A sneak peek at Luke 3

The brown strips of panelling made the room look more like someone’s basement drinking room than a bar. On entering, he’d expected to see a Lazy Boy and a plaid ottoman shoved in the corner— instead, worn out tables were filled with circle fossils as memories of beers gone past. A jukebox sat sentinel-like in the corner, but it must have stopped working, as a ghetto blaster played the local yokel station with a too loud DJ interrupted by ads for tractors and other farm equipment. The radio played that new country shit, sung by pretty boys with perms who had never seen either end of a horse. 

A half-dozen patrons were scattered in pairs around the room. The bartender had to be shook out of the baseball game that played on the soundless TV to fill a drink order for his sole beer slinger. She looked barely drinking age herself. 

Driving into town, if that’s what it could be called, he’d wondered who would ever live in a place like this. The woman that made him drive a thousand miles came from here—but why in the hell did she return? She told him about the town before she left—talked about the bar that he now sat in waiting for a man she told him to meet. 

She said the bar would be filled with the usual men in from the field drinking a few rounds of Pilsner and rye and waters, but gone by ten, and in bed fifteen minutes later. Ever damn one of them wore a hat, in various stages of decomposition, a combination of heavy equipment dealers, drilling rigs, and hockey teams. One of the younger ones was wearing a Red Wings number—it was his team way back when he lived in that shithole called Dee-troit.

Walking in he knew being the only one in the joint wearing a suit jacket meant he stood out like a turd on the dance floor. Not that he gave a single shit. The Pilsner drinkers gave him a once over, but went back to ignoring him as soon as he sat down. He told the girl beer-slinger he was waiting for someone and just wanted an ice water.

“Water, that it? Nothing in it?”

“Ice.”

She shrugged and walked back to the bar.

Walking in he knew being the only one in the joint wearing a suit jacket meant he stood out like a turd on the dance floor.

A man walked in, his look told him he was the one he was supposed to meet. He didn’t have the layer of dust like the others, and he didn’t wear a hat. Now there were two in the bar with suit jackets, him in his black suit, and the new guy had a brown tweed job with a white shirt that was the brightest thing in the room.

The tweed wearer sat down at the table, scraped the chair hard on the floor, which made someone mutter son-of-a-bitch. The bartender roused his head from the seventh-inning and then brought a couple of Pilsners to the table.

“I never ordered one,” the black-suited one said.

The bartender popped the caps and slid both beers in front of the tweed man, who took one, leaned back and poured the entire contents down his throat. He belched, and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

“I’m Taylor. Whattya got for me?”

“Got for you? I ain’t got shit.”

“Huh? Then why the meet?” he ran a finger over the rim of the second Pilsner.

“Look, you wanna play whose got the bigger dick, then go fuck yourself.”

The one called Taylor leaned back, sucked something through his teeth. The black-suited man adjusted his sleeve collars.

“Vodka?” Taylor pointed at the other’s glass.

“Ice water.”

“You don’t drink?”

“Listen, someone told me come to this shithole to talk about a job that needed doing. Bad enough I had to drive here listening to whining country music, but if I have sit in this dump listening to the greatest hits of Johnny who-gives-a-fuck, I'm gonna get pissed. Cut to it. Tell me the job so I can do it and go back to civilization.”

“You don’t like country?” Tweed-man asked.

Black-suited man drained his ice water and raised his hand to the girl.

“Refill.”

She pointed at the sink at the bar.

“Help yerself. We got a whole tap full of it.”

If I have sit in this dump listening to the greatest hits of Johnny who-gives-a-fuck, I'm gonna get pissed.

The black-suited man stood, the other taken back by his height and breadth, as were the hat-wearers when he’d first entered. He filled his glass, took a scoop of ice from behind the bar, and just for the hell of it a lemon slice.

Back at the table he stared the man down.

“I’m thinking you’re not the guy I should be talking to.”

“Why would you say that?” Taylor asked.

“For starters, you’re not the brightest turnip on the prairie. You come into a public place where you’re obviously a regular, to meet a guy like me to talk about a job that ain’t even close to legal. These yokels sure as hell know you and could identify me if needed.”

Taylor took a slug from his second beer, and took a glance around the room.

“You’re not from around here,” Taylor said.

“What was your first clue numbnuts?”

“Y'know there’s some local fellas we could make the same deal.” Taylor lifted his beer again, and drained it like he did the first.

“Who gives a shit?” Black-suit guy asked.

“Ok, so I’m saying fuck you and the horse you rode in on.”

As Taylor began to stand, the black-suited man shot out his hand and grabbed his wrist hard.

“Ow, let go you—“

He twisted harder, looking up he caught first the bartender’s eye, and then the beer slinger. He figured his look was enough. The bartender went over and turned up the sound on the game.

Gonna be a barn burner this afternoon, Gomez has loaded the bases and the Brewer’s clean up man is stepping into the box.

Taylor’s hand was turning purple.

“Sit the fuck down before I pop you one.” The black-suited man’s voice was flat, even.

“I—“

“Down.”

Taylor slid into the chair.

The game sound fought the latest tune about someone’s dead dog. The beer slinger flipped the ghetto blaster off.

“Now you listen numbnuts, I’ve been in this stupid ass state for—“

“Province, we don’t have states here,” Taylor said.

The black-suited man still had a hold of his wrist and he twisted again.

“You think I don’t know geography? I don’t need some maple-syrup sucking asshat to tell me where I’m at or how to do my business.” 

He let go of the wrist. Taylor rubbed the reddened skin.

“You didn’t need to do that,” Taylor said. “You haven’t even told me your name.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You can’t expect me to do business with someone who I don’t even know their name.” Taylor said.

“Fine. Call me Harold,” the black-suited man said.

“Is that your real name?”

“Oh fer shit’s sake. I’m done.”

It was the black-suited man’s turn to stand up.

“We haven’t even talked about it,” Taylor called over.

Harold kept walking, the dumbass wind chimes sounded behind him. In the parking lot, next to his green Ford, a white sedan was parked. Something didn’t look right about it, out of place, but he couldn’t put his finger on it. Getting into his car it hit him. She said the guy who'd meet him drove a navy blue sedan. So who was this joker in tweed?

In the rearview, he saw Taylor exit the bar straightening his tweed jacket. No, wait, he wasn’t straightening it, he was dipping his hand into the inside.

“Sneaky bastard.”

Harold hit the seat of the Ford and laid out flat as the rear window of the car disappeared. He reached under his body, and eased his Glock outta of its shoulder holster. Another shot through the shattered back window hit the inside of the windshield and spidered the glass. He weighed the options of popping up and taking out the guy, but the tweed asshole might nail him like one of those dolls in a carnival game. An opportunity presented itself as the dumbass decided to peer in the driver’s side window to see what he'd hit. Harold squeezed off a shot that caught him square between the eyes.

He weighed the options of popping up and taking out the guy, but the tweed asshole might nail him like one of those dolls in a carnival game.

Harold banged the door, it opened halfway, knocking against the very dead tweed-jacketed man. He let out a sigh, slid his huge frame across to the passenger side.

A few of the bar patrons were now in the parking lot playing a game of whose mouth could be opened wider.

“Get back in there you stubble-jumping-rednecks.” Harold pointed the Glock at the group.

All but one scampered back in the bar.

“You can’t come into our town and shoot the hell out of things.”

Harold lowered his Glock.

“You know that guy?” Harold nodded to Taylor laid out next to his Ford.

“No sir, I do not. But I’m gonna let the Mounties figure it out. They got called as soon as we heard the shots.”

“Mounties like those goofballs in red underwear on horses?”

“That’s not underwear. And they only wear those on special occasions. I’m talking the RCMP, they got an office just up the road in Rouleaux” The man took a step forward. “I figured you for a Yank. Your accent gives it away.”

“A Yank? What in the fuck century is this?” Harold raised the Glock again and squeezed off a shot at the outside wall of the bar.

The man jumped. Harold pivoted the gun and pointed it at the stubble jumper’s head.

“Well, whattya say? Should we make it easier on those Mounties? Two dead bodies in a parking lot means a lot less searching.”

“Go easy now. I can identify you, ya know.”

“Oh right. Thanks for reminding me.”

Harold hit him in the exact same spot as the tweed guy.

>>>
Thanks for reading! If you liked this, and of course recognized our old pal Mostly Harold from Surf City Acid Drop, but haven't picked up the second the in series, Manistique.
Well, you know what to do :)

Art in the time of corona - guest post

Something a bit different for this week's woo-blog. As a dad-writer type, you may have guessed that some of my progeny would also have that writing gene (apples falling not far from trees and all that.)

So today, here is a a guest post from my daughter and writer/actor/artist Reba Terlson. Among other things Reba and I have collaborated on and produced plays for my city's Fringe Festival.

Like her pop, she's a creative sort - here in this post, she's writing about what it's like to create in the time of the pandemic. I'll turn it over to her:

>>>

Hi everyone, my name is Reba and I’m a multidisciplinary artist in Winnipeg, MB and my pronouns are she/her.

 I’m here to talk about everyone’s favourite subject: Covid-19

The pandemic has affected me as an artist in more ways than I count. At the beginning of 2020 I had artist contract gigs lined up into summer, and by March of 2020 they had all disappeared. 

Perhaps this might have made me frustrated, and initially I was.

However, I begun to realize that maybe taking a break from my artistic hustle was exactly what I needed. Something I would not have realized without Covid-19 basically shutting down my industry. So, it turns out that Covid-19 made me a better artist… who knew?

Here's the opening to the blog post I wrote about this: 

As a self-represented artist, myself, and many of my friends were severely affected by Covid-19. But Covid -19 is why I’m a better artist.

In January of 2020, I finished helping produce a show for a theatre festival here in Winnipeg, Manitoba. I had auditions lined up, and I was being asked to produce and run social media accounts for theatre shows for that upcoming summer.

The week before March 15th, I got sick which was fairly normal. When stay-at-home orders started my boss told me to stay at home, just in case. Well, March 15th hit and about two days later my work closed. I was unemployed and applied for CERB that weekend.

Over the next few weeks, my auditions got postponed indefinitely. The “guaranteed” producer and social media gigs I had were up in the air, and I didn’t know what my summer was going to look like. Perhaps I should have panicked, but that’s not what happened. Because this was early Covid times none of us knew the effect that it would have on the arts or our livelihoods...

To read the rest, jump over to my blog:

https://beyondpandemic.me/the-reason-covid-19-made-me-better-at-art-and-a-more-creative-artist/

Thanks for reading!
Reba. 

Writer Interview: Mandy Miller

 “Mandy Miller’s debut mystery, States of Grace, races at the speed of light from the first page to the last.”
 - Amazon review 

I'm launching something new on the woo-blog: author interviews. (Insert your own woohoo here!)

As a writer, I’ve really enjoyed being interviewed, and I read a lot of interviews, always curious about other writer’s process. In the upcoming months, I’ll be looking at the work of some writers I know, and some recent discoveries.

I’m going to kick off the series with Mandy Miller, whose debut novel States of Grace has been receiving a lot of well-deserved acclaim. I loved this book, and while I’m not a fast reader, I tore through it! The characterizations are great, as are the settings, and its narrative pulses with authentic tension and emotion.

States of Grace:
Disgraced prosecutor and disabled Army veteran Grace Locke is one misstep away from losing her law license for good. Fresh out of jail, living in a no-tell-motel, and eating ramen, Grace has no option but to turn to the dark side, defending the types of criminals she used to relish locking up. To make things worse, she's fighting the opioid addiction that got her in this mess in the first place. 

Reading the brief summary above, you can tell we are in neo-noir territory, with a unique protagonist right at its heart. I won’t say much more about the book, better to dive into the interview, where I had a chance to learn about Ms. Miller’s fascinating background, and how she put together this novel.

You’ve had quite a diverse education and career – tell us a bit about the current day job.

I stopped practising law full time a couple of years ago and now only take on special projects, which means brief and motion writing for lawyers who need certain expertise. Beyond that, I also work as an editor for an independent press. And then there’s my own writing. I am also in the process of organizing Write The Boat, a winter writers' conference here in the mountains, which will be held January 14-16, 2022. 

And how about writing – when did that start, and what motivated you to begin?

I suppose I’ve always written in one way or another. Stories in school and then I was a Spanish and French literature major in college so lots of writing then. Of course, being a lawyer does require a lot of writing be it contracts, motions, briefs, etc. As for writing fiction and some creative nonfiction, I started in the late nineties and spent time in an MFA program. After that, it became a habit and I just kept scribbling, taking more classes, scribbling some more and then finally finishing my first book.

What was the impetus of the idea that led you to write States of Grace?

I once represented a thirteen-year-old girl charged with murder as an adult for killing a classmate. It was a terrible tragedy on all sides. The case showed me the draconian underside of the criminal justice system up close. Not that I didn’t see it every day, but that one case has stuck with me and still keeps me up nights. The young woman suffered from a mental illness and had been abused since she was very young, yet the system offered little leeway and she became yet another widget in the prison industrial complex.

How did your own legal career play a part in crafting this novel?

I couldn’t have written about the intricacies of what happens on the front lines without having been in the shoes of a defense lawyer.

I know that all writing requires a degree of research. I’m guessing that even your novel’s legal setting required some. I’m curious about the lead character’s background in the military – did you also serve, or how did you research this vital part of the novel? 

I did not serve, but have close friends who did, and I mined their experiences for the book. I wanted to get things as true to real life as possible because not to do so would have been disrespectful to those who sacrifice for the rest of us.

Back to the legal thriller part (and your novel is one of the best I’ve read), which writers influenced you in this genre?

Michael Connelly, the only bestseller writer I believe gets the courtroom stuff right. As a reporter, he’s a non-lawyer, but clearly does his homework. He also happened to be the reporter assigned to cover the courts in my old courthouse (but before my time). I’m a Michael Haller fan, not so much the Bosch books, although the writing in all of them is stellar, although I do think the earlier books are better.

John D. MacDonald (above left) and Raymond Chandler (above right) are the two icons who have influenced me the most. And in more modern times, for me, James W. Hall and Jeffrey Fleischman can’t be beat. One day I’ll write a sentence as good as one of theirs.

Favourite legal thriller film? And John Grisham, yes, or no?

Yes to vintage Grisham. No to the more recent books.

Do you outline, or are you more of a pantser? Tell us about your process.

Pants on fire the whole way. I cannot write an outline to save my life which was why I was a horrible study group member in law school. I do scratch some notes about where I think things are going, but always trash them and start again. I tend to write in scenes and then slot them in order later, so there’s a lot of back-filling when I finally do figure out what the hell is going on.

What problems arise from being a pantser – do you write yourself into a corner? And if so, how do you get out of them?

DEEP holes that will swallow you up if you’re not careful LOL. And also, just fear of not figuring out a decent ending and how to get there. Such is the lot of the panster, and I wouldn’t change it for the world. If I knew what happened, I’d get bored I think and, likely the reader too. The groping in the darkness for a while does result in some nice surprises. As a result I do MANY drafts and take the scenes apart and reassemble them endlessly, to use an adverb which I try never to do on the page. 

In your opinion, what drives a narrative, character or plot?

For me, it’s character. Plots can surprise, but characters are what grab me. If I’m going to spend time with someone, I need them to grab me by the throat and drag me along on their journey. I also like there to be a certain underlying issue of a social sort to make the journey meaningful which in Grace was the opioid crisis.

One of the things I loved in the book was how Grace’s situation became more and more impossible—there was seemingly no way she was going to be able to defend her client. Without giving anything away, can you talk about how you mapped out that part of the story?

Lots of failed drafts/attempts. Finally, by utilizing some obscure details of criminal procedure (e.g., the incompetency stuff) I cannoodled my way to an ending. Without knowing how the system works, I’m sure it would have worked out to my satisfaction.

Grace Locke is an amazingly real character, complex, flawed, fighting her addictions. Other characters are also very authentic, such as Vinnie her landlord, friend, and sometimes savior. How much are these characters formed from people you know? 

Wink wink. Don’t ask a girl her secrets. Yes, there are elements of people I’ve come across, so let’s just say the characters are creatures of my imagination, but inspired in part by real life.

I know you also are an editor – what is your process for editing your work? And how do you work with those who edit your work? 

LOTS of drafts. There is no other way for me. I read aloud early on to remove the clunkers. I also focus on one thing per draft, moving from bigger picture issues (e.g., plot, characterization) and then move to more and more detailed analysis (e.g., dialogue), then on down to the most minute word choice.

Another rich part of the novel is its South Florida setting, I noted that you practiced law there. The setting, to use an overused term, is very gritty. Why did you choose this area to tell the story? 

You don’t have to make much up about how crazy south Florida is. It’s all in the news. It’s a land of contrasts from the bright sun to the dark souls that live in the shadows. Dreamers and con men shoulder to shoulder, all jostling for the good life. What could possibly go wrong?

All the proceeds from this novel go to not-for-profit organizations devoted to serving veterans –why is this important to you? 

Veterans are the most underserved, undervalued group in our society. They did us a solid by serving, risking their lives, and we need to step up and return the favor.

What’s your favourite thing about the writing process, and what do you dread?

I like the editing once I get the story figured out. As a panster there’s a fear that I’ll never get there and that the initial impetus idea just isn’t enough to sustain a novel. At the micro level, I love writing setting and description, so I have to restrain myself so as not to get carried away.

I’ve read that you run Ultramarathons (which makes me tired just to write) are there similar mental, or even physical muscles required in novel writing as to this type of running?

Odd as it may sound, writing a novel and running 100 miles or more are very similar endeavours. They require patience, persistence, and a dash of madness.

Are you working on a new project with Grace, or something else?

Yes, a first draft of Grace 2.0 is done, but it needs plenty of TLC to make it a book. Am also considering something completely different, but don’t want to jinx it :-)

Tell me about your dog, because I know you have to have one.

Talisker (AKA Tally) is 3 and a half years old, a Border Collie/Great Pyrenees mix. A rescue who was found as a stray having been thrown off his farm because he had a broken paw and could no longer work the fields. He LOVES to run, is super curious about everything, and has a very sweet soul. Very smart with a big vocabulary. It’s hard to get anything by him. I’m waiting for the day he picks up one of my books and start to read, and then point out a typo. 

Thanks very much to Mandy Miller for this interview and giving us a backroom look at her work. I highly recommend her novel States of Grace to those who love legal thrillers with a neo-noir background, and hell, to anyone who loves great writing!

Pick up States of Grace here: Literary Wanderlust

or on: Amazon

A website is in the works: mandymillerbooks.com 

As well, check back for information on her conference: writetheboat.org

What's the deal with Lansdale?

What's the deal indeed? I know I talk about him a lot, including at this blog. But I thought today was a good day to write about how his work influences mine—but also to celebrate the release of his new novel, Moon Lake, which drops today - and I can't wait to dig into it!

It certainly feels like Joe Lansdale is getting more (deserved) attention these days. The three seasons of Hap and Leonard on Sundance TV were critically acclaimed, and his recent publications with the high-level press Mulholland Books (A Little Brown imprint) has put his work in front of a lot more readers. Joe's always had a strong reader base, but in the past it seemed almost like a secret club with hand signals and mystical rites under a blood moon. Should everyone read Joe? Yes, I think they should.

I've told the story before... more than a decade ago, when we didn't wear masks and you could still lick dogs, I was swapping stories with a writer from Rhode Island. 

He told me, "You know you write like Joe Lansdale."
"Joe who?"

And that was it—a fandom, obession, whatever you call it was born. Yes, I did see similarties in the work—yet we were geographically (and I'm sure, culturally) quite different. Still, there was something in the storytelling that I recognized. 

Back to the beginning... 

Like most, I first fell in love with the Hap and Leonard books. They're funny, at times brutal in their violence, superbly well-told, and well-written stories.

Here's what the Tachyon website quoted me saying:

At the centre of this praise for Lansdale are his two best, and most well-known characters, Hap and Leonard. Working class white, liberal, draft dodger Hap teams up with black, gay, conservative, Vietnam vet, Leonard and they… wait, what do they do? Solve cases? Help people? Are their own kind of knight errants? Kick a lot of ass? Well, yes to all those things. It’s kind of hard to describe. They do get into their own sort of trouble, and end up helping people because it is the right thing to do. But really, for me, it’s all about who they are—I read them just to find out what they’re up to. And the characters are so sharp and original that I’d read a story about the two of them going to the grocery store to pick up a box of Vanilla wafers for Leonard (his favourite).

I soon discovered other Lansdale books, after reading through the Hap and Leonard books (which Joe is thankfully still creating). Personal favorites are The Bottoms, Sunset and Sawdust, Lost Echoes, Edge of Dark Water, Freezer Burn, and the Thicket. They're all different, full of great characters, dialogue, action, and Joe's unique lens on the world.

If I had to pull out a common thread in his fiction, I'd say it is the sense of place. Most of his books take place in East Texas, a place I've never been—but I sure feel like I have. His characters live in real places, even if sometimes the names are made up, like LaBorde, Texas where Hap and Leonard hang their hats. I've wondered how much LaBorde is like Joe's hometown of Nacogdoches. But it doesn't really matter, because when I say sense of place, it's more than the towns.

I haven't read the Bottoms in years, but I can still see the deep swampy setting when Harry and his younger sister tromp around trying to avoid the Goat Man. Ditto to the forests in The Thicket, or the cylclone in Sunset and Sawdust (i think that's also the one where it rains June Bugs). But more than the landscape, I can see, and feel, where the characters live. Hap and Leonard live in real houses, they pick roses in real fields, and shit goes down by the Sabine river.

Recently, I've been delighted when readers point out a similarity to Lansdale in my work—although the settings are much different. I guess Hap and Leonard do go to Playa del Carmen in Captains Outrageous, which is at least set in the same country where Luke Fischer drinks Pacificos. But more than that, reviewers have talked about my descriptions of the Upper Penisula of Michigan in Manistique—and how I really captured that area, as well as the bleached, yet beautifully mystical New Mexico. While I've visited those areas numerous times, I've never lived in either place. So to hear that I evoked those settings means a lot.

I think Lansdale was one of the writers I learned this sense of place from—that and the incredible snap in his dialogue. Lots of crime writers talk about Elmore Leonard's gift of dialogue (and they should), but pick up a Lansdale book and take a listen to exchanges like this:

“Ever notice how Christians quote the Old Testament more then the New Testament? That's so they can say mean things, talk bad about the queers and such. New Testament, that's the Christian book. The stuff in red, that's Jesus talk. That's what they're supposed to live their life by, but, no, they like the God of the Old Testament, the mean, judgmental one, before he was on Zoloft.”  
(Lost Echoes)

"They're closing up the Kmart?"

"Tighter than a Republican's wallet."

"You white Democrats, you get on my nerves." 

"Yeah, well what I can't stand is a black man doesn't have enough sense to vote Republican. Shit, man. You look like a fuckin' fool in that hat."

"Let's not talk politics, Hap. It upsets your tummy. And I look fine in hats..."

(The Two-Bear Mambo)

And if for whatever strange reason you haven't come upon his work, start with Hap and Leonard - I suggest The Two-Bear Mambo (but you can start anywhere), and then bounce around. Lansdale's work, for me, transcends genre (and you know how I feel about genre) - and it reveals what's at the heart of a great book... a great storyteller.

Enjoy! 

The Rhythm of a Scene

 

I am one of those writers that writes best to music. I started doing this during the writing of my first novel, Correction Line. Maybe because I'm such a film geek, but I heard soundtracks playing during the writing of certain scenes. Still, I think there's more to it... something to do with the rhythm of language. But more on that in a bit.

I remember writing a scene in CL where a character feels the full brunt of an explosion, is sent through the air, and is knocked unconscious. I wanted something dreamy in the scene, like he was existing in two different realms, one conscious, the other not.

From Correction Line:

Behind him windows blew out, wood blew apart like it was tissue paper, the entire top of the house engulfed in a green-red blaze. Roy floated over a fairytale bush and landed gently, somehow sinking into the ground. Above him Dean Martin's voice crooned, "Sway" and somewhere an ethereal congo band played him to sleep.

Now, here I actually named the piece of music that was in my head, but looking back on this scene, it works without it. Words like tissue, fairytale, ethereal, all evoke what I was going for.

But as I wrote this, Dean Martin was in fact crooning on a nearby CD Player.

For all of my books I have a soundtrack that I listen to repeatedly. Sometimes it is one artist, like Steely Dan, for Fall in One Day, and other times it is a genre of music. No surprise that Surf City Acid Drop had a long playlist of surf tunes – Dick Dale, the Ventures, the Sandals... lot of the "the" bands.

I certainly understand why directors like Tarantino used Dale's music to drive a film, to give it as the kids say, "A bop" — oh and also to make it super fucking cool.

It turns out that surf music is a great backdrop and provides energy for kick ass fight scenes.

From Surf City Acid Drop:

Another swing from Lloyd, and this time I pulled back, waited until he was fully extended and then grabbed his wrist and wrenched it. He winced at the crack, his mouth made an oh, which is when I popped him hard in the face. Then another fast rap as I broke his nose.

“Shit.” 

Harold swerved. I was already half over the seat, three more rabbit punches at Lloyd’s head. He winked out, blood streaming from his nose. The Ford screeched, clipped the mirror of a parked sedan. Harold tried to hit me with his non-driving hand. I rode the seat like a boogie board hitting a crest.

Now, turn on Dick Dale's Miserlou, and read that short scene again. I think you'll see (hear) what I mean.

What I'm trying to get at, is that scenes have rhythm to them. The music floats, or flies, alongside the language. There are crests, fades, and falls in a scene. Play just ahead of the beat, or just behind, it all creates a groove. A drummer hits a highhat and someone gets punched in the head. A set of brushes and a key-tar, key-tone (whatever that thing the Sandals play in Endless Summer) blows a soft note and a candle goes out, and a wave rolls in.

Each book finds its rhythm – and its style of music. For the new in-progress Luke novel, I've been listening to a lot of Beck, but also some country swing. I haven't found it quite yet. My other work in progress features a 12th Century Samurai (yeah, fuck genre - read my previous post.). And I listened to a lot of traditional Japanese music while writing that.

For Manistique, there were still those moments of surf rock, because it was Luke after all. But as I drew close to writing the final scene, I know I needed a playlist for that final showdown. (No spoilers).

I should also say that this music is for writing first drafts. For editing I need the silence of a monastery in Outer Mongolia (not INNER!!!). I've had talks with neighbourhood dogs to discuss terms while editing. Shushed nuns!

I digress. I like it quiet, ok.

But yes, for Luke's last big scene in Manistique, I created a playlist of 7 songs and played them on repeat as I wrote. Some of them might seem like odd choices — but if you have the book, after you read that scene, give them a listen and see if their rhythm matches the scene I created.

Here's the full list, and a link to Spotify if you want to listen.

 ... and yes, I was listening to a lot of Tommy James - why isn't his music in more movies?
 

Thanks for reading. Let me know over on the twitterbox if you write to music... or read? (That's something I can't do.)