In Car Entertainment

I haven't posted for a while - so much for getting into a good habit - and I haven't written every day, but I have been writing. I wrote this little story last week when hubby was fitting his new car stereo. I should emphasize that this is fiction; it's not about him... or me. :o)


It all begins so simply.

"I think I'd like a new car stereo." He announces.

First comes the endless surfing of the net, the trawling all over eBay and Amazon and 'wherever car audio is sold'. Long late night sessions bleary eyed in front of the screen, researching until his eyes bleed.

"This one's good but it doesn't have a multi-channel radio controlled dual output dongle. I like this one but it's two-hundred quid; on the upside, it has a guided ground to air missile launcher and perimeter radar."

I smile and nod and nod and smile. I continue to flick through my crafting mags and listen to my music. Occasionally, I point out that he doesn't need supersonic navigation control or nuclear launch codes.

So he finds one he likes. He orders it. It arrives. The dog barks like a Baskerville Hound at the courier, who eyes the dog suspiciously, despite me firmly clutching the collar. The delivery guy legs it as fast as he can, leaving me with a heavy box inside a polythene bag that would be far easier to manage if it was just a box. He comes home and slices through the bag to produce a shiny cardboard box that's at least twice the size of the stereo inside. It's glossy and black and white with attractive photos of the product inside. He beams. He grins. He turns it over and over and gazes with desire.

"Yes. Yes." He mutters occasionally.

Then it's the weekend. It's fitting day. He disappears outside to mess about in the car. Fortunately the sun is shining and it's a mild day. He's out there for hours.

"Do you want a brew?"

"No thanks, I'm nearly done."

An hour and a half later he appears in the living-room door.

"All done?"

"Not quite - it's the wrong connector - but it looks great." He is upbeat. He only needs a little adapter to make it work.

And so recommences the research. Once again he becomes a slave to Google. I wake up in the middle of the night a roll over to find him sitting in bed with the laptop on his knees and dark circles under bloodshot eyes.

In due course a little jiffy envelope falls on the doormat. The dog nearly eats it, but I rescue it before the slobber can reach the contents inside. He opens up the package and with glee produces a pointless looking bit of black-plastic coated wire with lumpy bits of different sizes at each end.

"Aha! This is exactly what I need!"

It's already starting to go a little dark out, but he insists this is a quick job. When he comes back in I re-heat his cold dinner in the microwave and make him a hot brew. He blinks against the bright strip lights in the kitchen.

"All done?"

"No." He looks glum.

He eats his tea in silence in front of Watchdog. When he's finished I take away the tray and come back to find he's replaced it with his laptop. He's already on the motoring forums looking for a solution. Watchdog finishes. Panorama finishes. The News at Ten finishes. I excuse myself and go to bed.

"Don't stay up too late." I warn. He says he won't. I know he will.

Next morning he's triumphant.

"I've ordered a fascia." He explains how it fits around the front of the stereo to make it fit into the gap left by the one that came from the factory. He explains how it just clips in place. He explains how he found out about it on a forum and that the guy who posted the link is a real joker. I butter his toast and make his cup of tea.

The fascia is coming all the way from Japan or Korea or somewhere so he has to wait a couple of weeks. It turns up in a polythene bag surrounded by bubble wrap. That evening it’s raining but he disappears out to the car again. He's getting better at removing the old stereo and the new one has been sitting on the dining table for three weeks, so he doesn't have to waste time with the box. He's back in just under an hour. Looking like someone dipped him in a bucket of water.

"All done?"

"The screws don't fit the bracket. Honestly, why don't they make these things a standard size? It's stupid." He rants about it all evening. I can hardly hear what's being said in Holby City.

"It's alright," I say in bed that evening, "we'll go to B&Q at the weekend and get the right screws."

He's late home the following night. He's been to B&Q. He holds out a bag of screws.

"Egg and chips for tea." I smile.

"How long will it be?"

"About 20 minutes."

He huffs and puffs but agrees to eat before trying the screws. He shovels down his food and leaves half a mug of tea on the table. This time he's only half an hour. He comes back grumpy.

"All done?"

He doesn't answer. We go to bed that night. He has his back to me and  I can still feel his irritation.

The next day I finish work early. I get home and walk the dog and then take a good look at the stereo and the bracket. I find the manual, still wrapped in the poly-bag. I find the pages explaining how it fits and get on Google to see if I can find the right size screw. A quick visit to B&Q and I have a little bag of screws that look very similar to the ones he had bought, but they are thicker. He comes home.

"Chicken stir-fry for tea."

"How long will it be?"

"I'll make it in half an hour. Why don't you get changed and try these." I hold up the screws.

It only takes him ten minutes but he spends the next two hours in the car playing with his new toy.

This is our third time around. It is his third car stereo and the third set of problems fitting it. I'm getting to be quite experienced. Maybe one day so will he.

Further Development

I haven't got much to post today because I'm doing some Open University activities but the more I've thought about him, the more I like the character, Beach. I had an idea about him being lonely and longing for human connection but then rejecting that connection when it was offered. It's something that we are all guilty of doing: Holding a deep desire for something and either not being able to recognise our own desire, or shunning the very thing we want. People are often self-destructive, and I think it's something that readers might connect with. As a result, I want to try and develop this element of Beach a little more.

So my plan for the next couple of days, in between my Open University course work, is to work on my encounter with Beach and try and turn those few hundred words into a short story. I'll post it as it develops.

Beach

The following was written as part of an Open University exercise in genre. It's written in response to David Mitchell's Cloud Atlas, which uses several different genres and styles to tell six separate stories. This is therefore an exercise in genre. My intention was to mix science fiction with a biographical narrative. I wanted to use an imagined colloquialism because I thought it would strengthen the character's voice. It also seemed reasonable that, in a post-apocalypse where there are significantly fewer people, that speech might devolve slightly.

* * *

They call me Beach. I' been walkin' these shores forever an' I'll keep walkin' 'em 'till I'm dead. When The Flash came I were an infant. I don't 'member it but I been told. The Flash kilt near everyone. Them as survived did by hidin' in holes unnerground. Some died soon after 'cause of the radiation. It burned up their insides. Ma Momma, she lived near on four years. I can just about 'member her: Hair thin, hands and face like paper, but her eyes were the greenest I' ever seen. That's why I like the shore. The water's green an' deep like ma Momma's eyes.

Anyways, after a few years only a couple o' dozen o' us was left. People had to drink what water they could find and eat whatever food they found. Them as knows things says it's all contaminated and it's what done in most o' the survivors. But there's some, like me, what are immune or somethin'. We can walk about up top an' it's OK. Them as knows things says we're evolved. I don't know about that; I'm just a seeker. I come up top an' see what's what. Sometimes I find innerestin' stuff washed up, but mostly I like to see the sky. An' the sea, green like ma Momma's eyes.

* * *

I'm not sure how successful I consider this as an exercise, but I rather enjoyed writing in such a distinctive voice. I like Beach. He's like a grown up child. I imagine him being very good at some things, like survival, but lacking in any kind of greater knowledge. I think there's a sense of loneliness to this little piece and also a sense of longing. I like the idea that Beach is returning to the shore because it reminds him of his mother and I think that creates a sense that he's longing for emotional connection to other people. When he returns, day after day, to the shore looking for 'innerestin' stuff', he's actually looking for his mother, or at least someone he can connect with. In that sense, I think maybe it's reasonably successful.

I'm not sure where this would go as a story though; it's all a bit Cast Away at the moment and liable to be very dull.

Introduction

Have you ever felt like there is something you should be doing, like a greater destiny that is out there somewhere waiting to be discovered? I call that feeling my Writer Inside.

Somewhere inside me there's a little perspex cube with a tiny person beating on the walls and screaming to get out. Sometimes, when I'm inspired by a great book or a brilliant TV show or movie, that Writer Inside screams a little bit louder and beats on those walls a little bit harder.

I have been inspired and my Writer Inside is making a lot of noise.

A very talented friend of mine - someone that I've known since high school and who was a bridesmaid at my wedding - has a sketchbook on Conceptart, which I discovered the other day. She's an amazingly talented artist but her sketchbook reveals a ridiculous dedication and work ethic that has paid dividends. It is fantastic to see how she has developed her raw talent and how she's honed her skills. She's grown and developed and improved and she's inspired me to do the same.

Playwright, Gill Adams, once said "Writing is not a job. It isn't even a hobby. It's an addiction for which there is no cure."

It's such an appropriate quote, because my Writer Inside is stamping his feet. I have to write. It is imperative. My Writer Inside is screaming at me to set him free; hopefully, if all goes well, this blog will chronicle our journey together.