A Certain Point of View: Writing, Film and Stuff

Jim Garrary at age 35   Chez Maddie, or: Interlude in Blue   I bask in the warmth of Maddie's apartment, the scent of aged wood and a hint of lavender surrounding me. The living room is a canvas of pastel blues and greens, the soft colors of the couch and chairs inviting a moment of rest. Maddie's digital piano, a Yamaha, sits in silent anticipation of her touch. It's a model that's been around since the late '90s, compact enough to fit in the cozy space but grand in its promise of music. Maddie had shown me around earlier, her voice a melodic guide through the memories framed on the mantel, the Beethoven bust overseeing our tour with stoic approval. The kitchen, she explained with a laugh, had been upgraded by her father—a housewarming gift that replaced the '60s appliances with ones from the early '90s. I remember how she pointed to the stove where I would later cook  pasta al burro , her hazel eyes brightening as she spoke of her dad's thoughtfulness.

  2 Maddie Comes Home Friday, March 10, 2000 John F. Kennedy International Airport, Arrivals Terminal, 2:05 PM EST I'm at JFK, the arrivals terminal humming with the energy of a city that never sleeps. It's a Friday afternoon, and the place is buzzing like a nightclub, but instead of music and laughter, it's filled with the sounds of greetings and goodbyes. I'm here waiting for Maddie, my heart racing a bit as I glance at the clock. Her flight, British Airways BA-175, was due at 1:45 PM, but it's running 20 minutes late. Headwinds over the Atlantic, they said. I taught my Intro to WWII class at Columbia this morning at 9:00, and Henry Townsend, bless him, arranged for a TA to cover my afternoon sessions. I rarely drive in Manhattan, but today I made an exception. I pulled my '95 Acura out of the garage, where I shell out more than I'd care to admit each month, and hit the road around 10:30 AM. The traffic was a nightmare, made worse by a fender bend

Cover designed by Juan Carlos Hernandez © 2023,2024 Alex Diaz-Granados  The final strains of "Finale" seemed to linger, stretching out to touch the edges of eternity before they dissolved into the quiet of my shadowed room. The tape hissed its postlude, then snapped off with a decisive CLICK. Should I replay it, Marty’s graduation gift to me? "I wanted to give you something to remind you of our time together... um... in Mrs. Quincy's class. And our song is in it," Marty had said, her voice now a ghostly echo in my mind. A fresh stab of regret pierced me, sharp and frigid, and I knew—I just couldn't face it again. A knock at the door fractured my contemplation. My mother's voice, warm and familiar, filtered through the wood. “Jim, honey, Mark's here.” Mundane as they were, her words came like a lifeline thrown into the turbulent sea of my thoughts, pulling me back to the present, to reality. “Thanks, Mom,” I replied. I jumped up—or at least r

Cover art design: Juan Carlos Hernandez   In this excerpt, Jim Garraty (our narrator/protagonist) is lying on his bed, listening to the original Broadway cast recording of West Side Story and trying to keep it together after an emotionally trying day that included his high school graduation ceremony. It's 8:00 PM on Friday, June 17, 1983, and Jim has just decided to not replay the cassette of music from the classic 1957 reimagining of Romeo and Juliet, choosing instead to be alone with his thoughts.  The final strains of "Finale" seemed to linger, stretching out to touch the edges of eternity before they dissolved into the quiet of my shadowed room. The tape in the GE 3-5104 cassette player, a Christmas gift from Mom, hissed its postlude, then snapped off with a decisive "Click!" that punctuated the silence. I toyed with the idea of replaying the tape—Marty's graduation gift to me, a treasure trove of melodies and memories. I'd managed to keep my composu

      Hi, all.   Just a quick update to say that last night I completed the fourth and final scene of Chapter 11 in Reunion: Coda. Sure, right now it's still in "first draft mode," but I'm just content with the knowledge that after more than a month of trying different approaches to the scene, I finally "cracked the code" - as it were - of how to present this deceptively simple-looking part of the chapter. (It never ceases to amaze me how this scene, which I thought would be easy because it's based on a plot point introduced in Reunion: A Story , took me nearly two months to write.) Here's an excerpt from the scene, which also puts me over both the 50,000-word mark and the 120-page mark in the novel’s manuscript. If Hollywood told my story like a movie, it would go something like this: I’m a smart and nerdy senior at South Miami High School, class of '83. I love history and music, and I have a crush on Marty, the most beautiful girl in the choru

  I don't know why, but apparently, there are some folks who need to be reminded that "opinions" stated as "facts" are not really facts.  I don't care if a person firmly believes something as ridiculous as "you're not a real writer because you don't have a publisher behind you" or any such nonsense.  This is my official position on the topic:  My New Resolution: I will no longer listen to anyone who says, “You’re not a real writer.” I write every day. That makes me a writer. I studied journalism at both South Miami High and Miami-Dade College. Even won an award for my work on the college student newspaper during my freshman year. That, too, makes me a writer. I’ve written for clients, and I have also been paid by websites for my writing. That makes me a professional writer. I have  two self-published books available for sale on Amazon  and Barnes & Noble (online store only, though!). A third book is in the works. That makes me a writer,

(Photo by the author) If you're a regular reader of A Certain Point of View, you might recall that I'm currently writing my first novel, Reunion: Coda, the second book in the duology that started with my novella, Reunion: A Story (2018, Kindle Create/CreateSpace Independent Publishing).  Just in case you are new to this space, though, here's the back cover summary of Reunion, plus an excerpt from my favorite scene in the novella:  It is June 1983. Jim Garraty is a senior at South Miami Senior High. He's a staff writer for the school paper, a college-bound scholar who plans to become a historian and author of books on military history. He's well-liked by his peers and teachers, and his future looks bright.  But as commencement draws near for the Class of 1983, Jim must deal with unfinished business. The girl he loves from afar is also graduating, and rumor has it that she is going away for the summer before starting college in the fall.  Worse still, Marty doesn'

Image Credit: Pixabay  It’s early afternoon here in Lithia, Florida, on Saturday, June 3, 2023, almost two PM, really. It’s a warm (but getting hotter) early summer day in the Tampa Bay area (83 ° F/29 ° C under partly sunny skies). According to the forecast, today will be mostly cloudy, with a fair chance for light showers this afternoon, and the high will be 86 ° F/30 ° C. Well, if you’ve been reading my (sadly) infrequent posts on A Certain Point of View, you are doubtlessly aware that I’ve been working since late March on what apparently will be my first novel. As of today, I’m on the first draft of what, for now, has the working title of Reunion: Coda, which is – obviously – a continuation of my novella Reunion: A Story. The view from WriteItNow Depending on which program I get my stats from (WriteItNow or Microsoft Word) I have written 150 pages on the former and 90 pages in the latter. (And since I am looking at the “master document file” on Word, the figure from there is th

  “There’s a Place for Us”: South Miami Senior High School/Music Department Wing, Chorus Practice Room   I entered Room 136 shortly after the last school bell of the day – the “dismissal bell,” as it was officially called – rang at 2:30 in the afternoon. As always, the hallways in all three floors of South Miami High School’s yellow bunker-like building were full of 10 th , 11 th , and 12 th graders skedaddling from their sixth-period classes and, with the exception of those of us who participated in after-school activities and clubs such as yearbook production, the then-new Cobra Media Production club, basketball, baseball, and other spring term sports teams’ practices, and music students who needed to practice their instrument or singing, were eager to either go home or go to their first part-time jobs outside of school. For five, maybe 10 minutes, the hallways and staircases echoed with the sounds of (mostly) sneakered feet pounding on the floor and loud, cheerful teenaged voic

  2 A Parley at Lunchtime 12:20 PM, Near the End of First Lunch   “You did what now?” Mark Prieto’s expression was a mix of thunderstruck surprise and wry amusement as I finished telling him about my upcoming solo in the 1981 Winter Concert, which was less than one week away. We were seated at our usual table in the school cafeteria – a round table normally seated five or six people at a time – a short distance from the teachers’ lounge and the main corridor leading to the school’s first floor. As usual, the room was filled with a cacophony of sounds as several hundred adolescents sat in clusters at the other tables, gossiping, joking, bitching about how much homework Mr. or Mrs. X handed out daily, guessing about mid-year exams and grades, or even arguing about the Miami Dolphins’ waning season. There were even spats between teenage lovers, usually based on rumors that one half of the couple was cheating on the other. And, of course, the murmurs and laughs and occasional y