About two years ago while sitting in the middle of a sand storm in Kuwait, I had this really crazy image (like those don’t come often) run across my mind. So like all writers and artist, we play with it. We add tons of ‘what if’ and multiples of closed possibilities. I played with this idea during a mortar attack in the eastern Rahshid district of Baghdad and during an RPG attack on Market Street. One day I’m taking down some notes not really paying attention to those around me and begin a sketch. The words Distorted, I sketched pretty quickly. But distorted what, and what makes it so distorted. And what does it have to pertain to the protagonist. How does it work towards story development, what does it do for the antagonist. Then the word Black and the same questions as before. Now fast forward to the day of the now and what do you have…well you have nothing; yet. I can give you an approximate date to a 257 page book #1 (of an unknown series number of books) of early December 2010.
Two months ago and after about 40 different sketches I still had no story. I had endless possibilities of multiple story outlines. One day in April I’m free writing. Something that Writer’s Digest said is necessary to spark the story inside you. About two pages of dialogue of two people talking to each other...
“Okay, what about the trunk?”
“Relax killer, we’ll get to that; one thing at a time”
I wasn’t smiling, “That’s not funny, and I’m not a killer.”
Gavin chocked on his smoke mixed laughter, “Yeah must’ve been a manufacture default with all Chargers and their bleeding trunks,” he was still laughing when he tapped my shoulder, “Hope your warranty is still good. Maybe you’ll get a free oil change and tire rotation while you’re on your knees making out your martial vows to some fat guy name Bruno.”
“I’m not a killer.”
“Yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever helps you sleep at night.”
“I’m serious.”
Gavin flicked his cigarette at a prostitute as we passed 5th and Main, “Look deep inside we all harvest that inner beast. The dark side to our light, the Neanderthal artist that lies in dormant waiting to paint his master piece of chaos. Don’t be ashamed of that.”
“Whatever,” I tell him, “I’m not capable of killing another man.”
“Well then you’re ten percent better than the other ninety percent who sit on death row declaring their innocence maintaining in factual debate that they found God while biting a pillow all the while they write a number one best seller how their lawyer fucked them.”
Two more pages and I’m still writing and then a voice. Keep going; keep writing; so I did.
I was sure Gavin had always and would maintain that positive control. Watching the lights glare off the windshield as we sped through the cool June night passing the fast food markets of the quick and easy American Family dinner. Gavin snickered at places like this. The double bacon cheese burger heart attack, the deep fried chicken aneurysm and let’s not forget the slow oven roasted think cut beef coronary artery bypass.
It makes you wonder if the university of Medicine is getting royalty profits from these fast food chains, Gavin says as he launched a deep hacked up snot ball towards a golden arch.
How funny society is for a simple minded individual of mankind can sue a franchise for dumping hot coffee on his hand from a cup and complain that the cup wasn’t clearly marked ‘contents extremely hot’.
I chuckled to myself at that one.
“What’s next we all walk around with visible tags on our forehead?”
“Caution your talking to an idiot.”
“Be advised I go down on endangered species.”
“I’m a sex addict, I might dry hump your leg.”
Gavin shook his head, “It won’t be long before one of these simple minds leaps off the stone of rational individualism and decides he is the one leper who has discovered fire and attempts to burn the world down.”
I looked left quickly dodging a yellow light with a tap on the accelerator, “What do we do then; kill him?”
“Shit no,” Gavin said bellowing the smoke from his mouth making halos in mid air, “the man would be a prophet.”
“Well what do we do?”
Quiet at first Gavin reached behind the seat grabbing a brown paper lunch bag. He looks back at me with that Gavin smile, “We burn it down first.”
Twenty-two more pages and I have the foundation to something I wasn’t really sure would take off. I didn’t care. For the next two weeks I would write nonstop only breaking in between for coffee refills and something to quiet the hungry beast which rumbled my inner stomach lining. I can tell you this. It’s done and the first phase of editing has begun with chapter fills. I can tell you that the release is so late due the second book. The publishers like to have two books when you launch a series. This way they can do a back to back sale while the third and fourth are in early story board layout. I don’t have any clue how many books are in the works,
I don’t know how well they’ll do. I’m not even sure if the avid reader will find them word consuming as they suck down on their latte at your nearest Barnes & Nobel. I don’t even know if the movie rights will even sell and it becomes a summer blockbuster. I will say this, it’s been a blast writing it and I’ve had more fun creating something out of two words and like any writer it’s just nice to walk down the aisle at a bookstore and see your work of art mixed in between Stephen King and Dean Koontz. Maybe do an autograph here and there and answer the questions of how did you come up with that and is based on fact and do you know if they’re going to do a movie because Michael Bay or David Finch could really blow this out of the water. As always when writing a Novel it’s been fun and it’s had its moments of unbearable pain. But it’s never for the writer…it’s always for the reader. So enjoy and I will post more when it becomes available. Until then;
Stay Twisted~
Chapter inserts and book cover of Distorted Black are a copy right of Michael Fudge Jr
DistortedBlack©2009 by Michael R Fudge Jr
