Random Notebook #5: Genesis of Nothing, Start of All

 All of this may come with some facility to me but when it happens, I have to take quick advantage of it, lest I lose the thread.  At any rate, it is fun to simply write freely and without care.  To write about whatever I care about.  To write about whatever strikes me.  I do pray and hope that things do not come down to ranting, and I must be aware of what I am doing all of the time so as not to ruin the time I am investing on this.  It is difficult because there’s still so much anger inside of me, anger that is begging for some outlet.  It is not a waste of time to think that my rants lead nowhere.  I try and that is all I can do.  Even the best published authors do not have it all figured out.  They begin where I begin, do the same things I do, but with much better discipline than I.  They also have a lot of help from editors and people who make suggestions and corrections.  Nevertheless, I know I can do this at this level and with some talent and working on my discipline as much as I can.  The past has to remain behind.  There cannot be any more wasting time, this time that is so valuable.  What M has offered me has been a dream come true, and I feel I have wasted much of that time.  There’s much to do about discipline—the timer helps, and there’s a great deal of joy in finishing the time allotted for this.  Yet, I have to do more—I can put pressure on myself and fail tremendously, or I can simply do what I did yesterday and the day before.  Think effortlessly.  Think smoothly about the plot, no pressure, just type, print, and craft.  Repeat as necessary.  Of course, the plots sitting at home also need to be looked at.  There are many things I’ve tried that have not worked—others that I simply wonder where they came from.  There are hints of talent and gift, but I get discouraged too quickly and there’s the issue that discipline must (I swore I would not use that word) correct with time.  It’s a matter of really thinking about it and knowing that unless I push myself, nothing will come of this.  So there.  It’s time to begin the game of suppose.  First, decide on a topic/emotion/root of the plot.  Man or woman?  Okay.   A man from a small town.  He owns a hardware store on one of those picturesque American Main Streets in Anytown.  He is married.  Seemingly enjoying the perfect life.  His name is Norman, Norman Grant (yes, I knew that name was in my head for some purpose—here it is).  Norman Grant.  Small business owner and respected member of his community.  Esteemed in his church, a veteran of the Great War.  So, the plot must take place between 1981—1925 or thereabouts.  His wife, Selma Grant comes from Puritan stock, her repression (emotional and sexual) eventually leads to the crisis of the plot.  Okay, how about this: the big secret, the great mystery comes from this—Norman has extravagant sexual desires that he cannot engage in with his repressed wife.  She finds him sick, distorted and downright evil.  For years, he imposed his will on her, violently and damagingly.  But the sick thrill of using Selma for his games becomes too much an effort for him to make constantly, and therefore he abandons the conjugal bed and opens his sexual desires to other roads of perdition.  By an act of conscience, Norman finds a willing partner.  The woman, Rose Platt, is the town preacher’s wife.  Before I can write about the affair, I have to figure out a way for them—Norman and Rose—to find they have a common interest in their perversity.  Think, think, think.  How does Norman find Rose’s sexual deviance?  Okay, suppose that Norman has what I could call a “purveyor” of filth, of explicit illustrations that comes into the hardware store from time to time.  During one of his visits, the man brings in what he calls the best stock of photos he’d ever had to offer.  The men go back and forth about the price as Norman goes through the material.  A series of 10 photos catches his eye because of the theme explored.  In the series, a woman is tied to a chair.  She is kneeling on top, her upper body immobilized by ropes wrapped around her shoulders; her legs are tied to the legs of the chair.  This is a very awkward position—the woman’s bare buttocks are prominent, two perfect spheres, Norman thinks.  Norman goes through the entire contents of the box but he’s not sure he wants to buy the entire stock.  He wants to haggle on the price of the set that caught his attention, but the man would not let it go alone—he had to purchase the entire stock, or nothing.  Among the photos, Norman sees a face he recognizes; it is Rose Platt, the preacher’s wife.  He’s baffled.  He studies the photograph closely.  It had to be her.  Of course, there’s no way of telling if it’s simply a look alike, or if his eyes are not betraying the similarity.  Norman is sure now that he wants the photographs, but he needs to bring the price down.  One thing he knew was that if he acted disinterested, the purveyor would be less likely to come down on the price.  He acts hesitantly, unimpressed, casual about the set he wants or the Rose Platt photo.  He goes through the photos again with even less interest.  “I don’t know,” he says, “price is a bit over my budget.”  “But they’re good photos, Norman… unique.”  “Let me think about it,” Norman says with an air of indifference and starting towards the front of the store as if to indicate he is through.  “Okay, Norman,” the purveyor says, “make me an offer, but be fair.”  They haggle a bit longer for the price.  “I’m sorry,” Norman says, “I’m not going to keep you.  If we can’t come to an agreement over a few pennies, it’s no use keeping you here.  I am sure you have other people to visit.”  The purveyor gives in and the transaction is quickly done.  The purveyor leaves.  Norman looks at his watch, it’s still half an hour before lunch.  Should he put the sign for lunch up, or should he make himself suffer with his uncontrollable desire to look at his new collection?

            Again, he thinks of the woman in the picture.  The resemblance was too close—good heavens, could it be her, he thinks.  But even if it was, how could he ever approach her, show her the photo?  Could he, he paused, get some mileage out of these photos?  In his eyes, it would not be black mail, but rather an agreement between two people who share a common interest.  He became obsessed and could think of nothing else.  He needed to confirm that the woman in the photo was indeed Rose Platt.  He couldn’t certainly come up to her and ask her, could he?  What if it’s just a coincidence?  What if she accuses him of immorality?  Is it worth the risk?  He tried not to think about.  He counted the minutes before he could put up the sigh “out to lunch” and go up to the attic to “study” these pictures closely.  His excitement was desperate.  He couldn’t wait any longer.  He went to the front door, the turned the sign over, and with the envelope containing the photos he went up to the attic to have “some time” with his new acquisition.  × This came fast and furious, and I almost forget where I was on what I was doing.  Perhaps the best way to go is the library, but beyond that, the fact that one can make a fiction out of just about anything one can come up with.  That is what I will look for from now on—the thing that really clicks, the one plot that makes all things flow.