Is this failure?

 Well, I have just logged in and seen that I haven't posted anything since December 8th - that's almost three whole weeks.  Have I failed in my mission to write daily?

I realize, of course, that I hadn't been writing daily as a matter of course, but I could usually get to the keyboard four or five times a week.  But to go almost three whole weeks without doing anything ...

Life happens, I know this.  Three birthdays, a funeral and Christmas within the space of a week, the usual massive seasonal rush at work ... I could give lots of excuses.  But at the end of the day, it was up to me to write.  I could have watched less football.  Played less Final Fantasy XIV.  And it completely slipped my mind.  I feel like I've let myself down.

I logged on today thinking, I haven't written in a bit, let's try and write something.  But I didn't realize it had been three whole weeks.  Now, in an admittedly defeatist way, I don't really feel like writing anything.  And the ironic thing is that by so voicing those thoughts, I am, point in fact, currently writing something!  Small victories?

I think I'll leave it there for now.  Perhaps I'll come back tomorrow when I'm in a better frame of mind.  As Scarlett O'Hara once put it, "after all ... tomorrow is another day!"

What the Dickens am I reading???

Since May I have been slowly going through the writings of Charles Dickens.  Interestingly, I had only read a couple of his books before, being more familiar with adaptations of his works in film and television.  It's always been one of my goals to read through his novels, but for whatever reason I've never gotten around to it.  

Last spring, I decided this would change.  I had just finished the entire compendium of Sherlock Holmes stories by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, and was looking for some more works to go through.  I thought about the Bronte sisters and Jane Austen, before finally settling on Charlie D.  And because I never do anything by halves, I went and bought all of his works, because of course I did.  

Now, Dickens began his writing career turning out prose for periodicals, which means he got paid by the word.  This, in turn, ensures that the man's works are preternaturally verbose, even for myself -- and I've been devouring classic tomes for years.  Lord knows what the Twitter generation would think about his writing!  Dickens is the antithesis of Hemingway; he doesn't just say somebody entered a room and sat down at a table, he'll spend three pages outlining his clothes, his gait, the weather outside, the atmosphere, all the other people in the room, going on to describe the furniture and other assorted things such as cutlery, lighting, the history of the place, etc.  I've gotten used to it by now, having gone through six of his works so far (chronologically of course, because that's just how I am), but it took a little getting used to, that's for sure.

I'm pacing myself with the Dickens, following each hefty volume with a lighter read (or at least, perhaps not one so dense!).  Therefore I followed Sketches By Boz (1833-36), a collection of man-about-town views of 1830s London, with The Storied Life of A.J. Fikry (2014) by Gabrielle Zevin, which is a love song to how books can change one's life.  Dickens' first "novel" The Pickwick Papers (1836-37) (really a collection of sketches for the first little bit before he decided to tie everything together) was a smashing success for him, and is fairly humourous, if a little frothy at times; I followed that up with China: The Novel (2021) by Edward Rutherfurd, one of my long-time favourite authors, whose stories often follow family lines through centuries, if not millenia.  It was comparatively light reading, even at over 750 pages itself!

One of the pieces Dickens is most known for, of course, is Oliver Twist (1837-39).  It was shorter than I expected, and reading it after watching (and performing in) the musical Oliver! so many times was like a greatest hits compilation, interspersed with some secondary scenes and characters that I either wasn't quite familiar with or were not sketched out to such a degree in Lionel Bart's adaptation (the scenes with Oliver's stay at Mr. Brownlow's house especially).  After I took in Michelle Obama's autobiography Becoming (2018) (a great read), I dove straight into Nicholas Nickleby (1838-39), which I have to say is, at the moment, my favourite Dickens novel.  The characters are so clearly delineated - Uncle Ralph gets me so angry! - and every few chapters I was moved to tears by Nicholas' relationship with Smike.  And while it deals with dark themes, it's quite breezy in its presentation, and, dare I say, quite humourous.

I took a break for a couple of weeks, and decided to focus on Maya Angelou's multi-volume autobiography (1969-2013) - what a fantastic, difficult, ultimately triumphant life that lady filled her years with!  I'm not sure if it was because I had gotten used to her writing style, or whether the book itself just didn't move me as I thought it would, but I found The Old Curiosity Shop (1840-41) quite a slog to get through.  It was entertaining as a "road trip" sort of book, but I found Nell's grandfather to be just insufferable - not to mention Quilp, who while given perhaps a bit more heft than most villains of the time, ultimately was portrayed almost too cartoonishly.  It's as if Dickens decided to forgo any shades of grey that were in Nickleby and portray things in distinct black and white.  

I needed a bit of contrast, so I took up Carl Wilson's critique of music criticism and popular taste, Let's Talk About Love (2014), which is ostensibly a review of Celine Dion's 1997 album but is so, so much more.  Barnaby Rudge (1841), Dickens' first historical novel, is set during the Gordon Riots of 1870, and follows a Forrest Gump-like character who finds himself involved in all the political machinations.  It's one of his lesser-known novels, but I quite enjoyed it.  The first third took a while to find its footing, but I became quite engrossed after that.  This was followed by City of Tears (2020), the second book in the Burning Chambers trilogy by one of my favourite authors, Kate Mosse (her Languedoc trilogy - Labyrinth (2005), Sepulchre (2007), and Citadel (2012) - are absolute must-reads).

And now, for the Christmas season, I'm taking a bit of a break from the chronological Dickens!  Still staying with him, but in the spirit of the season, I am reading a collection of his Christmas themed short stories.  Starting with A Christmas Carol in 1843, he wrote one a year for the next five years (skipping 1847).  Finished A Christmas Carol and have just started The Chimes (1844), and I have to admit, Carol is quite funnier than I expected it to be.  His descriptions of the characters are quite descriptive, and I found myself casting roles despite myself - Bill Nighy as Scrooge, Jonathan Hyde as Jacob Marley, Tilda Swinton as the Ghost of Christmas Past, Nick Frost as the Ghost of Christmas Present, and Ben Whishaw as Bob Cratchit.  Perhaps Dan Stevens as nephew Fred?  At any rate, it's lighter Dickens (due to the short story form he decided to publish it in), but a nice Christmas treat.  

I may check back in after a few months to outline my views as I carry on through the rest of Dickens' novels, but I'm getting a little peckish, and shall end my blog post here (otherwise the post would itself turn into something quasi-Dickensian in length).  God bless you, everyone ... and I'll see you in the next post!

All That Glitters - Final Chapter & Epilogue

I've tackled a couple of short stories recently, and now I'm trying my hand at something a bit longer.  Every day this week I have dropped one chapter of a five-chapter story I have written.  Today is the final chapter - and epilogue - of "All That Glitters."

CHAPTER FIVE

“I still don’t understand why we’re here,” Karolina said as she pulled up beside the trailer.  “Because of you this site is in lockdown.  I don’t see how you can expect to fix any of this yourself.”

“I don’t intend to fix it,” Jan replied.  “I just want to see what kind of damage we’ve done.”  

Karolina stared at him, unamused.  “Your damage.  Not mine.  Wait, what are you doing?”

Jan, ignoring her, climbed into the backhoe.  “You’ll see.  Maxie, turn on the lights.”

“Sure thing, boss,” his stepfather sneered sarcastically as he flipped the switch on the generator, sending a sharp cracking sound out into the night.  “This better be good.”

Oh, it will be, thought Jan as he started digging up earth, piling it neatly in a mound.  After five minutes he heard a soft thud and turned off the engine, clambering out of the cockpit.  Jumping into the newly-created hole, he vanished momentarily, reappearing with a 33-carat square shaped diamond ring, gleaming with a brilliant intensity in the floodlights.

“This is for you, baby,” he declaimed to Karolina, as she stood there dumbfounded.  “For all of us.”  Max, Harald and Samantha beamed in delight as the two lovers embraced passionately.

“Karolina … oh, Karolina,” Jan whispered.

EPILOGUE

DALLAS (Reuters) – Elizabeth Taylor’s Diamond, valued at over $10 million by famed auction house Christie’s, was almost stolen on Thursday, Dallas police said.

Staff at Christie’s storage space heard noises in the room containing the ring.  Upon entering, they saw a young man attempting to drill through the safe using a commercial power drill.  

The disturbed young man became agitated and police were called. The youth stood up quickly, startling the officers, one of whom fired her gun, hitting him.

Despite attempts to save him, the young man bled out and died at the scene, apparently mumbling the word “Karolina” repeatedly.

The Diamond goes up for auction in Highland Park in December.

All That Glitters - Chapter Four

 I've tackled a couple of short stories recently, and now I'm trying my hand at something a bit longer.  Every day this week I will drop one chapter of a five-chapter story I have written.  It is a globetrotting crime caper in which a young dreamer finds it difficult to distinguish fantasy from reality.  Here is the fourth part of "All That Glitters."

CHAPTER FOUR

Jan wasn’t sure what startled him awake: the brief, sudden sense of weightlessness, or the cold tile flooring making contact with his face. 

He heard Harald laughing in the kitchen, followed by a shushing from Samantha and a pair of pink bunny slippers approaching his face horizontally.  Jan slowly rearranged his posture to an upright position, as Sam brought him a cup of coffee.  

“There’s eggs and bacon on the table if you care to join us, lovey,” she said, cheeks pinkening and trying but failing to suppress a smirk.  

Jan looked at her quizzically.  “Thanks, I think.  What’s with the face?”

“Hmmmmm … you may want to um … take the dog for a walk,” she said, pointing with her eyes in the direction of his boxers.  Raising her left eyebrow and giving half a smile, she headed back to the kitchen.  “Woof woof,” she snickered playfully as she left the room.

Jan chuckled and shook his head.  Thank God for Harald and Sam.  Whenever he and his mom, or he and Max, weren’t getting along – which was often – he always had a safe place to stay.  He had met Harald while studying gemology; they were in the same class.  Had it really been five years ago?  

While Jan had been expelled, Harald had graduated and set up shop as an appraiser; his services had since been used multiple times on behalf of the Dallas Museum of Art.  Harald had met Samantha in her native England, where she was a presenter at Christie’s and he was doing some reconnaissance work for the museum.  She still worked for Christie’s, now in charge of acquisitions and loans for the Dallas branch of the company.  

They lived in a wisteria-covered old bungalow from the 1950s, with a carport on the side and a huge front yard with a small but classy Roman-style fountain in the middle.  A far cry from Jan’s house, a drab, unkempt Depression-era shack on a corner lot, that hadn’t been renovated in over forty years and looked it.  Jan sighed wistfully; he deserved so much better.  Why couldn’t he live in style like Harald and Sam?  Or better yet, have a fancy villa on the Italian Riviera, with maids and butlers catering to his every narcissistic whim?  With a personal helipad and a landing dock for the yachts of all the billionaires he would pal around with?  Maybe a menagerie of exotic animals roaming the verdant gardens; a couple of elephants and a giraffe would be nice.  And what about – 

“Hello?  Earth to Jan!”  The smack of Harald’s newspaper on his hand awakened Jan from his daydreaming.  “Honestly, man.  Where do you disappear to?”

“Sorry,” Jan murmured, a little miffed that his trance had been so violently shattered.  He looked up in time to catch a look passing between Harald and Sam.  “What?”

Harald cleared his throat.  “Well, um.  Sam here tells me that you did quite a number on the warehouse yesterday.”

“Did a number?  On a warehouse?” Jan repeated, a little confused.

“The, uh … incident with the backhoe?” Harald offered.  “Max, your boss, stepfather, whatever you want to call him.  He came into Sam’s office afterwards.”

“He seemed pretty livid, but he was apologizing profusely for your, what did he call it?  Shitty manchild fuckup, I think were the words he used,” Samantha continued, grinning.  “He certainly does have a way with the English language.”

“Okay, first of all, it was a mistake.  All right?” Jan said defensively.  “Shit happens sometimes.  I’m sorry.  Secondly, I don’t understand what you mean?  The building I hit – it’s a warehouse?”

“Yes, Jan.”  Sam sighed.  “You punctured the outer wall of one of our warehouses.  It’s kind of an overflow where we keep some of our lots.  Think of it as the midway step between appraisal and being auctioned off.”

Unable to help himself, Harald blurted out, “In fact, you know Elizabeth Taylor, the actress?  Christie’s is going to be putting her engagement ring, the Krupp Diamond, up for auction here in a couple of months!  I’ve seen it.  It’s gorgeous!”

“Is that right?” Jan murmured, eyes narrowing.

To be continued ...

All That Glitters - Chapter Three

 I've tackled a couple of short stories recently, and now I'm trying my hand at something a bit longer.  Every day this week I will drop one chapter of a five-chapter story I have written.  It is a globetrotting crime caper in which a young dreamer finds it difficult to distinguish fantasy from reality.  Here is the third part of "All That Glitters."

CHAPTER THREE

The skies over Kuala Lumpur were unusually clear.  Jan was hanging upside down from the skybridge connecting the Petronas Towers, an emerald necklace once worn by Catherine the Great shoved deep into the backpack that was slipping off his shoulders as the blood drained into the crown of his head.  The escape hadn’t gone quite as planned.

Max and Harald, standing on the bridge, leaned over gingerly, their lightweight black nylon jackets fluttering in the blustery wind.  Hands gripped tightly on the railing, they yelled down to him to toss them the bag.  

“Not until you haul me up!” Jan yelled, to no response.  His voice was lost in the howling wind, which was battering the cable wrapped around his waist, the only thing preventing him from plummeting to a grisly demise.  

Jan’s two accomplices lowered themselves to their knees and began the process of extricating him from his upended predicament.  Jan heard Samantha’s voice on the walkie talkie, asking how long this was going to take, as the getaway vehicle was garnering unwanted attention from citizens and cops alike.   

“Bright yellow Audi R8 Spyder may not have been subtle enough, Sam!” Harald hollered sarcastically.  “Drive around for a bit and then come back without looking too obvious.  Find another spot nearby if you need to; it’s not like we won’t be able to find you.”

Jan was starting to drift in and out of consciousness by the time Max and Harald were able to raise him up to the skybridge and roll him onto his back.  Catching his breath, it took a moment for him to realize the backpack was nowhere to be found.  

“Wha – where’s the emerald?” he sputtered as he was helped to his feet, then gasped as Max grabbed him by the throat and pushed him backwards towards the railing.  

“Oh, you won’t be needing it anymore,” sneered Harald, reaching into the bag and gingerly retrieving the precious gemstone.  He held up the piece of royal jewelry, looked through it and said, as he jerked his head towards Max, “There’s no place like home.”  

“Them’s rubies, not emeralds,” Jan heard Max begin to say.  The rest of the conversation was increasingly inaudible to Jan, as he fell further and further away from his two associates, landing with a splat on the pavement below.

To be continued ...