Fuck...

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

I’ve been working on Misdemeanor and it had been coming together...until Simon decided to change an important part of the story.

His arrest.

He wants to make it more like it could have been just a misunderstanding. That he approached Paley to ask why he was stalking him in the store. And after that it becomes a he said/he said situation. Which on its surface makes sense...

But doesn’t work, because it really makes no sense.

1. It happens at midnight.

2. Paley is in street clothes, not a uniform, so is like some random guy who could be dangerous.

3. Simon is solitary. He shuns approaching people unless he absolutely has to.

Seriously, he would not just walk up to some random stranger in the middle of the night in a town he’s never been to before and strike up a conversation. That’s not his way. 

There's also the issue that if he does that, it changes the story’s trajectory, as currently worked out. But he’s adamant and I cannot figure out how to do it. 

So I’m blocked. 

I’m fucking blocked.

Have been for two days. On a story Simon brought me, laid out in a particular form, and insisted I tell. Except now he wants it different. Almost like a bait and switch.

The little fuck.

Bits and pieces...

Some of what I've been working on, for Misdemeanor...and I really do want better title. This happens in the second half of the Seventies.

-----

The first time he saw Doyle, Simon'd breath had stopped for who knew how long. Tall. Broad shoulders under a fine gray suit jacket. Yves St. Laurent, he learned later, from the very pricey Frost Brothers. A casual walk along an aisle of dust-ridden paperbacks made even more elegant by the perfection of his legs. 

Seen from behind. 

When he turned to come back another aisle, a soft pink shirt and flashy tie only enhanced the exquisite features of his face. Ice blue eyes. Lips pursed in just the right way. Clean chin sculpted by the heavens. He had to be an apparition, he was so gorgeous. 

He stopped in the action/adventure section of paperbacks and picked up a new copy of Arthur Hailey’s The Moneychangers. 

Without thinking, Simon called over, “That’s a good one. He wrote Airport, too.” 

Doyle glanced at him and picked up a slightly yellowed copy of that book and held it up for Simon to see. One eyebrow perfectly raised in question. 

Simon nodded, feeling completely idiotic. 

Doyle brought both over and said, “Haven’t seen the movie.” 

“It was on TV, last year. Maybe they’ll show it, again. Will that be all?” Doyle nodded...and Simon noticed his eyes were looking straight at him. “Uh, that’ll four-twenty-eight,” Simon murmured as he slipped the books into a bag. 

Doyle paid with a five, saying, “You new?” 

“What?” 

“Haven’t seen you here, before.” 

“Oh. Yeah. Just started. Part-time.” Why did he tell him that? 

Doyle nodded, accepting his change. “Still in high-school?” 

“No. No, Graduated in May. Started at SAC. San Antonio College.” More stupid words. 

But then Doyle looked him over like a cat eyeing a mouse it’s about to have for its dinner, and smiled. “I’m familiar with it. So you work nights?” Simon just nodded. “Maybe I’ll see you around.” 

Then he licked his lips, winked, and walked out the door. 

And for the next three weeks Simon kept hoping he’d see him walk back in. 

Which he did, just before closing, dressed in a fine pullover shirt and tan slacks. It was still too warm for a jacket. He went to the adult magazines and picked through them, finally choosing a Playgirl and ignoring the glances cast his way by a couple of older men in rougher clothing who were pawing a Penthouse. 

Then ten o’clock came and Simon told him, “I’m closing, now.” 

He’d looked around, smiling. “You here, all alone?”

Simon nodded. “Just for a few hours.” 

“Seems dangerous.” 

“Nobody’s gonna rob this place. Get maybe fifty bucks.” 

“But you’re cute. They might take advantage of you.” 

Simon had no answer to that...until Doyle reached over, put a finger through a belt loop in his jeans, and pulled him close. “Is there anyplace they could?” 

Simon still had no words, but did manage to motion to a door in the back. 

“So maybe lock the door?” said Doyle. 

Simon did, and Doyle led him into the back...

Spooked me...

I had a bit of a freak out, today. There's more and more of me going into this story...and I didn't really catch on to how much till I wrote a section just after Simon's posted bond and been released. 

Walstead, the assistant DA assigned his case to prosecute, talks to him about a deal, which he flat out refuses it. "I've done nothing wrong or illegal and won't say I did just to make your job easier."

He's warned to think about it, because he could go to jail. He goes to the hotel, cleans up, and goes to the client's house, a guy named Northridge, to try and smooth over not showing up, that morning. He only says that something happened and he couldn't make it, but is still willing to o the job.

Turns out Northridge knows he was arrested. It's on the local news. And he uses that to manipulate him into not only making a list of the books, but packing them for shipment. He figures Simon will have to stay in the city for a couple extra days, anyway, to find an attorney and settle other aspects of the arrest.

Northridge also know's Walstead's father, also a lawyer, and warns Simon about how nasty they can be. "They leave me alone and I leave them alone. Best way to handle people like that."

Simon contacts Olivier, the UK dealer he's doing the job for, to say he didn't agree to all of this...but now he's trapped. And this flashes him back to the times Doyle would do the same thing...as did members of his family. Force him to do something he didn't want to do. He thought he was past all that, but his sense of obligation and empathy have roared in, and his self-control is focused on fighting the accusations against him, and he needs all of it.

To be clear, I have never been arrested, for anything. But for years I could be guilt tripped into doing things I didn't want to, and then I'd get resentful for allowing myself to be used. I'd use my love of books to help calm me...like I'm doing with Simon. Retreat into something that can't hurt you.

I can't let myself hold back in this story...but it is digging at me.

The usual changes...

I'm doing the backstory on Simon and Chris...and Chris changed his name. To Doyle Bergeron. His real name is still Jonathan James, which Simon doesn't figure out till much later in their relationship, but this works a lot better. Chris is on the common side and a bit bland. He also let me know he was born in Lubbock, and I can see someone from that town thinking Doyle is a high-tone name.

He's also changed his look, somewhat. I'm using Kyle King's image for Doyle, now. He's got a good expression and Simon wold go for him in a heartbeat. He's also a few years older than Simon, and has a wealthy sugar daddy. So the only reason Doyle would want him is to fuck and be worshiped by.

Until Simon inherits a bit of money from the sale of his grandmother's farm outside Natalia. It's just going to be seven thousand bucks, but that's nearly double a year's wages for him.

Only Doyle winds up with most of it and brutalizes Simon when he wants it back. Simon's younger brother gets some, too, and just ignores his requests for repayment.

That's when he decides to move to Houston and start over. Get away from Doyle and his family. And it works for several years...until Doyle finds him and draws him back in, this time because he's dying from kaposi's sarcoma and has no one to help him.

What's interesting is his experience with Doyle is what makes him strong enough to handle the situation with being arrested. I think. It's still early in the story building process.

More will change, I'm sure.

I'm being kept in line...

This is Max Riemelt, a German actor who is worming his way into my mind as the image of Simon, albeit at a younger age. He fits, in so many ways, but especially his eyes.

It's interesting that's the name the main character chose, in Misdemeanor. Reminds me of the children's game of Simon Says...except my Simon don't want to say a damn thing. He wants to keep his words to himself, because he knows what they will reveal or can lead to. And that is going to be damned hard to keep up throughout the book.

I love working up meaningful dialogues. Sure, I can go overboard and have to pull it back, but it's also one way the characters reveal themselves to me. Show me how they express themselves. I guess that stems from my screenwriting days, when dialogue was everything...and nothing, because the actors would just change it.

But Simon...he's not merely being taciturn. He uses his silence to protect himself. He was in a vicious relationship with a guy named Chris (real name: John James) where just one wrong word could hurt him, and it took him moving to another city to break the cycle with the bastard. 

He's like a cat that's hidden in a bush and licking his wounds after a brutal fight that it damn near lost. And he's found that staying there, silent and observant, is the only way he can feel safe. Even though it's been 40 years since Chris died.

A telling moment has come out about him and Chris. As his abuser is slowly being taken by AIDs, Simon cares for him. Sees to it he gets the help he needs. Reads to him. And despite this, Chris is still verbally abusive...until one day, near the end, he says, "You're just doin' this because you wanna see me die, aren't you?"

To which Simon merely replies, "Yes." And leaves it at that. But when Chris does pass into death, Simon grieves...and doesn't understand why. And I'm not sure I want to explain that.

Or can.

Or even if I should.

Tug of war...

One of the joys I've found in writing is when a character starts talking back at you. You build him. Lay out his who, what, where, how, when and why...and then he takes that and says something like, Yeah, but isn't this better, for me? And it's not what you want to do.

Simon's started that with me. He wants to go left when I'm aiming right in his storyline. I want him to speak...mainly when he's angry and irritated at the other person, but he wants dead silence. Go internal on me, he says. I can think about anything, but I don't share with people. No matter what. 

This happened because I'd started writing sections that hit me. Then I arrange them into the story, once I have enough of them. One was a lovely little exchange between Simon and Walstead, set just before the beginning of the trial. Walstead's learned Simon writes gay erotica and it went like this:

Walstead: We need to talk.

Simon: You have nothing to say to me.

I dunno. Been doing some research. You write some pretty intense stuff. 

What’ve you read? 

I don’t read things like that, so... 

So you think you can discuss something about which you know nothing. 

The synopses alone tell all I need to know. Kidnapping straight men. Tying them up. Raping them. 

You’ve been perusing what’s on Gay Portal. You have to be a member, for access. Was that smart of you, signing up? 

I didn’t. I know some gay men, and one had a membership. He’s a pretty mellow guy but even he was freaked out. Said it got brutal in the...how’d he put it...non-con area. 

Am I supposed to respond to that in some way? 

Makes me kind of wonder if that’s what you planned for Paley. 

This is why you need to read the work, not learn about it second hand. If you had, you’d have seen that every one of the men in my stories who’s abused is described as well-built; hair on their chest, legs, arms and belly; middle-thirties; good strong features; and a thick mane on their head. Paley is their polar opposite. 

He’s well-built...

He’s a juicer who shaves the hair off his body. Including his pubes. 

How do you know that? 

Oh, stop it. I specifically note in every story I write that I despise that. It’s like they want to come across like a little boy instead of a man. 

Y’know, steroids are illegal. I mean, for muscle enhancement...and without a prescription. 

Oh, that’ll prevent its use. 

What makes you think he's on them? 

Look at his face. His jowls. His skin. How his hair is thinning and his muscles are blown up like balloons. He’s even getting bitch tits. It’s like, if I stuck him with a pin he’d pop. 

C’mon, man, you gay guys go for muscles and... 

Don’t be insulting. 

I can still use the stories against you. 

Do you want a list of my work? It’s not just on Gay Portal. There’s Plumbr. BDSM2. My blog on WordPlay has some of the more palatable ones, for you. Oh, and GayTrip. Queer2, too. 

You’re pretty cavalier about what these could do to you, in that courtroom. 

Did your gay buddies tell you whose name is on them all? Did you think maybe that was why they found them so quickly? Google me and the first one that usually comes up is "The Best Way to Take a Straight Man’s Cherry". It’s been banned a few times. People thought it was a how-to manual. 

It’s not? 

Again, the main reason you should read my work for yourself. Courtroom’s open. I’m going in. 

If we don’t deal, here and now, I’m aiming for jail time. 

How the hell did you even get into Harvard Law, let alone graduate and pass the bar? How?

------

Walstead's dialogue is a fine start. Keepable, for the most part. But the only line that's important for Simon to say about his writing is, Whose name is on them? That, alone, tells Walstead to fuck off, without the hyperbole.

Characters laid out...

Lots of chit-chat, today with my characters and the storyline of Misdemeanor...

The treatment  is 7 pages long and fairly detailed. Here are quick snippets of the other main characters. Still working on depth for each...but may let that just happen as the story goes.

Frank Paley, 32, Cop for Barrington Township, Power builder, Straight, he says, tattoos, probable use of muscle enhancers, friends with Brian Walstead.

Olivier Deskin, 56, antiquarian book dealer in London, knowledgeable but prickly, snarky about Simon’s sexual orientation, claiming he’s just joshing. 

Tannen Northridge, 72, worth millions, hard to deal with, wife dead, kids gone all over the world, alone in great house, not a book person. Refers Simon to Villiers.

William Villiers, 80, defense attorney, won’t consider trial, just deal. Anything else is a waste of time and effort, and just stupid. 

Brian Walstead, 32, Assistant District Attorney, Very good-looking, Divorced, friends with Paley, trying to prove self to father. 

Elissa Manville, 30, Walstead’s second chair, Rubenesque but pretty, Boyfriend is not very attentive, has little boy and mother at home to watch him. Sole income.

Vin Tran, 50, owns store where it all starts, doesn’t want to give Simon security tape, thinks will piss off cops. 

Judge Alexander Denton, 49, Criminal Court, Distinguished but right wing, Married, 5 daughters, three grandchildren, may be closet case.

Christopher Westridge, deceased in 1984 at age of 27, involved with Simon in mid-70s, gorgeous but cruel to him. Real name? John James. Sociopathic. 

Dr. Delon Aristide, 36, PhD in Jurisprudence, Attractive and well-dressed, Married, 2 sons and a daughter.

Raymond Harver, 54, District Attorney, Self-satisfied about self, Married twice, son and daughter from first marriage don’t speak to him. Friends with Brian's father.

Arlon Walstead, 62, powerful lawyer in town, wealthy, used friendship with Harver to help Brian because he thinks Brian is no good on his own.

Georg Garisov, 38, Cop for Barrington, About to become sergeant, Married, three kids.

Angelo Corelli, 26, Cop for Barrington, Good-looking and upright-seeming, Single.

Dominqua Lambert, 34, ACLU Lawyer, recent hire. Pretty and self-assured. Involved with Walstead, on the sly. Anti-gay. Did podcast a few years back under a different name, praising MAGA crap.

ReShawn Greene, 46, Attorney with Kaplan, Halliwell and Greene, Stocky and neatly dressed, Married, three girls, seven grandkids. Decent.

Collier Allendale, 74, Superior Court judge., Tall and stately, Married, two children, two grandchildren, one great-grandchild, level-headed.

Benny Reacher, 23, techie, AKA: Snack Attack. He can fix any phone, computer, electronic stuff, tattoos all over, quirky smiles, read some of Simon’s work. “Wild shit.”

The framework begins building...

I spent much of today sitting and talking with my main character in what I'm now calling Misdemeanor Murder...and which I'm still not crazy about. I do need a better title.

This is what he's revealed of himself.

Simon Halloran, 69, gay but celibate. Insulted people think he'd make a pass at the juice-junky cop who arrested him. Looks like an older Bing Crosby. Thinning red hair. Slim but not skinny. 5’9” and 155 lbs. Bites nails.

Born in Nathalia, Texas Moved to San Antonio when dad got job at Kelly AFB.

Had a brother and his wife get $2500 out of him to help with dental expenses, turned out was really for one of her sons from a previous marriage to get him out of a jam. Never paid back.

Aunt, uncle and cousins cut him off when found out he’s gay, nothing overt just went silent on him, no sharing, nothing.

Now lives in Buffalo, NY, away from everyone in his family.

“I can’t be hurt when no one is around to hurt me.” 

Mom neurotic but kindly. Passed away 15 years earlier.

Father dismissive due to being effeminate, focused on brothers and sisters. Died from diabetes 23 years ago.

Trained himself to be more masculine as he grew older, now just kind of bland, on the surface.

Presbyterian upbringing.

Writes and posts stories about kidnapping and raping men, what he calls ditties on his blog, on Tumblr, through GayDemon and other threads. Some very brutal. Unapologetic when confronted with it. “I don’t do it; I just fantasize.”

Loses self in SF and Fantasy, and writing gay erotica. Always worked in book stores on a minimal existence, but lots of free reading. “What more am I worthy of?”

Semi-retired, talked into going to Barrington, OH to archive a book collection as a favor for a friend.

When in 8th grade would draw sketches for girls (of boys they liked) and boys (nude females), for 10 cents each, till two boys tried to blackmail him. He refused. Got in trouble, suspended. Picked on when returned but stabbed one tormenter in arm with a pencil. Said was an accident. Uproar but nothing could be done. Here is when he first realized he will not back down in the face of being threatened. Quietly told the boy the next pencil would go in his eye, so left him alone, after that.

As a young gay man in San Antonio, got into a relationship with Darren and was treated like shit. Emotionally and physically abused. Raped, but when he tried to report it was told he’d go to jail for being queer. Financially devastated but managed to move to Houston to get away.

Darren died of AIDs, in Austin. Simon both glad and sad about it. HIV negative.

Near end of the book, in a confrontation with the cop who first arrested him: What a stupid man, Simon thought. He can’t think beyond his nose. Can’t see threats are nothing to me. I’ve never given into threats. Never will. I can’t. There’s something in me that refuses to allow that. And I told him. But he doesn’t believe me. The stupid, stupid man.

Stephen King on writing successfully

This is from 1988...and some is no longer valid. But still good to check out...especially if you've violated 7 of the 12, like I have:

1. Be talented. This, of course, is the killer. What is talent? I can hear someone shouting, and here we are, ready to get into a discussion right up there with “what is the meaning of life?” for weighty pronouncements and total uselessness. For the purposes of the beginning writer, talent may as well be defined as eventual success – publication and money. If you wrote something for which someone sent you a check, if you cashed the check and it didn’t bounce, and if you then paid the light bill with the money, I consider you talented. 

Now some of you are really hollering. Some of you are calling me one crass money-fixated creep. And some of you are calling me bad names. Are you calling Harold Robbins talented? someone in one of the Great English Departments of America is screeching. V.C. Andrews? Theodore Dreiser? Or what about you, you dyslexic moron? 

 Nonsense. Worse than nonsense, off the subject. We’re not talking about good or bad here. I’m interested in telling you how to get your stuff published, not in critical judgments of who’s good or bad. As a rule the critical judgments come after the check’s been spent, anyway. I have my own opinions, but most times I keep them to myself. People who are published steadily and are paid for what they are writing may be either saints or trollops, but they are clearly reaching a great many someones who want what they have. Ergo, they are communicating. Ergo, they are talented. The biggest part of writing successfully is being talented, and in the context of marketing, the only bad writer is one who doesn’t get paid. If you’re not talented, you won’t succeed. And if you’re not succeeding, you should know when to quit. 

When is that? I don’t know. It’s different for each writer. Not after six rejection slips, certainly, nor after sixty. But after six hundred? Maybe. After six thousand? My friend, after six thousand pinks, it’s time you tried painting or computer programming. Further, almost every aspiring writer knows when he is getting warmer – you start getting little jotted notes on your rejection slips, or personal letters . . . maybe a commiserating phone call. It’s lonely out there in the cold, but there are encouraging voices … unless there is nothing in your words which warrants encouragement. I think you owe it to yourself to skip as much of the self-illusion as possible. If your eyes are open, you’ll know which way to go … or when to turn back. 

2. Be neat. Type. Double-space. Use a nice heavy white paper, never that erasable onion-skin stuff. If you’ve marked up your manuscript a lot, do another draft. 

3. Be self-critical. If you haven’t marked up your manuscript a lot, you did a lazy job. Only God gets things right the first time. Don’t be a slob. 

4. Remove every extraneous word. You want to get up on a soapbox and preach? Fine. Get one and try your local park. You want to write for money? Get to the point. And if you remove all the excess garbage and discover you can’t find the point, tear up what you wrote and start all over again . . . or try something new. 

5. Never look at a reference book while doing a first draft. You want to write a story? Fine. Put away your dictionary, your encyclopedias, your World Almanac, and your thesaurus. Better yet, throw your thesaurus into the wastebasket. The only things creepier than a thesaurus are those little paperbacks college students too lazy to read the assigned novels buy around exam time. Any word you have to hunt for in a thesaurus is the wrong word. There are no exceptions to this rule. You think you might have misspelled a word? O.K., so here is your choice: either look it up in the dictionary, thereby making sure you have it right – and breaking your train of thought and the writer’s trance in the bargain – or just spell it phonetically and correct it later. Why not? Did you think it was going to go somewhere? And if you need to know the largest city in Brazil and you find you don’t have it in your head, why not write in Miami, or Cleveland? You can check it … but later. When you sit down to write, write. Don’t do anything else except go to the bathroom, and only do that if it absolutely cannot be put off. 

6. Know the markets. Only a dimwit would send a story about giant vampire bats surrounding a high school to McCall’s. Only a dimwit would send a tender story about a mother and daughter making up their differences on Christmas Eve to Playboy … but people do it all the time. I’m not exaggerating; I have seen such stories in the slush piles of the actual magazines. If you write a good story, why send it out in an ignorant fashion? Would you send your kid out in a snowstorm dressed in Bermuda shorts and a tank top? If you like science fiction, read the magazines. If you want to write confession stories, read the magazines. And so on. It isn’t just a matter of knowing what’s right for the present story; you can begin to catch on, after awhile, to overall rhythms, editorial likes and dislikes, a magazine’s entire slant. Sometimes your reading can influence the next story, and create a sale. 

7. Write to entertain. Does this mean you can’t write “serious fiction”? It does not. Somewhere along the line pernicious critics have invested the American reading and writing public with the idea that entertaining fiction and serious ideas do not overlap. This would have surprised Charles Dickens, not to mention Jane Austen, John Steinbeck, William Faulkner, Bernard Malamud, and hundreds of others. But your serious ideas must always serve your story, not the other way around. I repeat: if you want to preach, get a soapbox. 

8. Ask yourself frequently, “Am I having fun?” The answer needn’t always be yes. But if it’s always no, it’s time for a new project or a new career. 

9. How to evaluate criticism. Show your piece to a number of people – ten, let us say. Listen carefully to what they tell you. Smile and nod a lot. Then review what was said very carefully. If your critics are all telling you the same thing about some facet of your story – a plot twist that doesn’t work, a character who rings false, stilted narrative, or half a dozen other possibles – change that facet. It doesn’t matter if you really liked that twist of that character; if a lot of people are telling you something is wrong with your piece, it is. If seven or eight of them are hitting on that same thing, I’d still suggest changing it. But if everyone – or even most everyone – is criticizing something different, you can safely disregard what all of them say. 

10. Observe all rules for proper submission. Return postage, self-addressed envelope, all of that. (Not really valid, anymore)

11. An agent? Forget it. For now Agents get 10% of monies earned by their clients. 10% of nothing is nothing. Agents also have to pay the rent. Beginning writers do not contribute to that or any other necessity of life. Flog your stories around yourself. If you’ve done a novel, send around query letters to publishers, one by one, and follow up with sample chapters and/or the manuscript complete. And remember Stephen King’s First Rule of Writers and Agents, learned by bitter personal experience: You don’t need one until you’re making enough for someone to steal … and if you’re making that much, you’ll be able to take your pick of good agents. 

12. If it’s bad, kill it. When it comes to people, mercy killing is against the law. When it comes to fiction, it is the law.

That’s everything you need to know.

Coming together...

A Simple Misdemeanor is the new working title for this next book. A story of how a small incident escalates to the point of murder and destruction. I've been going over an outline I wrote, back in December, and making notes. Adding details. All in red pen.

I've also worked up a basic idea of how the convenience store is set up, where things get started. A rough sketch but it's just for my visualization, since it plays an important part in the story.

Of course, I'm getting into something I know very little about--the true legal processes involved in escalating a simple misdemeanor into a full-scale legal war. Simon doesn't need to know much about it, but Brian does...well enough to manipulate the law to benefit himself.

I guess I can write it out using what little knowledge I have...from watching LA Law and Law and Order...not to mention Perry Mason, once upon a time. Then go over it with an attorney who handles defense, in court.

There's also the issue of the judge and what standards he or she has to have. What is considered misconduct in criminal court? I know they're usually handled by the issuance of a citation instead of a full-scale arrest...

But the cop needs to actually arrest Simon, making this a bigger deal. Could his claim Simon exposed himself within 600 feet of a school be sufficient cause? Even though it's around midnight?

Oh, man...I have a lot of research to do. See what I can get away with and what I can't.