"She is a perfect cruet."

Although it is time again for Snippets of Story, this month I have not written over-much new material. Perhaps that will change through the next two weeks and I can do a post then. Most of my writing has been the composition of fill-ins and beefing-up pieces for Fly Away Home, or messing about with a new plot idea. (One that I am not springing on you just yet.) You will have to be patient. I am, however, giving you a fresh, deeper glimpse into Mr. Barnett's character. After much thought, I have decided to add a few of Mr. Barnett's "Journal Entries" throughout the book. Because of a certain aspect of Callie's story, I have wanted and needed Mr. Barnett's side of the story to be cloaked. All the same, after consulting many friends (and my own good sense) I decided that it would be prime opportunity to deepen his character, deepen other characters, and generally flesh out the plot if I give you a bit of Mr. Barnett from his own lips. Er...pen. I am in the process of deciding where these pieces will fall, what back-story and new plot developments they will bring to light, and what I will do with this new wealth of material.

Fly Away Home is written in first-person narrative. It's so much fun to write Mr. Barnett's perspective after having written Callie's. Their voices are so elementally different. Callie's is sassy, sarcastic, insecure, and sweet by turns. Mr. Barnett's is careful, archaic, precise, and laced with dry humor. It's actually a little weird getting this close to Mr. Barnett. Getting into his head, in a way. It makes me feel like somehow I've taken a huge step into his character and that I've burst his personal bubble. Stil....it's pretty amazing....I thought I'd share an excerpt from Mr. Barnett's journal relating to the first time he meets Calida Harper...

***

…I rang Mr. Shores of The St. Evan’s Post in the evening. If the poor fellow smokes—and I believe all of them do—I’m afraid he swallowed his cigar whole when I announced who I was, and my purpose for calling. It was a one-sided conversation due—I fear—to the swallowed cigar. I politely informed him that I had an interest in beginning a small magazine for the families of America, and wondered if his firm would consider supplying an assistant for me. I had every intention of suggesting Miss Harper for the job, but when it came down to it, I couldn’t think of a plausible reason for knowing the girl. It seems she’s an obscurity I ought to know nothing about. Reminds me of a kitchen drudge in the dungeons of those great English houses.

By some blessed event, Mr. Shores agreed to my plan. He shares the desire of all his type to ‘not be taken in’, by which I understand them to mean they won’t allow themselves to believe in anything, lest it prove untrue. This trait added the complications of him doubting my seriousness, doubting I could get the thing together and doubting—above all—that he could spare anyone to help me.

“Haven’t you any…dispensables?” I asked. “Anyone just taking up space in the office?”

“Why are you so hot to get someone from this office, Mr. Barnett?” he asked.

I felt exactly like man clinging by his fingernails to the edge of a cliff and wishing the rope would come just a bit closer so he could grab hold of it. I reminded myself I would act in a similar fashion if put in Mr. Shores’ position. “I take an interest in underdogs, Mr. Shores,” I said. “Furthermore, I thought it would be an attractive position for your business. Think of the possibilities, sir. If my magazine succeeds—and forgive me the vanity, but I am certain it will—The St. Evans Post will have the dignity of being co-founder.”

He was silent for some moments before agreeing to my scheme. We set a meeting for three o’clock today, and that is why—an hour or two ago—I was in a wretched, ninth-floor office meeting Calida Harper.

The girl reminds me of a yearling filly—headstrong, calculating, and ready to kick a fellow at the least provocation. She stared at me as if I was a ghost first, then Winston Churchill, then a free ticket to Easy Street, then a banana peel in a trash-barrel at the West End. I am not sure on what footing this puts us. I’m not sure she’s sure. I suppose tomorrow will tell.

I ask myself what I think of her.

She is beautiful.

“Calida”…“Beautiful warmth”. Which I must admit is horribly ironic. Miss Harper seems to prefer the cold-shoulder method of communication. She is a perfect cruet, to pardon an odd expression; tall, stately, and full of vinegar.

I have so much to do in the next few days. My yacht will be out of the dry-dock with all repairs finished. I’m thinking of rechristening her. I shall search around for a good name, and ask Dirigible to paint over the old one. Sailors say it is bad luck to change a ship’s name, or to paint her a different color. What a mercy Man has more than one chance to change his stripes. ‘Give thanks to the Lord for He is good. His mercy endureth forever.’

***

Never try to beat a lobster at his own pinching-game.

“Callie…will you please sit down and stop staring at me like a specter rising out of a grave?” He brought a chair to me and rather forcefully pushed me into it. “Now start over and I’ll try to understand you.”

I held my head high—queen that I was—and my cheeks burned hot. I would not stoop to repeat that strange and revealing torrent. I had already said too much—shown my wounds too deep—and all I could hope for was that he had listened to none of it. He stood again and brought me a cup of tepid coffee.

“We have no cream or sugar,” he said. “I hope you don’t mind.”

I stared into the black, oily depths of the cup and thought of the irony—I’d never known a thing to be so alike my own soul.

“Why don’t you pause and reflect for a moment?”

“On what?” Bitter, coffee-stained tones.

“On this hurlement de rage.”

“I don’t speak French, remember?”

“The deuce you don’t. Please, Cal—quit acting like a hydrophobic raccoon; I’m half frightened at that vicious sparking of your eyes.”

“It was you who started it.”

“How?”

“By talking about your…your stupid yacht!”

“You don’t have to go, Callie. I thought you’d enjoy the chance to relax with some of the people we’ll have you friendly with someday.”

His humble, cautious tone somewhat tamed my umbrage. I stirred the lukewarm coffee with one finger and dropped my head. All the fire dwindled out of me and left only a smoldering coal. “Sorry.”

“For what?”

“Splitting.”

“Exploding, rather. But all is forgiven and forgotten.” How easily he said those words—yet I knew he meant them and it was no flippancy. “Callie—I won’t make you be a guest at my yachting party.” His gaze was steady and brown—corduroy breeches with a teddy-bear sheen.

What's this? Disappointment? Callie—what is up with you? You practically shrieked at him that you didn’t want to go.

“But as your boss I am assigning you to work the party. You’ll have all the privileges of a guest, but I expect you to earn your keep. There—does that please the rabid vixen?”

“Does it please her? Gee, Mr. Barnett! You are fabulous!” I actually tipped over my coffee, dashed over to him, and gave him a hug. The lapel of his woolen jacket was rough against my cheek, and his chest solid. My arms dropped limp as soon as I realized what I had done, but Mr. Barnett only laughed and his eyes danced like the ‘netted sunbeams’ in Tennyson’s poem.

“Callie Harper—make sure you don’t show the public this upsy-down side—they might take you for the charmer you are and then it would be all up with us.”

“What is that supposed to me?”

“Nothing and everything in particular.”

I bit my lip and my cheeks flamed again—this time with excitement. “Then while we’re playing at riddles, may I ask a question?”

“Prying, gentle, direct, or merry-go-round?”

“All of the above?”

“Then shoot.”

“Are you any different than everyone else?”

Mr. Barnett sat down on his desk with a hand on each knee. “Jove, She’s turning philosophic on me.” His quick gaze traveled to my face and lingered there. “I could answer that each of us is created differently. But that would not satisfy you.”

“It would not.”

“Methinks you are driving at something a bit more insinuating.”

“Perhaps.”

“You are wondering whether I am like the common rabble…whether I behave like them in every respect. The fact that you ask the question belies a reluctance to believe it…why then, Miss Harper, do you wish it to be untrue?”

I wrapped myself in a hug and turned from him. “And I thought I was the one doing the digging.”

“Never try to beat a lobster at his own pinching-game.”

-Fly Away Home

The many faces of Wade Barnett

In the past weeks you have seen a lot of Fly Away Home. It is the project I am working on most consistently, and I've been able to put at least 1,000 words into it each time I sit down. {Which has been pretty much every day!} Thus it is nearly the 40k word-mark which is pretty good! I already know that this story won't stretch out much more than 55-60k words--it is not meant to be a hefty, serious novel. But though you've gotten to know Callie, and though you've heard a lot about her boss, you don't know him that well as himself. I am going to remedy that today.

At first glance, Callie and I thought Mr. Barnett was just an old-fashioned goose who happened to be famous.

After all, he doesn't approve of and hardly understands Callie's ideal of a successful woman. To him, success is entirely based upon merit. He even looks down on his own fame as being a whim of society, and something he really doesn't care two pins about. He is easily pleased and has some idiosyncracies of his own, like having not one, but two files marked "Things That Make Me Smile" and include items like "blueberry pie," "feeding pigeons in the park," and more. He is rather considerate than otherwise, and is ever eager to be of use.

Just that description alone would make a nice, lovable character, but for me it was too one-dimensional. So Mr. Barnett is just a stick-in-the-mud, albeit a charming one? 

Nope.

There is a downright alluring side to Mr. Barnett that is a bit scheming, a bit roguish, and a lot smart. Of course he means well, but he can play the antagonist on occasion. He bosses Callie around about what she ought to wear, and gives her frank opinions of everything--even when she doesn't ask for it. He's always poking at Callie, trying to whip her into a froth so that:

"...think about tonight from a professional perspective: Nalia loved you. Our little tiff has earned you a new friend already. If we both continue on clever as you please, our little partnership will take off in no time.”

“It sounds an awful lot like a set-up,” I said. “Still…it might be fun.”

“Might be fun? By Jove, Callie! To see your eyebrow arching higher with every jab and to see you parrying each thrust like a master swordswoman—anyone in Society would pay good cash to see a match like that. We’ll sell the act, Cal.”

The more conversation Callie and I have with him, the more I realize there's a tiger beneath the faded brown coat. 

Wade Barnett is not a bit absentminded. In fact, he's more alive to the moment and more in tune with the heartbeat of Society than most anyone out there. It's that very thing that makes him such a cool guy. He's got the observation of Sherlock Holmes, the decency of Mr. Knightley, and the wit of Benedick.

He trusts Callie, which is also a thing that could perhaps be his downfall {no promises here} and feels comfortable in her presence. At first he was all courtliness, but the farther we get in the book the more he walks with his hat tipped back and his hands in his pockets. He starts to drop "Miss Harper" and takes up "Callie" as a more natural form of address, though he's not bold enough to call her "Cal." At the same time that they strike sparks from one another and are definitely attracted to one another, he doesn't let her forget that he's the teacher and she's his pupil. Vexing for Callie, but one of the reasons I like Mr. Barnett so much. 

        Mr. Barnett roused me from my brown study with a rap of his knuckles against my arm. “We’re here. Now remember what I told you. Be charming and engaging—like you did at the club last night—but keep your eye and ears open. Take notes on what they do tell you, but also on what they don’t. You must learn to tune your ear to suggestion and to ferret out the cause of that suggestiveness. But whatever you do, don’t be pushy.”

He has no false ideas about anything, including a relationship. He's not so blinded by Callie's wit and charm that he fails to see her bad points. He knows she's naive and not well-trained so he sets about fixing that at the same time he is relying on her. Wade Barnett is not a perfect man and he doesn't boast to be. But he is a veteran in the field of journalism and a man well-accustomed to the world. He has strong values that he is immovable on, but he's tactful and considerate of everyone.

One of my favorite tasks in writing the relationship between Calida Harper and Wade Barnett has been getting to show that they don't take themselves seriously. They are ever exchanging barbed insults that would kill other people but merely give each other amusement. There's a constant give and take in their relationship that makes for a really interesting science experiment at moments. Sometimes he's almost tender, others he and Callie spar like alley-cats. When I started Fly Away Home and realized what sort of book it would be, I challenged myself to write a character I could fall in love with...

...Mr. Barnett...you've gained my undying devotion.

Fly Away Home: That Feeling in my Bones

That Feeling in my Bones now has a tentative name: Fly Away Home. You've all heard the rhyme:

Ladybird, Ladybird fly away home--

Your house is on fire, your children all gone.

All but one and her name is Anne

And she crept under the puddin' pan.

Not exactly cheerful, but for some reason I've always liked that little ditty. Now, you will be wanting to hear more about this story, I know. I will oblige you, but right now you will understand that this is a bit of a New Project, in that it is not fleshed out entirely. You know the sort. And I will also tell you that I pledge not to work on Fly Away Home any day until I've written my allotment of The Scarlet-Gypsy Song. I will not be guilty of neglect.I rebel against the charge. ;)

So. Fly Away Home. Where to start....? With a blurb, I suppose:

"Callie Harper--St. Evan's Post, New York. Journalism, short-hand, and the occasional obituary." Yep. Looking back on it, that's a pretty grim way to earn your bread--writing up obituaries for bereaved families. But then, someone's got to do it so why not me?

Callie Harper is a career woman stuck in a fourth-floor office in New York City. It isn't exactly the big break she was looking for straight out of school, but it'll have to do. That is, until she gets the opportunity to start a magazine with America's most famous journalist: Mr. Wade Barnett. He's famous. He's rich. He's Society's darling. It's a diamond-deal--a once in a life-time gig for a city-girl in the early 1950's.
But Callie soon realizes that her ideas and Mr. Barnett's collide at every point. She sees a woman's worth as the number on her paycheck--the width of the circles that know her name. His ideal is a woman of character--be she a mother surrounded by children or the First Lady of the United States. She wants a quick ticket to fame and fortune. He wants to work steadily and thoroughly at the task at hand. It seems that Ladybird Snippets is an ill-fated venture that will go down in the annals of journalism as a gigantic flop. But the worldly-wise Callie was prepared to be ditched from the start--why would this man be any different from the leagues of other in his profession. It might just take a man of Mr. Barnett's tenacity to convince Miss Callie Harper that the measure of success is not always wrapped up in a town-car and glitzy dinners at the Ritz-Carlton...

So. How does that sound? Interesting? Dull as powder? For some time I've been wanting to write a book with a specific theme. I suppose the theme of this book could be "finding the way home." That's where the name comes from. Right after the start of the Rosie-the-Riveter movement, Mr. Barnett is an old-fashioned man with timeless wisdom who is thrown together with a Callie Harper--a girl dead set on making it big in journalism.Their relationship is caustic to say the least.

But why am I babbling? Meet the main characters:

Miss Calida Harper (Callie)

She's beautiful, successful, witty, poised, and utterly confused as to what she really wants out of life. Her name is Greek for "Most beautiful; warm" and the fact that Mr. Barnett knows the meaning and she does not perfectly sums up their individual personalities.

Mr. Wade Barnett:

“This is Mr. Wade Barnett.”

At the words my eyes flew open, my stomach leaped into my heart and I struggled to keep my mouth from dropping open. Mr. Wade Barnett. The Mr. Wade Barnett. America’s most famous journalist—the idol of every kid coming out of school. The Charles Dickens of this century, so to speak. And here I was sitting in his presence wearing a dress with a limp collar, needing a hair-cut, and not even wearing hose. Somebody must have a sense of humor.

 He's middle-aged, kind, simple, and gorgeously rich and famous. Callie describes him as "an old-fashioned goose." I would rather let him speak for himself. His entire character can be summed up in this one paragraph:

“Oh, posh. I wouldn’t put that much stock in me, Miss Harper.” The kind, reassuring voice startled me—I was expecting something throaty and soft—perhaps even silken, like a gentleman’s smoking-jacket. But there was nothing more prosaic than the voice I had heard.

It gave me enough pluck to lift my chin. “I don’t make you an idol, Mr. Barnett. I don’t put that much stock in your talents.” Then, realizing my blunder, I hastened to put it right. “What I mean to say is, gee, you’re a fabulous writer and I love to read your work but I don’t idolize you.”

He put up a hand and smiled.  His eyes were lighter than in the pictures—almost a chestnut color. “Don’t worry about it—it’s better that you don’t idolize me since you’ll soon find out I’m nothing that special.”

He is a gentleman among gentleman, but he's stubborn as a mule. He's got an iron will beneath that gentle smile, and when Callie's hot-headed remarks and juvenile theories brush up against that iron will, you can be assured the sparks fly.

Oh yes. I have a good feeling about this.