On Writing & Storytelling: 13 Chapters Down, a Few More to Go…..

Mid- to Late Morning, Wednesday, March 13, 2024, Madison, New Hampshire

I have an appointment this morning at the New Hampshire Health and Human Services office in Conway, so this post will dispense with the usual weather introductions I like to write on “regular” blog posts.

On Writing & Storytelling: A Quick SITREP on the Progress of Reunion: Coda

As of Wednesday, March 13, 2024, this is where I am in my Novelist’s Journey with Reunion: Coda, the second book in the Reunion Duology and my first novel:

• No. of Chapters Completed (Including the Prologue): 13
• No. of Pages (In the manuscript file): 198
• No. of Words (Including the title page and epigraphs): 84,554

Chapter 13 (Goodbye, Farewell, and Adios) Gets a Seventh and Final Scene

Last night, despite a late start (I couldn’t focus properly on my creative writing endeavors because I had the HHS appointment on my mind a lot and only got my writer’s mojo back around 3 in the afternoon), I wrote Scene Seven of Goodbye, Farewell, and Adios, the last of the “Jim Garraty in high school” chapters. The whole scene, from beginning to end, rather than just a fraction of a scene. In its first draft form, it’s 1,664 words long (about four 8.5 X 11-inch pages,, according to Word), and according to my friend Juan Carlos Hernandez, it’s another good scene that is “emotional without being melodramatic”

Here’s a non-spoiler-y excerpt from Scene Seven, which is set on the night of Friday, June 17, 1983 and takes place after Jim gets home from a post-graduation celebratory dinner. If you like it, please let me know in the comments section below:

Before the weight of the silence could fully settle, a knock at the door broke my contemplation. My mother’s voice, warm and familiar, filtered through the wood. “Jim, honey, Mark’s here. Can he come in?” Her words, simple and mundane, were a lifeline thrown into the turbulent sea of my thoughts, pulling me back to the present, to the reality waiting beyond the door.

“Sure, Mom. Send him in,” I replied, trying to sound as if nothing was wrong.

The door creaked open, and there stood Mark, his attire a casual blend of Wranglers and a Return of the Jedi tee, holding a Publix bag as if it were something precious. The soft clinking of glass hinted at its contents. “Hey, buddy. How are you doing?” he asked.

“Fine, I guess,” I answered, my voice flat, eyes darting to the bag. “What’s that? I hope that’s not another graduation present.”

He set the bag down with a clatter that seemed too loud for the quiet room. With a quick glance at the door, he shut it firmly. “It is a present,” he admitted, “but not the kind our moms would be thrilled about.”

I raised an eyebrow, a half-smile playing on my lips. “Well, it’s definitely not the July issue of Playboy, that’s for sure.” The lightness in my tone didn’t quite reach my eyes.  

Mark’s grin was a prelude to mischief. “Man, gift a buddy—no, a best buddy—a Playboy for his 18th, and it’s like you’ve signed a pact for eternal ribbing,” he said, his eyebrow doing a comical dance that pulled a genuine chuckle out of me. “Zip it, and check these out…”

He delved into the Publix bag, the drama in his movement worthy of a stage, and emerged victorious with two Heineken bottles held high.

My surprise must’ve been clear as day. “Where on earth did you snag those?”

Mark, ever the secret agent, gave a quick, paranoid sweep of the room before leaning in, his voice a low whisper. “You recall that last visit to my dad’s? The monthly post-divorce ritual?”

I nodded, intrigued.

“I swiped these bad boys for an occasion just like this. Dad’s got a whole stash of Heinekens in his ‘special fridge.’ He won’t notice a couple missing,” he declared with a grin that spelled trouble and camaraderie all at once.

The chill from the Heineken bottle seeped into my fingers, a stark contrast to the warmth of the room. I raised an eyebrow at Mark, silently questioning.

He caught my look and chuckled. “I stashed them in the freezer the moment we got back,” he said with a conspiratorial grin. “Mom and Leslie were none the wiser.” He plunked his bottle down on my desk, the sound was a solid promise of the night to come. Fishing out a bottle opener from his pocket, he popped the caps with practiced ease, the metallic ping of the caps hitting the floor a testament to our quiet rebellion.

I took a swig from my bottle. It tasted of a curious blend of bitter and sweet, with a malty backbone complemented by subtle notes of biscuit and a whisper of green apple and sweet corn. The beer was as cold as the water from a mountain stream in late fall, sending a shiver down my spine. I wasn’t sure if I liked the taste—there was a complexity there that I couldn’t quite place, perhaps a hint of something almost skunky in its boldness. But as the lager settled in my stomach, I couldn’t deny the comforting surge of warmth that followed.

“Whoa,” I managed, the word hanging in the air between us.

Mark’s smile was all mischief and shared secrets. “You’ve officially lost your beer virginity, Jimmy boy,” he teased, his blue-gray eyes twinkling with the kind of camaraderie that comes from years of friendship. “Maybe next year, you’ll be sharing a beer with a girl and…” His voice dropped off, and he took a hearty swig from his bottle, leaving the sentence to hang as he did.

A flush of warmth spread up my neck, coloring my cheeks, whether from the beer or Mark’s insinuations about girls and what comes with them, I couldn’t tell. “Hey…”

“Cheers,” he interrupted with a laugh that was both knowing and forgiving.

“Cheers,” I echoed, and this time, the smile that spread across my face felt real, unforced.

We finished our beers in contemplative silence, each lost in our own maze of thoughts. When the last drops were gone, Mark gathered the empty bottles and tucked them back into the Publix bag. “I’ll ditch these in Mrs. Finklestein’s trash on my way out,” he declared.

I raised an eyebrow. “Just make sure she’s not out there playing cat wrangler on her porch.”

“Nah, she does her feline roundup at 7 sharp every evening,” he replied with a certainty that came from years of neighborhood observation. “We’re in the clear.”

I couldn’t help but laugh. “You’ve got her routine down to a science, huh?”

He shrugged, the ghost of a smile on his lips. “You pick up on things after a while, like the eccentricities of cat ladies—or,” he paused, a serious note creeping into his voice, “…the signs of a best friend with something on his mind.”