So, I fired my characters the other day, the whole lot of them. They stood there, dumb with confusion, as I raged at them.
“You’re dull, you’re cardboard cut-outs, you’re not revealing anything to me, no matter how many hours I sit at the computer or in front of my notes. I’m here, floundering, and there you stand off in the distance, offering no hints or advice. So I give up. I quit. I quit this whole stupid business. Get out of here. Out of my head, out of my life.”
They don’t move.
“What are you waiting for?” I ask, my voice rising. “Get out!”
“Dad?” Kylie, my thirteen-year-old narrator asks, looking up at Patrick, who steps forward.
“Here’s the thing,” he says in that irritating father-knows-best tone of his. “There’s not enough music in the story. That’s why it’s not working.”
“What, like the cadence of the words, the paragraphs, the way the story flows? It doesn’t sing yet, is that what you’re telling me?”
“Well, that, and more,” he says, and Susan, his wife and my second narrator, nods in agreement. “Literally, there’s not enough music mentioned in it. Like there was in the last novel.”
“But that was a novel set in the performing arts world. This one isn’t.”
“Well, why don’t you just toss some in?” Patrick suggests. “A little Beethoven, maybe Dvorák. Did you know he was passionate about trains? It was a hobby of his.”
“Look.” I wave my hands as if that might make their spectral presences back off. “Trains and composers and classical music—that’s way off the mark. Catholicism, faith and spirituality, duty to family, everyone sort of stuck in their beliefs and perceptions—that’s my story.”
Kylie whispers something to her mother. My ears prick up. “Excuse me?” I call out.
She shrinks. Susan answers me instead. “She said it sounded dull.”
“You’re dull,” I shriek. “That’s why I’m firing you. All of you.”
“Um, with all due respect?” Susan sounds both nervous and resolute. “I’m not dull. You just made me that way. Because you never bothered to figure out what made me tick. What I yearn for and dream of.”
I let out my breath in an explosive exhale. “Fine. Tell me.”
“Okay.” Susan reaches up to pat her long, unruly blonde hair—I really need to write in a haircut—and then nods. “You made me a literary specialist. It’s just that I don’t want to be a literary specialist. I want to work with kids, grades K to 3, fine, but not as that.”
“As what, then?”
“As a ballet teacher.”
“You?” I don’t even bother to hide my scorn.
She lifts her chin a notch before replying. “Why not? I took ballet classes all the way from elementary through high school. I performed.”
“Really? I didn’t know that.”
“I know.” Her tone is reproachful.
Patrick rejoins the debate. “Teaching ballet would support a music motif. And look, you’ve already got that scene with Kylie going into an ecstatic trance while listening to the Bach Toccata and Fugue.”
“And later I bring up the Schumann story to Freeda,” Kylie says eagerly.
“The Schumann, of course,” Patrick says, looking at Kylie and Susan but not me, which annoys me. “That part about throwing himself into the Rhine.”
“Perfect.” Susan beams. “She could expand on that, on the way it ties in with Freeda, the way she…”
“Stop right there,” I exclaim, looking around nervously. “That’s giving away crucial plot. Do you mind?”
They manage to look both perplexed and smug. “Well, didn’t you say it was all over?” Susan asks. “That we were fired?”
They’ve got me and they know it.
It’s not hard, what they’re proposing. In fact, it would be easy as anything. I’d much rather be writing about music than about church ladies squabbling over Catholic doctrine in regards to Kylie’s mystical experiences that form the core of the story. Music and mysticism—that works.
And Kylie was right. There’s the Schumann that’s already mentioned.
Something sleeping in me awakens and my thoughts begin whirring. I could have Susan and Kylie go to the symphony one Sunday. In fact it would be perfect. Susan, aching over the troubles I’ve thrown on her shoulders, aching over Mahler’s Symphony no. 1, the way I did last September, the Mahler exposing all my secret hurts and pains and longings.
It would work perfectly.
I look up and they’re trying to hide the smiles growing on their faces. I do my best to scowl at them. “Well, don’t just stand there. We’ve got work to do. Come over here and help me lift this thing off the ground.”
© 2009 Terez Rose
More entries: October 2009
Violinist.com is made possible by...