The Word Cloud

This is Chapter 11 (C2000 words) of a fictional novel (my first) - offered for critique if there are any takers.

Context: The central character is Steve, his partner is Bobby (f) and the story to date is their meeting and transition from platonic coffee-mates to lovers. Steve is heavily influenced by music - too much so perhaps. It provides the soundtrack through which he wins Bobby's heart and it will be instrumental in their subsequent break-up. In Chapter 11, it is Vissi D'Arte that best describes an unexpected trauma...

In terms of feedback - all honest views are welcome (even if you hate it, telling me why would be a great service).

With not a lot of dialogue in here, I'd like to know if your interest as a reader is maintained to the end.

Does anyone happen to have a recording of Vissi D'Arte in their collection? Any thoughts?


11 Vissi D’arte

I’m going to share another piece of music that is a perfect fit with the intensity of my emotion. It is a reference to Bobby’s support and our indivisibility, when I needed both most of all. It represents the epitome of pain, the most hurt I have ever encountered. Until recently.

I don’t know what Vissi D’arte means or the meaning of a single word of the lyrics. But Maria Callas does a stunning job describing how the death of my Dad felt to me.

I’ll spare you the worst details, the images that haunt me. The gaping wounds to my state of being I did not realise one could endure, or survive. I hope the images will leave me too, the wounds will heal. I hope; I don’t expect.

Were it not for the sub-conscious, I would have died with my eyes open within five minutes of getting the call to say Dad was in hospital with an uncertain prognosis. Amazingly, I continued to breathe and I continued to blink.

There is no good time or place to receive such a call. That I was in Scotland and the hospital was in Bath, was not at all good. That I was in a hotel room in Edinburgh with layers of dust all over its impersonal décor, was bad. That I had drunk three pints of lager over the course of the evening and it was quarter-to-midnight, was clearly taking the piss.

It had been a long week, calling in to Kingston’s offices in Birmingham, Manchester and then Edinburgh. It had been a trying day, being positive about job losses and potential relocation to disenchanted and hostile recipients of bad news. From the luke-warm bacon and plastic eggs, I had longed for the day to be different a hundred times. The hundred and first time put all the others into perspective.

I pressed the end-call button on my phone and I stood. Standing was all I did for a minute or two, looking at the wall and feeling scared. Without conscious choice, I went into practical mode. My mind raced to cover the many details of a hasty return home. I packed my belongings carefully and wrote a list of things I had to do the next day. Themes were developing as first-thoughts led to others.

Phone Bobby, phone my boss, charge my mobile.

Wake early, set alarm, book alarm call.
Breakfast, coffee, petrol.
Check the route, plan toilet stops, don’t get pulled over by the police.
Check, double check, triple check.
Sleep – must sleep.

I slept little and without rest. Free of practicalities, my drifting thoughts were as scattered and unbalancing as harem cushions. I tried to concentrate on dropping-off, as if willing yourself to sleep would work under these circumstances when it hadn’t on eve of a childhood Christmas or an adolescent cup final. I churned over the details again and had irregular spurts of resenting everything about everything. Bloody job, breakfast, traffic, timing, people, hotel, Scotland, world, universe! Bloody Dad!!

Occasionally I glimpsed alternative outcomes, good and bad. I dispelled each with equal vigour, lest they become true or tempt Fate. Exhaustion might have followed, indeed it should, but there is a physical and mental state of alertness that transcends fatigue. I had experienced it in love and I was finding out that it applied in other extremes as well.

My pre-car morning was like an out-of-body experience. I became resolute in giving the appearance of normality, despite every fibre of me screaming that my world was upside-down and inside-out. I rose from the bed in a way that was indistinguishable from any other day. I showered, turned the radio on, brushed my teeth, dressed. I ate cereal, ordered coffee and a full English breakfast and smiled. I said ‘please’ and ‘thank you’.

It’s strange that I didn’t ask for ‘a bit of a spurt on please, because I have to get back to Bath to see my Dad who is in hospital and might be dying.’

During the wait for food, I re-ran the exchange I should have had with the woman who, rather reluctantly, took my breakfast order a full three minutes earlier than the scheduled 7am start time.

‘Coffee, brown toast and full English please – that would be great. Thank you,’ I might have said. ‘Oh, and I wonder if you might run to the kitchen, stick a rocket under the arse of whoever is cooking, pop a few amphetamines into my coffee and then break the land speed record getting back to me,’ I should have continued.

Cornflakes and orange juice were gone in record time. As the cooking took forever, the conversation in my head was constantly refined, with all semblance of refinement removed.

‘One more thing,’ I added. ‘I don’t care if you were up all night shagging George Clooney and the Polish chef has just finished a fourteen hour conference call with Lech Walensa, Jan Tomsevski and Pope John Paul the Second in heaven – if you two don’t get your arses into gear, I will personally hunt you down and shit on your toothbrushes for the next ten years. Thank you so much.’ It didn’t speed things up.

I found myself on the roads heading South, as if it were a normal day. Driving was a trial, although the journey itself was pretty untroubled in terms of traffic hold-ups, poor weather and acts of God.

My senses were receptive and adrenaline levels high, so I dare say I drove with better awareness and more care than usual. Occasionally I tutted, said ‘come on,’ under my breath or shouted ‘arsehole,’ but if I’m honest, that was probably a bit less than normal. I didn’t speed recklessly despite towns appearing on road signs much later than I’d hoped. I was pretty much to schedule when I stopped on the M6 for a toilet and fuel break.

I tuned into local radio stations for traffic alerts, sometimes listening to Radio 4, sometimes 5. I needed to hear some sensible conversation to counter-balance the trillion words a minute rushing through my head.

I avoided regional radio stations that might play songs I could not bear – “Seasons In The Sun” was what I feared most. I hadn’t heard it in ages and probably won’t for years ahead, but my fears were a little irrational at the time. I feared music that I would associate with my Dad and for that reason, I was not ready to listen to Elvis or Patsy Cline.

I could have been the only person left in the country to admit to knowing “Remember Me This Way” by Gary Glitter. I was sure to be the last man in the world to have the album, with Gary, all satin and sequins in a pink jump-suit, on the cover. But hearing that song would have taken me off the road and no matter how unlikely, I could not take the chance.

So in between the wordy stations, I tuned into Classic FM seeking a safe distraction. I welcomed the crescendos of harmonious noise. Music that frequently did not have English words or, better still, had no words at all.

I liked some pieces and had to tolerate others but it was easy, at high volume, to let my mind be occupied by images of orchestral musicians in black clothes and of attic rooms in which composers of old secured their immortality, before dying of syphilis. The listeners’ requests, the links and the adverts gave a semblance of normality to an unreal day and I was comforted.

I had to stop again on the M5, angry that the caffeinated drinks had forced me into an unscheduled pit-stop. I started to think of time-lost like a Formula 1 team, but I didn’t sprint to the urinal. My bladder was bursting painfully, but convention prevented me from running.

On return to the car, I got in, started the engine and wasn’t at all surprised to find that the radio came on immediately. I had left in a hurry and hadn’t turned it off.

I caught my breath and looked across the car park at a Labrador puppy being given water in a bowl by an elderly woman with a kind face. The woman drove a navy blue Renault Megane. I was vaguely aware of a high-pitched voice slowly starting an aria. It was a pure and captivating voice, quickly rising to an attention grabbing peak that was emphasised by motorway levels of radio-volume in a stationary car.

The dog was lapping at the water. Its tail was still as it concentrated on drinking. I sat still too; I stared and thought of Dad. I saw images of him in a hospital bed with charts and nurses and drips and that sort of stuff.

Come on Dad, stop having me on and get better by the time I get there. I’d be OK with a scare. I promise to lecture you to eat sensibly and take whatever medicines are required – I’d be a good conscience for you, dispensing tough love on a regular basis.

Drinking over, the puppy’s tail started up again. Wag-left, wag-right. A pink tongue licked wet doggy-chops in self congratulation and happiness.

The singer started a slow build.

I felt an odd sense of occasion. Was I driving to my Dad’s temporary hospital bed or his death bed? All those other people on the road would give me free passage in the fast lane – if only they knew. If I was absent-mindedly doing 103 miles per hour, the Police would understand when I told them of the circumstances. Yet I was conscious of not racing and not adding to the tragedy of Dad being gravely ill by crashing or worse. I had never heard of someone getting killed when rushing to a hospital bedside and I didn’t want to be in the papers for that particular misfortune. I didn’t want Dad to get well, only for someone to have to tell him his stupid son had let himself down on the motorway.

A few sniffs here, an intense snuffle there. The pup frequently looked back to the woman for affirmation and to share in the joy of being loved, watered and about to urinate.

The radio voice started the journey home with an emotive but contained spell.

Violins played. I was terrified.

A heart attack. How the hell could that be? I wasn’t prepared, I wasn’t ready. I wanted time. I wanted Dad to get better. I needed Dad to be OK. People die from heart attacks. Dad could die. I needed Dad not to die.

Two and a half minutes into the aria, it started raining. It started to pour in fact. Without my windscreen wipers on I couldn’t even see the puppy dashing back to its owner’s car – hasty and excited and ‘I’m doing everything for the first time,’ adventurous. I was oblivious. and didn’t move. I was lost in the drama. My drama.

Don’t die Dad! Just prove them all wrong. Be a wonder, be a cantankerous old bastard but for Christ’s sake, don’t die. I can’t be driving to see you die. Let’s do that another day. Another year. Not now, Dad. Dad. DAD!!!!!!

After two minutes and fifty seconds, the singer drew breath for us both and we sobbed in unison. Making a guttural noise not of this earth, my solitary contribution to the performance was one of terror, of realisation and dread.

It was my eyes pouring, I realised after a while.

Drying my tears and blowing my nose, I wished the puppy well.

I told myself to get a grip and registered the word ‘Callas,’ being said on the radio.

Ummm... without context it is a little hard to judge. There were a few moments where I felt that the emotion was somewhat overdramatized:
"The gaping wounds to my state of being I did not realise one could endure, or survive"

And other moments that I felt were spot on:
There is no good time...taking the piss.

So my reaction is mixed. The complete lack of dialouge is tricky. I've heard it said that 1/3 dialouge, 1/3 action, 1/3 introspection is a reasonable mix for a piece of writing, but that will change based on genre and scene. There were bits that felt too humourous, and bits that felt too melodramtic, but overall the scene works well, although having to lost a parent, I can't say I'm fully qualified to give feedback. I guess the main question you have to ask yourself is what is the point of this scene? What are you trying to achieve? Is the puppy needed? Is the breakfast conversation needed? would something else achieve this better?
Your description feels realistic, and I did read to the end... but only just. That said, the pacing depends on your genre, I like things fast paced. Your story sounds like it is slower paced, so possibly this is not a problem.

I dunno. Nice story, well written, but I can't say I felt a particularly strong connection to it.

Hi Mark - mostly same feelings as BF.
One thing that sounded unreal given the eventuality of Steve's concern/worry for his Dad - although that took a long time coming through - because I wouldn't be eating a full English Breakfast in my state of mind. Wouldn't be hungry. Might chase a piece of toast around and slug back a cuppa - but's that's it.

Small query 'harem cushions' - I couldn't see the connection re thoughts scattered and unbalancing?

One other thing relating to Steve's job. I think three redundancy visits in one day is impractical, given that there would be a huge number of questions at each site. And I'm not sure whether it gels with his emotional response. Is he a hatchet man - a messenger - or a counselling HR person?

Oh yes, sorry. I did read to the end. I did like the humour - be careful that it's in sync with your character's emotional behaviour. I wasn't too fussed with lack of dialogue. Interesting piece - I know nothing about music -sorry
stephen

Thanks you both for reading this - it's much appreciated. You made some really good observations (some are sins I know about, others offer new perspective and that's great)

BF - Steve is meant to be emotional, but I know I can trowel that on at times. You've made me think hard about the breakfast conversation and too much humour in particular. Thanks for persevering to the end (without much action or dialogue) and without any previous intro to the story/character. The pace of this extract is typical I'd say. It'd be a wrench to lose the pup...must I?

Stephen - thanks to you too. How perceptive, Steve is indeed an HR chap - Edinburgh is meant to be the end of his week of difficult visits. Good thoughts about breakfast and how quickly Steve's concerns shows - I'll have to work on those. And I really like the observation about humour in sync with emotional state - there's more humour and some very dark emotion to come. No need to apologise about the music - I've got a Gary Glitter album somewhere!

Thanks again.

Must you lose the pup? Hell no!

Hi Mark, I had the same queries regarding the 'harem cushions' unless he's been to a harm in earlier chapters there's no connection. Also i think you could lose the restaurant altogether- maybe switch it to trying to check out of the hotel. I also think that he should have more lager than just 3 pints! Come on- I could drink 3 pints and be able to function properly.

But, I liked the start and the finish, it's the little bit in the middle that could do with attention. A small suggestion:- show the dialogue with the slow girl trying to check him out. He's polite to her when he speaks, but the show his inner dialogue- what he says to her in his head about her being up all night shagging and getting a rocket up the ass of- the porter or whatever....

Hi Geri, thanks for reading this and your comments - they're really helpful.

I detect a theme on the cushion front - I shall listen to that. Steve is based in Bath - I can confirm there are no harems locally! I'll have a think about the breakfast bit too, thanks. As for 3 pints - it's just to stop him driving home that night.

Show more, tell less...I might have heard that before about my writing. I'll listen to that too - honest!

Thanks again,

Mark

Hi Mark. No, don't lose the puppy. This scene works really well. We have all been in motorway service stations and people watched. And your choice of music was spot on. I have a copy of Tosca, but not the Callas recording. I could hear the crescendo and see his tears....really well written.

This is my kind of writing Mark....a good slowish pace, gives the reader time to think.
I think your harem cushions worked perfectly. I knew just what you meant; silky, slippery buggers that won't stay in a pile. I would not change that at all. It doesn't matter if there is no harem!..we have all seen them on tv etc and the image worked fine.

I would try to introduce a smidgen of dialogue in the hotel just to break things up, and you could maybe tone down his emotions a tad...but not having read any earlier bits we don't really know his character. It had me thinking though...my imagination seeing your scenes, and seeing his sick dad too. It was all there.

Just a little tweaking, but I would not alter a great deal.

Cheers

Mac

Hey Mac,

thanks for reading this and the feedback. I reflect on all the comments and it takes a bit of time to work out which ones to act on, but funnily enough I was just making the breakfast order a conversation in response to previous comments, echoing yours and to show a bit more.

Thanks a huge amount for connecting with the music too - it's a theme throughout the novel but I know it's not for all. My aim is to marry the writing and some music at key points - the idea is that the effect of the narrative is amplified by the music/lyrics. You write AND you're a musician so as target audiences go, you might be a good fit.

Steve (my leading man) is very influenced by music and although he doesn't show it, he's pretty emotional too so the combination leads to some romantic, sad and self-destructive extremes. More extreme than this extract. In my experience so far, blokes don't like Steve greatly. He and the puppy will survive though.

Thanks again - this is very encouraging for me. I'm off on an emotional, possibly tear-stained, journey myself now: Bath City v Barrow kicks off at 3pm.

Cheers,

Mark

Good grief take tissues!

Mac

Isn't Bath a bit posh for football?

Re footy in Bath: Ours is a broad church. All are welcome even those who have a sinner's history of mucky fields and odd shaped balls. Confessions aren't heard, but there is a collection as you come through the door. I look forward to seeing Norman join the congregation for a rousing hymn or two. I'd love to tell you that games are held in The Jane Austen stadium and the kit is long dresses and linen bonnets. But that would be a fictionalised version of the truth on the other side of a blatant lie. Chin wobbled today, but tissues not required: 1 - 1.

I would say it sounds too real... if that makes sense. It sounds, especially the conversation while waiting for breakfast, as though it is something that's actually happened but hasn't been put into prose but just written as is. I do like the conversation but it doesn't sync with the fear he's feeling.
I started this thinking I wouldn't get to the end but then got caught up in it and carried on. Personally I liked the puppy, when we are in weird situations like this we do tend to observe stuff without actually realising and it gives a sort of 'new life' when an 'old life' is passing feel to it.
Perhaps, to break up the lack of dialogue you could add in a couple of rememberances of things said between Steve and his dad... a 'I remember dad saying 'x' the last time we went to the pub together or something like that.

The magic of Tosca - havent read all the above crits. I believe it's just a question of editing hard and making every word earn its place on the page. As to the lack of dialogue - isn't it an internal dialogue (which you're entitled to make as whacky as you want) and maybe throw in the the processes of grief (anger, denial, bargaining etc) to add some jumpcuts.
The dog for me is a hook to hang the emotive stillness/sadness of the aria upon and a waggy reminder that in the face of everything else life goes on
(although not like the deliberate jump run out groove cut {by hand} by Tony Bridge for the The Ruts - In a rut)

it seems to me, that the thread holding your story together is hearing a song sung by Maria Callas but I have no idea, reading your piece, which song this is and what particular relevance the song has to Steve's mind and his father's approaching death,. I have two CD's of Callas singing Tosca and they are among my favourite recordings and i can well understand someone relating her singing to sadness and approacihng death.

it seems to me, that the thread holding your story together is hearing a song sung by Maria Callas but I have no idea, reading your piece, which song this is and what particular relevance the song has to Steve's mind and his father's approaching death,. I have two CD's of Callas singing Puciini and they are among my favourite recordings and i can well understand someone relating her singing to sadness and approacihng death.

Thanks all for reading and commenting - all gratefully received.

Fibrochimp - I've now edited this into a conversation with the server at breakfast. Part of a drive to have a bit less internal monlogue and a bit more real dialogue. Just a bit mind you, it's inside Steve's head I want to take you. Welcome to the cloud and thanks.

JtF - thanks too. That's the rub - every word of a novel earning its place. There are many words that haven't survived the various re-drafts but some you just can't see for yourself. Re you bit in brackets - I'm afraid you stumped me?!

Mike - many thanks for reading and your observations.

The music is the title of the chapter Vissi D'arte. The lyrics are about love rather than death, but Callas' voice is both beautiful and absorbing. The idea is that the chapter stands alone as a piece of writing, first and foremost. If the reader happens to hear the music, maybe it will illustrate/amplify/resonate with Steve's fear. I know it won't be for everyone, but I believe it will for some.

My relationship with the piece stems from hearing it the night I got the call to say my dad was taken into hospital - it became synonymous with that night and the events that followed. I am inspired by other pieces of music too - lots of happy stuff as well. Some of this will find itself into a short stories, but for the monent, this is a small piece of a c90,000 word novel.

Many thanks, Mark