Tag: A. Catherine Noon

  • The Night Is A Harsh Mistress, Chapter 6, by A. Catherine Noon

    Rachel hung up the phone with the client she’d successfully served. The man sounded angry but vindicated. He agreed to her final payment with no argument and said he’d mail it right away.

    She glanced at the Greene file yet again but reached passed it to “Lawson, Carter and Marie.” Carter Lawson owned an accounting firm downtown and believed Marie cheated on him with his partner, Peter Henkle. Henkle was both a lawyer and an accountant and slippery as hell. She’d so far failed to find him do anything in public that wasn’t above-board. Rachel was almost willing to believe his innocence if it weren’t for Mrs. Lawson.

    Marie Lawson made Rachel cringe. A statuesque blonde, her outfits were always perfect and the jewelry just-so. She spent Mr. Lawson’s money like water, shopping in all the best boutiques and lunching at restaurants Rachel couldn’t afford to walk into, much less order from. Just being rich didn’t make her a bad person, but Rachel admitted privately that she would be happy to find something wrong with Marie Lawson.

    Rachel locked her office, set the plastic “Will Return” sign for three o’clock, and went down to her car. Today was the day Mrs. Lawson went to the Spa for her weekly appointment. Rachel intended to catch up with her before she left but as she turned onto Main near Fourth the traffic stopped dead.

    She craned her neck out of the window and could just barely see the side of a taxi jackknifed against a parked car.

    “Can you see anything?” a voice hollered from next to her.

    She looked over to the Porsche next to her. The man seemed to be in his late twenties, early thirties, dressed in a long-sleeved navy t-shirt and dark sunglasses. “Looks like a cab got in an accident,” Rachel told him. “I don’t think we’re going anywhere.”

    He swore softly, words Rachel couldn’t quite catch, and opened the door to the Porsche. It seemed to Rachel he stood about six feet tall. His jeans were clean and fresh-looking. He stepped away from his car a foot or so and then threw his hands up. “Dammit!” He looked over and saw her looking at him and his expression softened. “I think traffic is completely blocked.”

    She nodded. “Yeah.”

    He studied her a moment and then leaned against his car. “Will you be late?”

    “Late for what?” she asked suspiciously.

    “Any appointments,” he answered like that should have been obvious.

    ‘No, I just like to sit in traffic for fun,’ she thought, but didn’t say. “Yes, I was hoping to get somewhere. But I don’t think it’s going to happen.”

    “Yeah,” he agreed. “I’m Steve,” he announced.

    Rachel blinked. “I’m Sara,” she responded.

    He cocked an eyebrow. “Nice to meet you, Sara.”

    They made small talk for a few more minutes until sirens sounded from behind them. Steve had to get back into the Porsche and move it up onto the sidewalk to let the ambulance through and by the time all the hubbub concluded he had gone.

    Rachel suppressed a spurt of disappointment and continued on to the Spa. Steve was attractive and hadn’t been wearing a wedding band. Too bad she hadn’t even had a chance to exchange business cards, especially since she hadn’t given him her real name. Oh well, never could be too careful.

    Maybe she could catch Mrs. Dawson on the way out. She pulled up behind the Valet line to wait.

  • Wiley Wednesday: By Hand vs. The Keyboard

    By Hand vs. The Keyboard
    by A. Catherine Noon

    There’s an old debate in writers’ circles between those who compose with a keyboard and those who compose with a pen. I suppose in today’s internet era it might seem like a moot point, but I figured I’d speak up for those of us Luddites out here. (Yes, well, Neo-Neo-Luddites. But I digress.) Despite the ascendancy of blogging and texting and all the mobile foufera of today’s computer-literate society (say, for example, the Gentle Reader who is reading this on our blog), the pen has not given up its place in the sun just yet.

    Who composes with a pen? Some writers admit to writing entire manuscripts by hand in their first draft. Some even use that most ancient implement, the typewriter, to create their masterpieces – the sound of the clickety-clack soothing to their inner artist, the keys like candy to their Muse. Some insist they must only use the computer and a word processing program, “because of automatic spell-check, you see.”

    Interesting. All worthy ideas, all from writers not just sharing private thoughts with an intimate audience, but august personages for whose work the public will pay good money. So who’s right? Is the pen mightier than the sword? Or is ink and paper destined to go the way of the horse and cart, used only by zealots and those who haven’t yet heard technology’s siren-call?

    My honest answer as a writer is that I use both. Perhaps how I use them will be enlightening to other writers so I share them here, in the hopes that others might be inspired, as I have been, to try different methods of coaxing words onto paper, the ultimate bent of any writer (at least until eBooks changes the whole industry and books go the way of the horse and cart, used only by… or did I say that already?).

    The Pen

    I use my pen and paper for many tasks. First and foremost are my Morning Pages. Written about by Julia Cameron in her books, most notably The Artist’s Way, Morning Pages are three pages of longhand writing, written in the morning (perhaps, some wag might wonder, giving rise to the name “Morning” Pages?). Since the pen and size of the paper (standard letter size) are specified, it might be of note to share what form my pages take. I’ve used all sorts of things – cheap, spiral-bound notebooks from the dollar store; bound journals blank and unlined (which I liked because I could add sketches); regular college-ruled notebooks like what I used in, well, college. What I have learned surprised me: first, use something UNfancy. Fancy journals lead us to want to write fancy thoughts. Morning pages aren’t meant to be fancy, they’re meant to be three pages of longhand writing, written in the morning. Nope, don’t see fancy in those instructions, do you? Second, I learned that I liked UNlined books. Sure, I’ll use lined notebooks because they’re cheap and easy to find. But when I was forced for economy to use something I found in the giveaway box, the resultant blank journal without lines lead me to realize I like to sketch. I also realized that the very size and direction of my writing changed based on my mood. Some days, my letters were neat and orderly. Others, they were large and untidy. One day, I wrote in a spiral from the outside corner to the center. It gave me freedom to explore.

    You might want to try it yourself, one day.

    Another thing I use my handwritten journal for is, well, what I call “Journal Work.” By this, I mean answering questions and tasks for the Artist’s Way, Walking In This World, (both books by Julia Cameron), and other like-minded material. I’ll use it to talk to myself on the train to and from work, to catch hold of ideas. I’ll write down poems and fragments of thoughts, knitting design ideas and dinner plans.

    A third thing I use it for is to tell myself stories. Many first drafts of stories I’ve written are to be found in my journals. I’ve written a continuous journal since 1995 and before that I have many journals, split up by time, back to the age of nine. I have story fragments and poetry all through them. I find it enjoyable to sit on a train, or at lunch, and tell myself stories – almost as enjoyable as reading a book, in fact. I just do it for the fun of it, because I enjoy the worlds I see in my mind’s eye, the theater of the imagination. Some of these stories I’ve later published, some just stay in my journal waiting. Waiting for what? Not sure yet. But at least they’re written.

    You might want to try it yourself, one day.

    The Keyboard

    I use my keyboard for many tasks. In fact, I recently purchased a used AlphaSmart, a portable keyboard. It doesn’t have automatic spell-check the way my MS Word does, but it allows me to type on the train. I discovered two things by this method – one, I write a helluva lot in the hour I’m forced to sit there; and two, carpal tunnel syndrome isn’t just for secretaries. So if you get one, make sure you do your hand exercises, or you’ll be hurtin’.

    I use my computer for a number of tasks. First, a word as to platform – I am a dual-platform user, and have been since I learned to use the computer. I own both a Mac and a PC and have equal facility on both. I make my living by the computer, and in my industry the computer of choice is and always has been the PC. I like the Mac better, which is why I own one. But honestly, there’s not a whole lot of difference in the interface in terms of the word processing program of MS Word. I am an MS Office power user, so I don’t fiddle with the other programs available, but if you use or want to check out the other ones available to you, go for it. The creation is in the writer, not the software, no matter what ads in writing magazines say.

    I love to write stories on the computer. Once I have a specific story in mind, I find it easy to use the computer to compose. I like being able to have headings for my chapters that will build an automatic table of contents. I like being able to use that table of contents to bounce around my story by hyperlink. Since I’m a novelist, my stories are long. Being able to move through them quickly is very helpful.

    Synthesis

    I suppose that is a good distinction, for me anyway – I use the computer for specific ideas (i.e. left brain approach). I use my journal for noodling, fiddling with story ideas, and directionless dreaming (i.e. right brain approach). While I can force a computer to think like me, it’s still much easier to do it by hand. I can just write a stream of consciousness in a continuous line, making catch-notes in the margin if necessary (like, “Work in Progress,” or “To-Do List”) for things I need to be sure to come back to. Writing by hand lets me just get what’s in my head out where I can look at it. Composing by computer lets me go from point A to point B, J, and Z fairly quickly and efficiently. If I want to skip to Chapter Ten and write that, then come back to Chapters Five through Eight, I can do that easily. I can keep track of what chapters I’ve done by updating the table of contents. That sort of functions like an outline as I’m writing, so I know where I’ve been and where I’m trying to go.

    You might want to try it yourself, one day. Or come up with a method that works for you. I suppose that’s the most important moral of the story – not what I do, but what you as a writer might do.

    And that, boys and girls, is a project worth working on.

  • The Night Is A Harsh Mistress, Chapter 5, by A. Catherine Noon

    The Night Is A Harsh Mistress

    Chapter 5

    Rachel gaped at Viktor, until her legs cramped against the edge of the couch. She sat back, feeling pole axed. “What are you saying?”

    Viktor tossed the papers back on the desk. One of the photos of David slipped forward a little and she could see it, upside down.

    “Doug and Constance Greene are not that boy’s parents,” Viktor repeated. “That isn’t even their name, I would wager.”

    “Then why would he be worried for them?” Rachel counted. “When he called me, that’s the first thing he asked.”

    Viktor just studied her. His blue eyes, clear like sapphires and about as warm, didn’t blink. She couldn’t even be sure he was breathing, except the smoke from his cigarette moved around him. She wanted to ask him for one, but his manner intimidated her.

    “He called you?” Viktor asked finally. “Where? Here, or your mobile?”

    “Here, why?” she asked. “It’s a public number, Viktor. Why the intrigue?”

    His expression changed and she realized he thought her naïve. “If he is a prisoner of someone, how could he find your number? If he is a runaway, why would he know you are looking for him?”

    She stared at him, feeling unfriendly. Part of that was because those were good questions, and partly because she didn’t have the answer to them. “So why are you involved?”

    “You need to be careful, Rachel,” Viktor responded. “There is more going on here than you know.”

    She felt a chill. “Viktor…”

    He stood, startling her. “I must go. But be careful. Lay low on this case for now. Just a few days, okay?”

    She stood, facing him. “Viktor, it’s not like I can just stop – ”

    “You’ve got two other cases. Take your pictures and let this go for now.”

    It was only after he’d left that she thought to wonder how he knew what her other two cases were.

    “Dammit,” she muttered, locking the door to the office. She sat down at the desk and realized she’d forgotten to ask Viktor for a cigarette. The scent of his tobacco was still strong around her chair and she breathed deeply. She wanted to quit, maybe she should just bite the bullet and not buy any more. They just smelled so good…

    Idly, she fished out the picture of David from the folder where it lay on the desk. A shock of unruly dark hair topped a young face, innocent and clean of whiskers. She pulled the photo closer, trying to see if there was any sign of stubble or if David’s whiskers just hadn’t grown in yet, but she couldn’t tell. His eyes were a clear hazel greenish brown, a bit of yellow right around the irises. A light band of freckles dusted his nose, a small, pert thing that seemed almost like an afterthought. His mouth was wide and his teeth white as he smiled, but his eyes remained serious. She wondered about the photo. Constance Greene had given it to her as though she was handing over something precious.

    If it was an act, it was a good one.

  • The Night Is A Harsh Mistress, by A. Catherine Noon; Chapter 4

    The Night Is A Harsh Mistress

    Chapter 4

    Rachel froze. Viktor Khrushchev sat at her desk, a cigarette in his hand and a smirk on his long-nosed face. His clear blue eyes laughed at her even though he made no sound.

    “How the hell did you get in here?” she demanded.

    He sat back and his smirk widened into a grin. His teeth flashed whitely against his face, too white for a smoker – but then, Viktor had had his teeth whitened last year, to fool ‘the ladies.’ She wasn’t impressed.

    “I told you, Rachel, you should have changed your locks. At least get a Medeco.”

    “I can’t get a Medeco without the Landlord’s approval and he’s got to be there with me,” she snapped. “Besides, would it keep you out?”

    “It would be better than that crap you’ve got now,” he shot back, smile falling off his face with what should have been an audible thud.

    Her stomach clenched. She finally let go the door handle when her hand cramped. “What are you doing here?”

    He studied her. “Put your bags down, Raych. I’m not here to hurt you or something.” His tone was faintly disgusted.

    She knew better. Khrushchev was a soldier for the local Russian mob and she knew of at least three murders he’d committed. The police didn’t even know his name.

    She turned and set her toiletry case on the file cabinet and hung her clothes in the closet. When she turned back, Viktor was watching her carefully and she felt a chill tickle her spine. She shivered.

    He smiled, seeing it, leaving his eyes cold and predatory. “Sit. Let’s talk.”

    “About what?”

    “Sit, Rachel,” he ordered, crossing one leg over the other. “Please.”

    It was the ‘please,’ more than the order, that did it. She sat on the couch, grateful she’d made up her bed before going to get her shower. “What do you want, Viktor?”

    “You are looking for a boy, a David Greene, yes?”

    Rachel gaped at him, keeping her expression blank by sheer luck. She couldn’t figure out why the Russian mob would care. Nothing she’d found so far led anywhere near any kind of organized crime with the parents, and the boy was a model student. Until this incident.

    “Please,” Viktor growled, losing patience. “I already know you are. What I want to know is, why.”

    “Why?” she echoed, surprised. “You want to know why?”

    He glared at her, a shadow of what must be his more threatening persona. He didn’t unleash it on her often but she got the same sick feeling in her stomach upon seeing it. “The parents hired me to find their missing boy,” she told that predator, in an effort to make sure it didn’t decide she was something that interested it.

    “The parents.”

    “Yes,” Rachel repeated impatiently, rummaging on her desk. “Doug and Constance Greene.”

    He studied her without speaking for several moments. He’d shaved recently, his face was smooth and unblemished.

    “Right here.” Rachel brandished the file over her desk.

    Viktor leaned forward without warning and snatched the file from her hand before she even registered movement. She stared at him, unsettled. He ignored her, leafing through the file with a frown. He looked up and saw her staring at him.

    “These people are not the boy’s parents.”

  • The Night Is A Harsh Mistress, by A. Catherine Noon

    The Night Is A Harsh Mistress

    Chapter 3

    Of course, you know what they say about good intentions. The alarm went off precisely at eleven and she nearly knocked it on the floor trying to get to the snooze bar. She blinked muzzily out the window and fished for her pack of cigarettes. Only one left.

    The broad-leafed tree outside her window waved gently in the breeze, the leaves flipping softly back and forth and creating mesmerizing patterns. She lost herself in it and didn’t realize she’d dozed off until the alarm buzzed again.

    “Dammit!” Her cigarette was mostly ash by this point, dwindling to nothing in the ashtray. She sat up resolutely and scrubbed her face.

    She felt better after a shower in the building’s small gym. She wandered back to her office, her bag clutch in her hand, and saw a door ahead of her open. She sighed, knowing what was coming.

    “Miss Carmichael? Is that you?” The familiar voice of her landlord preceded the rest of him into the hallway. He hadn’t needed to ask, obviously, but he thought it would ‘smooth social interaction.’ She knew this because he told her it was his technique for dealing with all his tenants, as though he forgot she was a tenant too.

    “Hi, Mr. Singh. How are you today?”

    “How am I today?” he repeated in his sing-songy, overly-friendly voice. “I am just peachy today. I have two more tenants that will move in on the second floor, Miss Carmichael.” He beamed at her. “And how are you today?” He really wasn’t as flamingly gay as he sounded, he was just that friendly. He made her tired.

    “I’m good, Mr. Singh. I have a break on a case and I finished another case, so things are moving along well.”

    He stepped closer to her. “You should come over to dinner on Friday, Miss Carmichael,” he said in a quieter voice, like it was a secret. “My sister’s friend is here from India and her son is with her. He is a very eligible bachelor, you know!” He beamed at her, showing all of his pearly-whites in an overexuberance of dental perfection.

    “Mr. Singh,” she started.

    He held up a hand. “Say no more, Miss Carmichael. I understand.”

    She doubted he did, but refrained from frowning at him by sheer will.

    He bent even closer, so he was only a few inches from her ear. “Just think about it.” He stood up quickly, as though afraid of being too intimate with a single woman in his hallway. “Have a good day, Miss Carmichael!” He disappeared into his office without waiting for a response.

    She sighed and walked into her own space and closed the door. She set the bag down on the unmade couch and only then did she realize she wasn’t alone. She whirled.

    “Still sleeping in your office, huh Raych?”

  • The Night Is A Harsh Mistress, by A. Catherine Noon

    The Night Is A Harsh Mistress
    by A. Catherine Noon

    Chapter 2

    The phone rang, startling her a little. “Rachel Carmichael,” she greeted without looking at the Caller I.D., her cigarette bouncing in the corner of her mouth. She slipped off her shoes and shrugged out of her jacket. The gun went on the desk for a moment until she could unload and clean it and she moved around behind the desk.

    “Missus Carmichael?” The voice sounded young, and panicked.

    “Speaking. Who is this?”

    “Missus Carmichael, this is David. David Greene?”

    Rachel almost fell getting into her office chair. David was the name of the missing teenager. Her luck couldn’t be this good, could it? “David,” she said more warmly. “You’ve worried a lot of people, David. Not least of which are your parents.”

    “Are they okay?” David asked wildly. He sounded breathless and not as relieved as Rachel would have expected.

    “Are your parents okay, David?” she echoed, mostly to buy time to think. “Of course they are. They’re very worried about you.” She paused. “Where are you?”

    “No!” David shouted. “I can’t tell you that,” he said more calmly. “I just need you to stop looking for me, okay?”

    Of all the… “Your parents hired me to find you, David. You’re underage and missing. That doesn’t give you a lot of options in the eyes of the law, you know.”

    “You’re not the law, though, are you?” David countered.

    That seemed to Rachel to be a little too astute for a fourteen-year-old. “What makes you think that, David?” she hedged.

    She heard his panicked breathing on the other end for a moment. “Please,” he whispered. “Please, just stop looking!” The line went dead.

    “David?” she called futilely. “Dammit!” She resisted slamming the phone down only because, if she broke it, she’d have to replace it. What she really wanted to do was throw the stupid thing out the window.

    She sat back in her chair and put her legs up on her desk. She caught the ash of the cigarette before it landed on the carpet, but only just. She finished that one and started another one without getting one iota of inspiration.

    She fished out the contract from her inbox, the one that Doug Greene and his mousy wife Constance signed. Mr. Greene’s signature was loopy and illegible, the scrawl of a busy man. Mrs. Green’s was more controlled, precise and neat. Rachel ran her fingers over the signatures absently. They both were indented slightly, like they had been pushing down with some pressure when they signed.

    What that meant, Rachel had no idea.

    Dammit! She hated it when cases refused to be clear. Why would David want his parents to stop looking for him?

    Then her mind, up until now fuzzy with the desire to sleep, kicked awake.

    The first thing David asked wasn’t ‘Why are my parents looking for me,’ like most runaways would ask. It was, ‘Are my parents okay?’ Why wouldn’t they be? What would make David worry that his parents, who did the expected thing of hiring someone to find their precious teenaged boy, might not be okay?

    That didn’t really have an answer yet. But Rachel was determined it would. She got up, resolute now, and got ready for bed. She set the alarm for eleven and turned off the ringer to the phone. At least the rent was paid, so she could afford to take a day or two looking into the Greene’s background.

    Besides, she thought as she had a final cigarette before bed, you could never be too careful about your clients. It paid to know who Mr. and Mrs. Greene were, and why their fourteen-year-old would be worried for their safety.

    Rachel got under the covers on her couch gratefully. She finally had a case worth waking up for.

  • Wiley Wednesday: “In Search of Prolific”

    The writers of the Writer’s Retreat Blog have agreed to contribute essays to our series called, “Wiley Wednesday,” in which we will share our thoughts and opinions about the craft of writing. This is my essay for this week. I hope you enjoy!

    In Search of Prolific
    by A. Catherine Noon

    Writing is a lonely pursuit. We can work with each other to an extent, but it ultimately comes down to applying oneself to the page or the keyboard. In order to do this, we have to suspend disbelief in our right to communicate, and trust that we have something worthwhile to say. Even if we are our own audience through a journal, we need to be able to let ourselves put thoughts down long enough to capture them, even if later we might decide they’re silly or unworthy. But in order to have written something, it’s axiomatic that we must, well, write it.

    There are many reasons why we have trouble with writing. There are just as many theories as to how to overcome it. I have found many of them to be silly or, worse, damaging. Applying a left-brain, ‘you must do this,’ approach does not work long-term. Writing, like the practice of any art, is an art, not a science. In science, we have the Scientific Method to tell us how to proceed. (Top scientists in their field will tell you that those who advance a field are just as much artists and I believe that. I speak here of the work of science, the general day-to-day experiments and theses that must be done in the course of a scientist’s day.) First, we have a theory. We test that theory. We record the results. We see if the successful results can be duplicated. These are standardized rules that have been agreed upon for decades.

    Writing, sadly, has no such mantra. There is no bank of writerly ideas that one can plumb and then write an automatically good story, not to mention a commercially viable one (which is not necessarily the same thing, though many times it is). In order to sustain any long-term creative endeavor, we need to have something to say. And therein lies the rub.

    How does one come up with something to say? First, one needs to believe that whatever one wants to say is worth saying. Worth writing down. This is a surprisingly tough hurdle for us to surmount. When we’re young, first and second grade, we are, by and large, blabbermouths. We have opinions on everything (those of you with that age of child will know what I mean). Even comparatively “quiet” kids can go on at length (dare I say, “ad nauseum?”) about a topic that interests them. Then what happens? My personal theory is institutional schooling happens, where we’re critiqued and only good, nice, well-lined up little soldier thoughts are appropriate. Messy, creative and goofy thoughts are discouraged. Whether or not I’m right, something happens and we muzzle ourselves. We need to learn how to prize that muzzle off ourselves and begin, slowly at first but with gaining momentum, to start communicating again.

    One tool I have found enormously useful here is Morning Pages, an idea talked about by Julia Cameron in her book, The Artist’s Way. The idea is that you roll out of bed and onto the page, thereby evading the Censor. You write three pages. Why three? I saw Ms. Cameron speak recently, and she answered this question from the audience. She said that three seems like a good number, not too much, and not too little. People in her classes seem to be able to do them regularly. As a student of her work, I agree. Three pages doesn’t seem like too much, and it’s enough for me to get the “gunk” out of my head and onto the page. Sometimes I get diamonds in the process, sometimes just mud. But it’s on the page and, suddenly, I have something I’ve – gasp – written.

    Another tool I like is from Natalie Goldberg in her book, Writing Down the Bones. She suggests setting a goal for oneself, like fill up one notebook a month. She then goes on to point out, if it’s Day 27 and you’ve got nothing, then you have a lot to do between the 27th and the 31st. Gulp. What a way to trick the procrastinator! It’s okay to put it off all month (and believe me, I’ve done that on occasion!), but by the end of the month, look out! Caffeine and Denny’s, here I come. I once wrote, fueled by two mochas and dreadful coffee, until about 2:30 in the morning at my local Denny’s. The service staff is surprisingly accommodating to the lonely writer. And man! You see the weirdest people at that hour of the morning. Why, I could tell you stories!

    Exactly!

    That’s yet another tool. Josip Novakovich, in his book The Fiction Writer’s Workshop, suggests going out to a café or restaurant and just observing the people there. Then write down what you see. You don’t even have to have a story to tell. Just, “there’s a blonde at the table next to me, eating cherry pie.” You might wonder why she’s eating pie. Maybe she just left her husband. She’s an alcoholic out late. She’s a spy. She’s an alien. Or, she’s a blonde eating cherry pie, and it’s the business man in the table near her who’s the spy. Poof. You have a page or two or more of observations, peppered with speculation and silliness. But that’s what makes the story.

    A word about “mood.” A lot of writers have told me they don’t “feel like” writing. But my argument is, writing is a verb. An action verb. “To write.” Means, put pencil or pen to paper, or fingers to keyboard, and put down words. It is not, “to emote.” “To wait until inspiration strikes.” “To sit, staring, drooling even, until the words come.” It’s “to write.” That’s all. It’s that simple. All the drama and foo-foo about the rest of it, is drama and foo-foo. Not pertinent. In fact, it’s a good idea to put all that stuff down on the page. Perfect fodder for the morning pages, as a matter of fact. “I feel poopy today. I don’t want to write.” Then write three pages about why you don’t want to write.

    Someone once asked me, a little desperately, is that all? Three pages is what makes you so prolific? I told them that there’s more to it than that, that it’s all about the exercises in the Artist’s Way and other things, but after having an opportunity to think about it I think the answer is a little bit that the three pages are a secret. Not “the” secret, because I don’t think any one thing we do is it, it’s the combined influence of all we do that alchemizes within us. But I do think that three pages is a magical elixir that, over the course of days and months, can alter your experience of your creativity. I can tell you that I have done them since 1995 and they have completely overhauled my life, not just my writing. Other things have helped too, but when I am stuck and haven’t written my pages, I can feel it. If I sit down and write them, something subtle happens and I feel better. I may not get THE ANSWER, boom!, but something does begin to shift and move around and flow.

    There’s a great prayer that Julia Cameron shares with us in The Artist’s Way: You take care of the quality, I’ll take care of the quantity. Regardless of your concept of deity, this is a potent affirmation. If you disconnect yourself from needing to do it well, or perfect, or right, or grammatically correct, you are able to just do it. “It” doesn’t need to “be” anything other than what it is. Is every word I’ve written since 1995 gold? Of course not. But I’ve written a huge amount, and some of it is gold. I average 100 pages a month in journal work. In March, 2008, I wrote over 30 short stories and two novellas, as well as did a structural overhaul on my novel. I am positive that this work could not have been done without the Morning Pages and other groundwork that I’ve done. There’s no secret to it, but there is work. No drama, but story.

    Trust yourself, and write. Or, don’t trust yourself. But write.

    That’s the secret.

  • The Night Is A Harsh Mistress, by A. Catherine Noon

    Welcome to the world of Rachel Carmichael, self-employed Private Detective and Security Consultant. Join us as we follow Rachel on her adventures and, hopefully, on the path to quitting smoking!

    The Night Is A Harsh Mistress

    Chapter 1

    Rachel Carmichael stubbed out her cigarette grumpily. She kept quitting, but kept starting back up. Stupid habit. She smoothed her lips together, deciding there was still enough lip gloss to be respectable. She popped a mint in her mouth and pushed off the wall.

    Seven different bars tonight, and so far, none of them were the right one. A peel of laughter split the night ahead of her and she froze. Maybe her luck was changing.

    Her quarry had great taste in shoes, and a better budget than Rachel. Maybe if she quit smoking, she could afford shoes like that, she thought sourly. The woman was tall, even with the four-inch come-fuck-me stilettos. Her long blond hair spilled down her back in a perfect curtain, cut off in a neat line and hardly moving in the breeze.

    The man with her was short but muscular. He still wore his suit, but the tie was stuck in a pocket. He was liable to lose it, carrying it like that; but from the look in his eye as he watched the woman, he didn’t care about his tie. He followed her, stumbling a little, toward the parking lot.

    Rachel snapped four pictures of them before they were even in sight of his car. He had a nice ride; a black Mercedes that was deceptively large and spacious. The windows were tinted and allowed little light through, but they obliged by engaging in a prolonged make-out session right against the side of the car. His hand disappeared up the slit in her dress and she moaned. Rachel would have bet money the sound was faked, theatricality at its best. She snapped another two shots and returned to the shadows.

    She added up what she had so far and decided to call it a night. Her watch told her accusingly it was nearly four in the morning. She sighed bitterly. Yet another night she’d been up past the witching hour. At least this time, she’d caught the quarry. This paycheck would pay the rent on her office for the next three months.

    Since she lived there, that was a good thing.

    She parked in the lot below the building, the early morning hush closing in around her like a hand. She rode the elevator up to her floor, hardly speaking to Jim in the guard station. She unlocked the door, the inset window proclaiming, “Rachel Carmichael, Private Detection and Security Consultation.” Funny, but she’d thought the second part of her company name would attract more clients, and more interesting work. So far, all she’d gotten were three angry husbands and a missing teenager. She was bored, but at least it was her own business.

    She threw her purse on her desk and pulled another cigarette out of the dwindling pack. As the flame bloomed and she took a deep breath, she wondered for the fifth time that night if she ought to quit. She inhaled again, staring out the window.