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So, I'm attempting to write a book (long post)

Old 10-05-17, 03:42 AM
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So, I'm attempting to write a book (long post)

My wife likes to watch crime TV shows. I like to read mysteries, suspense, horror. There's always the trope of the cop telling the perp, tell us what you know, or we'll put it out there that your a snitch anyway. Since Nanowrimo was coming up, this was 2014 by the way, I thought, what if the perp didn't know anything? What if the cop just let it be known the perp was a snitch and there was violent consequences? Why don't I try to write a book? Give it a good old college try. So I did. here's what was going through my head, though in lo-fi. It's long.

Benny Stovanivich is a small time burglar very loosely connected to the Russian mafia. He gives a percentage of his takings. His wife, Alanya, and son, Peiter keep him grounded. One night, he's caught red handed.
Interrogation is brutal, and intense. He doesn't know anything. He's way down at the bottom of the ladder. In the sewer to be precise.

Dets Mitchell, and Bloard threaten him with the old cliche, snitch. You don't tell us what you know, we'll put it out there you're a squealer. Benny tells them, he doesn't know a goddamn thing. And, even if he did, he couldn't say shit cos this was the Russian fuckin' mafia, and they'll kill him and his family. That's the truth. He swears on his family's life he doesn't know anything. Mitchell believes him. Bloard is a different story. He doesn't like Benny. He doesn't know why. Ever meet someone and it's hate at first site? It's like that. So, he let's a few whispers out that Benny gave them good shit, in fact makes a few arrests from a few of his own snitches, let's it be known Benny's responsible. Benny's sent to prison for the burglary.

Seems like he's always in prison. His son ages fast while he's in prison. He's missed his son's 1st birthday, his 5th, his 9th, now he'll miss his 11th. His son still loves him, though. His wife loves him as well, but, she's getting pretty sick of benny being more in than out. They argue, get in a fight before he's sent off. She doesn't visit him the first week.

Then, the mafia, headed by Martin Volosky, murder Benny's wife and son. Brutally, so brutal, the coffins are closed. Benny is allowed out on compassionate leave. Tells the cop he wants to be alone with his wife and son. Convinces him to uncuff him, leave him in the funeral home. Benny opens his son's coffin, to kiss him goodbye. Screams. Where's His Face! Where's My Son's Face! Cop rushes in as Benny attempts to open his wife's coffin. They struggle. Benny pleads, then collapses in grief. After the funeral, Benny's back in prison. He's in gen pop, and he's a target. Benny battles everyday. He sleeps with one eye open, he carries a shiv himself. He dreams of a Boy Without A Face, and a Mother Without A Womb. He fantasizes about slaughtering everyone Volosky ever loved. He exercises, but not in the weight room, he remembers Dahmer. He doesn't know how long he can last, but he promises himself that he'll take as many with him as he can.

Then he has a visitor. Volosky. Benny stares at the middle aged man with the bright blue eyes, and small goatee. His teeth are stained from tannin. He has a faint scar under his chin. Benny see's him dead, torn to pieces, shredded beyond recognition.

Volosky says sorry. Benny blinks. Is confused. Volosky explains about Bloard. The well placed whispers, the believability of them. He says sorry again. Tells him the contact has been torn. Offers him a shit load for the unfortunate circumstances. Benny fumes. Trembles. Clenches his fists. Rages inside because he can't get to this murdering fuck. Unfortunate circumstances? My wife? My son? Gone? He's blinded, see's blood.

We good?

What? What did you say?

We good? You know you can't come back at us. We're too big, too powerful. You know that, right, Benny? We can't bring them back, but we can reimburse you for your loss and suffering. it's more than the state'll offer you if you were ever imprisoned for a crime you didn't admit. Plus you won't have to give us a percentage-Benny slams the glass-Volosky jumps, fear in his eyes. Looks around. Other prisoners, families , C.O,'s look away. He composes himself.

So, uh, we good?

Benny stares. For a long, long time. then smiles, nods. Knows he can't survive in prison with a contract on him. Revenge is a dish best served with a recipe of patience, planning, and ruthlessness.

Does his time without incident. Runs ideas through his head each night. Plans, prepares, executes. But, in his head, he always wins. Knows the odds. Doesn't care.

Bloard is kidnapped, tied to a track. Benny watches Bloard. Listens to his pleadings, his anguish, his terror. Watches him die. Feels nothing.

His burglary skills come into full effect as he sneaks into Volosky's place on top of a high rise, 60 floors up. He can't kill the family, though. He just can't. Even with all the rage, he can't kill the wife, and three liitle boys, and teenage daughter. He waits for Volosky to arrive. Kills the bodyguards. Benny and Volosky battle. Punching , kicking, smashed faces, bruised ribs, kidney's afire, balls numb.

Benny see's the door open to the veranda, pushes Volosky toward it, zoning out the screams of Volosky's family. He holds unto Volosky as he tumbles over the barrier. On the way down, he says, we good? Then laughs maniacally as Volosky screams.



okey dokey. So, what the fuck do I know about the Russian mafia? About as much as I do Quantum Mechanics. Scratch that, then. So, Benny Stovanivich becomes Benny Smallwood.
Then, the whole story changes, I mean, there's elements of it there, but, it's different. I wrote the prologue, then went on chapter, by, chapter, never out of order. I've more than 70,000 words written. Whether they are comprehensible, well, how the hell do I know, I'm not a writer!
Thing is, I've stopped. Gone cold. And I'm almost to the end, and it's disheartening, depressing. I don't know why I stopped. Is it fear? Is it ADHD? Is it because my brain can only store so many sentences, and I've drained the goddamn thing?
I'm so close, so fucking close! The last few chapters invade my dreams, my life. They swirl around in my head, taunting me. Finish it! Finish it!
The damn thing is so different than what I originally outlined. Writing truly is organic. It's also mentally, socially exhausting. Not that I'm a really sociable person, but, still, it has hindered me somewhat. it effects me at work. Someone will be talking, and I'll be thinking of that scene. The scene that fills me with dread. People at work probably think I'm deaf because they have to repeat themselves to me.
If you've gotten this far, thank you for letting me get this off my chest. No-one around me has any interest in my writing, so I can't bounce anything off them. I am truly alone in writing this, this mirage of a book.
I tried writing another chapter, and it is so different from the words that came before(my apologies, Mr. Bakker). The voice has changed. Like it has laryngitis.
Any advice would be appreciated. Sorry for the bad formatting. That's not my forte. I wish I knew what was.
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Old 10-05-17, 12:51 PM
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Re: So, I'm attempting to write a book (long post)

I like the story!
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Old 10-06-17, 09:03 AM
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Re: So, I'm attempting to write a book (long post)

You're at a point where you need other sets of eyes. Do you know anyone who's a writer/editor/teacher who can read it for you and give you feedback? Are there writing classes/workshops in your area where you can put this out in front of an instructor or other students and get some help that way? My daughter just published her first novel, with a second on the way, and she did lots of "workshopping" with other writers. She also participated in Nanorimo and got very involved in that, becoming a local coordinator for it and staging numerous meetups and events.
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Old 10-06-17, 09:26 PM
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Re: So, I'm attempting to write a book (long post)

Finish the book. Join a writing group. If there aren't any in your area, see if you can find one online.
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Old 10-08-17, 04:50 AM
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Re: So, I'm attempting to write a book (long post)

I had a rhythm going. I'd write something each night, then Life tapped me on the shoulder, said, see that over there? That needs your undivided attention, you can write more later. See, I need to get back to that rhythm, somehow, some way. I've been trying, and trying. I'd open up the Scrivener file, read a few of the chapters, then close the damn thing. I've even tried to write the end, but, I've been so used to writing the book in order that my poor brain can't process it. The end? THE END? What's wrong with you? Get with the program! I shut down. I'm a weird guy, always have been.

I've converted the rtf file to mobi, and put it on my kindle. Of course, again, formatting is not my forte. I've looked at youtube videos on Scrivener, but, again, I may as well be looking at Pollack painting wondering what the fuck it all means.

Plus, even online, I'm not sociable, and, to tell the truth, I scared as shit to get feedback. One man's junk is still fucking junk to many. I'll admit it, I'm a coward. Plus, it is raw, a first draft. There's a timeline. but, it's all in my head. Figured I'd fix it on a rewrite.

Rewrite! Ha!

Oh, I tell myself, how do people do this for a living? How in the hell do they put themselves through this hell each and every day? Probably because they're professionals, and have a command of the English language?

Jesus, I ramble, that's my problem, rambling. Little, weird stories'll pop in my head, and I have to flush them by writing them down because they interfere with the real story, the one I need to flush out of my head. I need to concentrate. Some say meditation, some say Wellbutrin (anyone use that? I've looked at the side effects, and imagine I'd get every single one.). Most frustrating is the fact that I write the best (in my head) when I'm just about to fall asleep.

Oh, well, I'll keep trying. Thanks for letting me whine, and pour out my self pity. I've just realized that instead of writing this, I should be writing that.
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