Toaday, I am working on thinking up some actually events to flesh out the book. I have done this before,but hopefully my knowledge of what I am doing has grown.
Like Iw as writing last night, I have decided t go totally absured. There is no reason for me not to... unltess I write one of those small stories that never touch on amythng deeper than growing up and falling in love (as if this is some fucking nirvana, that bastards).
I so love the very rush of writing, that discipling myself to stay in line gets harder and harder. But, if I am going to write this book, that is what has to happen.
I am also boiling over with short story ideas after reading this book by joyce carrol oates. She really distilled, in a reductionist, kind of elitist way, the quiet madness at the center of most lives.
I have a problem with all this because I live to read books with plots. They have to be good lit. for me to finish them, but plots.....
How is this one I was workingon last night? Where none of the artists know anything about Ranger X until he shows up on thier doorstep one day. He has a past that he tries to keep hidden, and warrants out for his arrest that keep him paranoid. He slowly leads the boys into violence against the dog fighters, or something... What I need now is a scene by scene outline that I can work on.
1) introduce x
2) introduce other characters and their studio and how they got it.
3) x impresses themby being a very goo sketch artist, and having brought along some reat weed.
4) X starts asking them how mudh they believe in their website, which propounds a kind of vigelantiasm in the face of seeming anarchical like events when the police refuse to product soemone.
5) a kid is caught shop ligting, a regular who has probably neen stealing them blind. X goes all ape shit, beats the kid up and threatens to cut him out a third eye if he comes back.
6) gamng bangers come in with baseball bats and steal all their weed. X is not there, so the others do not yet know that he has a gun.
X has come to the big city with only one thing in mind -- to kill the men who raped him in prison. He had to spend six years in solitary confinement to prevent himself, and his ass still ached when he shit from all the scar tissue.
7) X finally gets around to telling them what is going on, as well as his plan to shoot up one of their dog fights, which the boys on their website had promoted.
*) As far as the end, I see them shooting up the coffee shop and then trying to run off to someplace that doesn't exist, where a man can set their own laws. They are killed later, by a trucker, what has seen the all points bulliten on one dead and two wounded white guys.
9) somekind of flash back to uncle sal's days running the club.
10) the night matt's mom comes around and tries to get them to screw them for twenty bucks; when Matt comes home in the middle of this, he just lights up a joint and starts playing games... like he has done his whole life. The other artists pretend to loan her money for something and she leaves. They never get laid, mind you, or they wouldn't have even went through the precarious feeling of wondering if they could get away with fucking Matt's long suffering mind.... they also know that hookers, once they get that hook in you, become the worst beggars on the blocl, and with a store they can't exactly attend.
Now, a traditionsl story would have a bunch of subplots, so since I am playing tennis with the net here to perfect my game (after arrogantly thinking I could reinvent the novel practially from scratch on my last book, for good or bad).
I have decided to kind of drift from person to person in their thoughts, rather than have just one narrator. You know, X was lost in thought, remembering... as someone else ramblings along.
While X is the most damaged and thus capable of evil. I wrote a lot prose for this already, and most of it will be merely notes now.
ALL WRITING IN HERE IS THE PROPERTY OF JOHN SCOTT RIDGWAY, AND YOU CAN GET MY PERMISSION TO PERFORM AND REPRINT WITH AN EMAIL. Steal from me and you will be cursed in such a way that your hands turn into worthless, jelly fish like appendages that sting your intimates.