Taking on the Demons

When I was a small boy and would go to the movies with my older sister, I used to spend as much time looking at the beam of light coming from the projection booth as I would looking at the screen.  I liked to watch how the beam would split into multiple shafts of light as scenery changed or characters walked across the picture.  I didn't understand photography in those days.  I thought all the images I saw in movies were drawn, and marveled at how life-like they appeared.

As I grew up, I learned the truth about movies and film, and at first wanted nothing more than to be a projectionist.  I thought being in charge of running a movie would be the coolest thing ever - controlling the picture, and pushing the button that opened the curtains as the Colombia or Fox or Warner Bros. logo announced itself to impressive music.  Then as time went on, I started making 8 mm movies with my friends, dreadful things full of monsters and gore and terrible silent acting. (Spielberg and I have that in common, but of course that's where the similarity ends)  Eventually, I started writing scripts.  As a young man I wrote any number of teleplays on spec for all kinds of shows - detective, adventure, comedy.  I only had one sell, and came close with a few near misses.  By this time, however, I was married, having kids, and was obliged to make a living in a more stable, less exotic industry.

But in my spare time I kept writing - scripts, plays, short stories, and finally a first novel.  My writing style evolved.  I was an English Lit major so I was familiar with many of the classics of Eurpoean and American literature, as well as the tedium of figuring out complex, often convoluted literary themes.  I knew what "good writing" was supposed to be - Hawthorne, Melville, Faulkner, Steinbeck, Flaubert, Camus, Stendahl, Dickens, etc., etc.  But this wasn't what I was going for.  I wasn't out to dazzle with some didactic treatise on why society eats its young and yearns for war.  My intent was to entertain, to write page-turners that readers could visualize like a movie, with characters they could empathize with because they might be like people they knew.  I "saw" my scenes like a camera.  I read aloud my dialogue to make sure it rang true and seemed natural.  I had my wife (long suffering though she is) read my first drafts and comment on continuity, grammar, characterizations, and all the rest.  She became, and still is, not so much editor as sounding board, and believe me, she's good at picking up false notes.

Today, retired from the "less exotic" industry that reliably supported me and my family, I'm still writing, still going for entertainment over literary relevance.  I'm not vain enough to believe I've made a choice here.  Writing a literary novel is not something I ever thought I could do.  And maybe that's got something to do with how I've approached my craft.  Still, the movie lover in me, the great believer in seeing a reader hooked, spellbound, and imprisoned by a fast-paced plot and compelling characters, has always preferred to be entertaining.  I love to perform magic, and share the fun with people who like magic too.

 Like anything in life, writing isn't easy.  It's full of demons out to frustrate you in any number of ways.  It leads you down blind plot alleys and trips you up on inconvenient character details.  It perlexes, frustrates and mesmerizes.  And yet, it stays with you, and you with it.  Do you struggle with it by choice or by obsession?  I can't answer for anyone but myself.  Choice was never an option.  And for you writers reading this, I'm sure I'm not alone in that assessment.

www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK                    www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU
  

Morgan Freeman and Atticus Finch

I don't know the actor Morgan Freeman, and don't have a clue as to his character when he isn't performing.  But I am familiar with a number of film characters he has played over the years, and have always admired the integrity that seems to come through in his performances.  I'm also familiar with the character of Atticus Finch in TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD, Harper Lee's timeless novel of a child's eye view of small-town life in the American south of the 1930s.  Finch is a struggling single father and attorney, a quiet-spoken man who disciplines his children with a gentle hand, and is known for his fairness and deep respect for the law. 

Although it may seem a stretch, it strikes me that both men, one a real-life actor playing a character, the other a fictional character from a Pulitzer Prize-winning novel, have similar notable attributes.  They both seem to look at the world as a large tapestry woven of many parts, and try to see the parts not as obstacles to truth but as elements contributing to truth that cannot be ignored.  Whether its Ellis "Red" Redding in THE SHAWSHANK REDEMPTION, Hoke Colburn, the chauffeur in DRIVING MISS DAISY, or U.S. President Tom Beck in DEEP IMPACT, Morgan Freeman imbues his characters with a quiet dignity that will not be lost to intolerance or prejudice.  In these roles, he exhibits the best qualities of the human spirit.  He is the "everyman" we should all aspire to be.  In fact, if not for the circumstances of the Alabama setting in 1936, I believe Morgan Freeman could easily have filled the Atticus Finch role immortalized by Gregory Peck.

As a writer, I dream of creating a character that embodies the nature of these two men.  More than ever, it seems important to look for rationality.  We live today, and I suppose we've always lived, in very messy times.  And there don't appear to be simple answers to any "big questions."  But there are people who seem to have the wisdom to overlook the noise and chaos to seek the right answers.  Most of these people lead quiet lives, working, taking care of families and giving what they can to their communities.  They have no megaphone or celebrity to tout their generosity, or great wealth to create parks and museums.  Like Jimmy Stewart said in IT'S A WONDERFUL LIFE, they are just the people who do all the living and working and dying, the ones who are the backbone of any small town in America (and most big cities too).

I may be misquoting, but I believe Atticus Finch tells Scout at one point that to really know a person, you have to walk around in his shoes for awhile.  It's a simple notion, and one that may not originate with the Finch character.  But it certainly makes the point about how easy it is to ignore the conditions each of us live under -our hopes, our dreams, our day-to-day burdens.  It may sound sophomoric, perhaps trite, but it is this very basic theme which, even today, runs through a lot of our storytelling.  And it always seems to be the strong, virtuous character that makes the plot within come alive.

So, here is to Morgan the actor and Atticus the character for what they have given to us.  They have few if any equals in the pantheon of film and literature - and I doubt they ever will.                  

www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK

Excerpt from The Little Rock Messenger

Here is a short excerpt from my book The Little Rock Messenger. 

The year is 1956.  Young Lincoln South, a twelve year old African-American boy, is on a Greyhound bus trip to visit his grandmother in Atlanta.  Along the way, he suddenly finds himself with the responsibility to deliver family valuables to a young Jewish woman in Atlanta whose family perished in the Holocaust.  In this scene an older boy he befriended has convinced him to leave the bus because a hired killer may be looking for him.  (From Chapter Twelve of The Little Rock Messenger): 

Lincoln hesitated, not sure how much he should tell Jeff Twilley.  He wasn’t exactly the most trustworthy kind of person.  He seemed like a boy in some ways, a boy trying to act like a tough dude, but he wasn’t sure exactly what he was.  Lincoln could tell there were things going on that Twilley wanted kept hidden, maybe because he was guilty or ashamed of something.  And if that was the case, he didn’t know if he could really trust him. 

But there was something else about Twilley as well.  He seemed to like Lincoln, and even acted protective toward him - like a big brother.  It was as if he cared about him, and didn’t want anything to happen to him.  In his present circumstance, Lincoln knew this counted for a lot.  He was alone with a big responsibility, and it was hard for him to keep it to himself.  He needed to tell someone about what Jabing wanted him to do.  He needed help.  And in the end, there was no one but Jeff Twilley he could talk to about it.   

Lincoln swallowed, then said, “Well - see, at the last stop - there in Chattanooga before we got on the bus, Mr. Jabing said there was a man after him, the white man who come into the waiting room - you remember - the one who knocked Mr. Jabing down and stole his case.”

“The German dude,” said Twilley.

“That’s him.  Mr. Jabing said he was after things that belonged to a lady who lives in Atlanta,” he explained.  “He said he was taking these things to her, but they weren’t safe with him.  So he - he wanted me to keep them for him on the bus.  I think he knew that man would come after him, that he’d steal them away.”

Lincoln could see Twilley thinking about what he said.

“So, tha’s why the German snatched the old man’s case,” Twilley offered.

Lincoln nodded.

“Yeah - but it didn’t have the lady’s stuff in it.”  He saw Twilley’s interest.  “I have it.  Mr. Jabing gave it to me before we got back on the bus.  And now the German man was just here.  That‘s who the cops are looking for now.”

Twilley had been leaning in close to Lincoln, taking in everything he said.  Now he straightened up, more alert.

“The dude from the bus station - he‘s here?”

Lincoln nodded nervously, watching as Twilley considered this development.

“He still lookin’ for the old man’s stuff,”  Twilley speculated.  His eyes narrowed at Lincoln.  “What was it Jabing give you?” he asked in a quiet voice.

Lincoln looked around, saw they were far enough away from everybody, and removed the jewelry box and key from his knapsack.  Twilley took the box from him and opened it, giving an audible gasp at its contents.  The pearl necklace lay across a bed of blue satin, lustrous even under the dim light.  Lincoln reached over and placed the locker key in the box alongside the pearls. 

Twilley wet his lips, staring in wonderment at the necklace. 

“Mr. Jabing says a woman will be waiting at the bus station in Atlanta, and that I’m to give these things to her,” Lincoln explained.

Twilley took a deep breath and looked up at him.

“You tell the po-leese ’bout these pearls?” he asked, his eyes hard.

Lincoln shook his head.

“Good,” he said, exhaling in relief.  “Never see ’em again if the cops get hold of ’em.”

Twilley took the necklace into his hands, felt the pearls and the weight.  He shook his head slowly and smiled.

“This is some hard cash right here, Linc,” he concluded.  “You hear what I say?  These things could buy maybe three or four Cadillacs.  Maybe more besides!”

Lincoln watched him fondle the pearls, bring them close to his eye for closer inspection.  Twilley was so preoccupied he forgot for a moment that Lincoln was there.  Suddenly, he came back to himself, and looked quickly around.

“Better put ’em away, boy,” he advised.  “Bad people would slice you open like a melon for ‘em.”

- From The Little Rock Messenger by Robert Ryland
  Available at Kindle Books http://www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK

Zeus and Bella

My two dogs, Zeus and Bella, follow a strict daily schedule.  Each day, we get up and they get a dog biscuit, then go outside to perform morning rituals.  About 10:30 a.m., they begin making noises about a car ride -- usually to our local dump.  Of course, I don't take trash to the dump every day, but when I do, it is usually around -- you guessed it -- 10:30!  Then if I am working in my office and I happen to go past twelve noon or twelve-thirty, they are quick to brush me with their noses to let me know it is lunch time.  They usually get a small tidbit as I prepare a sandwich for myself.  In the afternoon, between three and three-thirty, I begin hearing some odd grunting sounds, accompanied by more nose-brushing.  This is code for "We wanta go out for a walk!"  Now they have a perfectly good, generously-sized dog run that they can access at any time.  But the air and the smells there, you see, are not nearly so sweet as they are on a walk along our street or up the occasional path.  So -- a walk it is, which is good because it gives the "Master" some exercise as well.  Finally, at 5:50 p.m. on the dot, my two mongrels make their last request of the day known, which has to do with dinner.  No matter what I'm doing, or how deeply I'm involved in my office or in some project around the house, Zeus and Bella expect their bowls to be promptly filled with a doggy culinary delights.

Now it might seem that I give excessive attention to my resident canines, but when you think about it, their schedule is not much different than mine.  Each day I get up, have breakfast, take trash to the dump (although not every day), eat lunch, take an afternoon walk, and have dinner.  Of course, I don't make grunting noises or give nose brushes to signal the start of each event, but our day generally works out the same way.  So I don't think you could say they are the masters of this game because we follow the same routine.  After all, if I put my foot down, things bend to my will -- not theirs.  Remember the saying - "Dogs have masters; cats have staff."  At least I have dogs, and I'm pretty sure they know who's in charge.  Me.  I'm pretty sure. 

www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK                     www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU

The Transylvania Connection

The county of Transylvania where I live in western North Carolina was named after the Transylvania Company, which was controlled by land speculator Richard Henderson before the Revolutionary War.  Loosely translated, Transylvania means "across the woods" or "into the trees", and is well-named because of the thick forests that cover its 381 square miles. The county seat of Transylvania is Brevard, a picturesque small town nestled in a hilly terrain of poplars, red oak and hemlock. 

The name Transylvania always seems to conjur up images of bats and vampires, which is understandable because of iconic Dracula movies that are part of our popular culture.  Dracula was created by Irish novelist Bram Stoker in 1897 in his gothic novel of the same name.  He apparently never visited Eastern Europe or the Transylvania region of Romania, but based his novel on research he did into European folklore and mythological stories of vampires.  The vampire myth soon became a staple of other books and then movies, starting with the 1922 silent film Nosferatu.  Anne Rice popularized the vampire in more current literature in a series of books, starting with Interview with a Vampire.  This was over twenty years ago, and the genre continues with many variations of dark princes on TV and in movies, the most popular being the Twilight series by author Stephenie Meyer. 

An interesting and compelling variation on the vampire theme is one created by Elizabeth Kostova in her 2005 novel The Historian.  The story interweaves the history and folklore of Vlad Tepes, a 15th century prince of Wallachia known as "Vlad the Impaler" and his fictional equivalent Count Dracula with that of a history professor, his sixteen year old daughter, and their quest to find Vlad's tomb.  The book is described as a combination of genres, including gothic, detective, and historical thriller.  Kostova has lived and traveled in Eastern Europe, and based her book in part on stories her historian father told her about Dracula when she was a child.  She began writing the novel after hiking in the Appalachian mountains and flashing back to her father's stories.

Appalachia, and particularly the mountainous terrain of Transylvania County, is similar to the landscape of the Transylvania in the Carpathian Mountains of Romania.  Although no one knows for sure, natural settings probably account for a good portion of a writer's creations.  Meandering through forests and over hills, looking out over lakes and coastlines, how could one not imagine a tale to go along with such wonders.                    

The Wilderness of Writing

Sitting down to write can be like taking a hike in the woods.  You can look for the designated trails - the upper loop, the lower valley, maybe the creekside path to see waterfalls - or you can just strike out into the trees and let your feet set the direction.  Writers have different ideas about the process of setting down words.  Whether it's fiction or non-fiction, there is no prescribed way to "put pen to paper" or fingers to keyboard.  Some like to construct elaborate outlines which detail characters and scenes; others simply sit before a blank page or screen and allow the story to take them on a journey.  I don't think there is any science to the writing process because it is so subjective.  After all, we're not dealing with an empirical construct here.

I like to write more from the seat-of-my-pants, so to speak - more in the vein of allowing the story to take the lead.  But I don't work from a completely blank slate.  I always let the idea for a story or book gestate awhile so I can consider every angle.  Therefore, by the time I sit down to write, I have a pretty good idea about a general direction.  Sometimes on the journey I will alter the direction a bit and find a new character or two, maybe a new plot point, but more often than not I just follow the lead of the story.

Both of my books - The Little Rock Messenger and Electric Highway - started out as long-consdiered ideas without any set path in mind for the stories to take.  The journey I discovered in each project happened through some mysterious alchemy called writing, and I've been happy with the results.  But the only way I will know for sure if my journeys are a success is to hear back from you.  Check out my books on Kindle Books at www.amazon.com/dp/B003YOSYHK and www.amazon.com/dp/B004RJ81LU  and let me know.

    

Down South in Savannah

My wife and I traveled to Florida recently to visit relatives, and on the way back home, stopped by Savannah, Georgia for a brief looksee.  I have always been fascinated by Savannah as a place of old world charm, gentility and hint of sweet decadence.  As a writer I love its layers of personality, with its colonial past, its shaded park-like squares of restored mansions, and its thriving business center and seaport.  And then there are the city's unusual surprises like the Telfair Academy of Arts and Sciences (one of the south's first public museums), the First African Baptist Church (built laboriously by slaves after long days in the field), and the Temple Mickve Israel, the third oldest synogogue in America.  Savannah also happens to be the birthplace of Juliette Gordon Low (founder of the Girl Scouts) and more recently, Johnny Mercer, singer, actor and composer of over 1500 songs. 

Author John Berendt might have captured the city's qualities best in his book Midnight in the Garden of Good and Evil.  Although in my short visit I didn't see the characters he described in his book, Savannah is a place with a certain feel which I'm sure can incubate all kinds of people and drama. And there must also be lots of stories buried in the city's colonial and civil war past.  A little digging, and I'm sure a writer could unearth some interesting facts to build a novel around - like the underground railway used to transport slaves north, or the fact that Savannah was one of the few important cities spared by General Sherman during his march across the south.  (It seems old William Tecumsah had a couple of friends who lived there, and as a favor to them and because he wanted to present Savannah as a gift to Lincoln, he didn't torch it.)  And thank goodness for that!  Sherman's gift is one I would say just keeps on giving.

So if you're a writer, and it's history, mood and color you're after, a locale like Savannah is close to pitch-perfect for a good story.  I believe I'll return some day - but only after I explore a little more in my own backyard of western North Carolina.  I'm sure there are a few surprises there too.