"HOW I CAME TO WRITE THIS STORY": Naomi Johnson

HOW I CAME TO WRITE THIS STORY

Naomi Johnson

A CORPSE BY ANY OTHER NAME (From the forthcoming anthology, PULP INK, Nigel Bird and Chris Rhatigan, Editors.)

I'm not a writer by nature. Writing is hard work, and I'm indolent to a shocking degree. I don't often feel compelled to put in long hours at the keyboard. Not even short hours. Ideas don't ever have to elbow each other out of the way to get my attention. When I refer to myself as a dilettante, I'm not being self-effacing; it's all too true.

On the rare occasion that an idea for a story presents itself to me, I turn it over and over, like a numismatist examining a rare coin. I'm not looking for flaws as the coin collector would; I'm just trying to decide if the idea interests me enough to put up with a little ergonomic strain. I'm not a writer who enters many flash challenges or contests; I don't want to face deadlines and word counts. (So those writers who entered the recent Watery Grave Contest should understand how very much I sympathized with them.)

So what the devil possessed me to say yes when Nigel Bird came a-knocking at my email last February, asking if I would contribute to an anthology he and Chris Rhatigan were putting together? Well, the deadline of June 1, seemed so distant, almost like another galaxy, light years away. Pretty sure I could flesh out an idea in three months without stressing myself. Yah, right.

The theme of that anthology was to be the soundtrack from the film, Pulp Fiction. Only there were more contributors than songs so I received a line of dialogue to work from: “Our names don't mean shit.”

Most of the time, my story ideas come in a flash, a vision. I see a scene, more rarely even hear a line of dialogue, and I can work out the story from that scene. To my surprise, I got a terrific flash from that line of dialogue: A young boy, bright green eyes, sitting in a police cruiser, says that line to the cop, who somehow understands that this little boy intends to kill the cop's father.

That's not the story I sent to Nigel and Chris.

That story, tentatively titled Heroes, is not finished. For purposes of the anthology, it was just soaring well beyond double the word count I was allotted. For weeks I was stuck for a new idea. Went back and watch Pulp Fiction again, hoping for some non-copyright-violating inspiration.

Fans of the film have their favorite bits, but for me the darkly hilarious scene of the accidental shooting in the car is standout. From that scene I developed my two main characters, a pair of thugs named Lucian and Mackie. They are not as menacing as the Travolta and Jackson characters in the film. Neither are Mackie and Lucian as smart as Westlake's Dortmunder gang. But they are just as unlucky. Adhering ever so faintly to the “names don't mean shit” line, Lucian and Mackie kidnap the wrong man and instantly things begin falling apart for them.

It would be misleading to say that's all there was to writing the story from that point. No, halfway through I lost all perspective on where the action was leading. I was unsure whether I could finish by deadline or stay on count (I did the first, not the latter). Twice I begged for some oversight and guidance from the editors. I doubt this story would ever have been finished, much less see the light of day, were it not for their repeated readings and sound advice. Whatever about the story doesn't work, mea culpa. If readers see anything in that story to like, Nigel and Chris are the lads to thank.

You can find Naomi at THE DROWNING MACHINE where she exhibits the same humility and niceness every day.