Philosophy of Flying Fish
We were coming home late last night and Bill suggested we take a quick detour down to Avenue B and check out the flying fish. Now, if you're not from San Antono, you may not have yet heard of the flying fish, or think I'm referring to actual flying fish. I am not.
These flying fish are a school of 25 seven-foot long, colorful, figerglass sunfish that now hang over the newly opened section of the San Antonio River beneath Interstate 35. We'd had several good looks at them in daylight, but they are illuminated at night and we really wanted to see.
It was very much worth the trip, though it was getting close to 1 a.m. and that area is what is called euphemistically a "transitional neighborhood". In my vivid imagination it occurred to me that Sunday morning's headline could read, "Local Author Slain and Dismembered Near Site of Her Next Novel". But since I do not write thrillers, I comforted myself that it was not ironic enough to happen.
In truth, it all seemed pretty tame. The bars were still blaring music and people were milling around, but minding their own business, just out for a good time on a Saturday night. I felt, in a sense, right at home.
Now you might think from that statement that I am a former bar fly, night-lifer, living-large kind of gal. No indeed, I am still the relatively shy, bookish nerd you originally imagined. But that is only in my REAL life, of course.
My next novel, going on sale June 30th, is called RED'S HOT HONKY-TONK BAR. Red's bar, a completely fictional place, is located on completely unfictional Avenue B., specificially on Eight and Avenue B. I love that. Eight not Eighth. As if the city couldn't manage to spring for another letter for the street sign. Yes, I am aware that on the new sign where it crosses Broadway they're now calling it Eighth, but on that corner of Avenue B, it is merely Eight.
Anyway, I spent a year hanging out in Red's bar. As I said, it's not a real bar, but that doesn't matter. I was sitting here at this desk as I am now, but I was there. So the area does seem like home somehow.
It's one of those strange truths that writers live with and don't usually share with others, that our fictional lives can be as real to us as our true one. We don't usually talk about that too much, because it makes us sound crazy. Hey, if you spent your whole life making up stuff for a living, you might sound a little crazy, too.
I have written a lot of characters in a lot of settings. I feel connections with those characters as if they are actual people that I'd known. I feel connections to those places, as if I actually spent time there. This can be both good and bad. Thanks to stories like GARTERS and SWEETWOOD BRIDE, I walk around Tennessee as if I'm a native. I have never been more than a tourist there. And because of LAST DANCE AT JITTERBUG LOUNGE, I've developed a nightmarish fear of being lost at sea.
In RED'S HOT HONKY-TONK BAR, fact has strangely caught up to fiction and it's a challenge for me to peel away what I know to be true from stuff I just made up. In my story, bar owner, Red, has, among her many plotline challenges, the construction of the new San Antonio Museum Reach on her backdoor.
When I began the story, a little more than two years ago, the river behind Eight and B, looked just like it had for decades, I guess. The first day I walked around the area, thinking about it, I saw orange construction tape cordoning off the area beneath the bridge at Brooklyn Street. As I began the book, the digging started.
This weekend the area opened to the public. It's amazing so much planning and waiting, it all happened so fast. Bill and I walked to the riverside where I imagined Red's to be and I was blown away.
The character, Red, rightly feared the loss of something that she loved, a place that was as dear and special to her as any in the world. That has certainly happened. But I'm convinced that sometimes we do have to let go. The world is not a static place. The planet keeps spinning and we cannot hold it still, even for the best of reasons. The noisy bars on Avenue B are undoubtedly going to disappear for more staid residential development or tourist friendly commerical. We can't stop that from happening. What we can do is relish the moment that we're in. Even if it occurs at one o'clock in the morning.
These flying fish are a school of 25 seven-foot long, colorful, figerglass sunfish that now hang over the newly opened section of the San Antonio River beneath Interstate 35. We'd had several good looks at them in daylight, but they are illuminated at night and we really wanted to see.
It was very much worth the trip, though it was getting close to 1 a.m. and that area is what is called euphemistically a "transitional neighborhood". In my vivid imagination it occurred to me that Sunday morning's headline could read, "Local Author Slain and Dismembered Near Site of Her Next Novel". But since I do not write thrillers, I comforted myself that it was not ironic enough to happen.
In truth, it all seemed pretty tame. The bars were still blaring music and people were milling around, but minding their own business, just out for a good time on a Saturday night. I felt, in a sense, right at home.
Now you might think from that statement that I am a former bar fly, night-lifer, living-large kind of gal. No indeed, I am still the relatively shy, bookish nerd you originally imagined. But that is only in my REAL life, of course.
My next novel, going on sale June 30th, is called RED'S HOT HONKY-TONK BAR. Red's bar, a completely fictional place, is located on completely unfictional Avenue B., specificially on Eight and Avenue B. I love that. Eight not Eighth. As if the city couldn't manage to spring for another letter for the street sign. Yes, I am aware that on the new sign where it crosses Broadway they're now calling it Eighth, but on that corner of Avenue B, it is merely Eight.
Anyway, I spent a year hanging out in Red's bar. As I said, it's not a real bar, but that doesn't matter. I was sitting here at this desk as I am now, but I was there. So the area does seem like home somehow.
It's one of those strange truths that writers live with and don't usually share with others, that our fictional lives can be as real to us as our true one. We don't usually talk about that too much, because it makes us sound crazy. Hey, if you spent your whole life making up stuff for a living, you might sound a little crazy, too.
I have written a lot of characters in a lot of settings. I feel connections with those characters as if they are actual people that I'd known. I feel connections to those places, as if I actually spent time there. This can be both good and bad. Thanks to stories like GARTERS and SWEETWOOD BRIDE, I walk around Tennessee as if I'm a native. I have never been more than a tourist there. And because of LAST DANCE AT JITTERBUG LOUNGE, I've developed a nightmarish fear of being lost at sea.
In RED'S HOT HONKY-TONK BAR, fact has strangely caught up to fiction and it's a challenge for me to peel away what I know to be true from stuff I just made up. In my story, bar owner, Red, has, among her many plotline challenges, the construction of the new San Antonio Museum Reach on her backdoor.
When I began the story, a little more than two years ago, the river behind Eight and B, looked just like it had for decades, I guess. The first day I walked around the area, thinking about it, I saw orange construction tape cordoning off the area beneath the bridge at Brooklyn Street. As I began the book, the digging started.
This weekend the area opened to the public. It's amazing so much planning and waiting, it all happened so fast. Bill and I walked to the riverside where I imagined Red's to be and I was blown away.
The character, Red, rightly feared the loss of something that she loved, a place that was as dear and special to her as any in the world. That has certainly happened. But I'm convinced that sometimes we do have to let go. The world is not a static place. The planet keeps spinning and we cannot hold it still, even for the best of reasons. The noisy bars on Avenue B are undoubtedly going to disappear for more staid residential development or tourist friendly commerical. We can't stop that from happening. What we can do is relish the moment that we're in. Even if it occurs at one o'clock in the morning.
posted by Pamela Morsi | 1:09 PM
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