Four years ago, I wrote a short story, my 2nd ever, for my English class. It’s crazy that the distance between me and college continues to widen. Anyways, that story was, “A Deviant Style of Murder.” Truman Capote’s In Cold Blood and Nabokov’s Humbert Humbert in Lolita were my inspirations. My character a teenage murderer, Chase Franzen was too fun to write. I’m bringing this up cause my Mom suggested I write a novel. I didn’t take her seriously at first. Why not, my Dad texted. You’re boring(how my Korean Mom says I’m bored) and when you’re sad, call on the Lord and write. She had a point. I’ve never had such an excess of free time, more than I know what to do with.
So here goes the resurrection of Chase. He made his debut with this:
I don’t deny that I did it, but I cannot say so with regret. It was a crime of passion, a term invoked by many, but adequately realized by few. Danielle was my same-age Lolita, the ignition to my vehicle’s engine, the amplifier to the strings on my guitar. I envision her dimpled smile and startlingly blue eyes still. How’s that for adopting a murderer’s apparently inherent trait of possessing a fancy prose style. Time in a prison cell, devoid of the usual accoutrements of comfortable living, seems as a good a time as any for me to act on my literary ambitions. An erroneous account in the Herald also warrants my immediate correction.
And he returns with this (this is all I’ve got on day 1 of writing, not sure if I’ll get a full novel out of Chase and I realized I need to do some research on prison life, life after prison etc):
Dear beguiling reader, I’m back. The last you’d heard of me I was weaving yarns in a prison cell describing Danielle’s death this way and that. Somehow and no one’s more surprised than me, I’m about as free as a murderer can be. I mean I’m in house arrest. Any home feels luxurious after a 6 by 8, even when you’ve got a bracelet wrapped around your ankle. Good ol’ mum had to take me in. It’s home yet foreign. The friends I had long departed, first for college, then onto jobs in new big cities. I’m here breathing in fresher oxygen, taking in the stillness unpunctuated by the howls of distraught inmates. Who knows how I lasted.
Thoughts from any readers out there?