Add a little sex, humor, and fighting to your Novel

[tracey clark]

Writing you novel, and looking for the best way to keep your readers interested??? Here are a few aspects that I always try to include...

Finding the words to make you Novel memorable!!

The easiest way to write about something is to know it inside and out. If you want to understand the inner workings of the restaurant business??? Want to be able to describe the feeling of flying through the air??? How about explaining the reality of living on a horse ranch???

Watch, Ask, and Do!!! Stalk local restaurants, pull out your pad and pen as you interview anyone that will stand still long enough, and see if you can help out in the kitchen (get hired on a month/summer basis). Take a flying lesson and do all you can to learn the ropes. Lasso yourself a cowboy and ... Sorry, got distracted by the thought of cowboys and lassos, but I think you get the picture. Do anything and everything you can think of to learn the feel, the taste, and the sights of the world you want to create.

Sex

But what happens when you want to add a little sexual tension to your novel? How about those full blown sex scenes?? Some of the things we add to our novels are either impractical or impossible for us to learn about first hand. Remember that song Can't Buy Me Love?? Well, you can't force a love connection just to learn what it feels like. You might not want to try out some of the bedroom gymnastics portrayed by the lustiest of novels. What in the world do you do now?

Well, you could always make it up, use your imagination. But where to start? And how are you going to get your reader to pay attentions when your words feel rushed or halting? LOL I suggest you look it up.

I love romance, from the behind-the-bedroom-door actions to the break-the-bed-and-hope-the-neighbors-don't-call-the-police sex-capaids. By the time I finished writing Shocking Finds and my other rough drafts, my book shelf looks like a How to Become a Porn Addict guide. My mother borrowed my kindle and just about had a heart attack. But we learned to become writers by reading, so learn about being a romance writer by reading ... romance, light hearted or pornish. Read each book and find the scenes that speak to your emotions, and your fantasies. How do they describe the feel of a man's hand along your thigh, caressing your back, or jerking you into his arms. Learn how to put the feel of each action into the scene, don't just tell the reader it happened. Get your own romance collection.

Humor

Humor can be even harder to portray than passion. We live in a diverse world, with varying senses of humor. Have you ever been at a party and stood with your friends as they doubled over in laughter, all while you looked on in confusion? If liquor wasn't involved, chances are that you either missed the joke or just didn't find it funny. Or worse ... Have you told a story that brought tears laughter to your eyes, but looked around to see that your friends were scratching their heads, going over your words, and looking for the humor?? Reading is only the first step to attacking this issue.

Okay. Reading something that you find funny might not help you to impress your friends, but reading something that millions of other readers considered humorous may improve your writing. Humor is just as important and passion when it comes to adding emotions to your novel. You want your reader to get lost in the worlds you create. If they can feel each scene, then you are on the right track. This is something that I hope to get better and more polished at as I continue to write.

If all else fails, try a comedy club or two. Get in a frame of mind that helps your words to come out in flowing manner, instead of just dropping a joke into you story now and them. Personally, I don't even consider what kind of emotion or humor I can add to my story when I'm writing that rough draft. As I bring my story to life I try to see where they are going, how I can build up to that moment when the emotions (no matter if it is passions, anger, failure, gut wrenching sadness, or humor) will reach the page full tilt.

Fighting

Oooo... Fighting, bloodbaths, all out war... Okay, this one is easy. First you make sure that your annoying neighbor, with the yappy dog, and lack of parking etiquette is home. You do some stretches, get your muscles loose and ready, and then walk over and punch him in the face... see, easy...

What? You think that could lead to jail time, or just finding yourself lying on his doorstep as you watch little cartoon birdies fly around your head. Hmm. Well the other method is much harder. It also involves a great deal of reading, or you could take a martial arts class to learn the feel of some of the moves and defenses. I was lucky enough to take a karate class as a child. That was long ago but some of the motions are hard to forget.

But fighting and violence isn't just accomplished in a fist fight. You can stripe the hide off of someone's sense of worth with words a lot easier than you can with a sidekick. I didn't grow up in a household that contained harsh words, but some of you might be able to call on those memories. Pull them up and use them to make will have your reader sobbing and looking for the ice cream, clinching their fists on behalf of your character, or maybe feeling anxiety as you add more turmoil to your character's life.

This is the hardest emotion for me to bring to my novels. So of course, I practice. The best results come when you hang out with a friend or two and then... Okay, just kidding. This is something that needs to be done in your head, or out loud as you drive down the highway. Alone. I usually look like an insane person when I'm driving. Sometimes bringing myself to tears with harsh words. Your friends can only help if you sit down and they are willing to have a heart to heart walk down memory lane with you. Otherwise ... prepare to look a little loony as you fight with yourself as you cruise down the highway.

No matter what you decide to write, what you want to bring to your story, how you want to portray your characters lives and their world... remember to have fun with it. Enjoy what you write, and hopefully others will love it as well.

Tracey Clark

[moderntimes]

A great "essay" on writing, Tracey! And spot on.

In my novels, I use my personal experience if I can, and then otherwise, lots of research, much of it on the net, otherwise speaking to people. Now I write modern American private detective novels and I try to make them highly realistic. The books are also written for an adult audience -- meaning, I have scenes of graphic crime violence, strong language, and some sexy scenes.

The sex is easy. I just replay an encounter from my younger, wilder days, and maybe ramp it up a bit.

Fighting? Well, I studied Shotokan karate for 2 years, and my private eye has studied Shotokan. So I can use my own training for a hand to hand fight.

I'm also a firearms enthusiast, and so my gun use in the books is very precise and accurate, no "gun goofs" allowed in my books. And of course, mystery fans are often gun buffs, so they'll spot errors, and I try hard to make the descriptions as accurate to reality as possible.

Humor is the easiest. I've got plenty of fun friends who have all sorts of humor traits, some laugh out loud, some sarcastic, so I often use their humorous personalities to augment the characters in my novel.

But a lot of what you're writing about is material which comes from the author's brain, all "thunk up" on our own. It just comes to us and we write it down.

I'll also give you a specific example. In my new 3rd novel (soon to be published), I wanted a bit of alternate locale for my characters, so my private eye's new girlfriend is a trauma surgeon, and she's also a sailing enthusiast. I wanted her to have a nice small sailboat and so I researched for a couple of weeks, lots of online research on sailing (about which I know zero) and chatted on sailing forums, asking for advice. And so I eventually gave her a spiffy new Beneteau "First Twenty" sailboat, a highly popular craft for recreational sailing. And then I used tons of videos and photos online about those boats, and so I was able to describe my private eye going sailing with the gal, and provide sufficient details to fill in the story line.

[tracey clark]

But a lot of what you're writing about is material which comes from the author's brain, all "thunk up" on our own. It just comes to us and we write it down.

I'll also give you a specific example. In my new 3rd novel (soon to be published), I wanted a bit of alternate locale for my characters, so my private eye's new girlfriend is a trauma surgeon, and she's also a sailing enthusiast. I wanted her to have a nice small sailboat and so I researched for a couple of weeks, lots of online research on sailing (about which I know zero) and chatted on sailing forums, asking for advice. And so I eventually gave her a spiffy new Beneteau "First Twenty" sailboat, a highly popular craft for recreational sailing. And then I used tons of videos and photos online about those boats, and so I was able to describe my private eye going sailing with the gal, and provide sufficient details to fill in the story line.

.... I love the part about using forums... excellent advice.. happy wordage

[moderntimes]

Forums and the internet itself is an amazing thing. I'm 74 and I am wholly "into" the electronic world. Of course it might help that I worked in computer circuit design and engineering programming, then later management of engineering programming, for maybe 30 years.

I laugh occasionally -- one of my boys will phone me for help setting up a printer or whatever, and I'll tease him "Isn't this supposed to be the other way around, the old man asking the kids for advice?"

[aparsons]

I really liked your information, thank you! My novel has plenty of fighting in it, but not a lot of humor. (I can only hope I say something that turns into something funny) Lastly, the sex. I am terrified that if I do eventually publish a novel, what if my parents read it? How do you field the familial minefield?

[moderntimes]

Well, at my age nobody is surprised at my writing.

But family? If your writing is such that the violence or sex or whatever is within the scope of the book, and assuming you're writing a book meant for adults to read, then you're okay.

Of course if your book is meant for kids or juveniles, you must temper the stronger material accordingly.

But grownups read grown up stories. So long as the material isn't egregious or deliberately rancid, but is part of the story, there should be no problem.

My Mom was very much a timid and old school reader. Whereas my Dad was forthright and much into Faulker, Hemingway, Henry Miller, etc. He'd often caution me to not show my writing to my Mom. And I was careful about that.

[aparsons]

I haven't even told them I am writing a novel. My friends and my husband knows, but I don't want to advertise it to my family because I fell like they would bug me about it. When did you start writing? I think I read this in another post, after your journalism career, right? But how old were you?

[tracey clark]

I really liked your information, thank you! My novel has plenty of fighting in it, but not a lot of humor. (I can only hope I say something that turns into something funny) Lastly, the sex. I am terrified that if I do eventually publish a novel, what if my parents read it? How do you field the familial minefield?

I worried about the sex at the beginning, but then decided to let my mother read my rough draft... I was soooo freaked... my MOTHER was reading something that I had written and there was sex in there... I soooo couldn't say in the room... I think I blushed scarlet just handing her the novel... once she was finished she was impressed and even said that my love scene was well done... (still embarrassing... lol) ... so my rule is, if I am too embarrassed to have my mother read it, then I need to take another look at my word choices... there are many ways to incorporate passion into your work... and as with actual sex, it may not be that good the first time but only you can decide what you are comfortable with, what the story calls for, what the genre is all about... once you have something that you are proud of, take a deep breath and hand it to your momma... then run like helllll, and await her critique... I don't know about your mom, but mine is a bit of a prude... lol... to get her used to the idea that there would be passion of any kind in my novel, I started talking about it with her... how I wanted my characters to eventually have a kid, and I did write paranormal/fantasy romance... there needed to be some bedroom action... I told her how odd I felt writing, and showed her my research... yep, I said research... my computer browser looked like I was preparing to become a porn star... lol... I find that the more erotic novels incorporate the small touches that move a story along, and they are easy to find because the eroticas are soooo short... the wandering hand, the accidental touch that throws her hormones into chaos... (not all of them had what I was looking for, but they all had info)... I mean... erotica is nothing if not exact in its decriptions of sex scenes... and as my background in that area isn't anything worth writing about, I needed to know how they would move and touch, and in the end I wrote a sex scene that was smooth and loving without being too much... I don't think I will ever have the ability to write erotica but it helps to read it... in the end, if you tell your mom all about confusing and embarrassing erotica research she will be sooo thankful your love scene didn't need an XXX rating... and if you decide to write eroctica... welllll.... write under a different name and if she finds out at least she cant give you the 'what will the neighbors think'.... I hope this helped... oh, and if the erotica doesn't use good grammar, it is most like not a good source to start learning how your characters should move...

-- 23 Feb 2016, 19:58 --

I haven't even told them I am writing a novel. My friends and my husband knows, but I don't want to advertise it to my family because I fell like they would bug me about it. When did you start writing? I think I read this in another post, after your journalism career, right? But how old were you?

I also suggest you read two different types of romance to get the feel for passion levels... I love paranormal/fantasy romance.... and will read anything from sweet and hidden romance, to in your face on the kitchen table lovin'.... Patricia Briggs is excellent at incorporating passion without actually having the sex act described... where as Laurell K. Hamilton has evolved into a writer that puts in every, and I mean every, detail... and works by Shelly Laurenston/G.A. Aiken and Lynsay Sands know how to add a good dose of humor to her romantic scenes... use what every genre you love, and it will make getting the feel of romance scenes a breeze...

[moderntimes]

Never be fearful of your audience. Write to your heart and you'll be fine.

As I said, my mother was very very prudish and she would never have appreciated my writing, even in high school. But my father encouraged me. Let's face it -- sometimes our parents are wrong. They cannot be the total arbiters of our choices. They raise us to be self sufficient and make decisions for ourselves, which both my parents did. They didn't always agree but they stood for my independence.

It's not necessary to write for your friends' or parents' liking. Write for yourself and you cannot go wrong.

Insofar as my own writing, I write for adults, not kiddies. And when I depict a murder or crime scene in my mystery novel, I describe it in a very "clinical" way and sometimes that can be quite graphic. In my first novel, I had a sex scene with someone thought was graphic but strangely non-sexy. And I thought, "Great!" because this was precisely what I wanted -- the two people were not in love, one in simple biological lust and the other one in a deliberate ploy to gain sympathy. So my "mechanical" description of the sex was intentional.

My recommendation is to let the description fit the story. If you're writing an adult romance or mystery or thriller, then use adult language and realistic descriptions, but also, don't go overboard to shock the reader. If the book is well written, the "shock" value will come naturally, not forced.

Asking how long I've been writing? Other than of course my schoolwork, I was a big old-school pulp SF fan, thanks to my Dad who introduced me to Edgar Rice Burroughs and other 30s and 40s authors. So I tried to write a "junior space cadet" story when I was about 10, and it was of course silly. I really didn't write that much when I was a kid.

I really blossomed in college. I wrote an underground newsletter (this was the 60s after all) and wrote essays for the college paper. I took a few journalism courses and when I left college I worked as a part time reporter ("stringer") for the Kansas City Star. That was what really got me started on "real" writing.

Understand, I'm one of those weird "dual brain" people -- my degree was in chemistry, minors in biology and math, and then a second major in English lit, where my senior thesis was "Science and Technology in James Joyce's Ulysses". Go figure.

So I worked my "day job" as a chemist in polymer physics and did pretty okay, decent job and good pay, enjoyed this a lot. But at the same time I'd write the occasional short story, and still wrote articles and news feeds for the newspaper and the AP. Small potatoes really, but fun. I also got "sidetracked" into politics and was on campaign staff for a local candidate or two, creating fliers and brochures, writing Q&A for phone bank volunteers, and so on. I also wrote occasional articles for a "slick" monthly regional magazine, doing consumer investigations and exposes into scams, like bad auto repair shops and such.

All this work, except some of the volunteer political work, was for pay. Not a lot, but yeah, real money. The only free writing I've done was for my diocesan magazine, where I wrote a few short articles about a layperson's view on religion.

A few years ago, due to my love for modern day mysteries and especially private detective fiction, I started my own private eye story and that 's come to 3 sold and published novels, the 4th in progress. Nowadays, being retired from my "day job" of chemistry, then later computer programming for hi tech engineering and science firms, I would go stark raving mad if I didn't spend some of my day writing. I also write book reviews for a very nice mystery website so my editor sends me a stack of books every month or so. Keeps me off the streets.

As for humor, here's an excerpt from my soon-to-be released novel. Now what's happening, my private detective Mitch King is brought to a terribly graphic murder scene by his old pal, homicide captain Joe Duggan. This is because the serial killer left notes (in blood) and the cops want Mitch's help in finding the killer, because Mitch met the guy last fall before the killer escaped. We meet homicide sgt David Meierhoff, Mitch's best pal. They're at the murder scene, a small apartment building near the local Roman Catholic university. The girl, a grad student, was brutally murdered in apt 4.

Hopefully you can see the humor -- much of it sarcastic -- plus the way I create dialogue and the characters, try to make them realistic. I've redacted some of the stronger language...

====

Homicide Detective David Meierhoff was standing in front of apartment four, reviewing notes on his touchscreen with other investigators. Like Duggan, Meierhoff had been newly promoted, now sergeant and shift supervisor. And still my best friend.

David was once impetuous and brash, smart-mouthed, something of a square peg at Homicide. It was through Duggan’s guidance that he’d matured, become more professional. Duggan himself had stabilized, grown into his leadership role, spending more time in administrative duties, fewer hours on the street.

And me? I think I’ve slipped back. Yes, I’ve increased my clientele and found steady retainers with local insurance firms and yes, I’m on more solid financial footing, but my personal life is nevertheless a morass of indecision and inaction. Yet this was no time for analyzing my psyche. Freud is dead and disavowed, I was among professionals and I needed to act the same. So I referred it to committee.

David Meierhoff finished his chat with the other cops, grinned at me, we shook. He’s five-eleven, maybe an inch taller than I, definitely more athletic and handsome, resembling a rakish young Elliott Gould. David always dresses impeccably, today a blue dress shirt, deeper blue power tie, dark slacks and a soft tan sport jacket. ... Meierhoff had everyone at the cop shop beat, like a stylish Kojak minus the little cigar and later, the more politically correct lollipop.

“Duggan tells me you’re primary here,” I said.

“True. It’s because of my rugged good looks and kindly demeanor.”

Duggan snorted. “Or maybe ’cause you’re HPD lead on the Slicer task force?”

“That, too,” David said, smiling. He looked at me. “Other team members were called, they’ll be here this afternoon. Scudder is flying from Beaumont, Danforth driving down from Austin.”

The whole gang, I thought. I’d met FBI Special Agent Ed Scudder and Texas Ranger Arvis Danforth last year when I was drawn into the Slicer case. Under better circumstances I’d enjoy seeing them both again. But now? Not so pleasant.

“And I’m square in the mix, right?” I asked.

“Yep. Joe and I talked, want you to see what we’ve found. We’re certain the killer is George Burgess, which means that he’s back in Houston.”

“Or maybe just passing through?” Joe added.

Meierhoff nodded his assent. “Maybe. But I’ve got the impression that he’s here for at least a long visit. This is his home base and he’s been targeting Mitch all along. Could be he’s amping the volume now. Or, as you said, just swinging by and wanted to leave another victim on the way.”

We quietly considered the alternatives, whether to expect Burgess setting up Slicer Headquarters back in the Houston area or to wish him transient and visiting his bloody business onto a more distant population. Neither prospect was very enticing.

“What makes you think that Burgess is targeting me again?” I asked. “Were there any—”

“Hang on a sec.” Meierhoff cut me off, turned toward apartment three, adjacent the murder scene. The door had opened and two women emerged, a tall, ascetic black female uniform cop and a stocky Anglo woman, short grey hair, fiftyish, blue slacks and jacket, yellow blouse beneath, a big fabric bag across one shoulder. Both women were unalike as no peas in a pod and each had been crying.

As they came over where we were standing, the older woman looked at Meierhoff. “Officer…?”

Meierhoff smiled at her then glanced to us. “Gentlemen, Sister Mary Frances Brookshire. She teaches at St. Vincent, lives in three.”

We offered her a forced smile, best possible under the circumstances.

“And I’m Sergeant David Meierhoff, Sister, but please call me David. Did you get your laptop and books?”

“Yes, sorry for making a fuss with all this… this terrible…” Her head sank as she glanced sidelong at people coming in and out of apartment four, quickly turned her eyes away. “Rennie, she… she was such a sweet girl, she…” Sniffled, rubbed her hand across her eyes.

Meierhoff gently put his hand atop her shoulder. “We understand, Sister. This is traumatic for us all,” his voice sympathetic. “You’ve got my business card, right?” A nod. “My office and cell numbers, email, all there. I’ll phone you later, stop by St. Vincent this afternoon with some follow-up questions. In the meantime, if you think of anything, no matter how unconnected or trivial, call me right away, okay?” She nodded again. “Now, Officer Jackson will see you to your car, ensure you’re all right.”

“Thanks for letting me get inside my place. I’m teaching this afternoon and I really needed the laptop, it’s got all my notes.” She turned to the uniform cop who escorted her. “Okay, Shawnelle, I’m parked just down the street. Let’s go.”

Jackson glanced at the heavy shoulder bag. “Carry that for you, Sister?”

“No, thanks. It’s my laptop to bear.” A brief smile and the pair strode away, tall rangy cop, short and dumpy nun, linked now as impromptu siblings on this dark and nasty day.

Meierhoff looked at me. “Sister Mary Frances is professor of history at St. Vincent, lives next door. She was out for an early walk, thought she saw what looked like, but couldn’t be, copious blood splatter inside one window of the neighbor’s apartment. Knocked, no answer. She had a spare key, took one glance and nearly fainted right there on the doorstep. She seems to be bearing up, but she’s just running on vapor now, will probably crash later.”

One of the CSI techs, a guy named Kenny Phelps, was listening, frowned. “Sister Mary Frances? A nun? Don’t nuns, like…” He curved both hands around his head, pantomiming a coif.

“You watch too much TV, Kenny, and movies,” I told him. “Nuns in the US haven’t resembled penguins for years. Started during Vatican Two in, ah…” I drew a momentary blank.

Meierhoff immediately took up the slack. “Second Vatican council, nineteen sixty-two, convened by Pope John twenty-three.”

“You’re Jewish,” I said. “How come you know that?”

Meierhoff winked at me. “Keeping up on the competition.”

“So,” Kenny asked. “Nuns now dress like Dana Scully?”

“But with longer hemlines,” I said. “Some still maintain the traditional habit, pun intended.”

There was a brief pause and Meierhoff sighed. “Dana Scully. I sure had a crush on Gillian Anderson.”

“Ha!” Kenny laughed. “Tell me what nerd didn’t?”

“I actually think she’s better looking today,” I offered. “Saw her in Hannibal on TV.”

“Y’know who I thought was sexier, though?” Kenny remarked. “Mimi, whatzhername, you know, ah, Rogers, Mimi Rogers. Played another FBI gal. Was in Playboy, too.”

“Mimi Rogers, otherwise Mrs. ex-Tom Cruise,” Meierhoff said.

Kenny chuckled. “Meierhoff’s right, Cruise it is. Ya gotta keep an eye on Meierhoff here, Mitch. He’s up to date on Hollywood, reads all the murder mysteries, downloads CSI episodes so he can compare what we do with TV. He’s so very helpful that way.” Kenny smiled, jerking Meierhoff’s chain. “Ol’ Sergeant Meierhoff’s real smart, a regular Brainiac.”

“Not a good analogy,” Meierhoff said. “Brainiac is actually a malevolent alien entity that attacks the Earth, tries to kill Superman and other superheroes. In Frank Miller’s graphic novel Dark Knight Strikes Again, Brainiac—”

“Whoa,” Duggan interrupted, his arms raised. “Hold on. Can we back off the trivia a while and stop talking like we’re in a Quentin friggin’ Tarantino movie? There’s a murder investigation, in case you’ve all forgotten.”

Joe was right. But this sort of random shop talk and diffident conversation occurs all the time. You see it with cops, firefighters, paramedics, doctors, most of whom will chat inanely about disconnected junk while confronted with a bloody event. It’s a mechanism to release tension that outsiders often interpret as uncaring. It’s not.

[aparsons]

Thank you for your sneak peak. I can see where you are trying to put in humor, but maybe I'm too tired, or it's not my style, it wasn't funny right now. (That might change) My future novel is fantasy, and is a study on how the Romans would have dealt with life if they had been surrounded by elemental magic. I want a passionate scene in there, because I want my readers to feel the emotions the characters are feeling, especially the sad ones. I want to make people cry, because I love books that make me cry.

@tracey clark, thank you for the advice. I have a online serial novel you might be interested. It's called Tales of MU, and it deals with a half-demon who goes to college. She provides a rich backstory the more we get into the series, and it does have quite a lot of uh, graphic alternate sex in it. You might enjoy it. My only problem was how often she updated it, but it's been years now, so there is a nice large chunk to read.

[moderntimes]

The humor in that passage is of the darker "cop humor" which many police have. It's of course not meant to be actually funny, but ironic, and noir. I'll find a better example and post it later.

Regarding your pending story about Romans, let me recommend a superb bio by the Brit historian Adrian Goldsworthy, "Caesar: Life of a Colossus" which is long but very readable, and what makes this book interesting is that the details of everyday life among the ancient Romans are carefully explained -- a terrific book for background info.

A piece of advice -- don't imagine that the Romans will speak in measured, long statements as if making a speech. Like all speeches, very little substance and meaning, what the ancient Romans called "selling smoke" -- in other words, your characters should use everyday language just like modern characters speaking. Too many inexperienced writers think that ancient people speak like the actors in DeMille's "Ten Commandments" -- speechy and preachy. They were normal people.

A terrific series of historical mysteries, the Gary Corby novels "Athenian Mystery" series. All of them are fun reads. They are set in ancient Athens where a young aristocrat (but not wealthy) is a "consultant" for the government, as a "private detective" in fact. In these novels, the characters speak in common "English" (ancient Greek) and everyday things like eating lunch or dodging a shower or avoiding filth in the streets, stuff like that, are part of the story. Point being, his books are a perfect intro into how a superb writer depicts ancient cultures as how things actually occurred, not the shiny glamour or stuffiness of old epic movies.

-- 26 Feb 2016, 13:00 --

This segment is a bit more humorous. The bar and golf game describe were real, an oddball tavern and boat repair shop (yes, together) in Houston. And yes, I've played a couple of "golf" games there. The chapter:

Tony Vee and I were playing in a golf tourney at The Ship. Which was ironic because I’ve never actually played a round of golf in my life. Not that it matters, as we weren’t playing golf as much as we were bashing a golf ball at random around the inside of a bunch of interconnected wooden buildings.

The Ship is a bar, sort of, keeping irregular hours and even more irregular clientele. The beer is cold and cheap and patrons are a fun mix of Houston oddballs—musicians, painters, newspaper reporters, attorneys, an occasional cop and random private detective scum. The Ship is also a real life boat storage and repair shop that performs excellent work. The fact that the place is miles from navigable water seems of little concern. Owners trailer their precious cargoes up the freeway just to let the shipwrights perform their magic.

The property is cobbled together from several old frame storehouses and such, indiscriminate size and purpose, connected via hallways and open gardens, a business that seems to have grown much of its own accord. The owner, Dalton Envers, is an old time jazz pianist whose family left him a lucrative boating facility. Dalton retains a small staff of loyal workers and the place’s boat repair reputation prevails.

Dalton also hosts jazz concerts and opened a bar in the front building mainly to support the music. He tolerates rock groups too, their louder music subjugated to another building to the rear of the property, but hardcore jazz musicians and buffs from all over the Southwest come to The Ship for sessions. And occasionally, to partake in impromptu and insane indoor golf tournaments that the place hosts. Nobody knows why.

How the tournament works is that you each toss a ten, maybe a twenty into the kitty and pick a club from a basket of old nine-irons. Play starts alongside the main bar, golfers teeing off from one of those rubber putting practice things, hopefully driving the ball out the back door into a small courtyard, then into the larger concert area, across to the warehouse, which marks the course turn and where everyone stops for a fresh beer. Next, down a hallway through the stoner room where jazz musicians gather to jam, play poker and where late night smoke is green and intense, out to the courtyard again, finishing back at the bar with a putt into the cup.

Par for the one-hole course is twelve. Or ten maybe. Nobody knows that either. Nor cares. Windows are sometimes broken but there’s a fund. Players also get hit a lot but no compensation is provided for that misfortune. The winner keeps half the pot (the money, not the weed), buys the losers a round and the rest goes into the waitress tip jar. It makes little sense but the real game of golf doesn’t make sense either and that hasn’t prevented vast sums from being spent on it annually.

“Fore!” I called out. I was in the warehouse and aiming at a ball that I assumed to be mine although nobody really kept score or paid much attention to whose ball was being hit. The ball was stuck against a wooden joist and I had to stand crossways to swing. A difficult lie, made even more tricky because everyone else was hovering, drinking beer and giving rude advice.

“You don’t have to friggin’ say fore here,” Tony Vee told me, just as I was stabbing at the ball.

I ineptly hit the ball sideways and the damn thing only bounced a couple feet. But I caught a lucky tilt in the concrete floor and the ball rolled right out of the warehouse and headed merrily down the hall toward the stoner zone. Perfect. I looked up at Tony and smiled. “Five, then.”

“Beginner’s friggin’ luck,” he declared, talking around his cigar. Tony strode over to where his ball lay. Watching Tony hold a too-short club in his meaty fists and stoop over the ball like Godzilla perusing an army tank was amusing. But Tony actually plays genuine golf, and quite well. He swung briskly and drove his ball straight down the hallway with terrific velocity, where it rattled around and apparently bounced off the smokers sitting in their specially reserved room.

“Hey, the hell!” A cry of pain from an invisible target. “You guys watch it! We’re tryin’ ta chill here!”

We all laughed.

Bill Tebaldi, a petroleum engineer and real life scratch golfer was next. His stroke was less vicious than Tony’s but precise, the ball nicely chipped.

There were only four players tonight and we all made it through the combination jazz session and smoking room without much hazard. Tony ordered a round of beer for any who claimed devastating injury from his ball, which of course turned out to be everyone sitting there, listening to an old Cream album. Their smokes had magically disappeared but just playing through got me a contact high anyway.

A Houston Chronicle sports writer named Jarvis Hinton won. At least we think he won. We all congratulated Hinton as though he’d just been victorious in the British Open at Old St. Andrew’s. Hinton is a tall, thin black guy and he bowed gracefully to us. “Yet another indication of my superior African heritage.”

“Hell,” Tebaldi laughed. “Cheated three times.”

“Just taking my mulligans. Check the scorecard if you don’t believe me.”

Scorecards for a golf game at The Ship? Yeah, right.

[aparsons]

I liked this a lot better! I think it helped that this is a real place, and I could easily imagine the scene, the stoners and the cavernous warehouse. Your advice about the background is really useful too, I would love to read about them. Do you know if they mention food at all in the book, and where I can get it?

@tracey clark, I wanted to correct my post, I don't HAVE the online serial novel, I READ it. Sorry about that.

[tracey clark]

thanks... I will see if I can find it...

[moderntimes]

Thanks. "The Ship" was a real place in central Houston. I went there lot to listen to the jazz on Saturday afternoons. And they did have these goofy indoor golf tournaments. And yes, a boat repair shop too. Sadly it's now gone, a condo development in its place.

[aparsons]

Thanks. "The Ship" was a real place in central Houston. I went there lot to listen to the jazz on Saturday afternoons. And they did have these goofy indoor golf tournaments. And yes, a boat repair shop too. Sadly it's now gone, a condo development in its place.

Ah yes, the eternal complaint of older, more hazardous entertainment vs the sleek modernism. Not that I've seen much of either, but I can tell you really enjoyed it.