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When I first discovered journalism in high school, I was hell-bent on becoming a writer for Rolling Stone Magazine. It was one of the top 10 news magazines we were told to study and it covered rock and roll - seemed like the place for me. Well, I never made it to New York, but I do freelance occasionally for the local newspaper and this week, my article on a rock band called Hero's Last Mission was published. Here's the article...

www.amadorvisitor.com/music/contentview....

If you're interested in the outtakes and/or what went on behind the story, feel free to continue reading here...

 

First of all, writers at the ALD are limited to 1,000 words for their original submissions, which makes it nearly impossible to include every detail from an interview into the story. Even after an article is submitted, it's still subject to further edits depending on 1) what else needs to fit into the paper that day, and 2) anything the editor feels may be inappropriate or stupid. Fortunately, editor Mayra Jimenez ran my story ran in its original length with the only edit I could find being she corrected my "signing" in paragraph eight to "singing." However, there were still some details that didn't fit into the constraints set by the word limit.

 

For example, during the numerous levels of competition for the West Coast Songwriters, each band had to play the same, originally composed song at each round of the competitions. HLM's "Baby, You Are Something" was their winning piece.

 

Another outtake was the mention of Sacramento-based musician Mike Johnston who played drums live off and on as well as in the studio for the band. He also did the artwork you see on the band's Myspace page. He was a huge influence on the Hurtados. Johnston is well known throughout Northern California for his drum lessons as well as his active participation in the local music scene. "He's the one who taught us how to play professionally," Lee said in our interview.

 

When I asked the Hurtados what band they closely resembled, they cited Maroon 5, Rascal Flatts, Fall Out Boy, Nickelback, and Coldplay. In my nowhere-near-humble opinion, I'm not pickin' up any Coldplay or Nickelback. Lee has a much different voice than Maroon 5's Adam Levine, but the bands' music is similar, although HLM have no keyboards in their music, and they're more rock than pop. I can say the same for the current album Rascal Flatts has put out (didn't they used to be a country band?). I will, however, give them Fall Out Boy. Both bands are good, high-quality rock and roll with lots of energy and danceable, young spirit.

 

The last outtake involved the band's determination to play Van's Warped Tour in the cities of Ventura and San Francisco. HLM took the liberty of using a roving cart with portable microphones and amplifiers to play to the fans waiting in line to get in. While there, they performed to the crowd and sold CDs and t-shirts. They ended up getting kicked out of Ventura, but were allowed to stay the whole time in SF.

 

After the article was published, I found a huge error on my part. In paragraph eight, the Hurtados did not sing in the 5th grade band. I have no idea why I wrote that. They played in the band, though - started off with trumpet and graduated to various instruments after that.

 

If there are any aspiring journalists out there, you might be interested in learning what literary faux pas I made on the actual story. These blunders are sure to keep me in the reject pile of Rolling Stone Magazine.

 

Students are taught in Feature Writing 101 to begin the story with a catchy lead (the first paragraph of the article). If the lead doesn't include a quote, you need to have a quote immediately following the lead. I don't know who invented that rule, but that's what you're supposed to do - something about making it readable.

 

For my lead, I really wanted to focus on the quality of the music and the energy of the stage performance. Unfortunately, when I was at the Aug. 13 gig, I was so overwhelmed at how good HLM sounded live, that I just stood there in awe the whole time and didn't take down any quotes from Lee Hurtado when he was interacting with the crowd. I knew their CD "Road to Recovery was well produced, but to hear them execute that level of quality live is hard to pull off, especially for a band that young. To compensate for my lack of attention, I quoted one of HLM's songs in paragraph two of my article. It cost me 43 words that I could have used on other details of the story. Lesson Number 1 to my protégés out there: Pay attention and jot down as many quotes as you can, especially if they're good quotes that you can use in your story.

 

The second mistake I made was neglecting to mention that the story transitioned from the Aug. 13 performance at the Boardwalk to a personal interview with the Hurtado brothers in the living room of their Amador County home on Sept. 2. I also should have mentioned that the quote from Wayward's Chris Stanton was submitted via e-mail (well, actually it was over Myspace mail, but that's considered a form of e-mail and it would have sounded too clumsy to be so precise). So, it should have read, "Chris Stanton, vocalist and guitarist for Wayward said in an e-mail to the Amador Ledger-Dispatch..." But who really cares anyway, so why not save the extra seven words and just use "says"?

 

Any math fiends out there might realize that Luis, who is currently 23 years old, was only 4 when Stevie Ray Vaughn died. That meant that Vaughn had been dead for 11 years the first time Luis heard the rock icon for the first time. No matter how I tried to work that fact into the story, I couldn't make it flow well, so I just left it hanging out there.

 

I did a really crappy job clarifying the chain of events.  Rock and Roll Study Hall started in 10th grade. At the end of 11th grade, the Hurtados were playing the high school revue and met some other guys in another band who ended becoming the first lineup of HLM. Nuclear Blast played Sober Grad when the Hurtados graduated high school. Two of the guys from that band are now playing in the current lineup.

 

I mentioned their first CD was titled "You're Better Off to Know." The album is actually titled "Your Better Off to Know" but I corrected the grammar and changed the "Your" to "You're" since it was a contraction of "you" and "are." That was just me being anal-retentive.

 

Speaking of being better off to know...

 

So now you all have a feeling for what it's like to be a journalist. Did I mention the pay sucks? That's why I don't do it full time, but getting to see bands like Hero's Last Mission and interviewing talented musicians like the Hurtado twins - even on a freelance basis - helps keep me sane when my day job drives me to the brink of insanity and my only hope of survival is pour myself a bowl of Cap'n Crunch and pop in a Bugs Bunny DVD. Don't worry. I promise that no matter how bad things get, I won't annihilate Earth because it blocks my view of Venus (that obscure Marvin the Martian reference was targeted to die-hard HLM fans and old fogies like me).

 

Anyone interested in reading some of my recent work for the Amador Ledger-Dispatch, can check out the following articles (published under my real name Gwen Johnson)

www.ledger-dispatch.com/life/lifeview.as...

CAUTION: The following post deals with adult content, drug references, macabre visuals, sexual scenes and other aspects of sordid 19th Century Old West history.

If you're still here, let me know what you think of this short story. I'm considering submitting it as a contest entry...

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Nom de Plume

By Quill Enparchment

Coming home for the evening after a hard day of work, I had two things on my mind: a hot bath to wash the stench of ink off my skin, and a date with the dragon.

President Grant visited Virginia City today and the streets filled with hullabaloo the moment he stepped off the train. I wanted to cover the story for the Territorial Enterprise but that son of a bitch William Wright, who's better known around these parts as Dan de Quille, reminded me once again that women weren't real writers and told me to go cover the quilter's circle. My afternoon had me up to my ears in tea and talk about the ladies' work being done in time for Halloween. Our state will be six years old on October 31 so the holiday has a special meaning around here. The quilters have a little over a month to finish their piece before being auctioned off at the Nevada Day Festival.

I'm not part of the quilter's circle. In fact, I don't sew at all - not a stitch. Can't even darn my own socks. I write minor stories and help the guys on the printing presses. Every evening my skin is covered in stinky black ink and sweat. No wonder I'm single.

I'm the only woman in Virginia City who's not a housewife, teacher, nurse or "lady of easy virtue." I am thirty years old which makes me too young to be a bona fide widow and too old to start a career as a soiled dove. Everyone keeps telling me to remarry, but that's not what I want. I still love Philip. Besides, if I were to remarry I'd most likely have to give up my job at the newspaper and there's no way I can do that. Writing is in my blood. So I've accepted my fate as an outcast - even more so than Mr. Chang's girls. At least they know their role in society.

Mr. Chang was the only one who would rent to me after Philip was shot last year. I lost our house to the man who pulled the trigger. The swindler claimed the property was lawfully his, and the gunfight proved him right. Philip wasn't a gunman. He left me a homeless, lonely widow. Sympathy here is nonexistent.

My job doesn't pay much, but it's enough to rent one of the apartments above the opium parlor. My. Chang wasn't actually using this particular unit anyway. It's up a very narrow, winding staircase that opium users have a hard time ascending. He keeps the stairwell hidden behind a red silk curtain to deter trespassers.

My landlord knows men enjoy a hearty hand of poker, a stiff drink, and the company of a courtesan trained in the art of sexual prowess. Mr. Chang cuts the cards for the pai gow game, inviting every man who walks in to join in the revelry. At the end of the round, each fine-upstanding gentleman chooses a pipe and is gracefully escorted to a bench in one of the back rooms by the lady of his choice.

            On my way home tonight, a very handsome stranger opened the door for me - obviously a passerby as I didn't recognize him. No "helloes," between us - just a cordial exchange of nods and polite smiles.

            It wasn't so much his facial features or stature that impressed me. It was his skin - a stunning golden color unlike a farmer's tan or the olive tone of the Orientals.  And its texture was so soft and creamy that I wanted to reach out and touch him, stroke my fingertips across his back, dig my nails into him.

            We stepped into the parlor then went our separate ways. The golden man made a bee line for the bar. I headed toward Mr. Chang. I allow myself one taste of the Chinaman's pipe per week. It helps me write. I don't dare smoke too much of it or I'll end up like the others with a fatal case of dysphoria. But the dragon summons my muse the way no one else can. I’m not just a journalist. I'm also an aspiring novelist and hope someday to be the next Mary Shelley.

            Mr. Chang took my money and handed me a pouch filled with black paste wrapped in rice paper. I passed through the silk curtain leading to my apartment and took about three steps upward when my curiosity over the new stranger got the best of me. I found myself compelled to tip-toe back down to peak through the slit in the curtain to see what he was up to.

          The guest was still at the bar. Thomas the bartender was pouring him a brandy. I guessed the golden man have been about forty at the oldest. Not a single wrinkle plagued his face, but he did have an aristocratic air about him that I've only seen in men who have spent a few decades managing their wealth and flaunting their affluence conservatively. The younger playboys tend to throw their money around recklessly, bragging about every silver nugget they toss on the table. Their egos need to be gratified as much as their libidos do. By the time they reach their late-thirties, they've learned that maintaining their wealth takes up too much of their time and superfluous ego gratification gets moved to the bottom of their list of priorities. At this stage in their lives, they just want their fineries without a lot of fuss.

            "What nationality is he?" I wondered. His dusky skin and dark hair perplexed me. He didn't have the swarthy features of the Mediterranean. I have coffee-colored hair too, which comes from my Scottish grandparents. I glanced at my arms, comparing my skin tone with his - not as golden or creamy, but still several shades darker than the folks who came here from Ireland or England. Perhaps he came from a country I didn't know of yet. I waited to see if the stranger would talk. Perhaps if he spoke with accent, I would get a clue as to his origins.

            Mr. Chang greeted the newcomer and rang his bell, signaling for the girls to line up. The stranger struck up a conversation with the Chinaman but his voice was too faint for me to hear from where I was spying. No luck in catching the golden man's accent. The new guest did not appear interested in the card game.

The girls who were not already serving customers stood in front of the bar, dressed in the finest silk from China. They fanned the room like a pea**** tail, each one part of a train of bright yellow camisoles, blue robes, purple bodices and low-cut green dresses, their breasts exposed to give the customer a view of the merchandise. Jade jewelry dangled from their ears and necks, the pendants running into their cleavages, accentuating their femininity. I stayed a moment to see which woman the gentleman would choose.

            He must have been displeased with the selection because he turned to leave. He took about two steps forward when the air in the room thickened. It wasn't from the smoke or dust, though. Adélaïde walked through the door. She was late getting back to the parlor tonight because she sings at the opera house down the street. Beautiful voice - powerful just like the rest of her.

            The woman has a commanding aura and a regal posture that gives her the most amazing psychological power over other people. It's as if she's from a superior stock of human being - a goddess perhaps. When she looks at you, the gaze from her deep brown eyes pierces your skull. She doesn't have the flirty, empty smile like the other girls either. It's more of a disarming grin that resonates with a sinister authority. She has told me on a number of occasions that power - whether singing, walking, or making love - comes from deep within the abdomen. The secret is to strive for visceral mastery. Grace, charm and ecstasy follow naturally and effortlessly once that skill is perfected.

            Adélaïde was not part of the peacock fan. She trudged into the room and took a seat at the bar with her back arched, shoulders proud, and legs crossed. Tonight she was wearing a black feather-trimmed corset and ankle-length velvet skirt. Her long, wavy chestnut locks cascaded over her shoulders and framed her neck, which was decorated with an onyx choker.  Thomas poured her a cognac.

            Adélaïde's my favorite. If I could look like any of the women in Mr. Chang's brothel, it would be her. When she first came here a couple years ago, her striking features and Parisian accent wiped everyone's breath from their chests. She commands an audience with her formidable posture, and smooth, curvy lines. Some of the women have no curves. I have too many. Adélaïde is just right.

            The stranger seemed to know who she was. He put his arm around her and pulled her close to him, striking up what appeared to be a conversation between two very close friends. It was then I could hear him speak. He was completely American and had no accent that would clue me into his ethnicity. I couldn't hear every word of their conversation, but I made out something about him being in town as part of a traveling performance troupe.

            "So you're still singing?" Adélaïde asked in that guttural, breathy tone that drives all the men wild. The stranger nodded in answer to her question, but his eyes seemed more focused on her ankles than her words. He moved in a little closer and started rubbing her bare shoulders. Mr. Chang darted over to the couple, shooting the man a look of "don't touch unless you're willing to pay." The stranger complied and handed Mr. Chang a wad of money. Adélaïde took the gentleman's hand and led him to her room. I closed the curtain and headed up to mine - alone.

            Depressed and lonely, I drew the bathwater and tossed in some of the lavender bath salts Adélaïde gave me for my birthday last year. Once the tub was full, I undressed and slipped inside.

            "I want that golden skin," I told myself over and over again. As I looked down at my body in the bath water, I compared my figure to Adélaïde's and realized there was no hope of me ever feeling any man's touch again, let alone an Adonis like her golden man.  The more I dwelled on the situation, the more frustrated I became, so I stepped out of the bath, dried myself off with a towel and slipped into my very plain, white cotton nightgown.

            I looked over at my nightstand where my opium kit was sitting. It's an ornate black cloisonné box with images of white plum blossoms decorated all over it. I bought it from Mr. Chang the first time he sold me his drug.

            I fetched the pouch my landlord had given me earlier this evening and walked over to the kit. I pulled out the tray and the knife and cut myself a small piece of black poppy paste, rolling it into a pill. The tip of the needle, so pointed and sharp, begged to lance the small capsule. I heeded its command, then inserted the ball into the bowl of the pipe and lit the lantern sitting on my nightstand. As I lay down on my settee, reclining on my right side, I picked up the pipe and held the bowl over the lantern to allow the paste to vaporize and flow up the shaft into my mouth. One inhale, then two. A few more and my mind found itself reaching for the dragon's trustworthy talon as he led our dance, one I'm sure he had shared with partners like Mary Shelley, Emily Bronte and Jane Austen. I ignored the nausea.

            When the lucid dreams started, I saw images of a dozen crows standing on the floor of Adélaïde's room. Their feathers carpeted the floor. Adélaïde was nowhere in sight. Her gentleman friend was sitting on the settee completely naked and oblivious to the birds as well as to me. By his countenance I could tell that he had only a puff or two from the pipe. He sat up straight on the settee with a peaceful but not entirely inebriated look on his face.

I frantically started picking up the feathers, worried that if Mr. Chang found them, he'd get his gun and shoot the birds.

            "These are your gifts, Rossalyn," a chorus of black beaks squawked.

            "Why so many?" I asked my gracious friends.

            "You have much to write," they replied. "Yes, much to write."

            Somehow a paring knife appeared in my right hand and I found myself cutting the end of one of the quills at an angle, turning into a writing instrument.

            "Thank you for the gifts, my friends, but I have no ink or parchment."

            "Yes you do." Squawk. "Yes you do."

            I knew what they were implying and I wondered if I had the nerve to actually pursue their suggestion. "This is just a dream," I reminded myself. "I'm not going to actually hurt anyone."

            Grabbing as many of the feathers as I could before Adélaïde came back from wherever she was, I knew I wanted to stay and watch her in action. When I heard her approach, I ran and hid in the doorway.  She was still dressed in her evening clothes.

           Adélaïde pounced on the gentleman caller like a cougar snaring a deer, knocking him on his back and grabbing his wrists, pulling them over his head and tying them together with a leather strap. She straddled her long-lost friend and started unfastening the hooks on the back of her corset. The corset fell to the ground and she pulled her black skirt over her head, revealing her sensuous body and the black stockings and shoes that remained to cover the bottom half of it. There were no other undergarments.

            She moved with the most graceful, elegant, serpentine gestures. The golden man's breathing hastened.

Something inspired me to walk over with my hands full of crow feathers and kneel at the head of the settee and start stroking his face with the feathers. By his reaction, I could tell he was enjoying the experience so I continued pleasuring him all along his gorgeous body while Adélaïde did her part. He responded favorably to the tickling sensation with grunts of delight.

            His moaning grew louder and faster in direct response to the movements Adélaïde and I were making. When he arrived at his orgasm, Adélaïde wasted no time getting up to clean herself. I sat still at the edge of the bed, numb from my own euphoria.

             The golden man appeared not to notice me as he rolled onto his side, his bound arms reaching for another puff from his pipe. Since Adélaïde was busy, I took the liberty of freeing his wrists from the leather strap and relighting the lantern for him. No thank yous. I was invisible as far as he was concerned.

            Despite my acknowledgment that this whole affair was nothing more than a surreal journey my mind was experiencing under the influence of Mr. Chang's magical black poppy paste, I still had a certain level of anxiety that perhaps it wasn't as illusory as I thought. I didn't want the man to wake and find me in the room. More importantly, I didn't want anyone to find the crows or their quills. For some reason, I was more concerned about the safety of the birds than my own hide. How did the feathers get scattered all over the floor? How did the crows talk to me earlier this evening? Was I going crazy? Was my body going through dysphoria after all and my mind was experiencing a different interpretation of reality than everyone else? Was I too intoxicated to know what was going on?

            "No," the crows assured me. "You are not done yet. No, not done."

            "What do you mean?" I asked my fine, feathered friends.

            The pipe was soon empty and the man rolled over onto his stomach and fell asleep on the settee. His bare back exposed. My temptation was too great.  I found the quill I had carved earlier and thought about my heroines - Shelley, Bronte and Austen.

            It was then the most fantastic story line came to me. I had to write it down, but there was no parchment and no ink. However, I did have a freshly carved quill and the most beautiful canvas in front of me.

            The golden man was out cold.

            I sat atop his buttocks and started stroking him with the sharp edge of the quill, just a light scratch, not deep enough to draw blood. As the characters, setting, and plot unfolded, I dug a little deeper.

Adélaïde was still washing up. She was totally unaware of what I was doing to her customer.

            I couldn't help it. My own version of Frankenstein's monster was before me. The gorgeous sanguine liquid flowed over that stunning golden parchment. The poor crow's quill was covered in blood, which dripped down my hands and forearms.  The birds cheered me on.

            "Quiet!" I scolded at the crows. "Adélaïde will hear you."

            "No, no, Quill, don't worry," the all replied.

            "Quill?" I asked, wondering why they were calling me by such an odd name.

            "Yes, yes, Quill," they squawked over and over. "That is your new name. Quill Enparchment. Sign that as your nom de plume. Yes, yes, nom de plume."

Adélaïde seemed to have disappeared from my dream. I don't know where she went. The only ones in the room at that moment were me, the golden man and a dozen crows. Blood was everywhere - the sheets, the floor, my hands, his back, arms and legs. My story was fabulous. It read so fluidly.

The dream ended at that point. I found myself in my own room, in my own bed, with my pipe on the table right where I left it. The crows, feathers and blood were nowhere to be found. But the story I had written was still fresh in my mind so I spent my weekend committing it to paper. I signed it Quill Enparchment.

 

I have finished my first draft of a short story and would welcome comments. Since it has adult themes, I have created a Myspace profile set to private and only people over 18 can view it. Unfortunately, you have to have a Myspace account to view it, but I'm trying to keep the critics circle small.

The setting is a 19th Century brothel/opium den in Virginia City, NV. The lead character is a journalist who goes on an opium journey and finds herself in the middle of macabre situation in a room with one of the soiled doves and her patron. It's not too racy, but it does have some adult content and the setting is for mature audiences only.

If you have a Mypace account and would like to review it, please send a friend request to www.myspace.com/sangwenpublishing.

 

 

I have always had a fear of joining a peer review group because I'm afraid they're going to advise me to change it when I should have left things they way there were originally. I understand checking for grammatical issues. I also understand the importance of killing your darlings. But I have had one reviewer tell me to "make it more scientific" but if I did that, I guarantee the story would have been passed over for being too technical and dull.

So my question is...how do you know when the advice you receive from a peer is worth taking or disregarding?