Babette Hughes's Blog, page 5

Writing a Novel Continued

Continued……

Questions I'm asked about writing:

How do you go about writing a novel?

I find the process to be very difficult and very interesting. I think ideas for character and plot from the unconscious—which is another way of saying they just come to me,  mysteriously, when I sit down to write. I begin every morning at nine and just write and write without judgment, until I have  at least 50,000 words.           
          
For me, the time for editing and judgment begins now, with the second draft. I'll throw out sentences, develop others, revise the structure, moving chapters and paragraphs around. Writing the second draft is like molding good clay and much easier than writing from scratch. As my characters come alive I'll write down what they do and say—sometimes I dream about them. In the same way, if my plot is vivid enough on the page, it will tell me what happens next.
           
Here is how Roxana Robinson does it:
            "I write about the things that trouble me. I write about the things that disturb me, the things that won't let me alone, the things that are eating slowly into my brain at three in the morning, the things that unbalance my world. Sometimes these are things I've said or done; sometimes they're things I've heard about or seen. Sometimes they're only sentences, sometimes scenes, sometimes complete narratives. I carry these things around inside my head until I'm compelled to write them down to get rid of them."
             
Novelist Richard Ford:
            "Clearly, many writers write for reasons other than a desire to produce great literature for others' benefit. They write for therapy. They write to "express" themselves. They write to give organization to, or escape from, their long long days. They write for money, or because they are obsessive. They write as a shout for help, or an act of familial revenge. There are a lot of reasons to write a lot. Sometimes it works out OK."
           
Writer Hans Koning on reviews:
            "You don't inquire what is selling those days. You don't worry about what editors or reviewers may like or not like. You don't read chapters to friends or to a long-suffering spouse in order to get an independent judgment. Your own judgment is independent."
           
Next:  excerpts from "Lost And Found:" a memoir.

Writing a Novel

These are some of the questions I'm asked about writing a novel:



Where do you get your ideas?
For my last novel, THE HAT, I started with the idea of setting the story in the era of Prohibition with its bootleggers' and speakeasy's, jazz and glittering gowns— terrific particulars of a dramatic period of American history. 
            Then, once I start writing, I get ideas while walking my dog, or being in the shower, or in some other mindless activity. That's because when the conscious mind is quieted from its usual clutter, good ideas can emerge from the unconscious. And that's where the gold is.
           
Do you use an outline?
Some writers do, but I don't. Instead of working from the top down with an outline, I try to write organically. In other words, if my characters come alive on the page, they will tell me what they do and say. And when I sit down to write, if my last scene is vivid enough, I know what the next one will be.


Where do you get your facts?
 From basically four sources:
Google. For a quick response to questions.
Memory. As I write, I'm always surprised when facts comes to mind that I didn't know I knew, as if my characters bring back what I had "forgotten." Meanwhile, I've learned that we all retain in memory more than we think we do.
Outreach. For a courtroom scene in the novel I'm working on now, THE SCARF, I will hire a trial lawyer to review it for accuracy.
References. There are many books about Prohibition and the Great Depression providing me with ample sources of information.


Next Blog:
What is your novel-writing process?

THE SCARF - Chapter Three

Although President Hoover assured the country that prosperity was just around the corner, the fact was that so many customers were being laid off they only bought day-old bread, and Mrs. Shapiro had to let Mr. Ornstein go, get up in the middle of the night and do the baking herself. And I was next. Three months after Vivian and her trunks left for Pembrook College, Mrs. Shapiro put her arms around me and told me with wet eyes that Friday would have to be my last day. When I began to feel tears gather behind my eyes, I swallowed them back--I felt as if I had somehow accumulated a reservoir of tears that lay ancient and unshed from before history, and I was afraid if I let go and started crying I would never stop. I had to keep my finger in the dike.      But my eyes kept filling up anyway and I was still wiping them on my apron and Mrs. Shapiro was blowing her nose like a foghorn, when Ben Gold strode into the bakery.  He asked Mrs. Shapiro for a loaf of rye and stood staring at me while she wrapped it. Snapping the string smartly, Mrs. Shapiro took his money and handed him his bread and change, but instead of leaving with his bread under his arm as he usually did, he walked over to me and stretched his hand across the counter.  "Ben Gold," he said with his splendid smile.     "Kate Brady," I said, taking his hand.       "Would you let me see you home some time?" he asked, smiling.        But I was too shaken to speak.  Where was I to find another job when the newspapers were full of the threat of plant closings and foreclosures? This morning's Plain Dealer had an article about the fear of actual hunger and soup lines. What was I going to do?  The person I had trusted above all else since I was ten years old had just fired me, the sweet smell of coconut bars and macaroons lined up on the counter was making me sick, my life was making me sick, the scholarship I was about to lose was making me sick, Vivian was gone, everyone else I knew from school was scattered and were never my friends anyway, I had no idea what to do after Friday or with the rest of my life and I felt such an appalling convulsion of rage and grief that the floor seemed to move under my feet. I held onto the counter. Aware that this Ben Gold was standing there smiling at me, I began wiping the display case again and told him that I wouldn't be coming to work after Friday.     "So how about today? I sure do waste a lot of bread on account of you, Kate Brady," he said, grinning. "That's a shame in times like these.  And it's all your fault."      Of course I had noticed him come into the bakery for days staring at me while Mrs. Shapiro wrapped his bread and counted out the change in his palm. But that stored-up avalanche of tears was threatening me again and all I could do was wonder what on earth he saw in me that kept him coming back for bread he didn't want in such desperate times. Just fired by my mentor, the kind, deep-voiced widow Shapiro, unemployed and unwanted and nowhere to go, I felt too thin, my hair too curly and red and unfashionably long, my skin too white, my eyes too pale, not to mention the haughty manner that inspired Mrs. Shapiro, to call me the Queen of Sheba.  (Don't forget Mrs. Robbins owes for three loaves, Miss Queen of Sheba; or the front case needs cleaning today, Miss Queen of Sheba, she would say when she left for her coffee and corned beef sandwich at Feldman's Delicatessen each afternoon at one.)       "Cat got your tongue?" Ben said, smiling. I looked up at him. He was wearing a tan double-breasted suit, pale mesh wing tips, a yellow shirt and a tie of pastel paisley, topped off with a skimmer. An April sun dappled his dark hair and pastel hues with light and shadow; his amber eyes had golden lights, which (I learned later) upon certain occasions of anger or other inner heat would actually turn yellow. He reminded me of a movie star, Rudolph Valentino or George Raft, someone like that. Staring at his gallant and exotic appearance only moments after I lost everything suddenly had for me the magic of a fairy tale and I had a swift seductive fantasy of rescue. I did not know then that self-deception is the child of confusion and pain; I breathed the air of sentimental delusion as if this smiling stranger was a hand pulling me back from the edge, and I flirted back as if I were Joan Crawford in the movies, or deep in a sweet daydream.       But I couldn't let him take me home. My mother embarrassed me.  It was as if  her years of drinking had eaten a permanent rut of shame within my heart, leaving it like a damaged liver. A casual reference to my mother by someone could still make my heart stop with mortification as if they knew about all the times Mr. Blum called the school office with a message that my mother was spending my father's occasional check in Blum's Grocery Store on unlikely assortments: five jars of Hellman's mayonnaise and six loaves of Wonder Bread, or eight tins of red domestic caviar, or a dozen cans of Tabby Cat Food (we had no cat) and a bag of onions, among other fanciful combinations.  Once she bought nothing but six cabbages.       The monitor would hand me the folded note, and face flaming, I'd slip out of class feeling the weight of my mother's failings as my own.  After riding the streetcar to my neighborhood I would walk toward Blum's as slowly as I could, looking over my shoulder, my heart pounding with a terrible humiliation and an appalling fury that seemed to hold the very bones in my feet captive. I would usually find my mother halfway home by now, cradling her grocery bag to her breast like a baby and trailing her familiar gin-smell.  She made the watching neighbors feel, I knew, superior and virtuous, in spite of their own bottle kept discretely under the sink with the Brillo pads and scouring powder; in spite of the roll they would swipe from the open bin (I saw them) when Mrs. Shapiro wasn't looking.        But my mother was on the wagon now and if I brought Ben home she would change into her polished white shoes with the Cuban heels and put on her best dress--a print of small lilacs on a brown background. My mother would make tea and arrange fig newtons and ginger snaps from their boxes in neat rows on a scalloped paper doily. She would talk about the weather and look apprehensive and distracted, and her hands would tremble the way they never did when she drank, and I would not be able to understand my own confused and guilty rage, or why I felt so wretched.     "So, how about it?" Ben was saying.                       Blushing from this dapper stranger's persistent attention, feeling moist from the heat of the ovens and my own blush and the unseasonably warm April afternoon, I saw Ben Gold's car through the storefront window, a shining black Packard. Except for Vivian's parents no one I knew had an automobile, not even Mrs. Shapiro.       Mrs. Shapiro got up from her stool where she had been sitting pretending not to listen. She opened the cash register and handed me my week's wages of eight dollars. "Go," she said, giving me a hard little shove. "I'm closing up early."       I took off my apron. "Lets go over to Hansens," I said to Ben Gold.
The next day I told my mother I was going job-hunting and took the streetcar downtown to meet Ben for lunch, as we had arranged when we sat drinking lemonade in a torn booth in Hansen's Coffee Shop. It was the warmest April on record, the radio said, and from the streetcar window I watched stray newspapers tossed about by a gritty warm wind.  Inside, people in their seats pulled off coats and stared out on the bare winter trees, looking hot and uneasy.     Ben was waiting for me when I arrived at Halle's Department Store, slouched against the glove counter, looking around in that observant, arrogant way of his.  From the pearl-gray wide-brimmed fedora on his head to his brown wingtips he looked as if he owned the place. I looked down at my cotton blouse, plaid skirt and the coat over my arm and thought about the beautiful clothes Vivian's mother bought her for college. I imagined the feel of silk on my skin, the way Vivian's blue chiffon prom dress would look with my hair. Damn. When Ben saw me he flashed his grand smile, and without speaking, took my arm and steered me past the cosmetic counter out the door to his car at the curb. The knot of people who had gathered around the car scattered while the doorman sprinted ahead, opened the door and handed me inside.     When we arrived at the restaurant, Mr. and Mrs. Wong greeted us with smiles and bows and Mrs. Wong led us through the nearly empty restaurant to a white-clothed table next to a window. Ben ordered grandly, seriously. First there was egg drop soup, then egg foo yong, chop suey, chow mein, thin crispy noodles, rice, tea in tiny cups, and almond cookies. Ben sat quietly across the table from me, but I felt his presence powerfully. There was something melodramatic about my attraction to Ben—as if he were someone in the movies, someone unreal, someone you made up because you didn't have a job or a boyfriend. Years later, there were times when I thought he was in the next room, or with me in the dark. Sometimes I imagined his breath on my cheek.     Ben talked while I ate, eating little himself, speaking rapidly, as if trying to cover much material in a short time, as if he had to rush off to another appointment.  (I noticed him glance at his watch.) He said he was 26 years old, that he had started his own insurance business when he was eighteen and built it up during the boom years. He told me that when everyone else was riding the stock market he took his father's advice and sewed his money in the mattress. He was now buying properties all over town at a fraction of their value, he said, as well as gold and diamonds.  He had two employees, an accountant and a general helper who served as driver, premium collector, errand runner and whatever else had to be done, and they all worked from offices in his house.       I told him about school and about my scholarship and about Mrs. Shapiro. I told him that I didn't know where my father was and that my mother used to work at Irene's Beauty Shop setting her customers' hair in  the latest style. But my mother was an invalid now, I told him, needed me home to take care of her, and didn't want me to go away to college or out on dates. I didn't know why I lied. Ben listened with a kind of amused attentiveness as if he knew I was lying. His fingernails were shiny and immaculate, his hair was clipped and brushed, he smelled of a pine forest.     After lunch we drove out of the city toward the Heights. I opened the window and let the wind blow my hair back--the only time I got to ride in an automobile was when Vivian's chauffeur picked her up at school on rainy days and gave me a lift home. As we drove into Vivian's neighborhood, the houses grew larger, more elegant and farther apart; the trees taller and grander, the lawns mysteriously weedless. Even the shrubs were as perfectly shaped as on a child's board game. Order and tranquility seemed to float from the proud silent streets into the car and the fragrant breeze I felt on my face, like the invisible people who lived here, never seemed to come to my neighborhood. There were no signs of children or dogs or dirt, as if the houses weren't for real people at all, just facades on a movie set.      Ben slowed the car as we approached a large red brick house with white pillars that reminded me of pictures I had seen of antebellum Southern mansions. It was set back from the street and almost hidden by a range of hydrangeas, viburnums and rhododendrons. He pulled the car into the circular driveway, came around to my side of the car and opened the door.     I sat on the soft white leather seat staring straight ahead.     "Come on in," he said.  "I want to show you my house."     I didn't budge.     "Come on," he said again, smiling, his urgency crackling the air.  "I don't bite."     "I have to be getting home."     He slammed the door, got back behind the wheel and started the car.     "It's just that my mother's strict," I said, wishing it were true.      He drove without speaking, fists on the steering wheel. His obvious intentions and my own excitement that escalated with his heated presence bothered me and I moved over to the window. I glanced at his flushed profile. He was no longer a safe distance across a lunch table, no longer a romantic idea of rescue. He was too real, too old for me, too sure of himself; I was over my head and I knew it. He would take me home and I would never see him again.     But I did not want to go home. My mother was there, clattering around in the unlaced oxfords that she wore two sizes too large to accommodate the big bunions that rose like pink marbles from her crooked disfigured toes. This was from her years of working in the Chinese laundry over on Chapman Street. This was before she drank, before I remembered. The klopity noise my mother always made on the thin rug in her oversized shoes was a familiar sound to me from early childhood, a comfort, telling me that my mother was near. Remembering how I longed to be near my mother then, it was impossible to believe how much I longed to be away from her now.My mother had been pretty once; in the mornings when she was fresh, after she did up her hair, if I squinted my eyes I could see beyond the ruined face to her chiseled features and wide extravagantly blue eyes.  Or I could look at the photograph of her at the age of fourteen on the wall.  She is standing second from the right between her sisters, behind her seated parents and brothers, all of them staring out of their sepia tones at my half-Catholic self with their virtuous, grave Jewish faces. The father, his hands on his thighs, has a splendid mustache and my own pale eyes; the mother has tightly combed hair and sits severely in a high-necked dress stretched over a weighty bosom. (My mother's wedding picture, which I only dimly remembered, had been removed long ago, leaving a neat, pale square on the wall). Even at fourteen my mother's prettiness was clearly defined, but later, when I knew her, drinking, or at night when she was tired, her hair hanging down long and gray, her skin the color of putty, she looked bad to me, like a witch, and it seemed dangerous to look at her. So I fastened my eyes on her bosom, level with my eyes then; later, her breasts seemed to sort of disappear, but back then they were fleshy and voluptuous.      That face reminded me of the relief I felt when my mother left for her first day of work at Irene's Beauty Shop and the hopelessness that followed an instant later when I saw the empty gin bottle in the waste basket from the night before. And of the way my mother stood so straight when she was drinking that she tilted slightly backward. And of the time she decided to make my clothes. (She did things like that.) She sat in the light, humming to herself, looking maternal and virtuous, sewing an entire dress by hand, ordering me to turn this way and that with a motherly, bossy frown. I stood patiently for the fittings, glad to have a regular normal mother who sewed. The dress, flowered chiffon with a stiff collar that scratched my neck, was meant for the Christmas dance but was never finished.  By that time my mother was drinking again and didn't notice that I didn't go.     Thinking about my mother made me want to sit next to Ben and I slid over on the seat until our bodies touched.     He looked at me. "So when will Mama let you out again?"     "Tomorrow?"     "I'll pick you up at eight."     "No, tomorrow afternoon."     "You can't go out at night?"     "I'll meet you at Halle's glove counter again. Same time," I said, too much my own parent for too long to drop my guard. I got out of the car at the bakery and watched it roar away. Later I wondered about losing my job and meeting Ben within minutes, as if all the while I thought I was making choices, there were cunning, mysterious forces out there planning the life I would have.     Walking home, the warm April air seemed somehow menacing, as if seasonably cool, benign streets belonged only to the employed. The air seemed so thick and steamy, my skin so damp and my limbs so heavy, I felt as if I were trying to walk under water. No one else was on the sidewalk, only an occasional car rumbled by, the streetcar tracks were abandoned; there was only silence and a burning sky. Where was everyone? It was just past four o'clock and yet the forsaken neighborhood and motionless air seemed to be trapped in a sealed bottle like a preserved and lifeless specimen shimmering in an eerie light. I passed the tailor shop and saw Mr. Haefner, alone in his store, bending over his sewing machine, but next door, Oscar's Fresh Fish was darkened and empty, a big hand-lettered OUT OF BUSINESS sign propped up on an empty milk bottle in the window.  Passing Feldman's Delicatessen the tantalizing smell of pickles and pastrami drifted out into the street, but inside, the tables were empty and Mr. Feldman's son, Arnold, was slowly mopping the floor.     Just ahead a line of men stood as quietly as obedient children waiting their turn at the new soup kitchen that had been Blum's Grocery Store.  Some men wore hot black suits. Some wore hats. Were the beads of sweat on their cleanly shaved faces under the brave fedoras a final humiliation? The fear in their sagging bodies and gray faces seemed to emit a stench and I hurried past, averting my eyes as if they were naked.     I had never been on a regular date before--just the dances at University School, or an after-school coke with Tommy Leblanc, and the afternoons when Vivian and I and a bunch of kids from the public school squeezed into Frieda Norton's living room and played spin the bottle until Frieda's mother was laid off and was home after school. I was relieved when we had to quit because Harvey Rheinhart always pressed his lips too hard against my teeth and tried to get his hand in my blouse. But Ben was good-looking and polite; we went for country rides after our lunches, and then to Shraffts for a soda before he drove me back to my street corner. Sometimes we went to the movies. I didn't become suspicious of his grand attentions and gentlemanly behavior.     It was a sexless deliverance I wanted back then, like when the movie star still had her clothes on before disappearing behind the closed door with the man, before the camera averted its eye toward the sunset. When I was nine or ten I remembered hearing a man's voice from my bed at night, laughter, the clinking of ice in glasses. The next day my mother looked younger, prettier, as pretty as the picture on the wall. Even then I recognized the signs. The extra whisky glass. The rose he brought her. The scent of a male mixed with the sort of flowery gentility my mother had in those days. Once there was a whole bouquet in a vase; he was a sport my mother said. The man was always gone when I got up the next morning and I wondered if maybe he was married or something. But I pretended my mother didn't let him stay because of me. I was relieved when he stopped coming and my mother started to look old again.

Boardwalk Empire – To the Lost

If the creators of Boardwalk Empire were looking to end the season with a bang, they certainly succeeded. In fact, there were many "bangs" throughout the episode. The bloodshed that had been mostly absent for the last two weeks returned in a big way tonight. In fact, two people were murdered in the first minute of the show. Of course, the murders that took place in this episode were all a means to an end, as Nucky took back Atlantic City.
At the beginning of the episode, Horowitz declares that Nucky should not be as revered as he is. That he would "be nothing" in Odessa, which he considers a city of crooks. How wrong Horowitz turns out to be! The season finale certainly showed that Nucky will stop at nothing to save his own skin, and whoever crosses him is going to meet an untimely end. Nothing is sacred to him, not loyalty, not love, not even family.
First, he creates his new family by convincing Margaret to marry him, then he makes amends with his actual family by pulling Eli back under his wing. But THEN he destroys Jimmy's struggling family (and his own humanity, I think) by killing Jimmy. Despite the fact that Jimmy was a flawed, murderous character, I was extremely disappointed to see him go. I can't see how future seasons will play out without him. We are left to ponder the future of the next closest person to Nucky— Margaret.
At the beginning of the episode, I was starting to worry that Margaret was losing her edge. She agrees to marry Nucky, knowing that he is probably playing her, and she seems indifferent to the fact that he has a star witness in his trial murdered. She was starting to play out like a Carmela Soprano-like character, complicit in Nucky's dealings and always at the ready to look the other way to ensure her own comfort and survival.
 Margaret, bless her, actually comes out as the master of deception. With all Nucky pulled off in this finale, he has nothing on her. He may be reassured now that she's his wife, but he will find out next season that he has met his match. Don't mess with a suffrage woman! Hopefully, he doesn't try to kill her as well when he finds out that she's signed his deed to prime New Jersey highway land over to the church. It's not clear what her ultimate plan is, and it will be a long wait until next season to find out.

Boardwalk Empire – Under God's Power She Flourishes

Each character in this series is painfully corrupt. Some were corrupt at the start of the series, and others we've seen become more so from week to week. Can any of them be saved? Or in Nucky's case, does he even care to be?


Margaret sees how corrupt she's become, and has been trying to get right with God. She truly believes that God is holding her accountable for her sins. First by giving her daughter polio, and now by making sure she answers in court for allowing Nucky to order her abusive husband killed. On top of all of this, the maid overhears Nucky's bodyguard flirting with her, so now she fears she will be called to task for cheating on Nucky. She's been trying so hard to be a woman of God since her daughter got sick, but you can see by the expression on her face that she thinks it is too late. Nucky is no comfort to her, because he is pretty content with his "moral" code.


Nelson, altered by the birth of his daughter, has been cooperating with the federal prosecutor on Nucky's case and sticking to the straight and narrow this season. He even turned down a bribe from bootleggers this week. Unfortunately, his past transgressions have come home to roost. I had almost forgotten that he drowned Agent Sebso last season. Now that Nucky's lawyer and the federal prosecutor know about this, Nelson is an uncredible witness, and Nucky may not have to face a trial. This would pave the way for Nucky to take back Atlantic City, and just in the nick of time, because Jimmy is not doing so hot since his wife's murder.


My favorite part of this episode was the flashback to Jimmy's time at college. It was compelling to see this character in his more innocent days, enjoying a budding romance with Angela and flourishing in college. (Note the scene where he is discussing John Webster's play "The White Devil" in English class, it's no coincidence that the theme of the play is corruption.) Everything is hunky-dory until his mother Gillian comes to visit. It's then that his life begins to unravel. First, he finds out that Angela is pregnant. Then, he is forced to deal with the repercussions of his mother's visit and the affect she had on his college professor…and ultimately Jimmy himself when Gillian seduces him. This was obviously the turning point for our dear Jimmy. He promptly joins the service to escape his mother, and his service in the war turns him into the cold-blooded killer he is now. Angela's murder brings all of these unsavory memories back to the surface for Jimmy. While in the middle of throttling his mother for ruining his life, he is attacked by his father. This family tiff culminates in Jimmy murdering his father in self defense…and at his mother's urging. How Oedipal!


Next week is the season finale. Though it's hard to imagine these characters becoming worse people than they already are, I don't imagine they'll all sit down to a nice family dinner together, either. Either way, I'm interested to see how it all plays out. Until next Sunday….

Boardwalk Empire – Georgia Peaches

What to do when you're caught in situations beyond your control? Pray? Pay? Create your own brand of justice? Limitations, both physical and situational have wreaked havoc on the residents of this little boardwalk town.


Margaret, desperate to have her little girl not become crippled by polio, goes to the only place she feels she can turn – her church. It was quite the stomach-turner to watch her priest guilt her into making a devotional by alluding to the possibility of a miracle. And Margaret falls for it! Yet, after giving all of her socked away money and new jewelry to the church, her daughter is still paralyzed. Margaret realizes that her prayers will go unanswered, and her priest used religion to not only take her money, but her hope as well. This may be the event that completely delivers her to the dark side.


Nucky is dealing with helplessness at home and in his public life. He cannot solve Margaret's problem, nor can he make his legal troubles go away. Despite all of his bribing, payoffs, and efforts to deter attention from his illegal activities, Nucky's trial for election tampering will soon commence, and he may have to serve jail time. Arnold Rothstein recommends the lawyer who is defending him for allegedly fixing the 1919 World Series. Even Nucky seems impressed with the sleaziness of this lawyer. Will more backwards dealings really help him to overcome this seemingly impossible situation? The way this story has unfolded so far, I suspect so. Until then, Atlantic City will continue to fall apart without his leadership.


As predicted, the African-American workers strike has brought the city to a standstill. Jimmy is ill-equipped to handle negotiations with Chalky White, so the strike drags on. His father, The Commodore, hindered by the affects of a stroke cannot even give his son advice. Their associates recommend strike breakers, but that approach only makes things worse. The demonstrators are only strengthened in their resolve. Would it be corny to say "strike one" on this issue being settled peacefully?


Poor Jimmy, not only can he not control the city, he cannot control his relationships. His failed assassination on Horovitz has manifested in the most unfortunate way. Despite Jimmy's attempt to smooth things over by sending Horovitz cases of liquor, he fails to recognize the Yiddish butcher's vengeful streak. This was a disturbing scene for me to watch, Horovitz murdering Jimmy's wife and novelist female lover in cold blood. However, cold-blooded killing is nothing new in this series, it's just usually Jimmy doing the killing. With the last two episodes of the season coming up, I fear the violence can only get worse from here.

Boardwalk Empire - Battle of the Century

This week's episode was full of rebellion. Some I was glad to see, some I would have rather not seen. Set against the background of the Dempsey-Carpentier boxing match of 1921, in this episode, we saw the main characters take on fights of their own.
Margaret's strength is certainly tested when she finds out that her daughter has contracted polio. Every week, I find myself marveling at this character. She is probably one of the strongest females portrayed on television right now. She's brilliant at using her reputation as a widow, a mother, and even as a kept woman to her advantage. The other characters always underestimate her, and it is quite thrilling to see her show what she is really made of. This week was no exception, as she is forcibly kept from her daughter who is considered highly contagious. The scene where Emily receives a spinal tap was pretty heart-wrenching. However, Margaret really shows her fortitude and spirit when she rebels against the doctors' orders to sneak into the restricted ward to comfort Emily.
Nucky is unaware of the troubles at home as he has traveled to Ireland under the guise of burying his dead father. What we soon see, is that he intends on supplying guns to Irish rebels in exchange for whiskey. The Irish obviously prefer continuing to fight rather than negotiate peace with the British government. It was a little off-putting to see how much they really wanted those guns. They had no problem ridding their group of any naysayers to Nucky's offer.
Though Nucky is not in Atlantic City, his influence is still working for him. Chalky White, working on Nucky's suggestion, encourages a group of African-American workers to stage a walk-out. Demanding better wages and better treatment, an entire restaurant kitchen staff leaves in the middle of their shift. From the looks of the previews for next week, this will become a larger demonstration. It's great to see this portrayal of early civil rights in action, but as we all know, everything that happens on this show serves a dual purpose. The reason Nucky encouraged Chalky to have the workers rebel in the first place, is to make Atlantic City contentious and a difficult place to manage for Jimmy.
In his second week as "king" of Atlantic City, Jimmy is not doing as well as he thinks he is. Sure, he's living the life of a fat cat, ordering around his underlings, partying, and womanizing as much as possible, but he does not realize that everything is unraveling around him. Jimmy orders another assassination, this time on Horovitz the Yiddish butcher, and unbeknownst to him it goes awry. That was a scene I could have done without, no one should use kitchen tools that way! At this point, it remains to be seen whether Jimmy is strong enough to win control of the city.

Boardwalk Empire – Two Boats and a Lifeguard

This week struck a chord in me for a few reasons.
First, there is Nucky coming to terms with the death of his father. He spends most of the episode badmouthing and cursing his father, even at the funeral home. Nucky doesn't grieve for his father until he is left alone with the casket. Maybe Nucky respected his father at least a little considering he stands over his body weeping. It is his own father's death that causes Nucky to want to be more of a father to Margaret's children, and he asks them to start calling him "dad". It may also be in part the reason Nucky decides to step down as Treasurer of Atlantic City, and hands the reigns over to his "son", Jimmy. I think he's really just trying to teach Jimmy a lesson. Nucky always has a plan.
With all the new responsibilities, Jimmy is starting to ignore his own home life, but his wife has found a diversion. She befriends a newcomer to the series, Louise. Louise is, of all things, a free-spirited novelist. Now, we're talking! This new relationship is sure to spark things up in Atlantic City. Louise is already breaking the modesty laws (that bathing suit was considered racy!), and appears to also be a lesbian, or at the very least VERY open-minded. This is already stirring a response from Angela, who was until now suppressing her homosexuality by marrying Jimmy.
This episode also gives us the return of Jewish gangster, Arnold Rothstein and Yiddish butcher Horovitz. Why do these two characters always seem to appear in the same episodes? I feel it's only a matter of time before they meet, but right now they are still in opposite camps. It is Rothstein who encourages Nucky to hold back and be patient, even in the face of an assassination attempt. Rothstein is incredibly impressive in his restraint and calculative demeanor, but what is going on under the surface? In actuality, Rothstein was an incredibly successful gambler for many years, so the character on this series seems to match the legend. Equally mysterious in his motives is Horovitz, who approaches Jimmy for his liquor which still is yet to be delivered. Jimmy, drunk on power and bootlegged whiskey is pretty insulting to Horovitz. Mickey Doyle tries to warn Jimmy to be accommodating and less anti-Semitic to Horovitz, but that gets him thrown over a balcony. I don't think Jimmy will be as successful as Nucky was at running Atlantic City. He's much too hot-headed and violent. Not looking forward to an increase in violence on this show, but I am interested to see how Atlantic City fares with Jimmy at the helm.

Boardwalk Empire: Peg of Old

Just how twisted can the roots of a family tree get? From suggesting a brother be bumped off, to a mother abandoning her newborn, to siblings being unable to forgive past grievances, loyalty is not a virtue for this extended bootlegging family.
Jimmy is the only person struggling with where his heart lies. The thought of assassinating Nucky, who he considers a father, is eating him up. On top of this predicament, Jimmy's relationship with his mother, Gillian, is probably the most unnerving relationship on the show. Every time Gillian gets close to Jimmy, I shudder. Of course, when a girl gives birth at 13, the mother/child relationship is bound to be slightly unconventional.
Speaking of giving birth, having a new baby doesn't seem to catalyze the mothering gene in Lucy. She has no problem using her child as a bargaining chip to extort money from the men in her life. A little cash from Nucky, and Lucy abandons her child to pursue a chance in the limelight. Nelson, who began in the series as a slightly creepy character, surprisingly becomes the most family-oriented person in this episode, quickly adjusting to his role as a protective single father.
Resident single mother, Margaret, travels to New York to visit her Irish family this week. The stroll through 1920s Brooklyn takes me back as Margaret seeks out her working-class brother and sisters. The writers give a real sense of how hard immigrants had it starting out in America. Every person works in Margaret's family. Despite their struggles, Margaret's brother is too proud to accept monetary help from Margaret. He still cannot forgive Margaret for an unwed pregnancy, and he struggles with the fact that she is a kept woman.
Perhaps it is being faced with her painful past that drives Margaret into the arms of family bodyguard, Owen, or maybe she is more modern than anyone suspected. Margaret betrays Nucky as well as jeopardizes the family they've created. Distracting Owen means that Nucky is left unprotected at Babette's supper club (another Babette's dinner party. If it were mine you would have been there!) and an attempt is made on his life by Jimmy's crew. Of course, federal agents thwart the set-up or the show would be over! As Jimmy quickly exits the club and realizes that Nucky was not killed, I can't help but wonder if he has a look of disappointment or relief on his face.

Boardwalk Empire "The Age of Reason"

The main characters are confronted by religion, and the part it plays in their respective lives. Make no mistake, none of these people are beyond reproach, they are all corrupt. The characters struggle to make peace with themselves and their actions, and they all end up falling short of that goal.
Margaret prepares her son, Teddy, for his first confession, and is surprised during her meeting with the priest to find out that she, too, must make a confession. Of course, this concerns Nucky, as he does not want her revealing sensitive information (i.e. his criminal pastimes) to a priest. He needn't worry, though. Margaret skirts the issue and confesses instead to having a crush on Nucky's new driver, Owen.
After last week's barn explosion, Agent Clarkson is hospitalized with third degree burns, and is sure to die soon. Deeply religious Nelson, who doesn't realize that Agents Ziwicki and Clarkson were only at the barn to track him, prays to God to heal Clarkson. Mid-prayer, Nelson is interrupted by Clarkson, who says, "I know what you did". Now, most people would chalk a comment like this up to the ramblings of a dying and deeply sedated man. But, most people do not have a pregnant actress stashed away in an apartment waiting to give birth. Nelson is sure that this is a message directly from God. Guilt-ridden, Nelson calls his wife, admitting that he's a sinner and not worthy of her or his job as a Prohibition agent.
Jimmy, the only character who seems to be comfortable with his inner demons, has a busy schedule this episode. After making a deal with the Yiddish butcher, Horvitz, last week to traffic alcohol, Jimmy sets his plans in motion. What he does not realize, is that Nucky is also transporting alcohol, with the help of Jewish gangster Arnold Rothstein. When Jimmy spots one of Horvitz's henchmen with Nucky on the boardwalk, he's sure that Horvitz has betrayed him. They both find out, however, that Horvitz is the one who was betrayed. The whole affair plays out in Horvitz's meat locker, where Jimmy gets the information he needs before making short work of the unfortunate turncoat. Jimmy, Horvitz, and the gang ambush Rothstein's men and Nucky's liquor mid-transport in the woods. Rothstein's associates, Charles "Lucky" Luciano and Meyer Lansky, talk Jimmy into letting them deliver the first shipment, with the agreement that they will work together in the future to betray Nucky.
Throughout the episode, Lucy is giving birth in her secret apartment to Nelson's child. While he is tied up elsewhere receiving supposed messages from God, Lucy endures labor alone, and eventually gives birth to his daughter. By this time, Nelson has realized that Agent Clarkson is indeed rambling on his deathbed and comes home to find Lucy with his new child. Unfortunately, his wife Rose concerned by his confession call, has come looking for him. She also discovers Lucy and the baby as a result. How's that for divine intervention?