A fancy piece of homicide – on hold.

I began this short story called “a fancy piece of homicide” as an exercise and my 1st attempt at a noir story. It started out as an extemporaneous piece of literature that I would write on a regular basis, to both refine my skill as a writer, and also indulge in the noir genre. when I started the piece, I only had a basic story idea, and several thousand frames of “Dial M for murder” floating around my head.

And then I began working on a few comic book projects, that only 2 of which exist today, and are both currently in stasis. So my attention was no longer on “a fancy piece of homicide”, and the original story nugget has since faded. Although with the one installment that currently exist on this blog, I have enough to reform the idea into a cohesive story. I want to write a story that embraces the noir aesthetic, without becoming to pulpy, or even cartoonish. Most of what I know about noir, comes from writers like Raymond Chandler, Dashiell Hammett, and Roy Chesterfield. Not to mention, literally hundreds of noir style movies.

With all that solid ammunition, I believe I can craft a story that I am proud of, and feel proud enough to display it nakedly here on my blog. I want this piece to be a good piece, I don't want to create a crap story, that reeks even before you see it online. But I do know that at this stage in my writing I am apt to make a few bungling mistakes. I'm not thumbing my nose at traditional tutelage and creative writing, I just don't have the scratch to pay for classes. So everything I know I'm teaching myself, but then again other than being taught how to write on stone tablets, who taught the 1st writers how to write, other than themselves.

Going to be fun I think, because I really like the simple bareknuckle, struggle for good and evil that is in noir. There is something so fundamental about one man against seemingly overwhelming odds, and from all appearances being outmatched on every level. And seeing that man succeed only through strength of will, determination, and a whole lot of pissed off. And the best noir novels, you see examples of the kind of fortitude it takes to beat a bullet. Or to knock the other guy out before he tries to kill you.

These are circumstances, that on a daily basis we will never half to contend with. Unless you are a career criminal, or thug, you never have to worry about being a bullet. And this lets those of us, who preferred to stay on the safe side of things, to live the rest of our years secretly admiring those who don't. You know who you are.

So this post is only an announcement to say that a fancy piece of homicide is on hold for a while. But what I will be doing this from time to time writing small stories, about noir type characters just to polish my stones a bit.

We'll see what happens, to be continued…

You don't write a "love letter" to Pulp Noir.

You don't wax romantic about a style of writing or filmmaking or comic book writing that deals with the darker, meaner, grittier side of life. The side of life that makes you look behind your back, thinking you'll see a burly brute with a hat over his eyes, and a set of shiny brass knuckles, that hit with the kick of a mule.

You don't get all mushy about character who drink whisky like most people drink soda pop, smoke cigarettes like fish breath water. You don't get soft in the gut when you think about the dirty deed and double crosses of women who are as calculatingly evil, and they are drop dead gorgeous.

You talk about the dark alleys and city streets wet with the rain that should wash away all the dirt in the world, but all it does it make it easier to see the cold hard cruel world reflected back at itself, in distorted features.

You don't use sweet words to describe a world where the double-cross, and the knife in the back, become art-forms, where you know that every move you make brings you closer to a sticky end, with the wrong people looking over you, and the the long black sedan comes to collect you and it's off to "Potter's Field," and you wind up filling the belly of a worm.

Where money has the same pull as a beautiful pair of getaway sticks, connected to caboose with moves sweeter than a ripe Georgia peach. Only money won't turn the tables on you, it won't put a roscoe to your bean and squirt lead until you're dead. Only that dame is worth the risk, the odds are in her favor of being a shady Sadie, but you don't care, you're in it to your eyeballs, and the only way out is down, the big sleep, the dirt nap with a granite blanket,

Yeah, you don't write a love letter to Pulp Noir, you give a rap in the mouth, and a stiff drink to numb the pain, have a smoke, and walk down that dark alley, and live to scheme another day.