Further Fan Fiction Fascinations

As noted in my FB post, my curiosity into the possible events involving the Bennet family, in the days and years after Elizabeth Bennet married Mr. Darcy, inspired me to compose my short story, The Signet Ring. Surely, I am not the only devoted fan of Pride & Prejudice who was disappointed that, by the conclusion of the novel, the entail would still provide that “vexing” inheritance to Mr. Collins and his bride?

The efforts to write a historically-accurate, yet quite different resolution to the entail, led me to some unusual research into the laws and customs of 18th century England concerning illegitimacy, paternity suits, signet rings - even the importation of cigars! No doubt, there are several befuddled meta-gathers poring over those “cookies”.

Still, I am contented with this short story, and the conclusion to my desire to add anything to the “P&P” theme. I also hope there aren’t any glaring errors to distract any readers of The Signet Ring in my website’s “Foolishly Free” section. (But let me know what you MAY find!). Lastly, I’ve discovered a fondness for this genre, and may venture writing another fan fiction story involving another, well-known book and a different, though just as well-known, author. Stay tuned….

The Facts, Fun and Frustrations of Fan Fiction

Fact: Until I was marooned within the exodus which was the 2005 pre-H.Katrina evacuation from NOLA, I was not interested in fan fiction. However, twenty-plus hours in a small, manual-transmission sports car with only a large, semi-tranquilized dog and a terrified cat for companionship, while inching along at 5MPH or less, forces one to find a diversion that does not involve screaming. I believe traffic had stalled somewhere east of Baton Rouge, when I first began amusing myself by imagining alternate endings to classic movies, which led to musings about minor characters and scenes in well-known books, which eventually inspired me to begin to mentally compose an entirely new story about a secondary character in the Harry Potter series. Yes, folks I was THAT desperate: but that brain-work of considering plot developments, linking my ideas to the original story arc, interweaving odd bits of history within this new adventure and assigning clever names to the new characters was an unexpected gift to my sanity during that horrible journey.

Since then, I’ve mentally composed alternate endings to other classic stories or follow-up stories to those classics - usually while waiting in long lines or traffic jams or even on those nights when I can’t sleep. The inspiration for my short story “Decisions” began as a late-night exercise to calm my mind after insomnia threatened to keep me awake past 2AM. The idea amused me so much, I wrote it down. Then, I took the next step: editing and polishing the idea into a short story. Next, followed the cold reality that I needed more information about mourning and funerary customs in England during the early 1800s, an accurate understanding of locales, landmarks and distances around Kent, London, etc. and not of the least importance, to develop a writing style which structured dialog and tone as if J.A. herself had read my drafts and offered helpful advice. The effort was both consuming and disruptive. Many times, I felt like a child playing dress-up with the clothes, shoes and make-up of an older, more fashionable and far more clever friend…yet fully aware this was the ultimate game of pretend and (probably) few would appreciate the results.

Still, I am pleased with “Decisions” and hold out hope that other P&P fans will be pleasantly diverted by this bit of fan fiction. [slight curtsy]

I'll choose door #3

More than 3 YEARS have past since my last post: a realization that both amazes and horrifies my Type-A personality. Still, I can also accept the time away from this site has been (mostly) well spent. Other benchmarks were achieved, I’ve survived the devastating affects of both ID theft and a computer hack and have come to embrace a new philosophy for my writing journey which I have named Door #3.

Door #3 does not provide access to the sun-filled highway of optimism that’s behind Door #1, nor does it open to the darkened hallway of abandonment behind door #2. Rather, I see Door #3, as in the photo, as that entrance off to the side. An access leading to a gentler path; one that strays yet still brings satisfaction. I’ll continue, writing and submitting, but I’m far more aware of my chances in the Big Literary World. I’m discovering that a tiny island in that BLW may not be so bad, after all.

And, I’ve also made some changes to this website: I’ve deleted all the “News” since it was not only old, but more of a mockery to my present perspective. I’ve also had to face the fact that I’ll never succeed as a serial writer (hats off to Mr. Dickens for that talent). The novel that was posted in the “Free” page has been replaced with a short story trilogy that opens on Christmas Morning. Each story is titled for one of the colors of Mardi Gras. The trilogy focuses upon three siblings and how the Carnival Season brings them adventure and romance. I hope it will be especially enjoyable to anyone who has wondered about this annual tradition. I’ll continue to add other, short stories - every couple of months or so - and look forward to your responses!

Ever After

In 2015, a developer hired me to implement the reopening of a commercial building. Financial issues had abruptly stopped renovation work and shuttered the doors several years before. Walking through the partially-completed rooms and neat piles of still-in-the-box materials, I thought about the workers: diligently at their tasks until the closure forced a furlough, or possibly a lay-off. A whiff of lost dreams coated the air. Then, while inspecting the roof, I discovered a mound of construction debris tucked along a section of parapet. The natural, artful arrangement of those deteriorating materials impressed me as both a photogenic composition and as a quiet expression of loss and failure. Thankfully, I had my camera.

Last night, I thought about that building and this photograph, again, after facing the truth that my inaugural literary project will most likely be abandoned. There is no sensation so humbling as standing in a room filled with talent, and the excitement about that talent…and then comprehending: my project was dropped from the list. I will never be part of that group, of that excitement, of that journey. A crushing realization, but one which prompted the only logical action: I have suggested to the publisher that my manuscript be set aside and the contract cancelled. In comparison to the books they are preparing to release, my little manuscript - with its shortcomings, flaws and oddness- stands no chance. My suggestion was met with a look of relief and awkward comments - confirmation that they probably want to be rid of the millstone which was my contract, and probably me, as well.

In the walk back to my car, I don’t believe I took a full breath. My silly little dream – one that deserves no further explanation – was shared in this big, binary void to demonstrate an ability to promote, to chronicle what seemed to be firm steps towards my goal. My delusions of talent, of advancement, of possessing any toe hold into the literary world beyond that of a drudge volunteer, have actually been just the short wick for my glimmer of Hope. I cringe at the full knowledge of my folly; undoubtedly many people who I admire are sighing in relief, grateful that I have come to my senses.

Still, owning one’s failures is better than denying them.  A clear, cold light burns about me, now.  I accept that my writing path lies somewhere else, within Ever After.

decisions, decisions

The writing life, I am learning, operates best on the action of selecting. Character traits. The color of the rug. To lisp or not to lisp? First names, last names and nicknames. Who is the liar? Counting adverbs. Are you a Good Witch or a Bad Witch? There are days where I just want to stare at all the colors, shapes, flaws and negative space within the writing craft to avoid making a selection. But such an avoidance is, in itself, a selection; a type of hoarding that won’t carry the plot to its conclusion. Chapters 4 & 5 in “Foolishly Free” required an extra dose of selecting. More than I care to remember, but now, they are posted.

What are you selecting?

hi-ho, hi-ho...

(detail) General Laundry Building, NOLA * by K.Kersting

I may have found more enjoyment during my many years as an Employee, had there been such an exuberant doorway at any of the buildings where I once earned a paycheck! One of my first jobs, after graduating from college, unknowingly set me on my present literary path. I was one of the new hires gathered into a meeting room with the CEO. He was a wealthy man who was golfing buddies with the, then, seated POTUS. He asked us “what is the purpose of this company?”. After listening to several idealistic answers, he said “No. The purpose of this company is to make money. Your job is to help that to happen.”

Alas, the liberal arts program under which I studied focused more on such matters as form follows function and the nuances of societal stratification; debates on the works of Huxley, Plath and Alvin Toffler eclipsed business theory and the psychological impact of certain colors was most distracting. Now, armed with a new, sobering directive, my logical reaction was to enhance the capitalistic focus of my Work Day with a purely creative endeavor. I began keeping journals of all the odd, humorous, intriguing and soul-sucking moments - and fellow employees - which populated those hours. Over the years, employers and cities changed. Large corporations, non-profits, small studios - even a stint working as a bookkeeper in a brewery - all brought a new wealth of character studies, dialog and Details. The alchemy of blending some of those journal entries into a fictional story resulted in the plot of the manuscript posted in “Foolishly Free”.

While you enjoy Chapters 2 & 3, I’m curious if anyone else has found an unexpected “perk” from their employee endeavors (criminal activities do NOT count). Send me a note and I’ll share those tales, soon.

My Beloved Holiday Memory

As promised, the following is the complete version of the entry sent to The Advocate. While I have no delusions this equals Philip Van Doren Stern’s work, the quiet message from my own “Greatest Gift” moment, is one of my most treasured life experiences. Happiest of Holidays to everyone!

My most treasured toy arrived when my childhood expectations for Christmas gifts were many years in the past, and when a particular holiday season only filled me with dread. At that time, I was raising my young son – mostly- alone. It was a busy, content household.  Yet, I was hoping that it would soon be even busier. Would the man I had been dating for a few years, perhaps this year, ask The Question? Instead, he informed me the week before Thanksgiving that I was no one he wanted to marry. Though mortified and heartbroken, I hid those emotions from my son; determined to give my child a happy holiday season. We baked cookies, opened the little doors on the Advent calendar and drove through neighborhoods to look at the holiday lights. My son was having a great time, and I was pleased he was unaware of my sadness.

One day, while shopping for holiday gifts, I decided to buy something time-consuming and distracting for me: a small, unassembled dollhouse. It seemed the perfect project for all the future evenings I would be spending at home. The box was wrapped and stowed away with all the other gifts. And most importantly, I decided it would be a gift “from Santa” – for at my house, Santa’s gifts were wrapped in distinctive paper and the gift tag was signed (in gold ink, no less) from Santa himself. Santa Claus had not given me a gift in years. It was an amusing thought to consider how my son would react to seeing that box under the tree.

But for the moment, my son was excited with a different holiday milestone: this year, he was old enough to purchase Christmas gifts. He was earning an allowance for completing small tasks, and he now had a few dollars to spend. We went to a dollar store, so he could easily find items and gift bags within his budget. I was instructed NOT to follow him about the store, but to wait by the entrance.  Soon enough, he proudly walked through the checkout lane with his small bag of purchases. Once home, he insisted on wrapping the gifts himself, then placed the small bundles under our tree.

On Christmas morning, his small bundles had been joined by a large collection of wrapped presents, Christmas stockings and packages still sporting mailing labels. I had placed my gift “from Santa” beneath all the other presents, hoping it would be a memorable surprise for a child already questioning Santa’s existence. But before any of the other presents were opened, my son wanted me to, first, open the gift he had purchased for me. Tucked inside the small gift bag was a little chair – the perfect size for my soon-to-be-unwrapped dollhouse. “Why this is lovely!” I said. “What gave you this idea?”

“Oh, I thought it would be something you might like,” he replied.

Placing the little chair on the mantle, I watched my son eagerly dive into the pile of gifts. My mind was dizzy from this amazing coincidence and desperate to compose a response when the doll house would, eventually, be unwrapped. When he pulled that last box out from under the tree and read the tag, his eyes widened. “It’s for you…from Santa.”

I was determined to act surprised. “For me?” I said, taking the package onto my lap. “Why would Santa bring me something this year?”

As the wrapping paper was removed, and the contents revealed, my son gasped. “Oh, my gosh,” he whispered. “Santa must have been in the store when I bought your chair!” His expression, a mixture of awe and glee, confirmed that the legend of Santa had at least one more year of credulity in our household. And in that moment, I embraced a warm sense of peace and healing; grateful for the unusual blending of events to create this sweet holiday story.

The little chair now resides inside that dollhouse. Though more than two decades have past, this special toy is my constant reminder of the unexpected, magical and sometimes mysterious joys of the Christmas season.

trash, recycling or delusion?

While formatting this website, I thought would be “fun” to offer a chapter-by-chapter posting of one of my unpublished manuscripts. There is even a tab for this endeavor, titled “Foolishly Free”. How difficult could it be? If Dickens could handle it, shouldn’t I -without the stress of a looming deadline by some newspaper publisher- be able to review/edit/polish some earlier bit of writing?

Alas, the cold reality of such a task is best illustrated by my photo of a scrap yard. I discovered there are many such yards along the Amtrak’s Crescent line. Initially, the shapes and textures within this jumble of objects intrigued the right side of this traveler’s brain. But what would one DO with this stuff? The gears would be too corroded to mesh properly; many of the lengths of pipe appeared to be just trimmed-off remnants and the items that might be 4-cylinder engine blocks would need a remarkable amount of work to be serviceable. So it has been with my efforts to bring my earlier work to the website. Heaps of adjectives, a tangle of backstory details which threaten to strangle the plot, and bits of, what I can now see as, weak dialog coated each page as the rust covers those hunks of metal. I have been horrified by the amount of time expended in sifting through and tossing away pages-worth of drivel; cringing at phrases of my own making while wallowing in self-loathing for my earlier pride in this manuscript. Work In Progress, indeed!

Never-the-less, a promise is a promise. And I am pleased with the results. The first chapter is now edited and up for your entertainment. With luck, I will have a new chapter up each week- or so.

...I cannot tarry longer

What may be possible beyond a known framework? The start of a great adventure or a journey towards something far less? Is the decision to start a second career - while still enjoying the design projects fueling my decades-long first career - my craziest idea yet? Perhaps. But the opportunity to, now, pursue a Writing Life appeals to the earliest memories of my creative heart and resolves the disquiet carried from several odd turns of Fate.

With a small amount of trepidation, this entry is my first official step upon the literary path.

(Many thanks to Ren Atkins for guiding me through the maze of website design and formatting.)