Storytellersunplugged

The Anatomy of a Scene So, I have a novel coming out. I know, I know, it’s a bit shocking, what with me being a novelist and all, but there’s a point to my statement of the obvious. The point is simply that after having edited the damned thing approximately a trillion times, I decided to actually READ it again. Not the whole thing, just a couple of chapters to see if the prerequisite parts of the story were actually there. 

That in turn got me thinking about this essay and the fact that I’ve discussed what matters to me as individual aspects before, but not really as a collective whole. Really, folks, let’s be honest here, none of it means a damned thing if you can’t achieve a certain level of balance, am I right? And when it comes to writing a novel it’s not just one or two things you have to balance. It’s more like have a dozen balls and bowling pins being juggled simultaneously. You get to be the juggler, too.

 So let’s go over the basics real quick, just the high notes, and you can decide if I managed to cover them properly in the first scene of DEEPER, which is the name of the next novel I have coming out.

First and foremost, there must be characters. Without characters, there’s no need to bother with a story. And as I have said before, it’s your job as a writer to make the reader give some sort of damn about said characters. Without empathy, all you have is names and brief descriptions. Without that spark of illusory life, none of what occurs during the course of your tale will matter in the very least.

 After characters, we have setting. Setting is more than just the layout of the buildings; it’s the feel of the story to a certain extent. Oh sure, that’s what the mood is all about, but have you ever tried to set up a mood without a few props to make the scene more believable? As I have said before, the setting can be almost as significant as the characters themselves, because it becomes an integral part of the illusion you’re creating.

 What’s a good story without a plot? Not a damned thing. This is the establishing scene of a novel and you better do something interesting to make people want to read the scene after that, or all the lovely characters in the world won’t make a bit of difference.

Now, this particular novel is one part mystery, and that means I can’t very well start off with a massive explosion or even a good juicy murder. Why? Because it would screw up the story for one and because it’s also a first person narrative. Want to show me someone who willingly continues to investigate a grisly murder or two? They’re out there, but the idea in this case was simply to have a regular guy as the narrator. So, I had to make sure I could give up a few clues and foreshadow that things were going to change, without scaring the main character out of the scene.

 Because it’s also the introductory scene, I get to introduce the characters. Strange concept, I know, but I can’t simply assume that the readers are going to know the characters without an introduction. The catch is to make the appearance of the people who will be in the story seem as natural as possible. It’s far too easy to have everything you write come across as contrived. Hopefully I managed to avoid at least a little of that.

 Pacing is also an absolute must. In my case I wanted the story to start off at a fairly sedate speed, because, again, the idea here was to not only lull the readers into believing all is well, but also the characters. Of course, we’re talking about balance again, too.

I have to keep the readers interested while introducing the characters, setting up the scene, creating the voice of the narrative and saying enough to make the readers want to read more.  

But wait, what’s this: “Jim, you mentioned something about creating the voice of the narrative…”

 Yes I did! Thanks for paying attention. The voice is how you write, kiddies. It’s the style of writing you intend to tackle. In this case I decided for first person. Great, I love first person narratives. Of course, I also need to make sure the voice is true to that of our narrator. Is he sarcastic? Is he quiet and introspective? Will I be able to write an entire novel from the perspective of one person? What about all of those scenes when the narrator isn’t actually present to look over all that he surveys. I’m in the cold here and so are the readers.  The voice better be an interesting one, because for the next 85,000 words or so, I need to keep my readers entertained and I need to avoid making a chew toy out of the character’s voice while using the narrative voice.

If my hero isn’t the type to sit back and describe a bar fight in loving detail, then I better make sure the scene is clarified with a minimum of fuss, while simultaneously progressing the story.

 I must have done at least a few things right, because the publisher bought the bloody manuscript. If I hadn’t, you may rest assured my looks alone weren’t going to get me a sale.  So, without further discussion, I’d like to introduce you to Joe Beirden and a few of his friends and of course to the people who will be making his life go into a series of new and unexpected directions.  I think I managed my tasks well enough. You decide for yourselves whether or not I made the grade. 

<Chapter One

My grandfather used to tell me that the oceans knew all the secrets the world had to offer. He said the biggest problem was that no one ever seemed to know how to listen for those secrets.

That stuck with me over the years. I’ve never been a man of science. I’ve never had the patience to go through all of the studies and tests that are required to be a proper man of science, but I have always paid attention to what the oceanographers and weather people had to say about the world that lurks below the water’s surface.

It’s a damned big world under there, and even with everything we’ve learned about the seas, there are a million more mysteries to be solved. For me the notion of actually solving them is laughable. I just like to contemplate them from time to time when I’ve had a few too many drinks and I’m looking out over the harbor.

My name is Joseph Alexander Bierden. Most people just call me Joe. I’ve lived in the same place for most of my life and I haven’t been in much of a hurry to get anywhere else. I like the sea and I like the town of Bowden’s Point. It’s no Black Stone Bay, but it’ll do in a pinch.

Anyone who’s ever been to a seaside town knows the drill. There are people who live there year round and there are people who come to visit. I’m one of the year-round residents. I make most of my money during the summer months, when there are plenty of people who need to hire a boat; mostly for fishing and sometimes just to have a party where the neighbors aren’t going to complain about the noise. I have three boats all told. One old wreck called the Marianne Winston, after an old girlfriend who dumped me not long after I bought it, is used by me when I feel like actually going out for a little crabbing. I have a twenty foot galleon, called Lisa’s Hope, I use for smaller parties and I have a sixty foot yacht, Isabella’s Dream, for the parties that feel like spending a small fortune and don’t mind the hefty security deposits. There have even been a few weddings performed on the Isabella, and a few honeymoons as well.

It’s a living and the only one I really want to have. My job-I can’t really call it a career, because I just don’t take it seriously enough-provides me with a roof over my head, a good deal of free time to spend with my wife and kids, and allows me to work around my first love whenever I feel the need.

My first love has always been the ocean. Isabella knew that when I proposed to her, and still she accepted. I guess that’s the reason I’ve always been faithful to her, despite the numerous temptations. Don’t get me wrong. I don’t think I’m anything special, but you mix the summer weather, enough alcohol and a party on a yacht together and I’ve had a ridiculous number of offers.

It isn’t all peaches and cream as the old saying goes. There are a lot of things that have to be taken care of during any year to ensure a comfortable living, and there have been a few times where I wasn’t very proud of myself for some of the work I did. Back when I was just starting out, I did some rather shady work bringing in bundles of drugs that I picked up off shore. If my reputation in town hadn’t been as solid as it was, I might well have been caught, too. I didn’t do it too often and I only ever took on the extra work when I needed the money to pay the bills and make a decent living. I stopped dealing with any part of the drug trade around the same time one of the other captains I knew wound up with a few bullet holes through his body and his head missing. It wasn’t easy to get out of the business, but I managed, and the man I was picking up for was a good sport about it. If he hadn’t been, I wouldn’t be writing this down now.

So, yes, a few things I’m ashamed of, a few marks on my list of the seven deadly sins, but nothing extreme. Funny how that works. We can almost always justify our actions if we take the time to explain them to ourselves.

I’ll let you in on a secret, though. Sometimes we don’t know that what we’re doing is wrong until it’s too late. Sometimes the most innocent things, the safest things, can turn like a snake and bite you on the ankle, and when that happens, there’s only one choice left.

You’ve got to try to fix what you did wrong and pray to whatever gods you might believe in that you aren’t too late.

I should have known things would go wrong on that little venture. My guts were telling me that taking the job was a bad idea, but I brushed it off because the money was nice and because Belle wanted a vacation that was worth noticing.

All you can do in life is make sure you do things for all the right reasons. There’s nothing else in the long run, except to hope the things you do don’t come back to kick you in the jaw.

It started at the end of the busy season. I was just about ready to pull out my little crabbing boat and go lay some traps and just call it done. The tourists were mostly gone and the air was starting to get its early morning winter chill, the girls wandering around in bikinis had graduated up to wearing jeans again-always a depressing thing for an old letch like me: married but not blind, you know-and God help me, there were already signs popping up for the end of summer sales and the new fall fashions in the windows of half the stores in town.

I wasn’t really trolling for new business. It hadn’t been the best summer ever, but it was far from the worst, and I had earned enough to keep the bills paid. Charlie Moncrief, my trusty right hand man, was double checking all of the nets and cables and I was polishing the brass railing on the Isabella’s Dream when the offer came my way.

Charlie is a big man, with an easy going smile and a permanent tan caused half by the sun and half by the wind. Even in the winter when there’s no way in hell to get the boats out for a long trip and the sun doesn’t much peek its face out of the clouds, Charlie has that dark tan. And his eyes, Lord Almighty, his eyes are almost exactly the same color as the sea on a stormy day. Women seem to love them. I could spend days telling you stories about Charlie and his numerous adventures on the water and in different ports, but I’ll just say this: he is a perfect example of what has been said about sailors for years: there’s a girl in every port, and in most of them there are probably two or three. Charlie always had a way with the ladies, and could drink most men under the table without even trying.

Charlie noticed the people first, of course, because there were women involved. Four people came toward the yacht and looked at it carefully. I nodded my head and left them in peace, because most of the times when you have a small group like that, they’re considering whether or not they want to rent your ship out for the day and trying to decide if the rates are fair enough. The rates are never fair enough, but most people are willing to pay them. I’ll negotiate most times, and now and then I’ll even let them win a good haggling argument, but only if the coffers at home have enough money to see me through a few more days.

None of them looked like the sea-faring types. There was a couple who was obviously together and looked like they shouldn’t have been. I guess I should describe them properly just so you can get a good picture of them. There was a stick of a man with salt and pepper hair, and a girl of around twenty hanging at his side. She was more handsome than pretty, and had a smile that was pure confidence and good feelings. She had more muscles than he did, and I assumed she was big into sports. Her hair was cut short so it wouldn’t get in her way, and if I’d been asked by someone I would have labeled her an athlete. They both looked like they belonged on a college campus. The stick man had professor written all over him. I’m sure you know the type, the sort who only feels right in his classroom, where he’s practically the king, but take the classroom away and suddenly he looks a little confused about where he is and why he’s there.

The stick man spent a few minutes staring at the boat and then came closer. He walked up the causeway until he was almost on the yacht proper and then froze like a rabbit caught off guard by a human. He was dressed in a three piece charcoal suit and looked about as comfortable as a thief in a confessional.

“Excuse me?” He looked directly at Charlie, who was busy wrapping a mooring cable back into a manageable mess.

“You looking to hire out?” Charlie answered him, and barely looked up.

“Yes, I think. We’d like to hire your boat and services.” The man looked uncomfortable about the entire affair, as if he’d rather have been sitting in a nice safe library and reading the newspaper. Nothing wrong with that, mind you; just he seemed very uncomfortable with the notion of hiring out a yacht and even more uncomfortable with the idea of actually getting on one.

Charlie pointed his chin in my direction. “Need to talk with Joe over there, this is his ‘boat.’” A lot of sailors will take a person to task for calling a yacht a boat or a dingy a ship. Charlie might have liked to have done the same, but I had simple rules when it comes to dealing with any of the potential customers and those included not being an ass about nautical terms. Still, Charlie couldn’t quite keep the sarcasm out of his voice. I’ll answer questions if they’d like me to, but I won’t correct them and I surely don’t chastise them for being ignorant. I expect the same courtesy in return when it comes to doctors and lawyers. I don’t understand what they do and a lot of them don’t understand what I do, but there’s always a common ground somewhere along the way.

The man looked over at me and smiled apologetically. I guess he figured I’d take offense at him approaching Charlie instead of me. If I’d been wearing a captain’s hat, I might have. I put down my polishing rag and wiped my hands clean on my jeans before heading in his direction.

Up close he was just as skinny. It wasn’t a starved puppy sort of thin, just a slight build. I knew several men with that sort of frame who could hold their own in a bar brawl. This particular gentleman wasn’t one of them.

“How can I help you?” I tried to keep my voice cheerful and neutral. The girl who was with him gave him a light push to urge him onto the yacht. He didn’t actually burst into flames when he set his foot on the deck, but he looked like he expected to.

“I’m Doctor Martin Ward.” I nodded, because the name had been offered. “I’d like to see about hiring your boat for a rather long time.”

“How long are we talking, doctor?”

Ward thought about that for a few seconds, and while he was thinking, the girl with him spoke up. “One month. Does that sound right to you?” The first part she aimed at me, the second at Ward.

He nodded. “That sounds almost perfect.” The look he sent her way was one of pure gratitude.
“A month? At this time of year?” My mind was divided right then. A big part of me was doing the great math dance and figuring how far into the black a month of extra cash would put me. A smaller, but equally vocal part was telling me that I was dealing with a completely unprepared imbecile who had no idea how bad the weather could get on the ocean when autumn was creeping in fast.

“Is this a bad time of year for boating?” He looked at me with wide eyes, like maybe he had just realized he’d made some horrible social blunder. I half expected to see him reach down to check his fly.

“Weather can be tricky, is all. Sometimes storms come out of nowhere and linger for a few days.” He nodded his head and looked a little depressed. “Doesn’t mean it can’t be done, but if you actually want to stay on the water for a whole month, there’re a lot of things to consider by way of supplies.”

“Oh, no, not all the time; we’d want to sleep on land.” Damned if I didn’t want to pat him on the top of his head right then, like a puppy in need of a reward.

“I’m just warning you that if you want to go fishing every day, some of those days are going to be a little rough if you don’t have your sea legs and a few of them are going to be impossible.”

He nodded his head enthusiastically. “Fair enough, Captain Joe. You come highly recommended; I’ll trust you on any decisions about rough weather.”

That brought a smile to my face. You’d be amazed how many seemingly intelligent people don’t catch on that there are differences in how a storm affects the land and how it affects a ship on the ocean.

“As long as we understand each other.”

“What are your rates for a month-long expedition, Captain?” That was the girl standing next to him.

I looked at her and smiled. The smile was easy. She was pretty in a very athletic way, and reminded me just a little of the girl whose name still stuck on my crab boat. Her hair was short, blond, and curly, and had the sort of color that only comes from being in the sun a lot.
“We can haggle out the details. It’s the end of the normal season, which puts me in a mind to be a little generous.”

Charlie laughed and shook his head, his damned grin spreading across his face like a flash of lightning and then staying there.

The girl looked his way and frowned slightly.

“You’ll have to forgive Charlie,” I said with a smile of my own. “He’s not used to the idea of me being generous.” I told them what my normal daily rates were, fully expecting them to turn a dozen different shades of green. The thing is, my yacht requires a lot of upkeep and I like to turn a profit, too. My summer rates have to pay for the whole year. I don’t live in Florida, where I could rent out year round. I have to make the money last.

It wasn’t Ward that did the haggling, it was his side kick. She put up a good fight, but in the end we came up with a fair and equitable exchange rate.

“What are you planning on doing for a month out in the water?” Charlie looked past the couple and studied the mismatched pair who were still standing on the dock. I could see why he’d want to stare, I recognized their faces, but couldn’t decide where I knew them from. It wasn’t really any of my business as long as they weren’t going to try to use the Isabella as a source of illegal income. Neither of them looked like they were up to anything riskier than sitting behind desks in a stuffy office and reading a lot. The guy looked about ten years older than me and forty pounds heavier, but not in a good way. The lady with him looked a good ten years younger and was probably a looker when she wasn’t busy dressing like a conservative librarian.

No one answered Charlie’s question right away, and that made me a little nervous, but not overly so. Still I was happier when the girl answered.

“Doctor Ward is studying a series of unusual rumors and a possible series of underwater caves not too far from here. From everything we’ve heard this is the best time of year for actually gaining access to the caves.”

“So you want to go diving?” Charlie looked at the girl as if she’d grown a second set of eyes and they were crossed.

“Is that a problem?”

“Not if you don’t mind a little cold water…”

Here’s the thing. It gets cold fast in New England, and the water reflects that chill. The Gulf Stream doesn’t even consider coming up our way and the winds that come down from the Arctic Circle seem to specialize in sucking the heat out of the ocean. I’ve had a few occasions where I managed to get myself properly wet in late October or early November, and believe me, it’s not something I ever wanted to do after the first time. Hyperthermia is a real threat, and anyone who thinks a dry suit will keep you warm in that sort of chill has never gone diving into the waters off the coast of Connecticut or Massachusetts. And these people were saying they wanted to go for swims every day.
We discussed the matter for a few minutes, just so I could make sure the people who were about to pay for my Christmas vacation understood exactly what they were getting themselves into. I’m not really fond of the idea of pulling corpses out of the water, especially when the dead people in question are supposed to pay me a lot of money. I’m a businessman first when it comes to my services. They agreed to sign a waiver that excluded me and my crew from any liabilities.

They wanted to go diving, and they were bringing along fifteen college kids to help them with it. That would bring their number up to nineteen, and we added a little more haggling about the cost for feeding them all. Two meals a day minimum meant a lot more food shoved into the larder.

After that, it was just a matter of working out the details.

You ever hear that old saying about the devil being in the details? Well, I’m here to tell you that there is a lot of truth in that stupid phrase. More than I imagined when I met Doctor Ward and his cronies.

James A. Moore