Hi folks,
This idea came to me almost fully formed while I was writing a chapter of 'Some People Have Real Problems' and just screamed Keffy. Hardly one to turn down a challenge I jumped onto my borrowed keyboard and hammered this out.
Disclaimer: I don't own Keffy any more than I owned Naomily.
She closed her eyes and laid her head back on the headrest of the stolen car. The drugs freshly coursing through her system-
"Fucking... utter crap, formulaic bullshit!" I hit the backspace key fiercer than necessary and press my fingers to the bridge of my nose.
Wanker publisher! I reason; it helps a little. I sit back and blink again at the luminescent blank page. It just stares maddeningly back at me in the dim light of the study. I rub my hands roughly over the tops of my jeans before bringing them back to the keyboard and stretching my fingers out almost mechanically. I can't believe I fell for his capitalist schmoosey sales-pitch. The sly chauvinist prat even thought to bring in his totally fit assistant to help convince me. Boy was so bloody buff I found myself saying yes before I realised what I was agreeing to. Now before you say anything, yes I'm aware of the inherent hypocrisy of blaming him when I fell for the boy-bait he dangled at me. But, well, it's my story so shove it, yeah... And anyway it may have also had something to do with the flattering yarn Alan spun me about the success of my first novella and a promised five figure advance.
Now I find myself with an advance already spent on the rent for this crumby apartment, another repayment on dad's gym and a semester's worth of uni fees for James. And I have precisely diddly squat to show for myself as I hurtle towards my deadline. I'd always considered my first book to be a one off thing. I'd gotten my semi-autobiographical stuff off my chest, exorcised those demons, got the catharsis t-shirt; done. But after its unexpected runaway success, I now find myself having to conjure up a second effort. Only I'm plumb out of material, well that's not exactly true: I'm out of material I know intimately. I was so familiar with my first subject matter that it just seemed to pour out of me. Most of the draft pages even came back from the editor's office with reams of culled descriptions and notes in the margins telling me to "get to the point Katie".
This time I'm having to be more creative and it's proving absolutely infuriating. I've deleted paragraph after paragraph over the last few weeks and my notebooks are filled to the brim with half-baked ideas and useless doodles.
I pick up my first paperback from the shelf by my side. It's heavy but I know it back to front, inside and out. It's scarcely more than my own experience of the last five years of my life, with some artistic license, forcefully condensed and laid out across 186 pages. It's also the last two years of my life gone by in evenings spent by the desk-lamp, pouring over notes and a borrowed keyboard.
I lose myself for a moment staring at the doctored photo Emily took of Vauxhall Bridge under the title.
'One Half of Two Wholes' was quite obviously based on my own experience of finding myself. Because of the raw personal material involved, albeit embellished, I almost got cold feet when publishing it became a reality. My heroine was barely more than a black and white version of me: strong, human, beautifully flawed, familiar and ultimately relatable. But this creature I am trying to capture now is altogether different. She is ethereal, still beautifully flawed but I'm not sure she is quite human. I guess that's why every steaming pile of words I seem to conjure up lately just isn't relatable. I just don't fucking understand her.
I'm done considering a change of protagonist though. The closest I got to throwing it all in and penning another character altogether was just last week. But that was shot down in flames by Alan, who informed me the woman I had pitched him on a first draft was it. He's right though; she's it. I just have to wrap my head around her somehow. Yeah, easier said than done...
Maybe I need to ground her somewhere. Find us some common ground.
I put down the paperback in my hand and look around my home office. My eyes fall on the clock above the bookshelf full of other, more accomplished writers' work. It's 3.05am. Fuck me! No wonder my vision is blurring. I let out a defeated sigh but return my fingers to the keys and let them drum out another opening paragraph.
As the car sped up, the blurry road markings and early morning streetlights became as many single white lines leading further on ahead. Leading away to an elusive vanishing point they might never reach. That was the goal right? To vanish. No wonder the French call them 'lignes de fuite.' Her rapidly dilating eyes followed these 'escape lines' in the dark.
"Just follow the white lines" she said out loud, as much to Jack as to herself.
And with that she pocketed the bag of white powder that had just minutes ago provided more white lines to follow across the dashboard of the stolen car.
I convince myself to push on without deleting. Anything is better than a blank screen. Before too long I have filled a page with letters and spaces. I'm no closer to identifying with her but I feel I might get there in time.
At least Jack is an easier one to write. I've met enough bad boys in my time to capture the gist of one. Although this one is more complex; my mind starts to drift. The memory of Cook from college creeps back into my tired thoughts. Class clown on our first day of assembly, by the time our first year was up he'd graduated to very bad boy indeed. Still, though he'd never let you get away with saying it, the lad had a genuine heart. It was his loyalty to Freddie that got him in the mess that landed him in jail for two years for dealing. I'm sure his thick skull and brash act-first-think-later methods didn't help one bit, but I don't think he would have gotten that severely penalized were it not for the sheer depth of his devotion to his mate.
Emily says he's done good now. Since he got out he's been building boats out at Avonmouth at his uncle's company yard. Keith was the only bloke keen to employ him with his rap sheet. Mind you, Keith Byatt was no stranger to hiring lads with a history of petty larceny or assault. He knew the real story behind his nephew's charges and I guess family means something important to both of them. So since then Cook's been behaving, more or less...
Still he's bound to have a few shady connections tucked away. He's sure to have some strings I can pull on for research. I'm not exactly completely lily-white myself. It wouldn't take much to immerse myself in his world, just dip my toe in, enough to come at this from a place of understanding.
I save the file and stand up in the dark room. My addled brain is not going to produce anything brilliant tonight. I check my phone for the time: 3.47 – bed time. Outside in the street the intermittent sound of glass bottles smashing tells me bin men have begun their round.
In my room I peel my jeans off and fold them over my dressing chair with my shirt. Slipping into my satin nightie I feel a little better as the silky fabric falls against my skin. When my head hits the pillow, it's only moments before the story arcs I've been running through all day merge seamlessly into dreams much more exciting than my daily life.
I wake to the sound of an irritating pop song. Christ, I must remember to change that stupid ringtone! I fumble around on my nightstand until my fingers find the phone and bring it to my ear.
"Hi Ems." My voice is hoarse.
My darling sister launches straight into a tirade at great speed.
"Katie. I waited until at least 10.30 before I called, like you said after last time but I need a favour."
My hand flies to my forehead on its own as I squint against the light from outside. "Slow down Emsy; you're giving me a headache."
"I'm sorry to ask and Naomi didn't want me to go to you but ... it's her boss, last minute redesign... anyway she has to stay at the office until late tonight to meet the deadline and I have that parent-teacher conference..." Perhaps she figures the best approach is not to give me time or room to say no.
As I catch up with her stream of consciousness, I begin to see where this is going. "You need me to pick up Sophia, right?"
"Uhm... yeah. Could you? She gets out of day care at 5 and I know you work to your own schedule."
"It's fine; happy to help you nine-to-fivers. Besides, my shitting writers' block might as well be of use to someone."
The relief in my sister's voice is palpable. "Thank you K. We owe you one."
'We'… there's that word. It's been four years now that my sister has been allowing herself to refer to her and Campbell as an 'us'. When I think about it, I reckon I let it stop bothering me around the same time Naomi let it stop terrifying her. Mind you, deciding to raise Naomi's 'little accident' together definitely cemented their togetherness. Nowadays their loved up happiness is commonplace and natural, but that wasn't always the case. Emily had to fight for it.
I never fought that hard for any of my boyfriends. Not for anyone in my life actually. Not unless you count Emily. I used to think I'd lost that fight, but now I know there were no losers. The moment Ems made me realise that was the very moment I finally stopped fighting. Since then I haven't had cause to fight again. So the infamous fiery Katie Fucking Fitch lost a bit of her fire. She settled with her newfound maturity and began to write instead.
That's when the pieces fall together. I quickly sit up in bed and take the lead of the conversation.
"Actually babes, there is something you can do for me."
"Mmm?" I can hear background chatter through the phone over Emily's distracted voice but I push on anyway.
"Cook is still Paddy's legal guardian, right? I mean, you should see him tonight at your... thingy." I wave a cursory hand in the air. "Think you could convince him to meet me for a drink sometime?"
"What?! Katie! I thought you said you'd never go there... and what about Brian? Are you guys..."
"Oh my god, ew! No Ems, god no. I want to pick his brains, that's all. Jesus, that's disgusting!"
There's a pause on the line then I hear Emily's faint voice away from the receiver. After a few moments of horrifying mental images she's back.
"...yup, ok Doug... I've gotta go, K. I'm on homeroom duty, but I'll talk to Cook if I see him at parent-teacher tonight."
"Thanks, bye babes." I'm about to hang up when I hear her speak again.
"And Katie, don't be late to pick up Sophia... please. I'll swing by yours around 7.30 to drive her home."
"Don't worry Ems, I won't give your girlfriend more reason to criticise me. Wouldn't want to give Blondie the satisfaction."
Emily sighs "Nice, good to hear you've got your priorities in order... bye Katie."
So there you have it. Comments are welcome; questions are encouraged (although if spoiler-related I'd prefer PMs).
To clarify, you will find the tense shift should assist you in telling Katie's prose within the story apart from the main narrative. Basically, I'm writing in present tense, Katie's story within the story is written in past tense. Just to make it extra-super-clear, I've also italicized Katie's writing. Still confused? I hope not.
I hope you all enjoyed the first installment and meet me back here for some more.
