with the next chapter?”
“I think it’ll be the first chapter of his book.”
“Are you going to just have parts of his novel, or are you planning to have a novel within a novel?”
“I was thinking novel within novel. I think it would be cruel to tease people with only excerpts.”
“I could see that. But wouldn’t putting excerpts of his novel in your novel break up the action?”
“Sure. I think it will create dramatic tension -- you have to read this chapter from his novel to understand what is going on in his head, but reading it causes you to have to wait for the next series of actions from the “real” characters.”
“Won’t that draw attention to the fact that they aren’t real people?”
“I don’t know. Probably. What’s wrong with that? They’re not real people.”
“
But people like to think of the characters as real.”
“Maybe, but they’re not going to get it from my novel.”
“You may not have too many people reading it.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll create my own audience. Why would people want to read the same expected things every time? This will be unexpected, fresh and new. Why wouldn’t people want to read something like that?”
“We think a lot of ourselves don’t we?” Sarah said.
“I’m not saying I’ll be able to pull it off like I imagine it. But I think the idea is a good one.”
“I can’t argue with that. But you’re already marginalizing your audience with the gay main characters... why would you want to do it even more with this structure?”
“It’s an experimental structure. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing...”
“Look, if you don’t like it, say so...”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I was thinking of marketability...”
“I’m not worried about marketability. You’re thinking of vertical sales, where the book makes a ton of money right away, but then peters off into oblivion. I’m thinking of horizontal sales, where I sell a few thousand this year, then a few thousand the next year, and I sell a steady number of books for decades - or even have the sale of my book go up over the years...”
“Great literature does that. Hemingway and Faulkner do that. Do you really think this novel is that caliber of a story?”
“That’s the plan.”
“You’re delirious.”
“No, I’m dreaming big. There’s a difference.”
“Put the milk in the ‘fridge. Put the rest on the cupboard, and I’ll put it up.”
Michel complied, and asked as he returned, “You finish it?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty good. Good exposition. I learned a lot in this chapter. What are you going to do with the next chapter?”
“I think it’ll be the first chapter of his book.”
“Are you going to just have parts of his novel, or are you planning to have a novel within a novel?”
“I was thinking novel within novel. I think it would be cruel to tease people with only excerpts.”
“I could see that. But wouldn’t putting excerpts of his novel in your novel break up the action?”
“Sure. I think it will create dramatic tension -- you have to read this chapter from his novel to understand what is going on in his head, but reading it causes you to have to wait for the next series of actions from the “real” characters.”
“Won’t that draw attention to the fact that they aren’t real people?”
“I don’t know. Probably. What’s wrong with that? They’re not real people.”
“
But people like to think of the characters as real.”
“Maybe, but they’re not going to get it from my novel.”
“You may not have too many people reading it.”
“Maybe. Or maybe I’ll create my own audience. Why would people want to read the same expected things every time? This will be unexpected, fresh and new. Why wouldn’t people want to read something like that?”
“We think a lot of ourselves don’t we?” Sarah said.
“I’m not saying I’ll be able to pull it off like I imagine it. But I think the idea is a good one.”
“I can’t argue with that. But you’re already marginalizing your audience with the gay main characters... why would you want to do it even more with this structure?”
“It’s an experimental structure. What’s wrong with that?”
“Nothing...”
“Look, if you don’t like it, say so...”
“I didn’t say I didn’t like it. I was thinking of marketability...”
“I’m not worried about marketability. You’re thinking of vertical sales, where the book makes a ton of money right away, but then peters off into oblivion. I’m thinking of horizontal sales, where I sell a few thousand this year, then a few thousand the next year, and I sell a steady number of books for decades - or even have the sale of my book go up over the years...”
“Great literature does that. Hemingway and Faulkner do that. Do you really think this novel is that caliber of a story?”
“That’s the plan.”
“You’re delirious.”
“No, I’m dreaming big. There’s a difference.”
Chapter 22
Yesterday I learned my grandmother has two months to a year left to live. Why does it matter so much to me? She raised me. My mom abandoned me to join some cult, and nobody ever heard from her again.
A few months ago, doctors found a cyst on my grandmother's lung. They planned to remove it, along with the lower lobe of her lung. A minor operation. But shortly thereafter, she became sick, and they couldn’t operate until she became well. She never became well. This month they discovered my mother’s lungs were covered in cancer, a fast-growing sarcoma that would fill her chest cavity. Her body’s already not making any new blood.
It all happened so fast. The last time I saw her was in May, at my brother’s graduation. Admittedly, she was starting to look a little old, but she was, after all, over sixty. Still, she had seemed to age all of a sudden. Then, in a few months, the cyst. Then, the sickness. Now, she’s going to die within a year. I don’t know how my grandfather will survive this news. He’s already had so many strokes. How can he survive it? If he does survive the news, I doubt he will survive her death.
And here I sit in Richardson, TX, a flurry of disappointments. I’m living with my girlfriend, which they do not approve of, I’m getting a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing, which they consider a waste of their money, and, and this is a disappointment for me as well as my grandmother, she will never get to see her grandchildren. She’ll be dead before any are conceived. But right now, I have to finish the semester. Grandma won’t be home much before then anyway, I don’t think. Then I’ll take some time off from work and fly home. It may be the last time I see her. I know my grandmother. The news of her immanent death (they are supposed to tell her today) alone could kill her. It’s already beginning to kill a little bit of me.
A few months ago, doctors found a cyst on my grandmother's lung. They planned to remove it, along with the lower lobe of her lung. A minor operation. But shortly thereafter, she became sick, and they couldn’t operate until she became well. She never became well. This month they discovered my mother’s lungs were covered in cancer, a fast-growing sarcoma that would fill her chest cavity. Her body’s already not making any new blood.
It all happened so fast. The last time I saw her was in May, at my brother’s graduation. Admittedly, she was starting to look a little old, but she was, after all, over sixty. Still, she had seemed to age all of a sudden. Then, in a few months, the cyst. Then, the sickness. Now, she’s going to die within a year. I don’t know how my grandfather will survive this news. He’s already had so many strokes. How can he survive it? If he does survive the news, I doubt he will survive her death.
And here I sit in Richardson, TX, a flurry of disappointments. I’m living with my girlfriend, which they do not approve of, I’m getting a Master’s Degree in Creative Writing, which they consider a waste of their money, and, and this is a disappointment for me as well as my grandmother, she will never get to see her grandchildren. She’ll be dead before any are conceived. But right now, I have to finish the semester. Grandma won’t be home much before then anyway, I don’t think. Then I’ll take some time off from work and fly home. It may be the last time I see her. I know my grandmother. The news of her immanent death (they are supposed to tell her today) alone could kill her. It’s already beginning to kill a little bit of me.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Chapter 7
I can see it's going to be difficult to find the time to work on this novel now that classes have started. But I'd like to get back to the scene between Michel and Jessie in the last chapter. Now before you get offended (and, no doubt accuse me of being the pervert, coming up with such a story line), I have to ask you, how many of you got turned on by the scene? Is that why you're offended? And if you did get turned on, what does that say about you? What about your own pedophilic impulses? Maybe you're the pervert here, and I'm just exposing you for what you are. And for those who think I'm strangely preoccupied with the topic, perhaps I'm only tapping into the Zeitgeist, as one can see here, where the government is talking about children being "sexual beings" (I knew they were all a bunch of perverts there), and here (really, we need to remove the stigma from pedophiles? really?). So the culture is perverse. We sexualize children, and the natural result is pedophilia and its acceptance. Don't get offended because I am in touch with the spirit of the times. Don't get mad at me exposing you. You're the ones watching that made-for-pedophiles T.V. show "Toddlers and Tiaras," not me.
We have a nation of men like Michel, only he took the last logical step and made his pedophilia complete. How many of you only have the law standing between you and sex with an underage girl? If so, you're no better than Michel (isn't there someplace -- Biblical, perhaps? -- that says that if you sin in your heart, it's the same as performing the actual sin?). But Michel's, and your, pedophilia is only a symptom of the problem. The problem is that we are a nation of children. We are a nation of people who always expect to have our own way, who refuse to take responsibility for our actions, and who expect someone else to take care of us and those we should be responsible for.
But let's get back to the adult-child in this novel, Michel, and where we left him with Sarah. Michel and Sarah continue dancing around the issue of how they feel about each other throughout the meal - Michel, because he's afraid of Sarah, Sarah because she's both attracted to and repulsed by Michel. But this is something I'll have to come back to, after I finish eating - we're having Tuna Helper. Not that I've been able to work on this without interruption anyway, since Donna has called me in to see something about on VH1 between the first two sentences of this paragraph. That, and the fact that my keyboard is trying to die on me (it keeps refusing to read the "O" "L" and "." keys), are starting to get on my nerves.
I'm finished eating, and the show is over, so maybe I'll be able to write. Let's return to Michel and Sarah, particularly to Michel, who has dropped Sarah off at her apartment. Michel, who is driving a little blue Geo, tries to think of something else to do before he decides there is nothing else to do, and so goes home to his apartment. He walks in and catches his ex-girlfriend, now roommate, Jackie, walking around the apartment naked.
"Hurry up and shut the door," Jackie says.
Michel shuts the door. "You know, walking around the apartment naked only makes me want to fuck you."
"Just so long as you don't want some kind of relationship out of it..." Jackie turns and walks into the kitchen. Michel can smell something cooking.
"What are you making?"
"I thought you went out to eat with whats-her-name?"
"Sarah. I did. I didn't say I was hungry."
"I'm making Spanish shells."
"Naked?"
"What difference is it to you?"
"It's not very sanitary."
"Who's the biologist here?"
"What difference does that make?"
"And why do you care?"
"I used to care."
"And I didn't used to think you were a jack-ass, but I changed my mind."
"I'm not arguing with you. I'm going to try to get some work done."
"Okay. Whatever."
Michel looks at the marks Sarah made in his story. He hated to admit it, but he agreed with most of her corrections. Mostly grammatical and spelling, typos, but there were also problems with the story itself. Or at least, she said there were, though Michel could not see it. He thought it was a good story, so he decided to fix the surface problems and leave the story itself alone. As far as he was concerned, it was finished. This is usually the sign of an amateur writer, one who cannot see the flaws in a story, even when they are pointed out by other writers.
We have a nation of men like Michel, only he took the last logical step and made his pedophilia complete. How many of you only have the law standing between you and sex with an underage girl? If so, you're no better than Michel (isn't there someplace -- Biblical, perhaps? -- that says that if you sin in your heart, it's the same as performing the actual sin?). But Michel's, and your, pedophilia is only a symptom of the problem. The problem is that we are a nation of children. We are a nation of people who always expect to have our own way, who refuse to take responsibility for our actions, and who expect someone else to take care of us and those we should be responsible for.
But let's get back to the adult-child in this novel, Michel, and where we left him with Sarah. Michel and Sarah continue dancing around the issue of how they feel about each other throughout the meal - Michel, because he's afraid of Sarah, Sarah because she's both attracted to and repulsed by Michel. But this is something I'll have to come back to, after I finish eating - we're having Tuna Helper. Not that I've been able to work on this without interruption anyway, since Donna has called me in to see something about on VH1 between the first two sentences of this paragraph. That, and the fact that my keyboard is trying to die on me (it keeps refusing to read the "O" "L" and "." keys), are starting to get on my nerves.
I'm finished eating, and the show is over, so maybe I'll be able to write. Let's return to Michel and Sarah, particularly to Michel, who has dropped Sarah off at her apartment. Michel, who is driving a little blue Geo, tries to think of something else to do before he decides there is nothing else to do, and so goes home to his apartment. He walks in and catches his ex-girlfriend, now roommate, Jackie, walking around the apartment naked.
"Hurry up and shut the door," Jackie says.
Michel shuts the door. "You know, walking around the apartment naked only makes me want to fuck you."
"Just so long as you don't want some kind of relationship out of it..." Jackie turns and walks into the kitchen. Michel can smell something cooking.
"What are you making?"
"I thought you went out to eat with whats-her-name?"
"Sarah. I did. I didn't say I was hungry."
"I'm making Spanish shells."
"Naked?"
"What difference is it to you?"
"It's not very sanitary."
"Who's the biologist here?"
"What difference does that make?"
"And why do you care?"
"I used to care."
"And I didn't used to think you were a jack-ass, but I changed my mind."
"I'm not arguing with you. I'm going to try to get some work done."
"Okay. Whatever."
Michel looks at the marks Sarah made in his story. He hated to admit it, but he agreed with most of her corrections. Mostly grammatical and spelling, typos, but there were also problems with the story itself. Or at least, she said there were, though Michel could not see it. He thought it was a good story, so he decided to fix the surface problems and leave the story itself alone. As far as he was concerned, it was finished. This is usually the sign of an amateur writer, one who cannot see the flaws in a story, even when they are pointed out by other writers.
Thursday, August 25, 2011
Chapter 6
Last night Donna got her nipple pierced. She did it to see if it hurt, the same reason she got her tongue pierced. Now we know: the tongue doesn't hurt, but the nipple definitely does. Of course, now her nipple itches and she can't scratch it, but at least she says her nipple is sensitive now, which it wasn't before. I guess it's difficult to have sensitive nipples when they're on the end of a pair of FF's. Once they get that big, the nerves tend to spread out so much you can't feel too much. Quite a shame, too, since I like breasts so much. She doesn't see any point in my even touching them since they're so insensitive. Maybe that will change now. If it does, it will have been worth the thirty-five dollars.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this, or how it has any relevance to this novel, since I don't see Sarah as having either a tongue or a nipple ring. Earrings, perhaps, but nothing so radical as a nipple ring. I was thinking about giving Michel an ex-girlfriend whom he's still living with when he's falling for Sarah, but I wasn't sure what she was like. I was thinking maybe she was into molecular biology, but giving her a pierced nipple would definitely add to her personality and explain why she and Michel didn't work out. Michel doesn't seem like the pierced-nipple type, though I can see how he could be attracted to a woman with one for a while, to see what she would be like. But I can also see why he would get tired of a woman that radical and independent, so full of self-expression. She would make Michel feel inferior, though that is exactly the kind of women Michel is attracted to: strong women who make him feel inferior. Maybe it helps drive his misogyny, though I'm still not sure why anyone would want to hang onto such outmoded thinking. Of course, I'm not sure why anyone would be prejudiced against anyone, but maybe that's me. I don't understand the kind of fear that leads to hatred, and maybe I shouldn't try to understand Michel's either.
But I want to get back to his neighbor, to this woman he will be living next to in the future. Maybe if we know something about where Michel is going, we can know more about where he's at. First, let's decide on his neighbor’s name. The first name comes to mind is Patricia, though I think everyone will call her Pat. She's a very attractive young woman, maybe twenty-six with an eleven-year-old daughter named Jessica, or Jessie for short. After that first mistake, she was always careful to use the pill, so she did not become pregnant again despite her extreme sexual activity. She slept with her friends and most of her neighbors, and didn’t care if they were male or female.
So it shouldn't surprise us that shortly after Michel moved in next door, they started having an affair. Her daughter was rarely in the house, always running around somewhere in the neighborhood, so it was easy for them to find the time to have sex. Michel found Pat attractive because she kept herself extremely thin, so thin her breasts disappeared when she lay on her back. She also kept herself shaved between her legs, and Michel was surprised to find how erotic this was. He had seen shaved women in porno magazines before, but to see a woman's shaved crotch live, there for him to touch and feel, was almost too much. It's not too much of an exaggeration to say if Michel wasn't writing or eating, he was next door, having sex with Pat.
This provides us with enough background information to get to the truly bizarre aspect of this relationship. One day, late afternoon, with only a few hours of sun left, after finishing a few chapters of his next novel, Michel was walking to Pat's, going from his back yard to hers. There were some shrubs between the two back yards, planted there by the previous owners, and Michel decided to push his way through them, since it would be faster than going around. When he was about halfway, he stopped. Jessie was kneeling in front of a man, easily in his early twenties. It looked so bizarre, seeing Jessie in her yellow shorts and pink top with little white lacy collar performing such an obscene task. Michel watched for a few seconds before deciding he needed to do something. Michel leaped out of the bushes. The man opened his eyes in shock as Jessie turned to see who it was. The man turned and ran off, zipping his pants as he dashed away. Jessie struggled to her feet, hoping to get away from Michel. He grabbed her by the blouse, and said, "What do you think you're doing?"
"None of your damn business!"
"Where'd you learn to talk like that?" Michel was suddenly hit by the irony of his statement, and followed with, "Come on, we're going to go tell your mother."
"Okay. Whatever."
Michel drags her into Pat's house, entering without knocking. Pat is sitting on the couch, watching T.V. She looks up and says, "What's wrong? What's going on?"
Michel finally let Jessie go, and told Pat what he saw.
"Oh. Is that all?"
Michel stares at her for a minute, then says, "You're kidding, right?"
"Oh please. You can't tell me you haven't thought about it."
Michel is silent, trying to think of what to say. Since there doesn't seem to be any right or wrong answer, he decides to say what he really thinks, "Well, uh, yeah. But I didn't actually intend..."
"Of course not. Most men don't intend it, but they do think about it. That's why I'm so thin and why I shave my pussy. I know I look like a little girl when I do. You like it when I put my hair up in pigtails or braids, don't you? But why pretend when you can have the real thing?"
"I'll, uh, I'll have to think about this..."
"No, don't think about it. Just do it. If you want her, you know where her bedroom is."
Jessie begins taking off her clothes and walking toward her bedroom. "I'll be waiting for you, Mikey."
Michel stares after Jessie, then looks back at Pat. "Well, go on," she says again before he shakes his head and walks into Jessie's room to fulfill every American pedophile's dream.
Speaking of children, Donna just got mad at me because she asked me if I could come watch T.V. with her, and I told her I was busy. Now she's throwing a fit while I'm trying to work on this. She's a moody bitch. I'm trying to be the next Nabakov, and I've got to put up with this bullshit.
Well, now that I've ignored her, she's stormed off to the bedroom and slammed the door. I suppose I could get back to that pervert and her boyfriend (yes, I know he's a pervert too, but the mother is just as much if not more so if you ask me -- I know, as a novelist I'm not supposed to make moral judgments about my characters, but there it is), but now, unfortunately, I'm not in too good a mood, and so I'm going to stop writing. Sorry about the interruption, but sometimes you can't always do what you want when you have a child in the house.
I'm not sure where I'm going with this, or how it has any relevance to this novel, since I don't see Sarah as having either a tongue or a nipple ring. Earrings, perhaps, but nothing so radical as a nipple ring. I was thinking about giving Michel an ex-girlfriend whom he's still living with when he's falling for Sarah, but I wasn't sure what she was like. I was thinking maybe she was into molecular biology, but giving her a pierced nipple would definitely add to her personality and explain why she and Michel didn't work out. Michel doesn't seem like the pierced-nipple type, though I can see how he could be attracted to a woman with one for a while, to see what she would be like. But I can also see why he would get tired of a woman that radical and independent, so full of self-expression. She would make Michel feel inferior, though that is exactly the kind of women Michel is attracted to: strong women who make him feel inferior. Maybe it helps drive his misogyny, though I'm still not sure why anyone would want to hang onto such outmoded thinking. Of course, I'm not sure why anyone would be prejudiced against anyone, but maybe that's me. I don't understand the kind of fear that leads to hatred, and maybe I shouldn't try to understand Michel's either.
But I want to get back to his neighbor, to this woman he will be living next to in the future. Maybe if we know something about where Michel is going, we can know more about where he's at. First, let's decide on his neighbor’s name. The first name comes to mind is Patricia, though I think everyone will call her Pat. She's a very attractive young woman, maybe twenty-six with an eleven-year-old daughter named Jessica, or Jessie for short. After that first mistake, she was always careful to use the pill, so she did not become pregnant again despite her extreme sexual activity. She slept with her friends and most of her neighbors, and didn’t care if they were male or female.
So it shouldn't surprise us that shortly after Michel moved in next door, they started having an affair. Her daughter was rarely in the house, always running around somewhere in the neighborhood, so it was easy for them to find the time to have sex. Michel found Pat attractive because she kept herself extremely thin, so thin her breasts disappeared when she lay on her back. She also kept herself shaved between her legs, and Michel was surprised to find how erotic this was. He had seen shaved women in porno magazines before, but to see a woman's shaved crotch live, there for him to touch and feel, was almost too much. It's not too much of an exaggeration to say if Michel wasn't writing or eating, he was next door, having sex with Pat.
This provides us with enough background information to get to the truly bizarre aspect of this relationship. One day, late afternoon, with only a few hours of sun left, after finishing a few chapters of his next novel, Michel was walking to Pat's, going from his back yard to hers. There were some shrubs between the two back yards, planted there by the previous owners, and Michel decided to push his way through them, since it would be faster than going around. When he was about halfway, he stopped. Jessie was kneeling in front of a man, easily in his early twenties. It looked so bizarre, seeing Jessie in her yellow shorts and pink top with little white lacy collar performing such an obscene task. Michel watched for a few seconds before deciding he needed to do something. Michel leaped out of the bushes. The man opened his eyes in shock as Jessie turned to see who it was. The man turned and ran off, zipping his pants as he dashed away. Jessie struggled to her feet, hoping to get away from Michel. He grabbed her by the blouse, and said, "What do you think you're doing?"
"None of your damn business!"
"Where'd you learn to talk like that?" Michel was suddenly hit by the irony of his statement, and followed with, "Come on, we're going to go tell your mother."
"Okay. Whatever."
Michel drags her into Pat's house, entering without knocking. Pat is sitting on the couch, watching T.V. She looks up and says, "What's wrong? What's going on?"
Michel finally let Jessie go, and told Pat what he saw.
"Oh. Is that all?"
Michel stares at her for a minute, then says, "You're kidding, right?"
"Oh please. You can't tell me you haven't thought about it."
Michel is silent, trying to think of what to say. Since there doesn't seem to be any right or wrong answer, he decides to say what he really thinks, "Well, uh, yeah. But I didn't actually intend..."
"Of course not. Most men don't intend it, but they do think about it. That's why I'm so thin and why I shave my pussy. I know I look like a little girl when I do. You like it when I put my hair up in pigtails or braids, don't you? But why pretend when you can have the real thing?"
"I'll, uh, I'll have to think about this..."
"No, don't think about it. Just do it. If you want her, you know where her bedroom is."
Jessie begins taking off her clothes and walking toward her bedroom. "I'll be waiting for you, Mikey."
Michel stares after Jessie, then looks back at Pat. "Well, go on," she says again before he shakes his head and walks into Jessie's room to fulfill every American pedophile's dream.
Speaking of children, Donna just got mad at me because she asked me if I could come watch T.V. with her, and I told her I was busy. Now she's throwing a fit while I'm trying to work on this. She's a moody bitch. I'm trying to be the next Nabakov, and I've got to put up with this bullshit.
Well, now that I've ignored her, she's stormed off to the bedroom and slammed the door. I suppose I could get back to that pervert and her boyfriend (yes, I know he's a pervert too, but the mother is just as much if not more so if you ask me -- I know, as a novelist I'm not supposed to make moral judgments about my characters, but there it is), but now, unfortunately, I'm not in too good a mood, and so I'm going to stop writing. Sorry about the interruption, but sometimes you can't always do what you want when you have a child in the house.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
Chapter 5
It's late, but I thought I'd try to get in some writing before I go to bed. I finished putting three new poems on the computer, and got interrupted in the middle of each one by Donna asking me to come in the living room to see something on T.V., so it won't surprise me if she interrupts me while I'm writing this.
I just finished watching The Housewives of someplace or other.
I was interrupted by my girlfriend to come see something on the web - a Saturday Night Live skit called Goth Talk, where the Budweiser Frogs came on and beat up the two Goth kids. I'm not quite sure what the point of it was. But now I'm back, and I'd like to try to get back to what I was thinking.
I just finished watching MTV's old show Loveline online, and there was this kid who called in who said he was eighteen and was dating a fourteen-year-old, but that when he was ten, he was dating and having sex with a fifteen-year-old girl. How bizarre is that? I'm wondering if maybe I shouldn't make it so Michel was in a similar situation as the kid who called in. That would open it up for something I had been thinking about regarding Michel's character anyway.
I know I said we weren't going to delve into Michel's past, but this would help explain some things I think I'll do in the future with Michel. Of course, now I've probably foreshadowed way too much, so I might as well get to the point. Michel and Sarah don't quite work out. That doesn't mean we won't go back to them and discover more about their relationship, because we will, but let's face it, they don't work out. This leaves Michel a bachelor longer than he had planned, even after he gets a novel published. He eventually buys a modest house in a small town, away from any kind of hassles, with only one neighbor.
But it looks like you'll have to learn more about this neighbor later, as well as some other characters I wanted to introduce you to, because Donna came back here and announced that she was going outside, and did I care to join her. Translation: "Come outside with me." So, I'll go, and return to this later. I wish she would hang out with that new friend of hers more often.
I just finished watching The Housewives of someplace or other.
I was interrupted by my girlfriend to come see something on the web - a Saturday Night Live skit called Goth Talk, where the Budweiser Frogs came on and beat up the two Goth kids. I'm not quite sure what the point of it was. But now I'm back, and I'd like to try to get back to what I was thinking.
I just finished watching MTV's old show Loveline online, and there was this kid who called in who said he was eighteen and was dating a fourteen-year-old, but that when he was ten, he was dating and having sex with a fifteen-year-old girl. How bizarre is that? I'm wondering if maybe I shouldn't make it so Michel was in a similar situation as the kid who called in. That would open it up for something I had been thinking about regarding Michel's character anyway.
I know I said we weren't going to delve into Michel's past, but this would help explain some things I think I'll do in the future with Michel. Of course, now I've probably foreshadowed way too much, so I might as well get to the point. Michel and Sarah don't quite work out. That doesn't mean we won't go back to them and discover more about their relationship, because we will, but let's face it, they don't work out. This leaves Michel a bachelor longer than he had planned, even after he gets a novel published. He eventually buys a modest house in a small town, away from any kind of hassles, with only one neighbor.
But it looks like you'll have to learn more about this neighbor later, as well as some other characters I wanted to introduce you to, because Donna came back here and announced that she was going outside, and did I care to join her. Translation: "Come outside with me." So, I'll go, and return to this later. I wish she would hang out with that new friend of hers more often.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Chapter 4
I've changed my mind. I've decided I should describe Sarah. Last night, I went to a café with my brother, and I noticed something very interesting. The men there were in their twenties, though there were at least two there who were in their forties, while all the women, or should I say, girls, were in high school. It was obvious these girls were in their mid-teens, but all the men there - except for three of us - were flirting with them. This made me think about something my brother told me shortly after he arrived. He said the reason American women shaved their arm pits was because of America's obsession with pedophilia. If you consider American men's obsession with not only shaved armpits, but shaved crotches and women having extremely thin, shapeless bodies, it becomes clearer that American men do have an obsession with pedophilia. Why else would they want their women to look like little girls? Now, I'll be the first to admit that I do prefer women to have shaved armpits. And shaved legs. I'm not sure if that is cultural or some semblance of pedophilia on my part, but at least I do prefer my women to have some sort of shape. I like round full hips and bottoms, and large breasts, and some tummy. I find that sexy. Donna of course is over-ample in all those departments. So that's what I think Sarah should look like (not to the extreme of Donna, but more modestly rounded). Sarah looks like a woman, thinks like a woman, and acts like a woman.
That's probably another subconscious problem Michel has with Sarah. Like most American men, he's more than a bit pedophilic. He'd prefer Sarah to be slimmer, and he doesn't understand the way she thinks or acts. He still acts too much like a child: taking everything too serious, throwing fits whenever he cannot have his way. In different circumstances, he'd make a perfect dictator. Dictators are full-grown children with immense power. Hugo Chavez is currently the most obvious child in power, though Barack Obama is little better, only his power is kept in check by our republican system of government, which keeps the damage he can do minimized. But we've seen the results of both him and the Republican House of Representatives throwing fits over not being able to have their own way. I remember back to Clinton. who bombed Iraq whenever he had a problem, and the House Republicans impeached Clinton because Clinton wouldn’t go along with them. This is not to say I agree with perjury and obstruction of justice. I don't. But it’s not enough to overthrow an election. Especially what he lied over. It turns out, at least, that there were some adults in the Senate.
But Michel is not in power. At least, there is little chance of him getting political power. He plans to be a writer. Of course, many could consider this a position of power, especially those mimeticists who don't think people can tell the difference between reality and fiction and so could potentially (and dangerously, to their minds) be moved by the words and emotion in a work of fiction. Of course, they do have a point to an extent. Voltaire helped cause the French Revolution with Candide. Ayn Rand reformed American Conservatism and planted the seeds for modern libertarianism with Atlas Shrugged. Milan Kundera helped cause the student protests that unfortunately led to Prague Spring with The Joke. But at this point in his career, I don't think we have much to fear from Michel. He's not a very good writer yet, though Sarah is trying to help him become one. Probably, by the time she is done with her influence, he will be on the road to becoming worthy of exerting influence, though I doubt it will be on the scale of any of the three novelists I mentioned above.
But let's get these two characters together. Right now I see them sitting together in a restaurant. Mediterranean, I think, because I love Mediterranean. They've finished going over a story, his "Reciprocation," and a number of her poems. I'm thinking in addition to fiction, she probably writes poetry as well. Today she brought poems. He had few problems with her poems, but she had many of the same complaints I had with his story. Now they're finished working on their writing, and are eating and talking.
Michel is cutting his gyros into smaller pieces, then letting the tahini sauce drip off the meat before putting it in his mouth. He likes mixing the rice with the leftover tahini sauce and hummus when he's finished eating his gyros. Sarah has a plate of baba ganoush and is eating it with wedges of pita bread.
"This is good," Sarah says. "Have you ever had baba ganoush?"
"No. It looks like hummus, only gray."
"It's made from eggplants, and it sort of tastes like hummus, only better. You want to try some?"
"Sure." Sarah scoops up some baba ganoush with a piece of pita bread and feeds it to him. "Mmmm. Good. You wanna bite of my gyros?"
"No, thanks. I got this because today is vegetarian day for me."
"Trying to lose weight?"
"No. Just trying to live healthy. Why? Do I look like I need to lose weight?"
"I didn't say that."
"You should think of doing something like that."
"What? Losing weight?" He didn’t think he needed to lose weight.
"No. Having a vegetarian day. It'll make you feel better. It gives your body a day to clean itself out."
"I think you're trying to lose weight. I haven't met a woman yet who thought she was thin enough."
"I'm not every woman. I'm happy with the way I look."
"You'd be the first."
"All women aren't like that, Michel."
"I didn't say I was complaining. I like thin women."
"Well, you're not going to get a thin woman here. I like being big enough to have breasts and hips."
"Now don't get me wrong, I like breasts..."
"I'm sure you do. But women aren't just breasts, either."
"I didn't say they were."
"Then why don't you speak to my face instead of my tits."
Michel blushes. "Sorry."
"That's my point, Michel. You really don't think of women as human beings, as your equals. That's the main problem with your stories. You need to write a story that has a strong female character so you can practice writing women. Who knows, you might even learn to see us as people."
"I see you as people."
"I know you see me as people now, but it's taken you a while."
"Well, maybe there's a good reason for it."
"And what reason would that be?"
"I'll be honest, I really don't care much for people..."
"Well, neither do I, but I don't let that prevent me from creating rounded male characters," Sarah said.
"But I do care about you." Michel looks down at his food, avoiding her eyes.
"Excuse me?"
Michel takes a bite, chews it, swallows, and looks back up at Sarah. "Why did you want to keep meeting with me when everyone else decided to quit?"
"I like having someone give me feedback on my work."
"Okay."
"You don't believe me?"
"I didn't say that. I believe you. I'm sure that was part of it."
"What? You think I like you or something?"
"Do you?"
"You're an asshole, a misogynist, and you get on my nerves."
"So why didn't you leave with the rest of them?"
Sarah looks down at her food now. "I don't know."
Sarah's right. She doesn't know. Or, to be honest, she does know, but she doesn't want to admit her feelings for Michel. How could she, a good feminist, be interested in a misogynist like Michel? Maybe she thinks she can change him. I hope not. I hope she's smarter than that. I'm not saying Michel won't change, because everyone changes over time. But few people have set out to change someone and actually succeeded the way they wanted. And why should Sarah be any different from anyone else? Or, more accurately, why should Michel be any different?
This is not to say that Michel and Sarah are like everyone else. They’re not. And if they were, we wouldn't have a story. You can't have a story about everyman. You have to have individuals. But at the same time, they are both humans, and humans tend to have similar traits. This is what make economics and the social sciences predictive. If people didn't act in certain ways fairly consistently, they could be easily molded to fit anyone's desires. But centuries of utopian experiments have proven time and again that humans can't be molded this way, because of the combination of humans' similarities with their unique tastes. Utopia is not an option, because people are always involved.
But I'm going to have to cut off my musings once again, and leave Michel and Sarah sitting in the restaurant to deal with the hints each has given the other regarding their feelings. It's 2:30, and I have to get ready for work.
That's probably another subconscious problem Michel has with Sarah. Like most American men, he's more than a bit pedophilic. He'd prefer Sarah to be slimmer, and he doesn't understand the way she thinks or acts. He still acts too much like a child: taking everything too serious, throwing fits whenever he cannot have his way. In different circumstances, he'd make a perfect dictator. Dictators are full-grown children with immense power. Hugo Chavez is currently the most obvious child in power, though Barack Obama is little better, only his power is kept in check by our republican system of government, which keeps the damage he can do minimized. But we've seen the results of both him and the Republican House of Representatives throwing fits over not being able to have their own way. I remember back to Clinton. who bombed Iraq whenever he had a problem, and the House Republicans impeached Clinton because Clinton wouldn’t go along with them. This is not to say I agree with perjury and obstruction of justice. I don't. But it’s not enough to overthrow an election. Especially what he lied over. It turns out, at least, that there were some adults in the Senate.
But Michel is not in power. At least, there is little chance of him getting political power. He plans to be a writer. Of course, many could consider this a position of power, especially those mimeticists who don't think people can tell the difference between reality and fiction and so could potentially (and dangerously, to their minds) be moved by the words and emotion in a work of fiction. Of course, they do have a point to an extent. Voltaire helped cause the French Revolution with Candide. Ayn Rand reformed American Conservatism and planted the seeds for modern libertarianism with Atlas Shrugged. Milan Kundera helped cause the student protests that unfortunately led to Prague Spring with The Joke. But at this point in his career, I don't think we have much to fear from Michel. He's not a very good writer yet, though Sarah is trying to help him become one. Probably, by the time she is done with her influence, he will be on the road to becoming worthy of exerting influence, though I doubt it will be on the scale of any of the three novelists I mentioned above.
But let's get these two characters together. Right now I see them sitting together in a restaurant. Mediterranean, I think, because I love Mediterranean. They've finished going over a story, his "Reciprocation," and a number of her poems. I'm thinking in addition to fiction, she probably writes poetry as well. Today she brought poems. He had few problems with her poems, but she had many of the same complaints I had with his story. Now they're finished working on their writing, and are eating and talking.
Michel is cutting his gyros into smaller pieces, then letting the tahini sauce drip off the meat before putting it in his mouth. He likes mixing the rice with the leftover tahini sauce and hummus when he's finished eating his gyros. Sarah has a plate of baba ganoush and is eating it with wedges of pita bread.
"This is good," Sarah says. "Have you ever had baba ganoush?"
"No. It looks like hummus, only gray."
"It's made from eggplants, and it sort of tastes like hummus, only better. You want to try some?"
"Sure." Sarah scoops up some baba ganoush with a piece of pita bread and feeds it to him. "Mmmm. Good. You wanna bite of my gyros?"
"No, thanks. I got this because today is vegetarian day for me."
"Trying to lose weight?"
"No. Just trying to live healthy. Why? Do I look like I need to lose weight?"
"I didn't say that."
"You should think of doing something like that."
"What? Losing weight?" He didn’t think he needed to lose weight.
"No. Having a vegetarian day. It'll make you feel better. It gives your body a day to clean itself out."
"I think you're trying to lose weight. I haven't met a woman yet who thought she was thin enough."
"I'm not every woman. I'm happy with the way I look."
"You'd be the first."
"All women aren't like that, Michel."
"I didn't say I was complaining. I like thin women."
"Well, you're not going to get a thin woman here. I like being big enough to have breasts and hips."
"Now don't get me wrong, I like breasts..."
"I'm sure you do. But women aren't just breasts, either."
"I didn't say they were."
"Then why don't you speak to my face instead of my tits."
Michel blushes. "Sorry."
"That's my point, Michel. You really don't think of women as human beings, as your equals. That's the main problem with your stories. You need to write a story that has a strong female character so you can practice writing women. Who knows, you might even learn to see us as people."
"I see you as people."
"I know you see me as people now, but it's taken you a while."
"Well, maybe there's a good reason for it."
"And what reason would that be?"
"I'll be honest, I really don't care much for people..."
"Well, neither do I, but I don't let that prevent me from creating rounded male characters," Sarah said.
"But I do care about you." Michel looks down at his food, avoiding her eyes.
"Excuse me?"
Michel takes a bite, chews it, swallows, and looks back up at Sarah. "Why did you want to keep meeting with me when everyone else decided to quit?"
"I like having someone give me feedback on my work."
"Okay."
"You don't believe me?"
"I didn't say that. I believe you. I'm sure that was part of it."
"What? You think I like you or something?"
"Do you?"
"You're an asshole, a misogynist, and you get on my nerves."
"So why didn't you leave with the rest of them?"
Sarah looks down at her food now. "I don't know."
Sarah's right. She doesn't know. Or, to be honest, she does know, but she doesn't want to admit her feelings for Michel. How could she, a good feminist, be interested in a misogynist like Michel? Maybe she thinks she can change him. I hope not. I hope she's smarter than that. I'm not saying Michel won't change, because everyone changes over time. But few people have set out to change someone and actually succeeded the way they wanted. And why should Sarah be any different from anyone else? Or, more accurately, why should Michel be any different?
This is not to say that Michel and Sarah are like everyone else. They’re not. And if they were, we wouldn't have a story. You can't have a story about everyman. You have to have individuals. But at the same time, they are both humans, and humans tend to have similar traits. This is what make economics and the social sciences predictive. If people didn't act in certain ways fairly consistently, they could be easily molded to fit anyone's desires. But centuries of utopian experiments have proven time and again that humans can't be molded this way, because of the combination of humans' similarities with their unique tastes. Utopia is not an option, because people are always involved.
But I'm going to have to cut off my musings once again, and leave Michel and Sarah sitting in the restaurant to deal with the hints each has given the other regarding their feelings. It's 2:30, and I have to get ready for work.
Chapter 3
My brother and I have returned from Austin. The new shows at the art galleries were fantastic. Lots of very good abstracts and some good, bright neo-impressionism and neo-post-impressionism, as well as some other works that would be difficult at best to describe. Same problems as the one I stated for not making Michel an artist.
But let's get back to Michel and his short story. It has quite a few problems, to be honest, that goes beyond making the women in it exclusively "others." For example, it switches point of view too often. Usually, it's best to keep a single point of view in a short story to avoid confusion, unless there is something else being accomplished that only changing points of view could accomplish, but I don't think that really qualifies here. It's bad writing. The dialogue is too formal, but that's something easily be solved by using contractions. The story itself is weak and stereotyped. Definitely a male fantasy like the woman accused him of writing. Clearly Michel has much to learn about writing. I think he may eventually become talented, but he has much to overcome first. But we didn't see this story by Michel to see if he was a talented writer, but to make obvious Michel's way of thinking - especially toward women.
I'm thinking Michel is probably misogynistic because he hadn't dated much, or perhaps he's been hurt by someone. How can you understand women if you haven't made an effort to be around them? He probably didn't have a very good mother, but let's try to avoid Freudian analysis here. Let's look at Michel now, as he is, and not look too far into his past to try to understand why he is the way he is. We never know the entire backgrounds of anyone, even our closest friends, so why should we know Michel any better? But I do think we should know that he's neither dating nor in love with anyone. That is current information anyone could know.
However, most stories do have some sort of love interest in them, even if they aren't meant to be a romance, and I don't see any reason why this story should be any different. I think we'll start with a name again. Susan? Michelle? No, too close to Michel. Sarah? I like Sarah. I think maybe Sarah should be the woman who gave Michel the opening line of the short story we read above. Michel is probably interested in her because she is also a writer, and because of her intelligence. She definitely has to be intelligent, or I doubt Michel would show any interest in her. He's a snob that way. But who can really blame him? You have to have intelligent, interesting conversation with whomever you're seeing or else you'll both get bored. Maybe Sarah has large breasts, because I can see Michel liking women with large breasts, though I don't think that would be a primary concern of his, so maybe she doesn't. Perhaps I won't worry about her description any more than I plan to worry about his, except to say she is probably above average in appearance, though neither beautiful nor plain. You can decide whether she has big breasts or not, or if that even matters to you.
I think maybe, in order to avoid a sudden surge of characters who won't have anything to do with the rest of this novel, I will have the writer's group they had joined to have broken up. Michel and Sarah decided to keep working together so each could help improve the other's work. Of course, the seeds of mutual attraction will have also played a factor, or else we'll have a novel of two people showing each other their stories, and that would get very boring very fast.
This means, of course, that I have to have a reason why Sarah would be interested in Michel, despite suspicions of his being misogynistic. But maybe not. How many times are we attracted to someone and we cannot think of any reason why we would or should be? I think this is one of those counter-intuitive attractions Sarah feels for Michel. It probably bothers her that she feels any attraction for him. She probably doesn't think he is her type. Maybe he isn't. If they were perfect for each other, we wouldn't have a story.
But I think I'm going to have to stop thinking about these two characters for the moment, since I have an errand to do. I hate to put it that way, since what I have to do is go get my girlfriend from our friend's apartment, but I don't know how else to put it. I told her I'd come pick her up late, and it's getting close to eleven, so I should go get her. An hour and a half of reading over "Reciprocation" and writing are plenty for now.
But let's get back to Michel and his short story. It has quite a few problems, to be honest, that goes beyond making the women in it exclusively "others." For example, it switches point of view too often. Usually, it's best to keep a single point of view in a short story to avoid confusion, unless there is something else being accomplished that only changing points of view could accomplish, but I don't think that really qualifies here. It's bad writing. The dialogue is too formal, but that's something easily be solved by using contractions. The story itself is weak and stereotyped. Definitely a male fantasy like the woman accused him of writing. Clearly Michel has much to learn about writing. I think he may eventually become talented, but he has much to overcome first. But we didn't see this story by Michel to see if he was a talented writer, but to make obvious Michel's way of thinking - especially toward women.
I'm thinking Michel is probably misogynistic because he hadn't dated much, or perhaps he's been hurt by someone. How can you understand women if you haven't made an effort to be around them? He probably didn't have a very good mother, but let's try to avoid Freudian analysis here. Let's look at Michel now, as he is, and not look too far into his past to try to understand why he is the way he is. We never know the entire backgrounds of anyone, even our closest friends, so why should we know Michel any better? But I do think we should know that he's neither dating nor in love with anyone. That is current information anyone could know.
However, most stories do have some sort of love interest in them, even if they aren't meant to be a romance, and I don't see any reason why this story should be any different. I think we'll start with a name again. Susan? Michelle? No, too close to Michel. Sarah? I like Sarah. I think maybe Sarah should be the woman who gave Michel the opening line of the short story we read above. Michel is probably interested in her because she is also a writer, and because of her intelligence. She definitely has to be intelligent, or I doubt Michel would show any interest in her. He's a snob that way. But who can really blame him? You have to have intelligent, interesting conversation with whomever you're seeing or else you'll both get bored. Maybe Sarah has large breasts, because I can see Michel liking women with large breasts, though I don't think that would be a primary concern of his, so maybe she doesn't. Perhaps I won't worry about her description any more than I plan to worry about his, except to say she is probably above average in appearance, though neither beautiful nor plain. You can decide whether she has big breasts or not, or if that even matters to you.
I think maybe, in order to avoid a sudden surge of characters who won't have anything to do with the rest of this novel, I will have the writer's group they had joined to have broken up. Michel and Sarah decided to keep working together so each could help improve the other's work. Of course, the seeds of mutual attraction will have also played a factor, or else we'll have a novel of two people showing each other their stories, and that would get very boring very fast.
This means, of course, that I have to have a reason why Sarah would be interested in Michel, despite suspicions of his being misogynistic. But maybe not. How many times are we attracted to someone and we cannot think of any reason why we would or should be? I think this is one of those counter-intuitive attractions Sarah feels for Michel. It probably bothers her that she feels any attraction for him. She probably doesn't think he is her type. Maybe he isn't. If they were perfect for each other, we wouldn't have a story.
But I think I'm going to have to stop thinking about these two characters for the moment, since I have an errand to do. I hate to put it that way, since what I have to do is go get my girlfriend from our friend's apartment, but I don't know how else to put it. I told her I'd come pick her up late, and it's getting close to eleven, so I should go get her. An hour and a half of reading over "Reciprocation" and writing are plenty for now.
Friday, August 19, 2011
Chapter 2
I finally got to come back to this novel. I've had a hard time finding the time to write on it with work, my brother being here, and the time demands of my girlfriend. The only reason I have the time to write now is that I asked for the day off to go to some new shows’ openings in Austin's art galleries with my brother. He's in the shower right now. Dona is over a friend's apartment playing in the chat rooms. Our friend, Steve Veritas is in Hawaii for summer break, but he'll be back the twenty second, so soon I won't have the luxury of having this kind of time to work. It will be worse when classes start. It probably wouldn't be too bad if I wasn't also working on another novel while editing and revising two others. Maybe I'm putting too much work on myself, but I know if I didn't, I'd get bored.
But let's get back to work on the writer in this novel, Michel. I don't think I'll give him a last name, since it really isn't important. I think I'll only have a few characters, and I think I can avoid calling any of them Michel too. I'm also convinced I shouldn't bother with a description of Michel. Michel is the kind of person who doesn't give much thought to his appearance, except to keep neat, so I don't see why we should give much thought to it, either. I'll try to stick to what is essential to him as a character. I think maybe he's a misogynist. He doesn't really hate women so much as he doesn't understand them. Of course, this does affect his writing. This would make me think he's not a very good writer right now. This may change, assuming he changes in the story in the right way. Of course, as a writer, he will grow and change, as all writers do, but it is difficult to be a good writer without being well-rounded in your understanding, including, and perhaps especially, women. It's not acceptable, as it was in Goethe's day, to treat women exclusively as the "other." We're not talking archaic "political correctness," but basic consideration of women as human beings.
This makes me wonder if I shouldn't show you one of his early stories right away or if I should continue with my musings as to Michel's character. Perhaps a short story by him would do both:
They herded the men of all shapes and sizes into the breeding camp. Any of them that had a spark of life left in their eyes were beaten until they too had the pervasive dullness of defeat. Perhaps that was why Abe was beaten so much. He was the only one in his company who dared look the women herding him into the courtyard in the eyes. However, a quick nudge by one of the electric prodders made him look away. As he entered the gate, though, he looked back at the woman who had hit him, caught her eye, and looked back away.
The men were quickly separated into different rooms and ordered to bathe and congregate in the main hall within an hour. They knew better than to disobey. The consequences were painful. By the end of the hour, the entire hall was full. The walls were interspersed with guards, every one armed. Almost immediately, a woman walked out on the stage and announced, "You all know why you are here. It is the quarterly breeding time. Soon, the women will be here to choose the man they want. You will each stand quietly and allow them to come and inspect you. But first, we must bow in reverence to Gaia." Everyone bowed their heads for a second, then shot them back up as she suddenly said, "Now line up!" The men lined up shoulder-to-shoulder, having done this every year since their eighteenth birthdays, or since their capture, if they happened to be a captured member of the Equity Front, an underground terrorist group of men and women, though mostly men, who were fighting against the government. They had formed within a year of the 2011 Requital Act, which, in the actual form passed, seemed innocent enough in repaying women for everything they had gone through throughout history. However, it had been quickly interpreted into women having total legal power over men. Further bureaucratic interpretation led to the complete removal of male rights, and now men could not hold property, had to work only in designated places, usually factories and mines, and were herded like cattle from place to place, whether it be to work, to their sleeping quarters, or to the breeding camps.
Abe was one of the people who had been captured. His parents had joined the Equity Front almost from its conception, and gave birth to him a few years later. He had been raised a freeman and was determined to die a freeman. But today, he had to face the fact that there was little he was going to do today except fuck someone; probably some butt-ugly bitch that weighed a ton. That was something he had noticed almost immediately when he had been captured: there seemed to be a total lack of even remotely attractive women. The Equity Front was quite a stark contrast in comparison. He had been raised around beautiful, plain, and even a few ugly women, but they did not seem to have the degree of overall unattractiveness as the women he had seen on the inside. A few women walked by him, inspecting the men closely, but he was relieved not to be chosen by any of them. Finally, a rather plain-looking woman, though astonishingly beautiful by comparison to the others he had seen since his capture, walked up to him and said, "What is your designation?"
"Abe."
She stared up at him, then touched his penis with the tip of an electric prodder for a second. It shriveled in pain as he tensed and gritted his teeth. He finally managed, "You do that again and I won't be worth anything to you tonight."
With that, she poked him in the stomach with her prodder, doubling him over in pain. "What is your designation?" she repeated.
"PBR322," Abe said, finishing in his mind with `you fucking bitch.'
"Good. I will have you then. Come along." She grabbed him by the arm and led him down the rows of naked men and out of the great hall. They walked across the courtyard and over to another large building, passing two guards as they went through the large double doors. They slowly made their way down the hall before finally reaching their destination. The woman opened the door and was startled to find a guard in the room. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.
"I was given orders to make sure everything was all right before anything happened," she answered.
"Well, as you can see, everything is fine. Now get the hell out of here."
It was the guard's turn to be startled. "Uh, yes, ma'am." She slowly backed out of the room and shut the door behind her.
As the door shut, the woman turned to Abe and said, "Come on, we haven't much time..."
"I thought we had as much time as you wanted to take."
A pair of pants were thrown at him. "Shut up and come on. I'm Barbara. Patricia sent me to get you out of here."
Abe's eyes lit up at the mention of his girlfriend's name. "You know Patricia? But how?"
"A lot happens in six months," Barbara replied as she walked to the closet. She leaned in and pulled out a large board, then looked back at Abe. "Let's go." She pushed Abe in ahead of her, then pulled the board back across the hole, making sure it was flush. She squeezed past Abe and said, "Sorry about what happened in the great hall," as she began walking through the wall space without waiting for a response.
The guard from Barbara's room slowly walked down the hall, the only thing in her mind being to ask her superior officer what she wanted done next. Instead, she was startled to find her commanding officer standing in front of her. She snapped to attention as the C.O. said, "What are you doing here? I thought I told you to keep an eye on Barbara Conti."
"I thought that you wanted..."
"Who told you to think? I told you to keep an eye on Conti."
"But she told me to leave, ma'am."
"And I told you to stay. Come on. If you're lucky, you'll only get ten years in the brig."
The two women walked back down the hall, and burst into the room. The C.O. was not surprised to find it empty. "Make that life in the brig. Now find them."
The guard began searching the room as the C.O. ran down the hall, yelling for the alarms to be set off.
Abe was beginning to wonder how long the passage was, when he suddenly found himself confronted by a flight of stairs rising abruptly in front of them. They led out to a small supply shack containing a few unmarked boxes, but little else. Barbara held her hand out toward Abe and said, "Let me look around outside to see if we can make it out without being seen."
Without waiting for an answer, she tentatively opened the door, allowing a thickening beam of sunlight to peer through. After peering out, Barbara grabbed Abe by the hand and led him into a totally deserted town. The women were all at the camp. Even the young and old had gone; the former to learn how to pick out a good partner when they were old enough, and the later to give advice, whether it was wanted or not. The town was different from those he was familiar with. While it still did not contain electrical poles, flag poles, or any other long, thin object, electricity lines stretched from house to house. There must be a power source nearby. He began to wonder what it was, and asked Barbara.
"There is a coal mine near here, so a coal/electric plant was built."
"I'll have to keep that in mind," Abe said, thinking about what he and the group should do about it, if anything. It was probably government-run, as was nearly everything. If so, it was fair game. He was about to ask about this when he was suddenly pulled into an alleyway.
"I thought I saw a guard," Barbara whispered in reply to his inquiring look. "We need to get out of town as quickly as possible." With that, she pulled him down the alleyway. It was not long before he was totally lost; not that he really knew where he was in the first place. They finally broke back out on a street, near some houses. They darted through the yards, trying to get to the woods as quickly as possible.
The guards saw Barbara and Abe and patiently worked their way toward where the pair was moving. They knew they wouldn't get far. None of them were surprised to finally see them dashing across open yards toward the woods. They could have the woods surrounded in moments and move in on them. It was a matter of time. They worked their way through the woods and finally found them in a small clearing. Just as the operation coordinator was about to step into the clearing with her fellow guards, she saw Barbara pull out a small handgun and point it at Abe. The young man seemed surprised at this treachery, but did not have time to think about it as she suddenly shot him five times without flinching. Abe doubled over from the shots and fell to the ground. Barbara turned and began walking toward the O.C. The O.C. stepped out of the woods, giving Barbara a start. "Where'd you come from?"
"We were sent after you for helping a renegade escape."
Barbara was incredulous. "Don't they tell you anything? I set this entire thing up to get rid of Mr. PBR322 there. He was subversive and dangerous. Had he stayed any longer, he would have caused us problems. However, since murder is still illegal, an escape attempt had to be made..."
"I was unaware..."
"Well, on second thought, I'm not surprised. We had to make it look legitimate. Now come on. Let him rot. The bastard deserves no better." Barbara grabbed the guard by the arm and spun her around, leading her away from the clearing. As they walked away, Barbara leaned close to the guard and whispered. "If you keep this quiet, I can make it worth your while." With a quick blow and surreptitious kiss on the ear, the guard smiled in understanding. After all, Barbara was somewhat attractive.
Abe lay on the ground until he could hear no more movement. When he was certain no guards were left, he slowly stood and darted into the woods. He was not sure which way he should go, but he was fairly certain he knew which way the town was, so he headed in the opposite direction. He walked for nearly an hour when he suddenly heard a familiar sound. It was a whistle. A signal from the Front. He stopped and whistled in response, then suddenly found himself surrounded by familiar faces. All at once, he was almost tackled by a beautiful young woman. He managed to keep his balance as he gripped her in a fierce hug, kissing her passionately. "Oh, it's so good to see you Abe!"
"God, I love you, Patricia. It's been so long!"
A man from the group suddenly spoke up: "Sorry to interrupt your reunion, but it's good to see you. Sorry it took so long, but we had the damnedest time finding you."
Abe looked up at him and smiled. "Well, I'm glad you finally did." He gave Patricia a quick kiss, then put her down and walked over to his friend. "The town I came from has a coal plant."
"Government run?"
"I don't know for certain, but do you know of anything that isn't?"
"Good point. What do you suggest? It's really not that big of a town..."
"Ever been bit by a mosquito, Frank?" Abe smiled.
"Good point. We should hit at night to minimize deaths."
"Actually, it would be best to hit as soon as possible. They are at the camp getting laid. There's no one in town. If we hit now, there won't be any casualties."
Frank thought this over for a moment. "This is awfully quick, but I think we can do it. But we'll get someone else to do it. You're tired. You need to rest."
"No, man, I want to do it. I've..."
"No way. We've got plenty of people to do it. You need rest. It's been a long eight months."
Abe was about to protest, but his mouth was suddenly occupied by Patricia's. Well, it HAD been a while. "Are you sure? I mean, I..."
"Don't worry. It will be taken care of. You get some rest. No more protests."
Abe smiled. "Who are you going to send?"
"Joel..."
"Joel! He doesn't know anything about...!"
Frank laughed. "Abe, you forget that it has been eight months. Someone had to take your place in the mean time, and Joel was willing to learn. He's not quite as good as you, but he's getting there."
"Well, if you think so..."
"Don't worry about it. You come on home."
Abe lay back in a nice warm bath. Patricia walked in, holding a large towel. "Are you ready to come out of there?"
"Why don't you come in here and join me?" Abe said as he reached for Patricia and pulled her toward him. As he kissed her lips, he heard a loud explosion in the distance.
_________________________________________________________________
I have to be fair to Michel. This story was done as an exercise for a writers’ group. They had had each of the members write a first line of a story, then exchange these first lines randomly. What else could he have done with a first line like that? When he turned this story in to the writers’ group, the very woman who had written the line asked him why men always had to write dominatrix stories whenever they created a matriarchy. She wondered if it wasn’t a common male fantasy. Personally, I suspect she may be at least partially right.
But it looks like I'll have to halt these musings for a time, since my brother is calling for me to go. We have to go eat and get to Austin.
But let's get back to work on the writer in this novel, Michel. I don't think I'll give him a last name, since it really isn't important. I think I'll only have a few characters, and I think I can avoid calling any of them Michel too. I'm also convinced I shouldn't bother with a description of Michel. Michel is the kind of person who doesn't give much thought to his appearance, except to keep neat, so I don't see why we should give much thought to it, either. I'll try to stick to what is essential to him as a character. I think maybe he's a misogynist. He doesn't really hate women so much as he doesn't understand them. Of course, this does affect his writing. This would make me think he's not a very good writer right now. This may change, assuming he changes in the story in the right way. Of course, as a writer, he will grow and change, as all writers do, but it is difficult to be a good writer without being well-rounded in your understanding, including, and perhaps especially, women. It's not acceptable, as it was in Goethe's day, to treat women exclusively as the "other." We're not talking archaic "political correctness," but basic consideration of women as human beings.
This makes me wonder if I shouldn't show you one of his early stories right away or if I should continue with my musings as to Michel's character. Perhaps a short story by him would do both:
MICHEL'S SHORT STORY
RECIPROCATION
They herded the men of all shapes and sizes into the breeding camp. Any of them that had a spark of life left in their eyes were beaten until they too had the pervasive dullness of defeat. Perhaps that was why Abe was beaten so much. He was the only one in his company who dared look the women herding him into the courtyard in the eyes. However, a quick nudge by one of the electric prodders made him look away. As he entered the gate, though, he looked back at the woman who had hit him, caught her eye, and looked back away.
The men were quickly separated into different rooms and ordered to bathe and congregate in the main hall within an hour. They knew better than to disobey. The consequences were painful. By the end of the hour, the entire hall was full. The walls were interspersed with guards, every one armed. Almost immediately, a woman walked out on the stage and announced, "You all know why you are here. It is the quarterly breeding time. Soon, the women will be here to choose the man they want. You will each stand quietly and allow them to come and inspect you. But first, we must bow in reverence to Gaia." Everyone bowed their heads for a second, then shot them back up as she suddenly said, "Now line up!" The men lined up shoulder-to-shoulder, having done this every year since their eighteenth birthdays, or since their capture, if they happened to be a captured member of the Equity Front, an underground terrorist group of men and women, though mostly men, who were fighting against the government. They had formed within a year of the 2011 Requital Act, which, in the actual form passed, seemed innocent enough in repaying women for everything they had gone through throughout history. However, it had been quickly interpreted into women having total legal power over men. Further bureaucratic interpretation led to the complete removal of male rights, and now men could not hold property, had to work only in designated places, usually factories and mines, and were herded like cattle from place to place, whether it be to work, to their sleeping quarters, or to the breeding camps.
Abe was one of the people who had been captured. His parents had joined the Equity Front almost from its conception, and gave birth to him a few years later. He had been raised a freeman and was determined to die a freeman. But today, he had to face the fact that there was little he was going to do today except fuck someone; probably some butt-ugly bitch that weighed a ton. That was something he had noticed almost immediately when he had been captured: there seemed to be a total lack of even remotely attractive women. The Equity Front was quite a stark contrast in comparison. He had been raised around beautiful, plain, and even a few ugly women, but they did not seem to have the degree of overall unattractiveness as the women he had seen on the inside. A few women walked by him, inspecting the men closely, but he was relieved not to be chosen by any of them. Finally, a rather plain-looking woman, though astonishingly beautiful by comparison to the others he had seen since his capture, walked up to him and said, "What is your designation?"
"Abe."
She stared up at him, then touched his penis with the tip of an electric prodder for a second. It shriveled in pain as he tensed and gritted his teeth. He finally managed, "You do that again and I won't be worth anything to you tonight."
With that, she poked him in the stomach with her prodder, doubling him over in pain. "What is your designation?" she repeated.
"PBR322," Abe said, finishing in his mind with `you fucking bitch.'
"Good. I will have you then. Come along." She grabbed him by the arm and led him down the rows of naked men and out of the great hall. They walked across the courtyard and over to another large building, passing two guards as they went through the large double doors. They slowly made their way down the hall before finally reaching their destination. The woman opened the door and was startled to find a guard in the room. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.
"I was given orders to make sure everything was all right before anything happened," she answered.
"Well, as you can see, everything is fine. Now get the hell out of here."
It was the guard's turn to be startled. "Uh, yes, ma'am." She slowly backed out of the room and shut the door behind her.
As the door shut, the woman turned to Abe and said, "Come on, we haven't much time..."
"I thought we had as much time as you wanted to take."
A pair of pants were thrown at him. "Shut up and come on. I'm Barbara. Patricia sent me to get you out of here."
Abe's eyes lit up at the mention of his girlfriend's name. "You know Patricia? But how?"
"A lot happens in six months," Barbara replied as she walked to the closet. She leaned in and pulled out a large board, then looked back at Abe. "Let's go." She pushed Abe in ahead of her, then pulled the board back across the hole, making sure it was flush. She squeezed past Abe and said, "Sorry about what happened in the great hall," as she began walking through the wall space without waiting for a response.
The guard from Barbara's room slowly walked down the hall, the only thing in her mind being to ask her superior officer what she wanted done next. Instead, she was startled to find her commanding officer standing in front of her. She snapped to attention as the C.O. said, "What are you doing here? I thought I told you to keep an eye on Barbara Conti."
"I thought that you wanted..."
"Who told you to think? I told you to keep an eye on Conti."
"But she told me to leave, ma'am."
"And I told you to stay. Come on. If you're lucky, you'll only get ten years in the brig."
The two women walked back down the hall, and burst into the room. The C.O. was not surprised to find it empty. "Make that life in the brig. Now find them."
The guard began searching the room as the C.O. ran down the hall, yelling for the alarms to be set off.
Abe was beginning to wonder how long the passage was, when he suddenly found himself confronted by a flight of stairs rising abruptly in front of them. They led out to a small supply shack containing a few unmarked boxes, but little else. Barbara held her hand out toward Abe and said, "Let me look around outside to see if we can make it out without being seen."
Without waiting for an answer, she tentatively opened the door, allowing a thickening beam of sunlight to peer through. After peering out, Barbara grabbed Abe by the hand and led him into a totally deserted town. The women were all at the camp. Even the young and old had gone; the former to learn how to pick out a good partner when they were old enough, and the later to give advice, whether it was wanted or not. The town was different from those he was familiar with. While it still did not contain electrical poles, flag poles, or any other long, thin object, electricity lines stretched from house to house. There must be a power source nearby. He began to wonder what it was, and asked Barbara.
"There is a coal mine near here, so a coal/electric plant was built."
"I'll have to keep that in mind," Abe said, thinking about what he and the group should do about it, if anything. It was probably government-run, as was nearly everything. If so, it was fair game. He was about to ask about this when he was suddenly pulled into an alleyway.
"I thought I saw a guard," Barbara whispered in reply to his inquiring look. "We need to get out of town as quickly as possible." With that, she pulled him down the alleyway. It was not long before he was totally lost; not that he really knew where he was in the first place. They finally broke back out on a street, near some houses. They darted through the yards, trying to get to the woods as quickly as possible.
The guards saw Barbara and Abe and patiently worked their way toward where the pair was moving. They knew they wouldn't get far. None of them were surprised to finally see them dashing across open yards toward the woods. They could have the woods surrounded in moments and move in on them. It was a matter of time. They worked their way through the woods and finally found them in a small clearing. Just as the operation coordinator was about to step into the clearing with her fellow guards, she saw Barbara pull out a small handgun and point it at Abe. The young man seemed surprised at this treachery, but did not have time to think about it as she suddenly shot him five times without flinching. Abe doubled over from the shots and fell to the ground. Barbara turned and began walking toward the O.C. The O.C. stepped out of the woods, giving Barbara a start. "Where'd you come from?"
"We were sent after you for helping a renegade escape."
Barbara was incredulous. "Don't they tell you anything? I set this entire thing up to get rid of Mr. PBR322 there. He was subversive and dangerous. Had he stayed any longer, he would have caused us problems. However, since murder is still illegal, an escape attempt had to be made..."
"I was unaware..."
"Well, on second thought, I'm not surprised. We had to make it look legitimate. Now come on. Let him rot. The bastard deserves no better." Barbara grabbed the guard by the arm and spun her around, leading her away from the clearing. As they walked away, Barbara leaned close to the guard and whispered. "If you keep this quiet, I can make it worth your while." With a quick blow and surreptitious kiss on the ear, the guard smiled in understanding. After all, Barbara was somewhat attractive.
Abe lay on the ground until he could hear no more movement. When he was certain no guards were left, he slowly stood and darted into the woods. He was not sure which way he should go, but he was fairly certain he knew which way the town was, so he headed in the opposite direction. He walked for nearly an hour when he suddenly heard a familiar sound. It was a whistle. A signal from the Front. He stopped and whistled in response, then suddenly found himself surrounded by familiar faces. All at once, he was almost tackled by a beautiful young woman. He managed to keep his balance as he gripped her in a fierce hug, kissing her passionately. "Oh, it's so good to see you Abe!"
"God, I love you, Patricia. It's been so long!"
A man from the group suddenly spoke up: "Sorry to interrupt your reunion, but it's good to see you. Sorry it took so long, but we had the damnedest time finding you."
Abe looked up at him and smiled. "Well, I'm glad you finally did." He gave Patricia a quick kiss, then put her down and walked over to his friend. "The town I came from has a coal plant."
"Government run?"
"I don't know for certain, but do you know of anything that isn't?"
"Good point. What do you suggest? It's really not that big of a town..."
"Ever been bit by a mosquito, Frank?" Abe smiled.
"Good point. We should hit at night to minimize deaths."
"Actually, it would be best to hit as soon as possible. They are at the camp getting laid. There's no one in town. If we hit now, there won't be any casualties."
Frank thought this over for a moment. "This is awfully quick, but I think we can do it. But we'll get someone else to do it. You're tired. You need to rest."
"No, man, I want to do it. I've..."
"No way. We've got plenty of people to do it. You need rest. It's been a long eight months."
Abe was about to protest, but his mouth was suddenly occupied by Patricia's. Well, it HAD been a while. "Are you sure? I mean, I..."
"Don't worry. It will be taken care of. You get some rest. No more protests."
Abe smiled. "Who are you going to send?"
"Joel..."
"Joel! He doesn't know anything about...!"
Frank laughed. "Abe, you forget that it has been eight months. Someone had to take your place in the mean time, and Joel was willing to learn. He's not quite as good as you, but he's getting there."
"Well, if you think so..."
"Don't worry about it. You come on home."
Abe lay back in a nice warm bath. Patricia walked in, holding a large towel. "Are you ready to come out of there?"
"Why don't you come in here and join me?" Abe said as he reached for Patricia and pulled her toward him. As he kissed her lips, he heard a loud explosion in the distance.
_________________________________________________________________
I have to be fair to Michel. This story was done as an exercise for a writers’ group. They had had each of the members write a first line of a story, then exchange these first lines randomly. What else could he have done with a first line like that? When he turned this story in to the writers’ group, the very woman who had written the line asked him why men always had to write dominatrix stories whenever they created a matriarchy. She wondered if it wasn’t a common male fantasy. Personally, I suspect she may be at least partially right.
But it looks like I'll have to halt these musings for a time, since my brother is calling for me to go. We have to go eat and get to Austin.
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