When I write, I rarely work from an outline. I have a good idea what I what to say and what direction I’m heading in, but I like to journey down these roads without a map, so I can discover the secrets of the inner storyteller in much the same way as you, the reader. As a result, I have a tendency to “overwrite” and branch out into unexpected directions.
The Book of Paul evolved over a long period of time. In its early iterations there was much more of a Pulp Fiction quality to it, with many more characters involved in all kinds of mayhem. There were also many quieter, interior moments, particularly with William as he descends into Paul’s nightmare world. And for all the Fifty Shades of Grey fans, the sex scenes were longer, more graphic, kinkier — and many of them were cut altogether.
So for all you fans — here’s an exclusive look at the “DVD extras” — extra chapters, characters and scenes (some of which will be included in the upcoming sequels and prequels), commentary on my process, the characters, the plot, the evolving series, mythological research, arcana, and all kinds of other goodies and surprises.
Enjoy — and thanks for your support!
I’m going to kick this off with some of my favorite chapters that were deleted. The first two: Squeak! and Never Take Taxi on the FDR involve a character named Randy Gunn, a menacing East Village bartender. They’re a hoot.
Randy Gunn had a gun. Had plenty of them actually and he wished he had one now. He would put it on the bar between himself and Fred just to let his customer know how annoyed he was getting. Instead, he squeaked the glass he was cleaning.
Squeak. Squeak. Squeak.
Fucking asshole Fred. Fred was any male customer. All the female customers were Sally. He called them all Fred or Sally to their faces to make sure they understood his contempt for them. They whined about it often, especially the regulars who all wanted to think they were friends. Like this Fred.
(continued in PDF)
Never Take Taxi on the FDR
“Hey Cochise! Easy on the stop and go!” Randy shouted to the Indian-Pakistani- Persian-Whatnot taxi driver who was doing the herky-jerky gas and brake pedal dance in the continuous glacier/parking lot that was the FDR between 34th and Houston.
Randy was heading south with only one exit to go but he may as well have been on the moon at the rate they were going. He hated being late, especially for work.
Hated it, hated it, hated it.
Randy hated most things these days. He hated his job, hated New York, and most of all, he hated the people who lived there. Always in a fucking hurry, always late for some big shot business meeting. Always in his fucking way. Like now.
He thought about pulling out his fake cop badge and ordering the driver to stop slamming the brake pedal. Detective Buzz Fenwall, one of the regulars at the bar, had given him the badge. It looked completely authentic. Usually, you have to pay big bucks to the Policeman’s Benevolent Fund to get one, but after all the free drinks he’d poured into Buzz and his cronies, like some kind of state-sanctioned protection racket, Randy figured he deserved a badge and a citation. Buzz really liked Randy and actually thought they were friends. Randy thought Buzz was just another Fred and called him that.
Randy felt the badge in one pocket and his 9mm Browning semi-automatic in the other. The gun felt much more appealing.
(continued in PDF)
The next two are William’s ruminations, where he uses descriptions of colors to reflect his state of mind as he struggles to resist his sinister impulses.
Red is the color of flavor, I think. Red is the color of blue. Red is the shape of my Valentine’s Day. Red is the color of you. Red is the way my eyelids get, closed and staring at the sun. Red is the color of wax fruit apples. Red is the color of fun. Red is meat gravy. Salty, lick it from the plate. Red steak, rare steak. Make mine medium red. I’ll have a red with that. Red red red.
Roses are red. Violets are red. Grass is wet with red. I look at my skin and see red. A wave of red just under the surface. Pulsing red. Boiling red. River of red.
Around around around.
Have you ever taken a flashlight and covered it with your hand? Get one now if it’s dark enough. It has to be really dark. I’ll get one too. Hold on.
OK. I probably did this for the first time when I was a little boy in my closet. Did you? If you did, you know what’s coming. For the “beginners” just stick the flashlight under your hand and turn it on. Pretty cool, eh? How’s that for red? Look at those red glowing fingers…OOOooo, creepy…
(more in PDF)
Did you know that there’s no such color as black? Well no color you can buy anyway. When you get a can of black paint, it looks black, but it’s actually made from very high concentrations of some other color, usually blue or green. Sometimes you can see the color it’s really made of, like after you’ve washed a black T-shirt over and over…as it fades it might start looking a little green.
Green black. Blue black. No such thing as true black.
Why? Don’t ask me.
Some people say there’s no such thing as pure evil either. I don’t know about
that, but I do know this: I know a black that’s blacker than any other black. I know a black that’s made of red.
(this short chapter is complete)