Not Working...

It's not working. Nothing is. No matter what I do or how I try, I cannot connect with MQM, and I don't know why.

I've tried reshaping it. I've added new characters and thought of dropping others...and nothing about it grabs me. It does not excite or even interest me. It just sits there. Bland and tedious. Writing by rote.

I thought maybe watching another mystery on Acorn would help gear me up. The Chelsea Detective. But it's even worse. I don't like the characters...or the actors. The writing is very A-B-C. The pacing is more like padding. I swear, the episodes may be just under 90 minutes long but they could be trimmed down to an hour and ten, the editing is so loose and sloppy.

So it just adds to my depression. Which is what I think I'm going through, right now. Not something debilitating but functioning. And the cause of it? Jesus, make a list.

Politics in America. War and chaos around the world. Hate the main emotion spreading through the web. And confrontational assholes who spit on anything decent and kind. You can't escape it...not unless you shut your social connections down, completely.

But those are how I keep up with people. Everyone I know and love is either in Texas or SoCal, and to have that motherfucker in the White House joke about nuking LA and San Diego...and having his crowd laugh about it and then defend it...it adds to all of this. It's heartbreaking.

I've had a lot of anger rear up, something I can usually control. But it's taken over my ability to write. MQM is not right for that kind of emotion...and what I do want to use that for is...well, is inappropriate.

I thought about adding a horrific incident I went through when I was twelve to give Simon reason to be angry, but he doesn't like it. Thinks it's just an excuse. And I can't blame him.

So WTF do I do?

Day of jobbing...

Needed to get info for a few jobs in the UK. One would involve packing. One would be just a pickup from a residence. One might be a hand-carry from NYC to London. And that took all my energy and focus.

Well almost all. Dealing with Walgreens took the last of it. I don't know what's going on with that pharmacy chain, but over the last six months I've had problems getting prescriptions refilled in a timely fashion. On three occasions I set up a refill...and their system deleted it. Or put it aside. Or something.

I've had to go in every time to get it rectified because when I call I'm put on hold and there are more than three callers ahead of me. Even when new prescriptions come in to them, they'll forget about one. As happened today.

I'm supposed to get 2 dermatological creams for my skin, and they acknowledged they had received the prescriptions, but then one disappeared. I went in to get my flu/covid vaccine so asked about it and it didn't show until they searched up the prescription...from two days ago.

Normally, I'd think it's just me screwing up online, somehow, but not this consistently. I don't want to shift to CVS so may start getting my meds by mail...except the postmaster is out to destroy the mail service so that's not reliable, either.

I also dropped my car off for servicing across the street from Walgreens and will pick it up, tomorrow, and we'll have to see if that prescription got filled. And another one I needed.

Maybe there's nothing that can be done, because it's looking more and more like the whole of society is falling apart. I usually joke about it being the end of the world...but lately, I'm not so sure I am.

Still at it...

I'm still pulling together the outline of the story...but now a couple of characters have changed their positions in the action. What's wild is, in doing so they may have changed who actually kills Simon.

Initially, I had the cop who arrested him at the beginning do it. And he still would be in on it...maybe. It's just...that moment felt wrong. Not badly so, just...not right. Too symmetrical.

Adding the drifting snow helped but still didn't feel complete. The plan was to string Simon up as if he'd killed himself by hanging, in the woods. He puts an end to that by refusing to get out of the car and then, when he's forced to, winds up with a dislocated wrist.

No way a man with only one working hand can arrange to hang himself off a tree branch. So in the middle of everyone arguing over what to do, one of the men pulls out a pistol and shoots him. Or maybe it's a woman who does it. Hmm.......

What's especially interesting about this is it would work well if I start the story out with Simon's body being discovered in a shallow grave. The whole story would be leading up to that moment, with indications one person committed the murder when, in fact, another does.

That could really make for an interesting story...

Pulling it together...

I've got a good start on the XLS outline for MQM. This is a very basic setup for the story but having it start in mid-May and end in mid-October is a lot of help clarifying not only the length of time it takes for the story to happen, but also what the weather will be like.

I'll need to shift ReShawn's son's games from being baseball to soccer or football, at the end, but otherwise it all fits in. Even having an early light snowfall comforting Simon in his last moments will work.

It's also bringing some clarity to my mess of a brain. I've used specific dates when setting out the timeline, but I'm going to avoid that and just name the days of the week as it goes along. Even when Falwell schedules the trial, that will just be like, three weeks from today, eleven a-m. Will that work?

It feels rather cold to be plotting out the last months of a man's life like this. But it seems to be freeing Simon's inner being up. He's revealing more turmoil over past events, remembering things he regrets and things he doesn't even though he should.

Adding Joel in adds an anchor to Simon's world. He's kinder, thanks to this. And his anger at Doyle for mistreating him seems to read stronger and more valid. I guess. Won't know till I get to it.

Eventually.

Sidetracking...

I started my graph for the timeline of MQM then hopped over to my dermatology appointment. And got kicked off center.

A couple precancerous growths are on my face and arms, one requiring a biopsy. Results come next week.

I've already dealt with a cancer being removed on my right jawline, which was no big deal, but now it's making itself better known. Got a cream that's supposed to handle most of them.

But it messes with your equilibrium, something I don't have a lot of to begin with. So en route home I stopped at Dickeys and had a meal of turkey, potato salad and cole slaw and sat there, after eating, for an extra half hour. I didn't want to come home.

After that, I went to a grocery store to get a few things and meandered about, not wanting to go home.

I've noticed that more and more in me, lately. I must be getting tired of keeping myself in. I can go days without seeing anyone or talking to anyone and be fine, but every now and then I get really sick of it and just want to stay away.

So I got nothing more done on the graph. No thoughts about Simon and his situation, at all. Just feeling old and tired and unsure about everything.

So tonight I'm re-watching Ludwig, on BritBox. It's a goofy, very British murder mystery set in Cambridge, using the logic of puzzles to solve murders. Season 2 is about to fire up and I want to renew Season 1 in my head.

And see if I can just relax.

I have to do a reset...

The timing of MQM is off and the characters are giving me only hints about themselves, right now. What time of year do I want this to happen? Should I start the story with Simon's body being found as the first chapter and have the rest of it lead up to his death? How many memories do I want to punch in? How many more characters? I'm already up over 2 dozen.

Right now, it's like scrambled eggs in my head, which is a food I don't like by itself. Eggs can be so damned bland, even with salt and pepper, though adding salsa or tabasco helps.

So I add onion, Velveeta sliced cheese, green pepper, olives, and bacon bits. Starting with three eggs well-whipped. Make hash browns. Toast. Tea. And that I like for any meal, which also leaves enough for a sandwich, later. 

But that's the way it is for me. I want the ingredients set for whatever dish I'm making. Then I can do anything with it. My trying to go all the way through the book to get a first draft done is probably what's screwing me up. I bounce around, I don't glide.

Which means I'm going to work up an XLS of the actions and characters, tomorrow. Do it by month, like I did for APoS and started for Dair's Window. Get that settled, at least. But it'll take a couple days.

I have an appointment with the dermatologist at 2 so can get started, at least.

A new character...

This is the beginning of chapter two. Simon is en route and stops at a Flying J to take a break.

---------- 

It was a relatively busy place with semis off to themselves under towering canopies, fueling up, while cars, minivans and UHaul cube trucks were in front of the building. He worked out that he was in Pennsylvania and noticed he was at half a tank of gas so decided to top off, as well. Once that was done, he moved his CRV to by the store’s entrance.

The inside was big, rambling and clean enough, with the usual mishmash of food, drinks, goods, tools, accoutrements for trucks, and knickknacks for cars as faux country music echoed off the Muzak. He was at the freezer case picking through the rather lumpy ice cream sandwiches it offered when...

A young man entered the store.

A gorgeous young man.

Tall. Cocky. Swagger just right for a fitted t-shirt slopped over a wide belt and buckle around trim hips and well-worn jeans. Boots that were anything but new. He was casual and cool, with perfect proportions. Taut muscles bulging but not overly so. Good flow from his back to a nicely rounded ass. And that I’m too fucking hot for you attitude that always brought out the prowling alleycat in Simon and...

Simon froze, shaken.

He looked somewhat like Joel. Sweet, tender Joel Malone, who had never really believed he was someone worthy of desire. Born to an oil executive in Lubbock. Tall, sandy hair, elegant proportions, a face Michelangelo would have loved. No ego to him. The only guy Simon had ever been with who saw him as a partner, in bed, and not one step up from a fuck-toy. 

They had been at the same community college but then Joel transferred to UT Austin and they’d drifted apart. Soon after, Simon was taken over by Doyle and that was the end of it. 

Until Joel was diagnosed with AIDs. Simon only found out through old friends in San Antonio. A Hollywood movie had been shot in the Austin area and members of the crew had...well...from what Simon understood the disease had exploded through the city after they were done. And Joel was an early casualty. Before anyone really knew what it was all about.

Joel...gone before he was twenty-two...

And here was another beautiful man who was so much like him.

Without thinking, Simon opened his camera app and snuck a dozen photos as the young man wandered down the coolers. Then stopped to peruse the soft drinks. Then squatted down in a manner close to balletic to grab an energy drink. Then sauntered back to the cashier with the sensuality of a cougar strolling through its domain. All without so much as a glance in anyone’s direction.

As Simon silently recorded him.

Automatically positioned himself and his phone to get good clear shots without making himself too obvious. Heard him say, “Filling on number 9. Decker Transport.”

The frumpy cashier hit some numbers on their register and it dinged...

Then the guy looked towards him. Maybe even at him. And let a smile hit his face before he sauntered out of the store.

Simon froze. He didn’t know how long he was unable to think of what he should do next. He just gazed out the entrance as the lad strolled around to an area out of his line of sight...

And he kept standing there. Finally, he took in a deep breath, paid for his ice cream sandwich, and exited...

Just in time to see the guy off under a nearby canopy, climbing into the cab of a long-bed semi. He brought it to life and pulled out of the parking lot back to the highway.

And Simon nearly wept.

Moving in the right direction...

More of Chapter one rewritten, and I've cut a good 800 words, so far.

--------

He’d had to deal with the woman on a few occasions, while at Veriman’s. The first time being when she had loudly complained that the books he’d shipped to her were not packed well-enough.

He had wrapped them in tissue, then brown paper, put them in bubble bags and set in a box with biodegradable peanuts. What had sent her into conniptions was how that box had not been packed into another box and, since the value was exceptionally high, then packed in another.

Like a Russian Doll.

Then there was the last time she had set foot in the shop...all ninety-eight pounds of her, in very high-priced couture with silver hair that was short and stiff enough to cut you. She had whined the air conditioning was too cold, the lighting was too dark, the Perrier she was given was lemon instead of lime, and so on and so on. She was hardly someone Simon wanted to deal with.

Olivier must have sensed it, because he quickly added, “There are only around a hundred titles.”

“Mrs. Northridge is selling her books to you?” Simon asked.

Which felt very wrong. Veriman’s was still going strong so by all rights that should have been the first place she'd contact about selling. She had bought enough from there.

Olivier sighed and said, “She’s passed away.”

Oh. Well...Simon was surprised. He'd thought her impervious to the laws of existence. “I hadn’t heard.”

“I knew them both well-enough to be informed of her passing, so jumped on the collection. I’d also like a condition report on the books, with photos...”

“Olivier, that can be very time-consuming...”

“Nothing serious. Just be certain she took care of them. They haven’t been trashed. Some of the books have fine illustrations in them, so verify they still do.”

Just a minute! “She broke books to remove illustrations?!”

“Dunno. But I’d not put it past her.”

“Then it’s good she’s gone.” Which burst from Simon before he could even think to stop it. He considered it a cardinal sin to destroy a book just for the pretty pictures.

Olivier actually harumphed. “Simon...I’d no idea you were so judgmental.”

Only on things of importance, Simon thought to himself.

Then there would be dealing with a grieving widower while taking away a collection his now late wife had slaved over for years. That could be very emotionally involving, so he said, “I...I don’t know, Olivier...I don’t think that I’ll be right for this.”

“Nonsense, and you’ve done it many times before...”

“But...well, why not send Amir, from your New York shop? He could rent a car and drive up and...”

“He’s hasn’t your attention to detail, yet.” Olivier heard the sigh in Simon’s voice so continued with, “It will be fine, I promise. Shouldn’t take more than a day or two. Wait, you do have a laptop?”

What? “You know I do.”

He had used it on the two previous jobs for him, but so like him to not remember that.

“Right, right. And Excel?”

Oh, for god's sake. “Yes...but...”

“Simon, please. I’d come, myself, but I’m four-thousand miles off and Chelsea Book Fair is next weekend while Tanner wants it done, this week, or he’ll just have the books heaved in a box and carted off.”

Which definitely would not do.

I said I wouldn't...

...But I am. Going back to the beginning of The Murder of a Quiet Man to streamline what I've written. Hoping to find out why I'm doing this.

Here's the new opening...

---------

The beginning of the end of Simon Halloran’s life started with a phone call from Olivier Daskin, an antiquarian book dealer he knew from London. He wanted Simon to catalogue and pack a collection of rare books and fine bindings at a residence in Barrington, Ohio, something he was very practiced in doing. 

But the moment he heard what Olivier wanted, a little voice in his head calmly said, Hold on; this is not a good idea. 

To begin with, Simon was gay and Ohio was hardly conducive to that. Next, Simon was extremely liberal in politics and everything while Ohio was mainly his polar opposite. Finally, he had reached that stage in life where he felt no need to tolerate the intolerance of others, which would put him at odds with much of the state. So he had consistently avoided going anywhere near there and the moment he heard Olivier’s request his first thought was to say no. 

However, Simon had known the man for some time, had helped him in the same way, a few times before, and knew a great deal about rare and antiquarian books...so it made sense that Olivier would contact him about this. 

The one drawback? 

Simon was seventy-five and looked it, both in face and neck, though seemed much younger. Of average height, as thin as Ichabod Crane, with hair more white than blond and features that were calm and plain, exacerbated by an ever-present pair of readers on his nose, he had a vaguely dusty, knowledgeable, almost ethereal air whispering around him that would immediately peg him as either a librarian or book dealer.  Which fit, considering he had worked at Veriman’s Antiquarian Books for nearly thirty years. 

His clothing was always a button down-shirt, slacks...never jeans, never shorts...and loafers. With plenty of pockets for pens, pencils and small notepads. Sometimes a sweater. Sometimes a jacket. Sometimes an overcoat...when the weather demanded it. 

He lived alone in a one-bedroom apartment on the ninth floor of a high-rise a couple blocks from Veriman’s rambling old storefront on the town’s gentrified Main Street. Now retired, he survived well-enough on Social Security and occasionally being asked to handle a small cataloguing and packing job.

Like this one .

“It's a nice collection,” Olivier said, “and not so very far from you. Can you help me with it?” 

He hadn't even said a word of Hello or How are you doing? So like him. He was one of those self-involved lads who were born and raised on an estate halfway to Cambridge. Short, stocky, family money, he had the face of a wicked elf and was always impeccably dressed in bespoke clothing. He also spoke in a West End accent another British dealer had referred to as about as faux as possible, and had minimal concept of how difficult life could be for those not as fortunate as he.

Simon had met Olivier when he came to Veriman’s and purchased an East of the Sun, West of the Moon illustrated by Kay Nielson as well as a Grimm’s Fairy Tales with artwork by Arthur Rackham. He would make the rounds of the Mid-Atlantic book dealers whenever he was stateside, and had recently opened a second shop in New York City. Now he was still trying to stock it, fully. 

“But it's in Barrington,” Simon said, that little voice making its displeasure known. 

“Yes. You know it?” 

“Um, Olivier, that’s over three-hundred miles. Not, not so very far.” 

“Closer than I am. It’s just, I won’t be in the States for another three weeks and this has to be done now, now, now. I’ll email you an itemized list to work off. XLS. Pop it down to the NY shop. You know the drill. Easy-peasy.” 

“Is it of high value?” 

“Only about six-fifty...” 

That made Simon blink. “Six-hundred and fifty thousand dollars!?” 

“Pounds. They’re from Tannen Northridge’s wife.” Spoken as if he were shocked Simon didn’t already know. 

Simon already suspected that was to whom Olivier was referring.

Still searching...

And fighting with myself over whether or not to go back to the beginning and do another pass through what's already written to make incidental changes. Something I promised myself I would not do.

But it's proving to be difficult. I'm at the point where Simon receives the article written from Zack's interview with him for a semi-weekly gay newspaper. So that needs to be written. And there's the ad posted online...set to also be in the print edition of the next issue, which won't be coming out till after the trial.

Those bits aren't really led up to in what's done, so far. Is that going to cause issues? Or should Chris and Elissa even know about it, yet? Same for Ivan...

I'm still leery about continuing in the direction I've got plotted out. My complaint is how shallow it seems. Which completely ignores how this is a first draft. Officially. Where I'm working out the story...

Even though I'm not, really. It is worked out. It's just up to me to hunker down and complete it.

Have I lost interest in it? Am I just avoiding facing that possibility? It did sort of worm its way into my consciousness, despite my preferences. Am I finally done with it? Has finishing it become too much of an obligation?

I do feel like I'm undergoing some major changes in my life, and not only physically and emotionally. There's something mental included. A drifting towards a simplicity that I've longed for yet never really sought.

Travel no longer interests me. I don't even like to leave my apartment. It was a big deal for me to do that tango with WalMart, seeking my planner, and I only went out yesterday because I needed milk...so got a haircut, too, to get that out of the way.

Today, I stayed in and tried to ignore the world. Didn't do all that great a job of it, still it seems Leave me alone is my new goal.

I guess Candide is having an effect on me.