Season 9, Week 15, “Chekhov’s Gun”

[rayaso]

INSPIRATION

The life of a writer is rarely easy, but it was unusually hard for Jonathan (“Jack”) Monroe. Sometimes it seemed like he led two lives. At work, he was Jonathan Monroe, a clerk for Universal Insurance, the straightest of arrows, but at home, in front of his computer, he became Jack Monroe, author of crime thrillers. More accurately, it was “would-be” author, since Jack’s genius had yet to be recognized by any publishing company.

Now, it was a typical Saturday night. That afternoon, the postman had delivered another rejection letter for Jack Monroe: “If you send any more manuscripts, our lawyer will renew the restraining order.” It was for The End of Luck, a novel concluding with the police accidentally killing the hero of Jack’s unpublished “Joe Luck, P.I.” series. The previous books were Luck Rolls the Dice [police rescue Joe when he stumbles into a killer in Las Vegas] and Luck Runs Out [police rescue Joe after he stops at a serial killer’s gas station].

At first, Jonathan read the letter with his usual resignation and sat down at his computer, but the Jack Monroe in him was unable to write. Instead, he gave in to his growing frustration and went out for some cheap booze, served by an even cheaper blonde at a nearby watering hole. Too many drinks later, Jack lost track of time but he somehow managed to make it home when the bar closed.

Jack finally woke up around noon on Sunday, his head pounding. “Time to get back to work,” he thought, despite his Category 3 hangover. He poured a little whiskey in his coffee -- “hair of the dog that bit me” -- and turned on the laptop to begin.

Jack was working on the first book in a new series about a tough ex-cop trying to clear his name after being fired for a crime he didn’t commit. There was a hot ex-wife who still loved him and a sidekick with psychic powers – or maybe the ex-wife could be the psychic, since Jack hadn’t decided much of anything. Three weeks of writing had produced only a hard-won opening:

For the last time, Honcho pulled out of the precinct’s parking lot, tires squealing, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the seat, and his .45 on his lap. “Never again,” he muttered. The car was a worn-out Crown Vic appropriated from the motor pool, rusty, but baby, it could still move. Honcho blew past a shoe store having a sale on his way to Cindy’s house for a little advice and a lot of loving. Standing at her front door, Honcho thought about what had brought him back to her yet again. Cindy opened the door, dropped her robe, and then nothing else mattered.

“I wonder what Jonathan will think?”

Jonathan was Jack’s harshest critic; Jack wrote but it was Jonathan who edited. Even though Jonathan never understood Jack’s brilliance, Jack needed Jonathan’s help.

“You’ve done it again, Jack!” said Jonathan.

Jack started to smile – maybe Jonathan was finally getting it.

“Not like that -- you’ve broken every rule for writing known to man!”

This always crushed Jack. He hated The Rules, dreading the edits that invariably followed and killed the writer in him, one discouraging change at a time.

Jonathan was grim – “First off, if you can’t imagine yourself saying it, you probably shouldn’t write it, and try harder to avoid clichés. We’ve been through this before.”

The changes struck hard and heavy:

For the last time, Honcho pulled out of the precinct’s parking lot, tires squealing, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the seat, and his .45 on his lap. “Never again,” he muttered. The car was a worn-out Crown Vic appropriated from the motor pool, rusty, but baby, it could still move. Honcho blew past a shoe store having a sale on his way to Cindy’s house for a little advice and a lot of loving. Standing at her front door, Honcho thought about what had brought him back to her yet again. Cindy opened the door, dropped her robe, and then nothing else mattered.

“You’ve ruined it!” protested Jack. “It doesn’t even make sense.”

“You fix it -- that’s your job. I’m only telling you what’s wrong. Besides, this is just the beginning. You also need to leave out the parts that readers skip anyway, and take out everything that isn’t necessary. I don’t know why you always leave this work for me.”

Jack’s hands trembled as he started to sweat. “My hangover’s worse – let’s have a drink and stop this nonsense. I don’t feel well.” Jack knew that Jonathan didn’t drink, but that didn’t stop him from hoping.

For the last time, Honcho pulled out of the precinct’s parking lot, tires squealing, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the seat, and his .45 on his lap. “Never again,” he muttered. The car was a worn-out Crown Vic appropriated from the motor pool, rusty, but baby, it could still move. Honcho blew past a shoe store having a sale on his way to Cindy’s house for a little advice and a lot of loving. Standing at her front door, Honcho thought about what had brought him back to her yet again. Cindy opened the door, dropped her robe, and then nothing else mattered.

“The last step is facing reality -- just a few more edits and you’ll thank me.”

Jack looked away; he didn’t want reality, only a drink. He didn’t need to see the screen to remember it all: the booze and him speeding in that old car with no seatbelts . . . their baby in the back seat, and then the darkness, the broken glass and all the blood. That tiny, tiny coffin.

For the last time, Honcho pulled out of the precinct’s parking lot, tires squealing, a bottle of Jack Daniel’s on the seat, and his .45 on his lap. “Never again,” he muttered. The car was a worn-out Crown Vic appropriated from the motor pool, rusty, but baby, it could still move. Honcho blew past a shoe store having a sale on his way to Cindy’s house for a little advice and a lot of loving. Standing at her front door, Honcho thought about what had brought him back to her yet again. Cindy opened the door, dropped her robe, and then nothing else mattered.

“LOOK AT THE SCREEN . . . it’s all there . . . just rearrange the words!”

Slumping over, Jack held his head in his hands, not even trying to hold back his tears. He relived the whole thing again and again, the memories as vivid as ever. There was no escape. No drinking to forget, no writing to forget, and no forgiveness, just six little words burning on the computer screen.

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

When Jack finally opened his eyes, there were two objects on his desk, courtesy of Jonathan: a glass of whiskey and a revolver. “It’s one or the other. No mercy -- you need to end this once and for all.” Jonathan was right, of course; these were his only choices.

“The long death or the short?” Jack’s voice became stronger as he fingered the gun, caressing the glass with his other hand. Hemingway had killed himself, and so had Virginia Woolf, Sylvia Plath, and countless other writers, good and bad. “But the whiskey . . . .”

“You’re weak – you’ve always been weak, and your weakness killed your baby. Choose now!” Jonathan’s commanding voice startled Jack.

“You need me to decide? You've got it. This is my choice.” Jack savored his drink, picked up the gun, aimed carefully, and shot the computer, the bullet shattering the screen, wiping out its message and freeing him.

Jonathan was exhausted, but he felt whole again. The only thing he wanted was lots of sleep. The rest could wait until Monday.

He woke to a gray Monday morning, as so many of them were. It had been yet another rough weekend, this one harder than most. Jonathan picked up a broom and started sweeping. “Cleaning up Jack’s mess again,” he sighed, “I always let him off too easy.”

The room was spotless. “I’d better get to work,” Jonathan thought, putting away the broom before pulling another laptop from the stack in the closet and plugging it in before heading to the office.

The next weekend would be there before he knew it.

* * * * *

I am grateful to my wife, halfshellvenus, for beta-reading this entry, for her html wizardry, and for being my inspiration in all things, without the drama. No one needs guns and shot-up computers, although it might be fun to try.

Sources.

“For sale: baby shoes, never worn” is credited to Ernest Hemingway.
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/For_sale:_baby_shoes,_never_worn

Jonathan’s Rules of Writing:

Chekhov’s gun: “. . . a dramatic principle that requires every element in a narrative be necessary and irreplaceable and that everything else be removed.”
http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chekhov's_gun

Elmore Leonard: “Try to leave out the part that readers tend to skip.”
http://www.writingclasses.com/InformationPages/index.php/PageID/304

Tracy Kidder and Richard Todd: “If you can't imagine yourself saying something aloud, then you probably shouldn't write it.”
http://www.writingclasses.com/InformationPages/index.php/PageID/886

Margaret Atwood: “You most likely need a thesaurus, a rudimentary grammar book, and a grip on reality.”
http://www.writingclasses.com/InformationPages/index.php/PageID/915

George Orwell: “Never use a metaphor, simile, or other figure of speech which you are used to seeing in print.”
http://www.writingclasses.com/InformationPages/index.php/PageID/300

Comments

[penpusher.livejournal.com]

Ahahaha! So crazygood! And really, there's no such thing as too much advice, when talking about editing.

(Though you might want to edit the link in the LJ Idol topic page - it's not there.)

[rayaso.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I fixed the link to the topic page, so it should work now. Thanks for letting me know. I agree with you about advice. I'm lucky to have halfshellvenus's advice. We can all learn from each other.

[bleodswean.livejournal.com]

Wow! This is soooooooooooooooooooooooo good. Just amazingly GOOD. Time to begin the laborious process of submitting your work. The world deserves your wit. This is so perfect and sharp that it cuts deep in the most satisfying of ways. I love every word.

[rayaso.livejournal.com]

Thaaaaaaaaaaaaank yooooooouuuuuu! I have a long-term plan for my career as a writer. I'm sure you've heard of self-publishing. Well, I'm extending the concept to beyond the grave. It's an exciting new publishing option I call "posthumous publication." I'm working out the details, but I'm leaving a brilliant, exciting manuscript for my heirs to publish, which they will do if they want to inherit anything. I'm thinking of a small start-up at first. Send me your manuscript and lots and lots of money, and I'll publish it after you're dead. It's a win-win situation. My clients get published and I get their money. I think the web site will be "deadego.com."

[bleodswean.livejournal.com]

*snort*

We are faaaaaaaaaaaar too old for such jokes, or perhaps, we have finally arrived at the place wherein such jesting is sadly hysterical.

Now, stahp. And I am serious about submitting. I don't know what you do when you're not ducking into phone booths to change into spandex with a giant W (for Writer) on your chest....but you should do this, too.

In the meantime, I am sending my manuscripts and all my Monopoly monies to you. Stand out by the mailbox and wait for the guy in a worn-out cowboy hat to ride by and deliver it. You might need one of those mailbag hooks the railway once employed. Looking forward to my posthumous fame.

[rayaso.livejournal.com]

The staff at deadego.com eagerly await the cowboy. The older I get, the more I want to go laughing into that good night. Or at least giggling. How did you find out about the spandex? halfshellvenus?

[bleodswean.livejournal.com]

*slowly lowers binoculars and backs up whistling*

[halfshellvenus.livejournal.com]

The plots of the rejected novels, and the gloriously bad writing in Jack's opening were fabulous, but my favorite part is still that this whole concept leads to that tragic, six-word story.

I knew this idea was genius as soon as you mentioned it, and I'm so glad you found a way to make it through!

[rayaso.livejournal.com]

As you know, a lot of thrashing went into this story. It turned into something different from my original idea, so I'm glad you liked the way it turned out.

[adoptedwriter.livejournal.com]

This is genius! AW

[rayaso.livejournal.com]

Thank you. I'm glad you enjoyed it.

[eternal-ot.livejournal.com]

Excellent work!! Hats Off!!...Amazing amazing work and creativity...loved the concept..Kudos! Awe-struck..:D

[rayaso.livejournal.com]

Thank you! I enjoyed playing with the idea. I'm glad it worked for you.

[tatdatcm.livejournal.com]

Absolutely brilliant! I love how you used the topic. The entire story was crafted so well, even though I picked up the concept fairly early, the end surprised me.

[rayaso.livejournal.com]

Thank you! If I'm not mistaken, this is this the first time you have commented on one of my entries, so sprinkle some gratitude on top. I'm glad you enjoyed the ending.

[mamas-minion.livejournal.com]

Nice, very nice this was an awesome read.

[rayaso.livejournal.com]

Thank you for checking it out.

[eska818.livejournal.com]

This is amazing and so darn creative. Still can't get enough of your writing. :)

[rayaso.livejournal.com]

Thank you. That's very kind. I am a big fan of your writing as well!

[karmasoup.livejournal.com]

The story behind the story! Fabulous!

[rayaso.livejournal.com]

Thank you! "Hemingway's" six words are so sad and so evocative.

[jem0000000.livejournal.com]

I like this -- the two selves, writer and editor, and the sense of needing to cut almost everything before anything is quite good enough.

[uncawes.livejournal.com]

That's a very dark grounhog day you've got going there.
Good work.
I guess it helps when your partner writes too, and beta's for you

[rayaso.livejournal.com]

Thank you for your comment. Sometimes it does seem that the creative side and the editing side are two different people.

[kajel.livejournal.com]

This, just amazing. You executed this so well!

[rayaso.livejournal.com]

I'm glad you appreciated it, and took the time to comment. Thank you.

[rayaso.livejournal.com]

If only it were Groundhog Day! Bill Murray could finally break free by changing himself. Here, the death of the baby can't be undone. It certainly is convenient having an in-house beta. In fact, I think I'll call her that and see where it gets me! The price for using the beta function is steep (no, you don't get to know!), so I use it rarely.

[jem0000000.livejournal.com]

You're welcome. :) I think, sometimes, it's easier to think of it as cutting someone else's hard work; but there's also a definite sense of, "What was I thinking when I wrote that?"

[i-17bingo.livejournal.com]

Jack’s genius had yet to be recognized by any publishing company.

Solidarity, Jack.

“If you send any more manuscripts, our lawyer will renew the restraining order.”

Solidareity!

For sale: baby shoes, never worn.

Hoooooooooollllllyyyyy fuck. What the hell just happened with this story?

Seriously, this may be one of the best pieces I've read all season, and I've read a lot of amazing pieces this season.

[rayaso.livejournal.com]

Thank you for reading this, especially since you took the time to go back to last week's entry. The "baby shoes" short story has been in the back of my mind for a long time, and this was my attempt to provide both a back story and the effect of losing/killing your baby. Here, it was intended to be so destructive as to, in effect, split a personality into the drunk that killed the baby and the "responsible" personality. I have been following your writing for quite a few weeks (this is my first season) and I have always tremendously enjoyed your entries, so your comment means a lot to me.