I like the way certain things hit my ear. Ivan’s Wife is finished other than a clean sweep and formatting. As a current insomniac, I found this passage in chapter 42 that made sense to me in so many ways:
My ears throbbed—a tap telling me to listen. Listen to the words. Hear the underside. Read between the notes. Hear the cadent pause. The desperate tone. The moans. Pay attention to the maudlin pleas of the violins. Feel it in your bones as you breathe the notes.
It all makes sense, at least at this late hour. Some words are deeper than others…
This passage is a first draft so not in the final but I still felt it:
I sat at the grand piano and lightly rubbed my palms together before touching the keys. Jeux d’eau expressed the natural sound of water cascading into a brook, soothing and sensual. Once I began playing, the physical world disappeared; I wandered like a shadow on the earth into the pulse and soul of the melody. Music soothed me like an enchanted nymph, fluid and effortless. No one in my family, especially my father, knew I played the piano and composed music. Not even Clarissa. For her, everything had a tangible purpose; a designer gown was meant to impress, a wad of cash bought something, and music was to attain recognition and fortune. Not for me. Sights and sounds all flowed into unique harmonies. My brain translated everything to verse and chords. Whether it was the clicking of the turn signal on my car, the roar of a jet taking flight, or the rustling of leaves on an oak tree—everything was music.
I’m on my last author’s edit for Ivan’s Wife. I’m enjoying the last edit as I examine the words with a different “eye.” It is not purely mechanical – it’s from the heart too. The novel has well-developed characters but it also has some “passing” characters – those people who come in and out of your life and sometimes leave a lasting impression. I’ve known a few people like that also – some good and some not so good—but they leave a lesson, and sometimes regrets. The desire for missed love burns the longest.
My protagonist, Dimitri, fortunately speaks his mind without reservations.
In this scene, Dimitri is talking a walk after a particularly difficult day. He encounters an interesting older lady who instinctively knows the right thing to say:
Ivan’s Wife
An excerpt from Chapter Thirty-Two of Ivan’s Wife
I sat on a bench beside an older woman with a carpet bag full of yarn. She pulled out some knitting needles and began working on a blue scarf. I pulled out a cigarette.
The lady was cute. She wore a yellow knit hat framed with white spiral curls and spectacles too big for her petite face. Every few seconds, she sniffed and pushed them up her nose. Her hands were so swollen at the knuckles that I wondered how she could make the loop-de-loops to weave the yarn together.
“Making a sweater?”
“Yes, indeed. For my nephew. He lives in New Orleans, so I’m trying to finish it before the post office closes. Takes five days to get there, don’t ya’ know. You got young’uns, son?”
“No…I don’t.”
She turned and gave me a once-over. “Let me have a look at ya…come on, now. Take off those sunglasses, young man. Let Aunt Gina see your face.”
“Pardon me?” I asked, laughing at the absurdity.
She turned my chin to face her. “You got a wife, don’t ya?”
“Yes.”
“Well, there ya go. You got a young’un coming soon enough. You have a job, son?”
“Well, yes. I’m on my way there now.”
“Good…good,” she said, returning to her knitting. “You got kind eyes. You’ll make a good father. I can always tell. Just be nice to the miss and watch the drinking. Set a good example, and you’ll be fine.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell her my wife had banned having a baby. “How do you know I drink?”
She turned and gave me a look that could only be described as a “mother” look. I’d seen it on the faces of my friend’s mothers. Kind of a “do you really think you can lie to me, boy?”
It made me smile. “You got me. Some people stuff themselves with chocolate or cry until their blood vessels pop. I drink.”
She gave me a stern, one-eyed squint. “And some people pray, young man.”
“Right.”
“Who do you have?”
“Have?”
“Someone you’d listen to if they were here.”
“My mother and brother,” I replied, not wanting to open that particular can. “How do you know so much?”
She tucked the knitting into the bag and turned to me. “I was never blessed with a husband or young’uns, so God gave me the time to mother whoever needed it. You’re troubled, boy. That’s why you sat next to me instead of the empty bench across from you. You have sad eyes, but there’s a lot of light, too. What’s bothering you, son?”
I put my shades back on and crossed one leg over my knee. I’d always been drawn to mature women, no doubt a never-ending search for a mother. “I have spells. Always have. Bad ones.”
She slid the carpetbag to her elbow and looked at me with searching eyes. “Spells, aye? What happens during these spells?”
“I hear music mostly. It’s run or die.”
“I see,” she said, still holding me in her gaze. “My grandmother had a terrible fear of spiders. Hear tell she would freeze and pass out if she saw one. Turns out a black widow had crawled into her crib and bit her on the cheek. Once she found out, the spells stopped. Once you figure out what’s scaring you, yours will, too.”
I felt like the air in my lungs had thickened. It was like there was a direct line between the lady and Alexander. “My brother said the same thing.”
She pulled the blue knit scarf from her bag and wrapped it around my neck as she stood to leave. “Here. I made this for my nephew, but you need it more. Remember, you don’t always have to find the answers. Sometimes, they come to you if you ask the right questions. And stop your worrying. Worry is like a rocking chair. It’ll give you something to do but won’t get you anywhere.”
Her words were like chicken soup injected into my veins. I watched her hurry to the post office, her carpetbag tapping against her paisley dress, reaching every so often to adjust her glasses. Her presence was like being wrapped in a blanket of optimism, a fairy godmother without all the glitter. I rubbed the scarf she gave me and got up to find a bus for Cielo’s.
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Ivan’s Wife is in the final editing stage. The story is diverse and covers a range of emotions. The protagonist faces a lot of challenges—and with challenges comes growth. In this scene, Dimitri is in a mental hospital, considering the inevitability of mental illness. Witnessing such pain propels him to finally seek help in understanding his illness.
I glanced around the circle of mostly scared patients and spotted a familiar face. It was Billy, the young pimple-faced kid I’d met months ago. He appeared younger than I remembered and twice as nervous. He shrugged his shoulders, blinked constantly, and released odd hiccups. I nodded hello with a curt wave, but he didn’t seem to recognize me. He pushed his glasses up his nose every few seconds and kept looking over his shoulders, clicking his tongue.
“KGB!” he cried out extemporaneously.
No one appeared to notice; even the nurses were oblivious. The staff was used to it, and the ‘no talking’ rule apparently didn’t apply to spontaneous utterances. Seeing Billy reminded me of the futility of it all. Some, like Billy, would never get better. The best they could hope for was compassion; finding it at a mental hospital was about as possible as returning to yesterday.
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Ivan’s Wife is heading toward the finish line. The characters have been fun to write and sometimes heartbreaking. In this later chapter, Dimitri faces his death with unexpected courage. He has certainly evolved from the first draft—in a pleasing way—at least to me. In this excerpt, Dimitri is in a Soviet hospital heading to the toughest prison in Russia:
It was a march through hell. The clink of the metal shackles dragging on the cement floor was the only sound. The hallway stunk of ammonia and old pipes. The rooms were empty; the only inhabitants seemed to be the nurses and guards. Hadn’t seen a single patient. That made me wonder if this was a place Ivan had set up for my execution. Maybe I wasn’t on my way to the showers at all. Couldn’t help wonder if I might be headed for the dead end room the nurse had talked about. Maybe Ivan just wanted to get my death over with.
Logically, I should be shaking, pleading, hyperventilating, and coming out of my skin. But I wasn’t. I was pissed. Furious. My body stiffened, and I held my head up. Yeah, I was held captive and bound in chains, but I felt strong. Fueled by outrage and a shitload of anger. I never hurt anyone. Never cheated on my wife. I always opened the door for a woman and remembered my manners. I never took a penny from anyone that I hadn’t earned. The sorrow on a child’s face made me cry. The creases on an elder’s face and the weariness in their stride made me want to talk to them. Yes, I drank to excess, did drugs, and abused myself. I did. But the only person I never loved was myself.
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The protagonist in Ivan’s Wife, Dimitri, has a steadfast best friend named Christian. Christian is a strong, loyal friend who worries about Dimitri and often confronts him. In this excerpt, the friends have a difficult conversation. Christian’s reaction illuminates the depths of his own vulnerability. Dimitri expresses his disdain for therapy and medication, believing that he needs to avoid certain triggers in his life. Christian suggests that seeking help might benefit Dimitri, but their conversation becomes heated as Dimitri defends his position. Tensions rise between them as they confront their struggles and insecurities. The dialogue reveals underlying issues of fear for one another.
It starts with Christian asking Dimitri about his recent stay in a mental hospital:
Dimitri answers:
“No worse for wear. Anna’s been staying out of my hair, and Consuelo’s been trying to fatten me up. The doctors have called a few times, wanting me to schedule an appointment, but I don’t need to. I can already hear the lecture on the miracle of psychotropic drugs. A few days with my wife, and I’m better than new.”
Christian grew quiet, rubbing his forehead. “Dimitri, maybe that’s not such a good idea.”
“What’d you mean?”
“Therapy and medicine might help you, buddy.”
“Hell, no! Yeah, I’m screwed up, but I’m not a psycho. All I need is to steer clear of my weird niece and for my father to stop treating me like a goddamn disease.”
“Calm down,” said Christian. All I meant was that a lot has happened, and maybe this is your time to finally figure out what’s causing the delusions and whatnot. You can’t blame Ivan and Anna for everything, and Elena is not a panacea.”
“Bullshit!” I snapped. “My wife is pampering me. Being with her makes me forget the last few weeks. And when did you become Sigmund Freud? You had a Norman Rockwell childhood with two parents who adored you. Find a skid mark in your life, and then we’ll talk!”
A red flush spread across his face. He put his fists on his thighs, his chest slowly moving up and down. He reminded me of the poor saps at the asylum sitting in the waiting room before shock therapy. “Hey, I’m sorry, man…I didn’t mean anything. I can be an asshole. What can I do? I love you, man, you know that.”
He wouldn’t talk. The stress had built a nasty rash on his neck; I doubted he knew because he kept scratching it, which made it worse. I’d never seen Christian like that; it made me feel like a terrible friend.
He gave me a passing glance with a slight nod, signaling he accepted my apology. I felt like crap; Christian had visited me every day at Clayborn, and the nurses said he stood outside my room for hours when I was in solitary. There was no better friend. Christian was the saint to my devil. I loved the guy.
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The love between Dimitri and Clarissa is passionate and often painful. Dimitri enjoys his wife’s unbridled sexuality but is often confused by her indifference to the romantic aspects of their relationship. I enjoyed writing about their dynamic…always unexpected and colorful.
In this scene, Dimitri professes his adoration of her only to be rebuked as overly sentimental:
I felt like she’d ripped up my love letter. Not the first time either. That part of her, cold and cynical, made me hate her. It reminded me of the night she left the song I’d written for her on the table like it was a sullied napkin. Clarissa provoked me; whether it was love or hate, sometimes she made me want to put my fist through a door and on other days I longed to skydive naked with her over the Appalachians.
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Only a few chapters left, and the last ones are the hardest. I’m not sure how much falls under the difficulty of concluding a complicated mystery and how much resides in the events of my own life. I guess it doesn’t matter. Ivan’s Wife has been a wonderful, frustrating, heart-wrenching experience to write. The characters are multi-dimensional and, at times, disturbing. Still, I love the characters and want to do them justice. Although Pages in the Wind was challenging, Ivan’sWife has been my biggest challenge.
In this chapter, Dimitri, the main character, learns why he was coaxed to Russia. The secrets are life-changing; he must reach into whatever strength he has left to handle what lies ahead.
I stepped across the austere room to the only window and pulled back the red linen drapes, coughing as dust exploded like dirty snow in my face. The narrow casement window overlooked the fountain and swung outward. Outside, the mist and wind were breathy and smelled like gardenias, so I cranked the handle to invite clean air into the misery. It wouldn’t budge. I glanced at the steel vault door and realized it would be hard to escape. It was on the third floor, and the window was stuck and had thick glazing bars. My heart quivered for a few seconds before regaining its rhythm. Without the roar of water spilling into the fountain and soothing wafts of fresh air, there was no way to let the gloom out. I felt trapped and garroted by the insanity that breeds from isolation.
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Ivan’s Wife is almost in the edit stage. Hardest ending ever. But, who likes simple? Not me. I’ve enjoyed the characters and the crazy parallels. In this excerpt, Dimitri finds his private room invaded. There is an interesting parallel at the end he won’t see coming.
I carefully set down my mother’s picture and listened. It had to be my imagination, like waking up in the middle of the night thinking you’d heard a suspicious noise downstairs. But, when I turned toward the door, I noticed two shadows poised like evil specters in the hallway. It was true. My sanctuary had been invaded.
And the door had no lock.
Another knock. A little heavier this time. But, still oddly rhythmic. Not a man’s knock. One knuckle. Three taps. Hardly a demand to open the door but not tentative either.
“Uncle Dimitri?”
“Shit,” I whispered, feeling blood rush like storm troopers to my head. Prickly sensations crept through my body as every muscle readied for battle. Anna. No way could I allow her to get away with invading my private space. A place that, until now, was known only to me. The safe haven where I talked with my mother.
Two more chapters and Ivan’s Wife goes to editing. This book has been cathartic during an extremely difficult time in my personal life. At times I wonder how my writing might change if life rolled along easily. Maybe I’ll find out someday. Who knows.
In this chapter, the characters are in Moscow attending the debut of Ivan’s wife. Tension builds.
Music, a mix of violins, cello, and flutes, tiptoed like a soft breeze into the quiet. The children and the men working in the field faded into nondescript houses and disappeared. The beautiful woman, twisting a strand of her hair around a slender finger, pretended not to notice the dashing man who held her with his eyes as he walked toward her. You could tell his presence moved her, her chest rose and her cheeks grew red as he approached her. Her hair tumbled down like a dark veil over her beautiful face.
Should be a fun trip finishing this novel and picking the right male to play the role of Dimitri. I must say it was fun and not difficult at all writing in a male voice. hmmm…
Two more chapters and Ivan’s Wife is finished. The final two chapters are challenging but my characters will come through. In this chapter, Dimitri arrives in Moscow for his father’s long awaited opera.
It was easy to get lost in the magic of the old theatre. I could feel the creative presence of musicians taking the stage to share their art with theatre goers over the last two centuries. Whether it was war or famine, triumph or sorrow, music had the ability to touch the hearts of friends and enemies in much the same way. A myriad of emotions, nurtured through the passing of time, rippled through the theatre and quieted my racing heart. If only music could have united my father and me—if only for a time.
I have thoroughly enjoyed Dimitri. He was a pleasure to develop and I’m not ready to let him go. Thankfully, I have one more edit before the book goes to print.
Ivan’s Wife is in the final editing stage. The story is diverse and covers a range of emotions. The protagonist faces a lot of challenges—and with challenges comes growth. In this scene, Dimitri is in a mental hospital, considering the inevitability of mental illness. Witnessing such pain propels him to finally seek help in understanding his illness.
