J.J. Murray's Blog: J.J.'s Blog and Brownies

J.J. Murray

I got out of my usual box (alpha female, beta male) and wrote about Dante, an Italian boxer, and Christiana, a Red Hook, Brooklyn journalist, both of them headstrong, opinionated, and intense. They verbally spar continuously, and they even go a few rounds in the ring. Really. Add Canadian wilderness, a trainer/master chef who dreams of his own restaurant, a former Hawaiian Tropic model and ring card girl, an enigmatic ex-wife, a protective son, a villainous opponent, a missing father, a slew of infamous celebrities, Madison Square Garden, and Brooklyn (need I say more?), and you have an idea of what The Real Thing is all about.

Why boxing as a backdrop for romantic comedy? You could say that boxing is a metaphor for most romance. You warm up and bounce around, sizing up your opponent. You might even sweat. Someone goes over the "rules of engagement," rules you've known and followed for years. You make eye contact briefly with your opponent. A bell sounds in your head. You tense up. You meet in the center of the ring. You circle each other. You throw out a verbal jab, perhaps a few shots below the belt, maybe even a few uppercuts. You may even "clinch" a bit or force your opponent to the ropes. Another bell sounds, you go back to your corner of the world and rest, and you wonder, "What just happened?" A confidante tells you how you can win the match. You take some of that advice, you go out for round two ... Okay, I'm stretching this metaphor thin now, but isn't the idea in romance for both people to knock each other out by the end of the novel?

The best romances end in a draw ... and a very long clinch.

... that looked punched?

I mean, beaten up, mauled, misused, and left out in the rain like an old baseball glove even the dog won't play with?

Welcome to our room.

I didn't notice it much last night when I was exhausted. Light has a way of revealing things. A tubular clothes hanger droops from a wall. We have to balance our clothes just right. The tea bags were fresh during the 2002 Hampton Jazz Festival. The Colombian coffee's potency wore off during the first Bush's administration. A dusty coffee maker with rust on the heating element does not invite me to start a fire. Tile grout a bile-brown color Crayola doesn't and will never make brightens up the bathroom. A three-dollar iron rests on a scorched ironing board. The safe has no key, which makes it unsafe. The TV rolls closed captioning that blocks one-third of the program at all times. The clock radio has no visible words on or near any of the buttons. That's a lot of fingers rubbing buttons. The visitors guide is helpful until I realize it's from January 2009.

Only the Gideon Bible looks pristine and untroubled.

But I'm not complaining. It's a place to sleep, not to live, the AC works, the hot water is warm, and the beds haven't imploded.

I could never be a travel writer ... and be asked to come back for another visit.

When I first started writing, I fancied myself to be a poet. Thus, I wrote thousands of forgettable poems and occasionally a good one.

I find that when I have writer's block, just wrestling with a new poem breaks open a few doors in my novel manuscripts. Sometimes the people in my poems become people in my novels (i.e. Jar Man in Something Real).

I have posted "Move On" in the "J.J.'s Writing" section, and here's how it came to be:

Theodore Roethke's "The Waking" fascinated me in college. I even used his title for a yet-to-be-published novel. It is a villanelle, a 19-line poem with two repeated lines and a basic two-rhyme rhyme scheme. Dylan Thomas' "Do Not Go Gently Into That Good Night" is another excellent example of a villanelle.

I first wrote an upcoming sermon based on Exodus 14:13-15. I am an elder with Acting Faith Ministries, and every now and then Pastor Page steps aside and lets me preach. I opened with quotations from Satchel Paige, the hall of fame pitcher, and had four main points. When I took Paige's famous quote ("Don't look back. Something may be gaining on you") and counted the syllables ... 11. Hmm. I listed my points, a series of commands from Exodus, and also counted the syllables ... 10. Hmm. I thought I had the two repeating lines necessary for a villanelle.

Then ... I listed possible rhymes and constructed the poem using some of the information I planned to share in the sermon.

The finished product isn't as specific or "rich" as I like to be with my poetry, but it says what I want it to say. And it closes my sermon rather nicely--in my humble opinion.

So, if you ever have a "Red Sea Moment" with your writing, part with that piece of writing (pun intended) and wade into something else. Write a poem, a song, a little ditty, a jingle, the first paragraph of your epic, a character sketch, a series of funny words (like "flabbergast"), a letter you never intend to send--and don't be surprised if it opens new pathways in your "Red Sea."

... a water baby, love the outdoors, and don't tan very well.

My parents stumbled upon an 8mm reel from an old camera they owned about 45 years ago. After sending it to a film-to-DVD company, they posted it on Youtube before warning me it was there.

Here's the link: JJ, 1965

Get ready to ROFL. Those aren't Pampers (Mama believed in cloth), I have no idea where the other sock is, and I still have water in my ears.

The "warrior" circling me is my cousin Chuck Casey, who plays trombone in the Marine Corps band. He was on TV for about 30 seconds during Obama's inauguration.