Tag: Work in Progress

Waking Myself Up – Write Already!

I am thinking about this book I’ve been working on for at least three years, three NaNoWriMos and then some.

The working title remains In the Bushes.

Here’s an unedited snippet from an early chapter:

Lisa heard Manny whispering, “Is that one over there?”

She looked and saw a tallish man wearing jeans and an AC/DC tee shirt slip behind the azalea bushes.

“Lake Eola is hopping tonight. Let me go talk to him,” Lisa said.

She stepped away from her friends to follow the older man, now in the shadows. When she was also hidden in the darkness, she softly asked, “Are you looking for someone?”

His answer was more a grunt than an assent.

She continued, “I think your friend might be over there.”

He looked towards her friends chatting out on the sidewalk. She knew they were deciding who would be the first “friend” tonight and who would be the decoys for the cops so the cocksucker would be safer with the guy in the bushes.

“Yeah, you know where my friend is? He got lost. Tell him where I am.”

She went back onto the moonlit sidewalk, pulling Manny by the hand, the hand that was sweaty and sticky before he even got near the stranger.

“Don’t be nervous. Once you get going, it’s easier.”

She yanked him back behind the azalea bush and dropped his hand before turning to go back to the other two guys waiting for her to find them a “friend,” too.

Lisa, Glenn, and Jason sat on a bench together, chatting. They acted as if nothing out of the ordinary was going on except they were out at Lake Eola at midnight, watching the space ship-shaped fountain changing colors. There was no indication that two men were just out of earshot – one sucking, one getting sucked – and that Lisa had facilitated that connection.

She had become their pimp.

Running Out of Chances

What if I died? Would anyone ever see what I’ve written? Or would it end up like the grand majority of unfinished manuscripts, tucked into a bottom drawer that’s dumped out when the writer dies?

I want people to read this. It’s a topic that is part of our history, gay history, and part of my real life. While it’s embellished with a bit of fiction to add depth to characters and scenery, much of it is right from my life.

What will it take for me to finish?

One of My Main Characters Died IRL

While my work-in-progress, In the Bushes, is a novel, it is an Autobiographical Novel and there are composites of real people that make up the characters.

Non-Composite George

One of my friends from my 1978 gay days, George -the name he chose for his character- is being written as his real self. He’d be easily distinguishable because he was widely known.

Was.

Can you see me wince?

My real life friend George died a few weeks ago. My heart aches missing him.

And now I’m at a place where I’m lost as to how to continue with his character. He is integral to the story and being gone doesn’t really move the plot along.

(This feels incredibly morbid even talking about him in this manner, but I have to imagine others have similar issues, yes?)

Real Life Mimics Novel Life -or is it the other way around?

It never occurred to me to ask George what he would prefer I do if he died. Talk about morbid! He was active in the theater community and loved being the main focus of attention, so I like to think he would tell me to just go for it. Make George anything I want or need him to be, just let him have fun.

We had a great deal of history with each other, starting when I was 17 years old and ran into him at the front door of the Parliament House’s sprawling complex. Immediately, we went from acquaintances to confidantes and eventually roommates in several locations. We knew each other well.

We lived for the drag shows. We befriended folks in the piano bar. We disco danced quite clumsily.

When I had my kids, he was a sweet friend who supported me through my foray into straight life.

And now he’s gone.

Where to Go From Here

This is the challenging part of the “autobiographical novel,” – how much is me and how much is creativity?

I’ve pondered how to move forward for these weeks and think I’ve decided to let George lead the way. He does yack with me, so I could ask him what he wants to do next. I could let him have control of my hand and just write it out. I could listen as he dictates his desires then wake up and write the notes quickly lest I forget his words.

I could do all of that.

I miss George.