Noir continued...

Comments: I'm picking up the noir story where I left off with a bleeding Mike Tankerton wondering if he would make it across the Michigan Ave. bridge before it could be raised. The story needs a title moving forward. A plot would help. For now I'm just having fun as "pantser" -- one who writes by the seat of his (or her) pants.

Tankerton Intro Continued...
Mortenson, O’Leary and Haggerty reached the blinking bridge sign together. They were arguing with arms flailing about until Mortenson pointed at my bus. I bolted from my seat, burst out the back door by jamming my good side against the double door rear exit. I crossed the street running full out for the bridge, the beeping noise and the blinking lights.

I may have made the bridge before it went up but for the hazy blackness that hit me out of nowhere. You can only lose so much blood before you find yourself in dreamsville with no chance for a wakeup call. I was still conscious when my head hit the curb and I bounced in the direction of the cars waiting out the bridge opening. My last memory included the sounds of rough voices and somebody rifling my pocket where I had stashed the PK380.

Organized Chaos Reorganized

Comments: I revised yesterday's first draft to address the POV issue. Expanded the story a bit to get inside the main character's head. Gave the character the name Robert. Well, he told me his name was Robert. You know how it is with characters.

Organized Chaos
The background noise of conversation in the Ragamuffin Coffee House, located in beautiful downtown St. Charles, Illinois, connected Robert in a spiritual way to the brick walls. And the rhinestone fireplace. Also the rough old finish on the table where he sat, pen poised over notebook with the rest of the writing group.

He loved the red and black rag rug on the floor, which he pretended to be staring at diligently every time he desired a glimpse of Sarah’s legs sticking out of her way-too-short skirt across the room. The house blend coffee, with its fruity, nutty flavor formed a great complement to the coffee aroma wafting through the place.

He sat at the end of the long, mahogony table. When he peered up from his notebook, he caught a glimpse of Sarah gazing at him and then glancing downward when he returned her gawk.

She likes me, he decided. Wow. Finally, a babe likes me. Okay, not a babe. A gorgeous hunk of womanhood likes me. Be nice. An attractive young lady admires my male attractedness. Hmm. Not a word.  My maleness. There you go. Wait. Is she checking out Marvin? Marvin who can’t rhyme patootie? Marvin who gives away the solution on page one of every mystery story he writes? How can she like Marvin? No wait, it’s me. It could be me. I have to talk to Sarah. Is she liking me or Marvin? She better make up her mind.

If rag rugs could talk, the faded one on the floor at Ragamuffin would tell tales of loves lost and won, coffees savored and spilled, some in anger, yet others dribbled away in the silliness of youthful joy.

Organized Chaos

Comments: What follows is the result of a long ago writing exercise from a writer's group meeting at a now defunct coffee shop. The challenge was to capture the mood or atmosphere of the place. You're looking at the original rough draft. Later, I'll edit. One issue I'm interested in pursuing is Point of View (POV). Notice the switch from first person to third between the first paragraph and the second. Another POV switch occurs in the second paragraph as we learn what's on Sarah's mind.

Organized Chaos
I love the background noise of conversation in this place. It helps make me feel connected to the brick walls, the rhinestone fireplace, the rough old finish on this table I’m writing on, the rug on the floor. The tea’s not bad either.

He sits at the end of the group writing. From across the room, Sarah admires his rustic features, but she thinks that guy next to him ain’t so bad either.

If rag rugs could talk, the faded one on the floor at Ragamuffin would tell tales of loves lost and won, coffees savored and coffees spilled, some in anger, yet others spilled in the silliness of youthful joy.

1st Person Noir

Comments: Noir fiction is often written in the first person. First person creates an immediacy that's compelling. It hints at the survival of the main character because he or she lived to tell the tale. Unless, of course, the tale is being told by a ghost. One of the downsides to 1st person is you don't know who the speaker is until another character happens to mention it. Or the main character has a reason to reveal it, for example, in a phone call. "Detective Larson? This is Mike Tankerton." The introductory scene needs to occur early in the first chapter. Our opening scene doesn't present this opportunity, so it will have to happen in the next paragraph or two after this scene.

The first person character doesn't necessarily have to be the main character. A sidekick can tell the tale. You may want to use a sidekick if your main character speaks in grunts and groans, like Rocky Balboa. Or if your character isn't the brightest light bulb in the cast. Or so brilliant, like Sherlock Holmes, he or she has no need to write a story, leaving that task to lesser minds with a literary bent.

Look for the way I adapted and polished the copy for first person. My editing challenge is to eliminate at least one-half of the uses of "I." Overusing the word "I" creates a feeling of self-focus that can kill your story. You don't need an over-sized ego in the first person. If your main character has a big ego, tell the tale in third person. In first person, scratch out their "I"s. Enjoy.

1st Person Noir
I couldn’t remember how the Walther PK380 ended up in my left overcoat pocket, but it was pressing hard against my side. I shifted my weight around on the bus seat to relieve the pain. As I stared out the window at the Magnificent Mile passing by, I counted how many shots I had fired. One, two, three, four, five. Four bullets left. I leaned my head against the window to rest, but the pain burned. I leaned the other way.

Outside, the darkness closed in like an assault team as the night sky sunk to the level of skyscrapers. Clouds boiled and rolled like flood waters from a deluge. As the CTA bus made its way down Michigan Avenue toward the river and Wacker Drive, I watched for Tomlinson’s men. A large flowered red umbrella blew inside out in the November wind that also lifted the owner’s black skirt near Ontario Street. A man in a tan London Fog stopped to gawk at her.

My right hand rested over the backpack like a protecting mother eagle. I smiled at the thought because the job went over like a diving eagle swiping the catch off a fisherman’s hook. The backpack was worth the five shots fired in anger. Six counting one from their side.

I glanced out the black window again. Neon lights painted a cityscape abstracted by the rain drops. The girl with the upside-down umbrella and flapping skirt was gone like all the other women in my life.

Blood dripped now from under my coat and over the back of my left hand. I let it run between my fingers. If they didn’t raise the bridge, I had a chance. But up ahead I could see the bridge lights blinking in the rain.

21st Century Noir

Comments: Read yesterday's post first if  you haven't already. I revised my first draft to be more consistent with modern suspense writing where you want to open with a strong hook. I'm writing hard boiled suspense so the hook has to grab the reader. I upped the ante on the suspense, adding teasers related to the character's love life, the purpose of his current mission, and the state of his health. I expanded the details to paint a stronger picture.

In the early noir stories, it was okay to say your character carried a 45 or a 38. Today's readers are more sophisticated. They want to know the  make and model of the weapon. Details breathe life into the story. I chose a Walther PK380. Knowledgeable readers will know that it's a limited edition, highly refined product of German engineering, imported by Smith and Wesson. This clues the reader that our main character is a professional. What I haven't told you is whether he is a professional hit man or a professional good guy. I also haven't told you if the writer knows his character's occupation. The research on the weapon took about 10 minutes with the help of my friend Google and the detailed content of the Smith and Wesson website. Enjoy.

For critique: What is the correct use of the verb form for "don't" in the last sentence? Should it be "don't" or "didn't?" How does switching the verb form change the story, if at all?

21st Century Noir
Phil Tankerton shifted his husky torso to relieve the pressure caused by the Walther PK380 stuck between his left side and the inside of the bus. The Walther, stuffed into his overcoat pocket, had a way of shifting in the wrong direction whenever he sat down. He tried to remember how many shots he had fired. One, two, three, four, five. That meant four bullets left. He relaxed.

Outside, the darkness closed in like an assault team as the night sky sunk to the level of skyscrapers. Clouds boiled and rolled like flood waters from a deluge.

As the CTA bus made its way down Michigan Avenue toward the river and Wacker Drive, Tankerton watched for Tomlinson’s men. A large flowered red umbrella blew inside out in the November wind that also lifted the owner’s black skirt near Ontario Street. A man in a tan London Fog stopped to gawk at her.

Tankerton turned his attention to the backpack on the seat next to him. He rested his hand over it like a protecting mother eagle and smiled. It was worth five shots fired in anger. He glanced back out the black window. Neon lights painted a cityscape abstracted by the rain drops splashing against the bus window. The girl with the upside-down umbrella and flapping skirt was gone like all the other women in his life.

Blood dripped now from under his coat and over the back of his left hand, running between his fingers. If they don’t raise the bridge, he had a chance, but up ahead he could see the bridge lights blinking in the rain.

Rough Draft Noir

Comments: What follows is the rough first draft of a story not written. I've been reading Ellroy and Penszler's collection of noir short stories, The Best American Noir of the Century. The noir writers of the first half of the twentieth century focused on setting the dark mood at the outset of their stories, rather than the action. Today's suspense writers begin with the action and let the mood settle in as best it can. The following snippet captures that early noir style. Notice the "hook" doesn't appear until the end of the passage. I'll revise this opening later and present it in twenty-first century noir.

This is a rough draft so try to look past the obvious need for editing. My plan is to show you a bit of my editing process over a few posts. For fun, pay attention to the contrast of dark and light. How does this contrast affect mood? What, if anything, does the light symbolize in this otherwise dark tale.

Rough Draft Noir
The darkness gathers over all as the night sky blackens and sinks to the level of skyscrapers. Clouds boil and roll over the sky like flood waters from a deluge.

At ground level, Phil Tankerton pauses before hopping aboard the lighted street car. A November wind ruffles his overcoat and nearly knocks his backpack from his shoulders.

Phil parks in an empty seat toward the rear. He’s glad no one shares this seat with him. He rests the backpack on the empty aisle seat, resting his hand over it like a protecting mother eagle. He glances out the black window spattered with rain drops. Neon lights paint a cityscape abstracted by the rain.

Phil shifts his body to relieve his side of the pressure caused by the 45 strapped under his shoulder.

Agency Hack

Before he acts, Worster wants to be certain of the facts. Otherwise he will blow the whole presentation. Relationship building he knows. Selling he knows. Schmoozing he knows. Iron from steel he’s lost. Worster knows he needs to know the facts. Facts rule. Study the facts. Iron ain’t steel. Good. That’s one. Bar stock in, product out. That’s two. Cripes, how many facts are there? Machine steel, stainless steel, carbon steel, brass. Where did brass come from? Oh crap, they have a brass foundry, too? We’re supposed to promote brass? Cripes, I thought this was a steel account. Or is it iron? Google, gotta Google fast. Yeah, that’s it. Steal. No, the other stele. How do you spell the other stiel?

“Hey, anybody around here know how to spell steel?”

(Pause.)

“No, the other steel.”

Crap. Drop forge. Good. Drop forge. Two words. Gotta drop in drop forge. Double word score. Extrusion? No, that’s aluminum. Ain’t aluminum, just soft steel? Looks the freaking same. Not the same. Ok, got it. Lose the extrusion.

“Anybody find out how to spell steel?”