S08E23 - Turf War

[Bob]

[Bob]

[Danjlion7]

Bob,

Well, it's certainly an idea! I haven't really written many scripts, though. I'm a big fan of Dean Koontz and write psychological thrillers.

I spent last summer writing two such novels. For each, I queried between 400-600 agents.

Well, I got 599 rejections because it's easier to win the lottery than to land a literary agent. But then again, a lit agent is an absolute must if you want your book to be considered by the major publishing houses.

Anyway, 6 months after I queried, an agent asked to see the first two chapters. Two days later she wrote me back and offered to be my agent, before she even read the rest of the manuscript!

So, I finally landed a lit agent. Now, I'm waiting for her to hopefully sell my book.

When I was I high school, I had a t-shirt that said: Future New York Times Bestselling Author (in training)

Hopefully it will come true!

Then you guys will be able to say you knew me when...

[Bob]

[Danjlion7]

Bob,

Well, im not sure how I feel about being compared to
toby since he is sort of a wimp, but in the interest of LITO unity, i will let it pass.

As a matter of fact, I am working on a new novel about an 18 year old girl who has taken six years of.piano lessons from her teacher, mr watt. However, one day while.in his house for a lesson, she accidentally discovers the murdered body of a small girl. Mr watt is not all.that he seems.

I don't plot out my stories. I think of compelling characters, a basic premise, and then just start writing. My characters always surprise me. I never know what they will do next!

[Bob]

[HotDogFingers]

[Danjlion7]

Well, im about 26,000 words into it. So far its become a cat and mouse game between Stormy Fairbanks, the 18 year old girl and the evil mr watt. Its all happened within 24 hours. I have to say, it's been very intense to write. I figure if im onthe edge of my seat writing it,my future readers will be on the edges of their seats reading it!

Loved the musical puns, Bob!

[Bob]

[Danjlion7]

Since we are confessing, I too admit I watched that movie. I watched it with this unfolding morbid curiosity all the while knowing it was not going to be a good experience.

[Bob]

[Danjlion7]

Oooo, Bob, that was a great idea for a cold open! Bravo! Maybe you should try your hand at comedy writing!

Thanks for liking that name. I like using names that reflect the character. Since Stormy always has this inner brooding storm, and then she is thrust into a murderous storm with her deranged piano teacher, I thought it fit. I also like irony. Hence mr. Watt with watt being reference to watts of a bright light bulb though he is a very evil and dark man

That other name you mentioned is quite the name!

[Danjlion7]

I think Creed would say in his th:

I don't know why everyone is so embarrassed having watched The Secretary.v I thought it was a great comedy!

[jossifer]

Ha. "Secretary" is actually one of my favorite movies. This probably doesn't surprise the 5 of you.

Dan, I adore the name Stormy. If I ever have a daughter, that would probably be part of her name. Maybe a middle name in case she hates it. Also, your Mr. Watt plot has me intrigued. I would happily proofread it for you! ^_^ I proofread a lot of things for my writer friends.

I was happy to see actor Chris Bauer in a not-so-creepy role. Lately he's known as Sheriff Andy Bellefleur on "True Blood," but I've seen him in things prior to that where he just gave me the squicky feels. He was actually kinda funny in this guest spot.
_________________
Michael: Early worm gets the worm!
Jim: Another worm? Like, are they friends?

OBEY MY DOG!
http://lollipopvomit.com

[Danjlion7]

Thanks for the offer, Joss! But my agent actually edits and proofs my work. I suppose I could post the first chapter of the book, but probably not more or I might get in trouble with her!

-------------


Chapter 1



Stormy Fairbanks brushed the strand of copper colored hair away from her eye.  She clutched her piano lesson books to her chest, readjusted her bulging backpack, and walked as briskly as she could through the rain, wind and chill.

The neighborhood she traversed was an older, more established one, with large, towering Douglas Firs that dominated most yards and hid most of the homes.  As she turned left on Greenleaf Drive, the homes, already veiled by the falling mist of rain, became even more difficult to see not because of the deepening gloom, but because the houses were even more spread apart, hidden by trees and set back from the street.

Greenleaf Drive curved like a hook out from the neighborhood proper, a lonely street that knifed through a wide field, and the farther she walked, the more hidden, lonely and spread out the homes became.

The final house, 2377 Greenleaf Drive, tucked away on the outermost fringe of the neighborhood, was an old forest green and bark brown painted one story home, set three hundred feet back from the sidewalk, hidden by several looming evergreens, and swaddled in shadows.  Even on a bright summer day at high noon, the place was difficult to spot.  At 6 pm on a late winters day in early March, it was all but impossible.

Stormy knew the path with her eyes closed.  Since age twelve she had walked here once a week for her piano lessons.  She was now a few days shy of her eighteenth birthday, and supposed with her graduation from high school this Spring, her piano lessons would come to a reluctant end as well.

Stormy was one of those few students who started piano lessons because of her mom, but as her peers dropped out or lost interest, her love for playing the keys only grew, until she had become highly skilled, and even anticipated a career as a professional musician after college.

For six years, Alan Watt, her piano teacher, had poured all his knowledge and skill into her, and although she had surpassed him in many ways over a year ago, he still taught her things that she could learn no where else.  Things that only someone with years of piano playing experience could impart.  And so, even on the cusp of graduation, she still walked the same path she had walked at age 12, taking these weekly piano lessons. Of course, she could now drive and even owned a clunker of a car, but she lived close enough to enjoy the stroll. To her, the neighborhood spoke of secrets and mysteries, and the tall, solemn trees wrapped in shadow, appealed to her somewhat dark and moody character.

She chose not to walk on the gravelly road that led to the home, instead passing over the soft, moist grass that squished beneath her feet.  The rain still trickled down labyrinths of needles from the trees above her.

The neighborhood was full of contradictions.  While it was old and even stately, it was also mysterious and delightfully gloomy.  One would assume elderly people lived here, but in fact most dwellers were middle class families with children.  Alan Watt himself was a youngish looking boy faced man in his late thirties.  Stormy always believed she had a special connection to this place, because she considered herself filled with contradictions.  Her copper colored hair, pale skin, bright emerald eyes and splay of red freckles splashed across her face would seem to indicate a happy go lucky girl, but in fact she was often somber, moody, withdrawn and serious.  Her dad always believed he had a special gift when naming her Stormy, as if he knew when she was born that she would be a moody, dark stormed kind of girl.

But like lightning strikes from the darkest of clouds, Stormy had an inner passion that flashed through her when her slender finger tips touched the key board of any piano.  The music and the playing took her beyond herself, out from her usually sober perspective, and vitalized her in ways nothing else could.

The butter yellow porch light caught the falling rain in drizzle lines of liquid gold.  Stormy stepped onto the porch, softly knocked on the old door and waited.  She could have walked in, but she was always taught to let Alan know when she had arrived.  She never wanted to accidentally disturb him.

When the creaky door opened, and Alan’s broad, joyful face appeared, he gestured her in.  “Good evening, Stormy.  How’s school?”

He asked the question pretty much every week.  And Stormy pretty much gave the same answer, “Pretty good.”

There’s was a simple relationship.  For six years he had taught, she had learned, he had cultivated her like a gardner might a flower, she had blossomed into a mature piano player.  Stormy didn’t know all that much about her teacher, but the bounds of their relationship were primarily centered around piano playing.  She only saw him once a week for an hour, and at recitals, so even a six year relationship was relatively limited.  

Stormy was not one to go out and seek relationships.  She had very few friends, never a boyfriend, and tended to shy away from all things social.  While she had a strong bond with both her parents, this only reinforced her tendency to stay home and shut out the world.  So the relationship she had with Alan was something she found comfortable in its simplicity. She came to learn.  He was there to teach.  There was really nothing more to it than that.

The phone rang in the kitchen. 

“Excuse me,” Alan said and left the living room where the piano lessons occurred.

Stormy pulled off her backpack, letting it fall to the couch and carried her piano books to the dark mahogany grand piano that seemed out of place in the rustic timber, stone and faux wood living room.

She suddenly had the urge to pee.  Alan’s voice answered the phone.  She crept down the hallway that led deeper into the house toward the bathroom.

As she passed one door, she paused.  Something odd.  She thought, out of the corner of her eye, she had seen something.

Not one to snoop, but curious, she pushed back the door to the guest bedroom.  She had seen this room many times before on her way to and from the bathroom over the past six years.  It was simply furnished with a twin size bed, a dresser against one wall, a small closet, a chair and desk.  

But this time, strangely enough, there was a large bundle on the bed.  Stormy frowned.  The shape of the bundle seemed . . . almost human to her, but she could tell even in the fading twilight that it was in some sort of thick sack.

Still hearing Alan’s voice on the phone from the front of the house, she stepped into the room.  Feeling a little guilty, not wanting to turn on the light, she promised she would merely steal a glance at this thing and walk out.  Just to satisfy her curiosity.

When she reached the bed, she froze.

Eyes wide open, and mouth in a terrified soundless scream, the face of a young girl, not more than eleven years of age, stared sightlessly at the ceiling.  She was obviously dead.

Stormy stumbled out of the room and without realizing it, found herself back in the hall, breathing, gasping, desperate for air, her back pressed against the wall.  Alan’s voice still drifted from the front of the house.

Afraid, terrified, her heart crashing against her rib cage, she shoved herself from the wall and bolted toward the bathroom.  She slammed the door shut behind her, flipped on the light and gripped the counter.  Her mind a jumble, her heart thundering booms in her ears, she just tried to breathe, to slow her heart rate.

Think, Stormy, think!  Get a grip!

There were a few possibilities.  One, she had imagined the whole thing.  She was having some sort of hallucination.  She was insane.

Two, there really was a dead little girl on that bed, and Alan Watt was a psychopathic murderer who had only pretended to be a nice, happy piano teacher all these years.  

Three . . . but there was no third option that she could think of.  And that scared her even more.  

Far more.

Because just then, standing in that bathroom, as twilight turned to night, she knew, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that she was not crazy or insane.

Somehow, impossibly, she had locked herself in the bathroom of a killer.

[Bob]

Dan the Man! Chapter One does a really good job of drawing the reader into an eerie, David-Lynch-like world. The mist, the towering Doug firs, the "old forest green and bark brown" house... (Nice gloomy color scheme)... the lonely street that knifed through a wide field... nifty imagery. And brief descriptions like this sentence hint at things being off-kilter:

[Danjlion7]

Thank you, Bob!

Yes, I forgot to mention that I haven't really edited this at all. Its a rough draft.

Well, now that we are waaaaaay off topic, who is psyched for the season finale tonight?

[Bob]

[Donna]

[Donna]