Confessor: Credo, and E4: Chapter 2

I've never been terribly interested in writing poetry, but when that urge does show up, it comes out as prose written in a poetic style. I try to write a narrative with words chosen carefully to be very visually evocative. I often will use sentence fragments and leave the story that's being told somewhat murky, like someone's transmitting their thoughts to you instead of speaking them. What I'm trying to do is create the surreal yet vivid form that my dreams often take, more dynamic than life often is during waking hours. I can't say I always succeed 100%, but I have had some good reviews for my work in this style.

What I'm sharing today is the first prose poem like this that I wrote probably about 7 or 8 years ago. It was my attempt to create a mythological-type character, in this case The Confessor, a man who is granted immortality but doomed to never love. There's a series, or a cycle as I call it, about this character. I think the first three are good, especially the second, but the fourth one needs some work. (I'll still post it here.) I would like to continue with these, but I think I need to be in a certain place mentally to write them. Here's the first Confessor prose poem:

Confessor: Credo

They call me Confessor; Forever to listen but never be heard.

I wander among them in the surge of New York streets. I take the long road to the west. Rush through Vegas, breathe in Arizona and dry out in Utah sands. Wherever I go, I cannot flee the perceptions that repeat themselves through the eyes of all that I meet. The crack of my grin, the grate in my laugh; they are the hooks that tell them I’m open. It is not a device of attraction or friendship, but of comfort. People tell me things. So, I listen. I do not want to escape, for my chest pains along with them at their troubles and expands with the secrets and sins they so willingly confide. I will not misuse them. My credo is to listen, to dilute their worries.

I have much to gain. Each injured soul adds emotions to my once hollow heart. At a bar, the man who’s younger than he looks speaks of his descent into ruin. The pretty girl on the subway tells me of the eager suitors she has to choose from. A college student comes to me for advice on his future, but uncovers his own desired path by voicing the options. It is not my duty to advise, but to hear.

By the time it is my turn to pour out terrors and hopes, they have tired of conversation. My ear is so available that they forget I am more than a wall to cast their stories against. After years of this, they are right. I do not have anything personal to tell. I exist for them, a sum of their vices and loves.

How many ages have passed this way? I remember a time when the rivers ran backwards and the days spun forth at length. Then, did I dare not to listen. Then, did I bring about my curse. I was not unlike every man apart from my supernatural ambition.

My eyes spring open when upon my travels I encounter the one woman who is capable of completing myself. She feigns happiness, but is injured like all of the rest. How can I accurately describe my feelings for her or why I am so engrossed? Can we truly summarize our absolute passion for someone? You just know that it is right. I do not lose focus of my eternal task, for I desperately want to help her, care for her. She, however, is the one person through all of time who does not confide in me.

Of all the people that I have met, she is the one I want to listen to the most. Why am I destined to fail her confidence? It comes from my past, when I once dared to love a goddess at the expense of not being there for anyone else. Family fell apart, friends went astray and my kingdom fell. I gave up all in my attentions to her, but is that not the sign of total love? Fate must not agree, for she never returned my passion and I have ever since been drawn to wander. The spell I have to bleed confessions out of others, the compassion I have for them, can barely atone for my mistakes.

Once in a lifetime, I meet that goddess again and the dance repeats itself. No longer do I have anything to lose. I yearn for her, but she is not taken by any quality that I possess. To infinity I could strive to be more than mortal for her, but it will never be enough. She moves on to another, finds comfort in his arms and exists in happiness without me being a part of that life. I am left to sigh in the shadows and walk on, for this is my lot.

They call me Confessor; Forever to wander but never to love.

I'd also like to share with you an excerpt from Chapter 2 of my novel. The chapter introduce Lenara, who is probably my favorite of the various characters I've created. She's a thief and mercenary who's very self-assured, sexy, and a bit of a Robin (fem.) Hood, although she robs and extorts mostly from those who deserve it, and absolutely for her personal gain. She's an unashamed materialist, but loves to live an adventurous life. She can mold her personality into most anything she needs to be for her job, but in truth she's easy-going and a bit maternal, a tomboy but still girly. I'd like to think she's the character in this novel who's the most at ease with who she is and honest about it, at least when she can afford to be.

Lenara's one of the four main character in the book, yet she's taken on a different life outside of my writing, yet still steeped in my creative side. I play few video games, with wrestling games being the only reason I almost ever fire up the PS2. Fast-paced gameplay aside, I love the game mode (primarily in the Smackdown series) that allows you to create your own wrestlers. I have a field day with this, my own storylines running through my head as I play the game. Lenara is my favorite character to use. While it's not realistic to have her fighting all the guys in the game, to me she's the spunky underdog who rallies at the right moments and retains nobility in her losses, which ties right into the essence of the character as I see her in my novel. In fact, the wrestling games seem to have made their way into the novel in this passage... :) :

E4 Chapter 2 excerpt

Lenara went to the right side of the office, as that was the general direction Zhuriosky had looked. She began toying with the floor tiles, running the key along their edges. Lenara had to give him credit for finding a good spot. After all, she had only figured it out because she was looking for it.

Beautifully, one of the stone tiles popped up. Lenara gingerly put it aside and found that there was a small lockbox set into the floor. Triumphant again, she pulled it out and clicked open its lock with the key.

The Anastar Ruby looked like an eye that had been plucked from a whale made of crystal. It seemed alive, not composed of stone but glistening, red blood. It connected with Lenara’s natural desire to possess beauty and, for a moment, she felt the drive to keep it for herself. She forced herself to pull away, to blink, to disconnect. This was a job. Her employer was awaiting her, one hand held aloft to examine the ruby and the other offering a very substantial paycheck. Without him, Lenara wouldn’t be able to go on such treasure hunts.

Lenara re-approached the jewel with an assessing eye.

The Anastar Ruby had been lost to the world in 1851. It was on display in London, for the Great International Exhibition at the Crystal Palace. Held in a graceful building made of glass and framed by steel, the largest of its kind at the time, the Exhibition featured inventions that boasted of the Industrial Age and international showrooms that glamorized Britain’s imperialism. Plundered from India, the Anastar Ruby was a perfect symbol of foreign wealth. Sometime during the exhibition, the ruby vanished into the ether and attendees were left to marvel at the marble post on which it had sat. It was never seen again. The facts of the heist were very familiar to Lenara, but she didn’t know what had become of the ruby in the intervening years. She had only become aware of it being in the grubby hands of Zhuriosky because he had a big mouth. Now, though, it rested softly in her gloved hands. She smiled, and could almost hear it purr.

Lenara reached into the right side of her parka and undid the zipper of a hidden pocket. It was cushioned and would well protect the ruby. She barely had the jewel inside when the door to the office swung open and Vlad stamped in. Lenara swiftly continued tucking the ruby into her pocket in the hope that he didn’t notice. No such luck. The walrus of a man leaned against the door as he closed it and waved a finger at her.

“Bad girl,” he reprimanded, “I knew Zhuriosky shouldn’t have trusted you.”

Lenara rested her arms at her side as she poised for action. It really aggravated her when people talked down to her, but Vlad’s tone had much more amusement in it than she expected from the otherwise silent and conniving man. Lenara didn’t respond, but regarded him with a sly grin.

Vlad grunted and walked over to where the tile and lockbox were still on the floor.

“So that’s where he keeps it,” Vlad said, scratching his brown beard. He nonchalantly faced Lenara, careful not to get so close as to spook her, but crossed his arms and frowned down at her. “My friend prizes that ruby. I cannot allow you to leave here with it.”

Lenara readied her knee for his crotch.

“But,” Vlad said, putting his arms behind his back, “if you give it to me, I will find a buyer and we can split the profits.”

Lenara laughed and shook her head. “You’re my kind of scum, Vlad.” She tilted her head all sexy-like and Vlad realized that she had different-colored eyes, one blue and one green. “How do I know that I’ll get my half?” she asked softly.

“Hmm,” Vlad muttered, “I see why Zhuriosky prefers you. All the women here are pale and plain. They are voluptuous, surely, but they are workhorses. Charms aside, girl, I think you only have the option I’ve given you. It involves...trust.”

Lenara nodded. “All right, Vlad, sometimes thieves have to share.” She reached into her parka’s inside pocket and pulled out a handful of ruby. At least that’s what Vlad thought it was. Lenara tossed it up and Vlad went to catch it, only realizing as it neared his hands that it was a fuzzy, pink wallet.

Lenara made the most of the distraction and threw herself onto the stocky Russian. She got a grip on his neck and swung her body around and onto his back. Vlad gasped in surprise as she tightened her arms around his throat, cutting off his air with her tight, toned arms.

“You bertchhhh...,” he gargled, his face turning red. Vlad grabbed her arms to break the hold, but her grip was insistent. He tried to flip her forward, but Lenara squeezed her thighs into his sides and crossed her legs over his waist like a praying mantis snatching her prey. Vlad began to gag and panic. He ran backwards, slamming his back and the thief against the wall. Lenara yelped, but gritted her teeth and squeezed with her total might. Vlad stumbled forward and ran back again, hitting the wall. It knocked the breath from Lenara, but she forced herself to hold the grip just a bit longer. Vlad stepped forward again, arms slowly flailing, then fell to his knees. His head lolled forward and Lenara knew she could let go.

Vlad crumpled to the floor, passed out. Lenara quickly extracted her limbs and jogged to the door, still gasping and feeling the pain in her back. She doubted he would be out long and she needed to get as far as possible before he came to. Then she realized something, went back over to Vlad and yanked her wallet from his hand.

The First Chapter

How many of you are writing a novel? Let's see a raise of hands? Ah, good; plenty. A lot of people I've spoken with want to write a novel or have started one, but that's about the extent of it. Don't feel bad if that's you; I can't say I'm much better. I dart back and forth between different projects but rarely finish anything. It's a habit I'm looking to break. I write for a living as both a journalist and a copywriter, but it's just not the same. Seeing your name in print before the masses just isn't as satisfying when it's on an article about municipal sewers. At least for me.

For way too long a time I've had one particular novel hanging around my neck. It's hard to get too far with any other significant writing projects when I haven't finished the one that's bounced around in my brain for so long, changing form ever so often but never getting born. It's not the classic burdensome albatross; it's more like a bejeweled albatross. I love the story and want to tell it. I don't know if others will like it, but I'm entertained and intrigued by the tale, so out it must come. And I believe I'm a good writer, not a great writer, although I do have those moments where it really clicks. I hope you'll see some of those.

When you tell someone you're writing a book, the person will invariably ask what it's about. I don't like talking about an unfinished story, mainly because I fear it'll sound stupid and I'll feel ashamed to continue with it without major changes. I'd rather finish the first draft, then go back and fix it after it's critiqued. Kind of goes against the point of this blog, doesn't it, where my early drafts are exposed for comment and criticism? I'm willing to deal with that, because the reason I'm doing this is hopefully to give my creative process another dimension by just putting some of my writing out there instead of keeping it locked up on my laptop. I also find that, at times when I might lag, having eyes on what I'm doing lights a bit of a fire under my posterior.

So, what's the book about, right? I've always been told that the best books can have their plot summed up in one sentence. While I can see the rationale in that, I have a hard time adequately summing up my book in that fashion. There's a convergence of a lot of ideas that I think work well together and that I hope will work in the finished manuscript. The short line is that it's a "time travel murder mystery." Sci-Fi is my main squeeze and what I'm most interested in writing about, but I prefer to take elements of that genre and meld them into modern times. H. G. Wells is a favorite author of mine for doing just that; introducing fantastic elements into a familiar setting (of his time) and including a fair dose of rip-snorting action/adventure. The difference between his era and now is that it's hard to find new scientific ideas that really excite people. They're there, but popular fiction is a large and well-explored place. The kind of stuff that excites me are the mysteries lying under the surface of life that we don't always think about, and the heart-thumping thrill of going on new adventures. Yeah, so maybe I want to write Spielberg movies.

I spent many hours in the library as a kid looking at books on UFOs and the Loch Ness Monster, and I still do that online. I love the thought that you can be driving home from work one evening, the same tedious drive you make every weeknight, with that U2 CD playing for the third time in a row 'cos you couldn't be bothered to change it, and your headlights catch a glimpse of some bipedal creature unlike one you've even seen standing on the side of the road. Your brain jams for a split second and you double-take back, but whatever you saw is gone. In those couple of seconds, the routine, colorless world you've melted into has been shaken about, the mystery revived. Sounds like fiction, but the imagination is a fantastic place when given some exercise. So, "time travel murder mystery" is just a quick blurb for what I see as a fun, very quirky piece of fiction that focuses on damaged characters you can (hopefully) relate to, immersed in the pains and sheer disappointments that can come with life, and becoming part of a fantastic circumstance that none saw coming. It's not meant to be great literature; it's hoped by me to be an adventure story with intriguing character development, it's own voice, and hopefully be something not immediately disposable.

I don't plan to reveal everything here, because I don't want to just post the whole book online. While that might be a more helpful process, I'm not comfortable putting an entire unfinished manuscript on the Web. What I plan to do is post excerpts of passages that I think came off well and that give a taste of what I'm doing. After all, some mystery is good, right? ;-) I plan to post not just passages from the book, but a potpourri of other scribblings of mine.

I have a couple ideas for titles for the book and one I'm mostly certain on, but here, for now, it'll be know simply as E4. What I'm posting here today is part of the book's first chapter. There might be a prologue that comes before it, but I haven't leaned towards doing that yet. Anyway, this is where we (as of now) first meet Mark Vox, the protagonist. His last name is a little ostentatious, but I like the way it sounds, and I like that it fits him being the voice of the book and later a voice in a more heroic way. I might change his surname, but I'm rather used to it. He's a minor league baseball player who's not all that satisfied with his life, especially the mess he's been avoiding back in his home town. The ghosts won't leave him alone.

E4 Chapter 1 excerpt

She was bathed in sunbeams and Mark couldn't make out her features. It didn't matter. She was radiant as always.

He was lying in that field of unnamed and exotic flowers, the one he often dropped softly into in his dreams. The air's warmth plastered him back into the short grass, the blades massaging his tanned muscles.

Mark was naked from the waist up and his skin rippled when she laid a thin hand upon his chest from above. Mark inhaled a breath and pulled her down. She fell onto him with a laugh.

Even with her face in front of him, she was still a sunshine blur. Mark reached for her chin and felt it slim and warm against his hand. He bent up to meet her lips and she obliged. There was no sensation, though, as if he had just been shot through with Novocain. The sun's hot glow began to subside into numbness and Mark fought to block out the thoughts that had reared up like a furor as he held onto what he wanted.

Mark knew the scenario wasn't real; not in the way he wished. The colors and sensations were much too vivid to exist. He recognized that he was back in his bed in his North Carolina apartment. Mark was never suckered into his dreams. His consciousness always held anchor in reality; his sleeping mind no longer possessed the ability to sweep him away.

This dream, though, the one in which he saw her, was different than any of his other flat fantasies. Mark knew he wasn't really in that endless field with her under a sky tinged purple. The girl he saw on top of him, her brown air hanging down on his cheeks; she could not cross that barrier in his mind. He was not able to believe that her physical presence was real. Her voice, however, transcended his reason. Mark couldn't deny how full her voice was, how soothing it felt, or how he was unable to control what she was saying with his imagination.

"I wish you could stay," she said.

"I was thinking the same thing," Mark admitted, relaxing under her weight in the grass. "This field... endlessly," he muttered, hugging her head to his chest. He still could not make out her features but her presence was enough.

"But you can’t," she whispered with regret in her voice.

"And why not?" he asked, half-grinning. "I've got at least three more hours before the alarm goes off."

Through the shadow that covered her, he could feel her maintain her seriousness. "You have to go help him," she said.

"Help who?" Mark already sensed her response but wished to avoid it.

"Jeff," she said, the word echoing through her cheeks to his bare chest.

Mark paused and sighed. "I know. I haven’t seen him in a long time. It's... difficult."

"You have to," she commanded, in that way she had of being domineering but endearing all the same.

"What's wrong?" Mark asked, pushing aside any hesitation out of concern.

"He's in trouble. He's in a bad place," she cryptically stated. "But more than that, you have to help him move on."

"I'm not sure that's possible," Mark said, feeling his bottom eyelids puff out. "I would know."

She moved up a bit, pressing her small, firm breasts into his chest, and once again hung over his face, her dark hair obscuring what he could make out of her features.

"I know you can save him," she said confidently. "Do it for me."

"It's not just him I want to save, Samantha," Mark said, his voice choking up as painful memories gripped him.

She ran her fingers along his cheek. "I wish that were possible."

Mark leaned his head up, defiantly looking into what he imagined he could see of her eyes. "Who says it isn't?"

Her expression, he could feel, was a mixture of pride and sympathy. She kissed him again and it actually began to feel real this time. Then, the phone rang.

I hope that's a good beginning. I'll be back with more soon.