writing doodle - character dev. back to Zero - word count 498

"You are nothing but a dirty dog." I gritted the words as my chair was pulled from behind the desk.  I do so miss the days when I had a swivel office chair, the kind with rollers and height adjustment.  Now the office is graced with a couple of old but comfortable chairs, the kind that more or less stay where you put them. "I almost had a heart attack."

"Come on, Alf, you knew it was me. Besides, if you ate better and exercised more, you wouldn't have to worry so much about your heart."

"That's not the point, and you know it, Zero."

Sadly, it was part of the point.  As I licked the surplus milk chocolate from around my lips, I grabbed the chair arms and attempted to scoot my chair back under the desk. It was too late at night to think about getting on a treadmill or going to water aerobics.

I was looking for a plot, his plot.  His conflict has escaped me. The last time he was here, my companion animal was sick and dying, tonight the younger dogs are in bed with Santa and all of them are snoring.  

"Can I ask you a personal question?" he asked.

"Depends on the question."  I slipped my glasses to the top of my head so I wouldn't lose them later.  Besides, I hear better when I can't see.  Tonight Zero was wearing an outfit designed to distract, a red wife-beater that had enough holes in it to be declared Pope in an alternate universe and his jeans were torn at the seat and were frayed around the hem. The last time Zero asked me a personal question, it was exactly how much grey hair I thought I had.  That he was standing behind me and was picking up one hair at a time, in the back where (1) I have no idea and (2) he was out of my reach, meant absolutely nothing.

"How long should you grieve for someone you really love?"

That was a question I hadn't seen coming.  Not from the man who just looked at women, crooked his finger, and was able to do with them whatever he so choose.  At least that was the way he was telling the stories.

"It's a pretty serious question," I said.  How did I tell him that I grieved for my uncle for exactly twenty minutes when I was in college?  Or that my mother never got over a miscarriage that left her sterile.  "It all depends on the person and the relationship. Are you OK?"

He plucked a stack of old newspapers from the desk and placed them on the floor.  He leaned against the desktop and clutched it with his hands.  "Probably."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"Nah.  I'll figure it out on my own." He shrugged.  "I've moved on but I haven't.  You know?"

Yeah.  I knew.  So much for conflict and back story ... Shit.

writing doodle - character insight - Grandpa Adam Zimmer - word count 788

For the past three hours, I have been trying to get some sleep.  There are several things going against me, it is hot and I can't get comfortable, the dog won't share my pillow, I am almost done crocheting a scarf for a friend (not that she needs one in May - but still) and I keep hearing the song of Kokopelli. 

The song is eerie, simple, and makes me think of winter storms complete with wind battering shutters on the side of the house and chili on the stove boiling over.  

When the flute plays, I am supposed to write - tired or not. 

So I staggered from the living room to the office, to find someone who somewhat resembles Richard Griffiths of Harry Potter fame (he was Uncle Vernon), the Michellin Man,  and Mr. Clean.  

"Thank you for coming on such short notice," the man says. He plucked a hanky from his inside jacket pocket and wiped the powdered sugar from the tips of his fingers.  After I shook his proffered hand, I accepted the handkerchief so I could get rid of the surplus sugar lent to me.

"Not at all," I said.  "I wasn't doing anything important."  I was going to examine the inside of my eyelids, ensure that I had some beauty sleep (with this past birthday, I need more and more shut eye so I can pretend I am still in my 30s somewhere).  "I'm afraid I didn't catch your name."

"Adam Zimmer," he said.  "This way we can cover everything from A to Zed, so to speak."

What all do we need to cover?  Why is it so important to do this now?

"I have an idea for you, Alf.  I want to become a recurring character."

"Funny since I was going to kill you off in this story," I said, covering my mouth with my fist so he couldn't see the yam that tried to escape.  "It should make Zero a great tragic hero.  Help him get the girl."

"Get the girl?  You're going to cut me down in my prime so he can get a girlfriend?"

"Pretty much, yeah."  

"Why can't you give him some game?  Let him take Manny's cast offs? What about Lester's?"

"This is the age of sexually communicable diseases," I said.  "I think he should go more than three paragraphs before he gets laid.  At the minimum, I don't want him to take up weight lifting so can lift a little black book."

"Alf, you are incredibly out of date.  there is no such thing as a little black book.  Think big. Think Smart Phone, iPhone, or tablet of some kind."

"Think he doesn't trust technology, has had women check his phones for other contact information, or is inept."  Besides, I have been slow and technology changes every 20 seconds and I don't want to write something that will be dated before I am able to publish it somewhere.  Yes, self-publishing is an option, but for now, I want to at least finish a story line with my own characters.

"What about flashbacks?" he asked.

"I might be able to give you flashbacks."

"How many books?" He ran his liver spotted hand over his thin crown of hair.  "It should be in every book.  I could be his muse.  I could be his conscious.  I could be his-"

"Favorite word?" I asked.

"What?"

"Favorite word.  What is your favorite word?" The patience in my voice was long since gone and I could tell the first fantasy I wrote for Zero was a complete night of uninterrupted sleep.

“Fine.  My favorite word is plush.”

I could work with that.  Good.  “Least favorite word?”

“Dysfunction.” He didn’t meet my eyes. 

“No need to elaborate.”  I turned over the sheet of paper over and began to scrawl on the other side. “What turns you on?”

“Viagra,” he said, “but if you tell anyone else I said that, I am going to deny it to the walls.”

“Fine.”

“What turns you off?”

He glared at me.  “No, I’m not answering that.” 

“Just tell me the first thing that comes to mind.  What turns you off?”

“The need for Viagra.”

Eww.  Not just too much information, but way too much information.

“I’d like to go back to bed,” I said.  “Right now I’m not in a good place to take notes or dictation.” Nor was I in a good position to get details of his life other than just that one aspect. “Can we pick this up tomorrow?”

The old man blew out a sigh.  “I have plans at the urologist tomorrow morning. How about sometime after lunch?”

“Done.”

“Thanks, Alf.  You are a true gentleman.”

Great.

TBC

writing doodle - character development - Zero/Gabe - word count 1398

It has been a long time since I've interviewed a character.  When I have/do, things tend to flow better ... they also tend to take over aspects of my life.

A man who once looked like Mr. Clean, but leaves clutter behind him like Pig Pen from the Peanuts cartoons used to leave a trail of dust.  A man who doesn't want to make commitments and has been married three times, but has never been the one to end a marriage.  A man who shuns the idea of organized holidays, yet remembers obscure anniversaries.


I answered the summons sent to me a mere half hour ago, one hour after last call, to meet Gabe at a pub in Tempe. The Rula Bula. Despite the lateness of the hour, Gabe had a copy of the bar's key and was entrusted not to allow any college coeds into the place while it was closed.  The owner figured I wouldn't create too much trouble.  Besides, I knew how to work a broom, in more ways than one, and could handle Gabe if he got out of line.


Fine.  I'd meet the man, but I wasn't going to go to any lengths to fix myself up for this meeting.  Plus this late at night, no one on the street was going to say much about my pre-bed-head, my lack of makeup, and the clown slippers I donwhen I have to don something on my feet but don't want anything too formal.

I already knew he'd have on jeans that were tight in all the right places, a t-shirt, most likely blue, and sneakers.  The most consistent thing in his wardrobe is a  thick silver chain that nestles just inside his shirt collar.  The piece is like a talisman to him.  The only time he doesn't have it on is when he has to surrender it to airport security or for some funky medical test.  

Chairs were on top of all the tables and the place smelled of mop water, bleach, and the lingering pine scent of a disinfectant.  Even though Gabe knows the mophead got changed daily and the water was changed sometimes more than once during the final mopping of the night, he has to breathe through his mouth for the first fifteen minutes after any room has been cleaned.  He acted worse than most five year olds when they were at an unfriendly dentist office.  



There have long been rumors floating around him for years about illness due to overly hygenic conditions. As long as there was some clutter, a small spill somewhere, or even just a stack of junk mail on top of a table, he was fine.  When any room looked like it was ready for military inspection,  he went into an emotional tailspin.  

I spilled my purse, a planned spill.  All my purse contained was my license, a single credit card, thirty bucks, several coins, and two lipsticks.  I left the coins on the floor and heaved my purse to the counter.  With a little luck, this was enough clutter to keep him comfortable.

Because he didn't want to have to clean the taps before we left for the night, we were limited to bottled or canned beverages.  He chose Guinness, I chose a bottle of diet tonic water.  

"Thanks for coming down on such short notice," he said.  He raised his bottle in a half-hearted effort to look festive and pleased to finally meet with me.

I raised my bottle and clinked it against his.  "Not at all.  You ready to spill your guts?"

"Twenty questions, Alf.  Twenty questions."

Perfect. I like to have several basic questions and then subparts to each question.  Think one category question and then multiple parts beneath it until everything has been divulged.  Again based on the rumors I've heard about Gabie-boy, I knew I was going to be stuck with twenty total questions.  Because I already asked if he was ready to talk, if I asked for any additional confirmation, I knew he would count that as a strike against me.

I took off my glasses, made an act of cleaning the lenses, put them back on all while trying to figure out the best questions to ask.  I hadn't written out any questions.  I thought I could open a topic and then fill things out.  Prepared much, Alf?  Didn't think so.

I didn't think I'd have a lot of luck finding out:
why his marriages had all dissolved
how long his work out regimine is and how many times per week
his favorite childhood cartoon on Saturday mornings
why he grew his hair out and shaved it all off every Easter Sunday
whether or not he had a Prince Albert
his first car
why he would volunteer to take a long road trip with his grandfather
and why travel was such a big feature on his bucket list

No. I removed a small notepad from my back pocket and plucked a ballpoint pen from his shirt pocket, clicked it three times for luck, and took a deep breath.  I returned my glasses to their designated location, the top of my head, so I don't leave them anywhere, and took another deep breath.

It was time to go with the standards.  The best standards, at least according to the Actor's Studio.  The questions by Bernard Pivot.

"I'm going to go easy on you tonight," I said.  "These are the Inside the Actor's Studio questions."  I took a swig from my tonic water.  "Nod when you are ready to begin."  See? I can side step questions.

Here is a summary of the questions and the answers:

1. What is your favorite word?

Addubiation (noun) - a suggestion of doubt

I raised an eyebrow.

"Do you doubt me?" He grinned and winked at me.  

Smart ass.

2.  What is your least favorite word?

Pejorist (noun) - one who thinks the world is getting worse

"What? I don't like negative Nancys," he said.

3.  What turns you on creatively, spiritually, or emotionally?

"The smell of rain on the ground after a long dry spell. It smells like renewal and a fresh start.  I think we all need a fresh start."

He took a long draw on his beer.  I found myself mesmerized watching his Adam's apple move as he swallowed.  

4.  What turns you off?

"A sink full of dirty dishes." He smiled and said, "My work study job in college was in the cafeteria doing dishes.  It;s why I like paper plates." He shrugged.  "It's cheaper than looking for new plates every week at garage sales or eating out all of the time."

5.  What is  your favorite curse word?


"I don't think this is the proper arena to disclose that, but you'll know sooner than later." He had been tipping his chair back for the past fifteen minutes.  I wasn't surprised when he fell backwards.  I was surprised what he said.  So was he.

"See?" he said.  "It'll get you an R rating or worse and I still want you to like me.  Can we go to the hospital later so I can have my shoulder put back in?"

"Sure.  We can go now if you want," I said.  Almost slipped up and asked an extra question, but I held back.

6.  What sound or noise do you love?

A zipper being lowered.

7.  What sound or noise do you hate?

Anyone in pain (human or animal).

8. What profession other than your own would you like to attempt?

Professional air guitar player.  I'm great at those rockstar video games, but have never developed either the knack or the callouses to play a real instrument.

I raised an eyebrow and tapped the pad of paper in front of me.  "A serious answer, if you please."

He grinned.  "Didn't think it would work, but it was worth a shot.  Funeral director.  I think someone should put some fun into funeral.  Plus, my granny taught me how to make killer funeral chicken, no pun intended, so no one would leave the event hungry."

9.  What profession would you not like to do?

Lexicographer.  I tend to intermingle words, phrases, and metaphors.  I'd flat suck at it.

10.  If Heaven exists, what would you like to hear God say when you arrive at the Pearly Gates?

Welcome to the party.  Want a brewski?

~~