One Mile Walk

Story Germination

2025/06/13 09:35-11:40 Friday [Research] While doing research for a pending probate, I've been fording through old logbooks for times and dates pertinent to my past guardianship obligations. Software and hardware changes over the years have resulted in many lost files. Restoring usable text (from out-of-date formats) requires a close look at the raw binary data. With patients and a lot of luck, I rediscovered some interesting things. It also shows me how I put together my stories. A pair of entries from October 2007 germinated into what became my “A Change of Character” in 2008. Unfortunately The Yard Restaurant was sold and converted to a brewery around 2010.


Writing
2007/10/13 19:45-21:30a Saturday [The Yard Restaurant] First noted.
The place:
         They were really packed in tonight. Some sort of charity thing going on in the banquet facility. I went so I could see the start of the Boston/Cleveland playoff game on the big TV. And maybe meet a few new potential characters for my stories. I sat at the bar and ordered a Bourbon Bison steak and a Guinness.

Profile:
         Heather is about 30, 5' 8" tall, 135 lbs, black hair, brown eyes. Born and grew up in Windham, NH. She lives in an apartment in Derry, has a roommate (F) and a B.F. but he works nights. She only keeps in touch with 2 or 3 H.S. friends. Only comes to The Yard on Saturday nights. Knows several patrons closely... "They're all a little weird." She knows their wives too.
She works as a bookkeeper in a lumberyard but has no accounting credentials. She learned on the job and has been there three years. Doesn't think school is necessary, "Just work hard and learn the job."
         She waited tables for two years out of H.S. Wanted to be a bartender but was too young. Now, just haunts bars on the weekends.
         Her roommate is a slob. She is always picking up after her. Tonight, she gave her an ultimatum, "Clean the place or move out." She's at The Yard while her roommate is supposed to be cleaning the apartment.

Bar Conversation:
         I met "Heather" sitting next to me. She is an avid reader and was happy to meet a writer. She asked what I write, "stories or novels?"
         I said, "Stories mostly, but I'm not published yet. I'm working on a very long story. It may be a novel someday."
         "What stage are you in, the beginning, the middle, or the end?"
         "I'm still doing research. I have to go to Boston to find an old newspaper article from 1976."
         She suggested, "Checkout St. Anselm's library first. They've got a pretty extensive microfiche section." Then asked, "What kind of novel are you writing."
         I said, "It's about how we lost our daughter."
         She looked genuinely sad, and said, "I'm sorry. It must be hard to write about it. Do you sometimes have to use researchers?"
         I said, "I can't afford it. I had to marry mine."
         "Very expensive," she said.
         "Oh, just bus fare... and a hotel one night in Boston... dinner too."
         She looked at me, "Fringe benefits?" and smirked.
         "Ah... tickets to 'Sweeney Todd,' too. Opening night."
         "Boy, sounds like a tough job."
         "Can be... on the emotions. I've built up a bit more resistance than she has."
         "Emotional resistance?"
         "I've been thinking about it every day for eleven years. She's tried to put it behind her. To move on. I don't think she wants to forget... just not dwell on it so much."
         Heather may not have grasped the full depth of the story I'm researching, but seemed to sense its importance to me. "If you ever need a 'paid' assistant, give me a call."
         She paid her bill with a VISA Card, stood up and put on a big fur coat, then gave me a hug before she left. Surprised me though, she wasn't too steady walking away. Maybe she's just friendly when she's a little tipsy.
         She didn't give me her number though. I'll have to go back to The Yard to search for her (research... night after night after night).


Writing
2007/10/13 19:45-21:30b Saturday [The Yard Restaurant] Story scene derivative:
         I sat at the bar next to a girl who was almost silent for 45 minutes. She only talked in short 'yes' or 'no' sentences to questions from a friend on the other side of her. When I finished my steak she was in the middle of her fourth draft and introduced herself, "Heather from Windham."
         "Hi, I'm Don from Londonderry... well, for the last thirty years that is."
         "No, you don't sound like a native from around here. Where?"
         Sound like? I haven't talked to anyone yet, except the bartender. "Oh, Florida, Alabama, Massachusetts, California, lots of places."
         "Well, I was born and raised in Windham. Been to California once.
         Her boyfriend interrupted, "Heather, if we can't have a private conversation, I'm leaving."
         She didn't even turn toward him, but said, "Bye."
         Uh oh... maybe a bad time for me.
         Her friend threw a ten on the bar and walked into the darkness of the foyer.
         Heather glanced at the ten, then muttered, "Cheap bastard, wouldn't even pay for my drink."
         Uh oh squared. Is she a professional? I addressed my Guinness and took a long light sip.
         "Yeah, right. A private inquisition in a bar with the Red Socks playing," she said.
         I set the glass down, picked up the knife, and started pushing a piece of potato around the plate. "You in the beginning, middle, or end of a relationship with your friend there?"
         "I hope not. He's just stupid sometimes."
         "Well, there's always tomorrow. Maybe the sun will come up differently."
         She drained her beer, waited a bit, and then said, "'Beginning, middle or end,' sounds like a story."
         "Sorry, seems I interpret lots of things like a story lately. A hazard of my vocation."
         "You tell stories? Are you a reporter or something?"
         "No, no. I just write a lot."
         "A writer. One of my high school friends is a writer. She writes for 'New Hampshire Magazine.' Who do you write for?"
         "Nobody. Not yet. I write, but I don't publish."
         "Well... why do you write then?"
         Cleveland got a run and a few moans and cuss words drifted out of the patrons.
         "I like it. It's fun. It's better to say I'm a writer than to say I'm unemployed."
         The bartender came by and Heather pointed to her glass.
         "Did Dave leave? He coming back?" the bartender asked.
         Heather said, "Who cares... no, Sammy, he's gone."
         The bartender (Sammy, I assume) took the cash and wiped off the counter. As soon as she was done, a scruffy, ruddy-faced man in an old leather coat took the seat.
         "Hello Carl," Heather said.
         Heather chatted with Carl until Sammy brought a shot of Crown Royal and a draft of Guinness for him, and a fresh Sam Adams for her.
         "Between two Guinness men. The night's prospects are looking up," Heather said.
         Yep. She's a professional.
         Sammy asked me, "You want another?"
         "No, I'm fine."
         Carl closed his eyes and held the shot under his knurled nose and took a deep breath to savor the bouquet. He took a sip, another sniff, and another slow sip. Then he breathed in through his mouth to enjoy the residual alcohol vapors.
         Heather said, "Carl is trying hard to become an alcoholic."
         "At least he chaises it with a quality brew," I said, tipping my glass toward him.
         Carl acknowledged with a deep drink of his Guinness. With foam under his nose he said, "I am becoming quite diplomatic in my study of drink. Scotland and Canada of late."
         "Fine nations and fine booze," I said.
         Noise filled the room as Boston finally ended the inning with three men left on base.
         Heather said to me, "So, what are you writing now?"
         "Just researching for a story I've been working on for a long time."
         "Researching? Reading old records or something?"
         "Yes, lots of reading. In fact, writing is mostly reading."
         "I read a lot."
         "Good. For work?"
         "No, God no. Work is all numbers. No, I like Romance. Read five books this summer."
         "Well, really good for you. Romance is the biggest market. Any favorite authors?"
         "Nora Roberts mostly."
         "I've read several of hers," I said.
         "You're a romance writer?"
         "No. I needed a little romance scene in a story I tried last year. I read her to see how it's done by a master."
         "And?"
         "She's good at withholding satisfaction. I'm too direct. Typical engineer. Gotta solve the problem. Doesn't work in romance."
         "Romancing the Engineer... sort of an oxymoron."
         "You're right. I feel like a moron sometimes."
         "You do your research online?"
         "Usually. But this latest thing is in newspapers around 1976. Records aren't online for much before 1980. Before the Internet."
         "Newspapers are on microfiche. I had to lookup stuff on microfiche when I went to St. Anselm's in Manchester."
         "You're a college girl?"
         "Was. Would have been class of '97, Accounting. But, I couldn't afford it. Had to drop out and work."
         "Too bad. What you do now?"
         "Accounting... Actually, bookkeeping. An accountant is in charge, I just do all the work."
         "That's the way it is in every profession. We grunts do all the work, the boss takes all the credit."
         "Even writing?"
         "For the big authors. They have staffs to write a lot of their stuff. They just sign-off the finished product.

Using these two entry fragments, and recollections from 1967, I put together “A Change of Character” and presented it to my writing group and uploaded it to my portfolio. From the Internet https://www.writing.com/main/view_item/item_id/1359387-A-Change-of-Character
Or directly on Writing.Com

A Change of Character  [18+] #1359387 Fiction threatens to become reality by C. Don