A Certain Point of View: Writing, Film and Stuff

(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

  A Moment in the Park   Maddie and I walk in Central Park, feeling the sun on our faces and the snow crunching under our feet. It's a beautiful day for late February. The air is crisp and fresh, and even though the forecast calls for more snow later, perhaps as early as tonight, right now the sky is a bright blue. Just right. We've been here for a while, exploring the park and its wonders. We've seen so many things. So many people. So much diversity. We've seen children of all colors building snowmen and dogs of all breeds chasing squirrels. We've seen couples of all orientations cuddling on benches and seniors of all backgrounds feeding pigeons. We've seen athletes of all fitness levels jogging and biking and skating. We've seen artists and musicians and performers of all kinds. We've heard a symphony of sounds. A harmony of noises. A melody of music. We've heard birds singing and leaves whispering. We've heard cars honking and sire

   3 Moonlight Serenade, or: "Parting is Such Sweet Sorrow..."   We go back to our table after our dance. The Swinging Millers are playing their encore, Moonlight Serenade . The dance floor is nearly empty now, and most of the patrons are either sitting at their tables or getting ready to go. Maddie and I sit in silence, listening to the music. She looks gorgeous in her sky-blue dress. It contrasts nicely with her hazel eyes, which sparkle in the dim light. There's a matching jacket in her bag from Book Culture, along with some books she bought earlier. I wonder what they are, but I don't ask. I don't want to spoil the mystery. The song ends, and the band thanks the audience for their applause. Maddie looks at her watch and sighs. "It's late," she says. "I should get going." "Me too," I say. Before we go, Maddie snatches a napkin and a pen from our table, flashing me a mischievous grin. We head to the coat check, w

Image Credit; Pixabay   The Last Song   By OpenAI in the style of Jennifer Egan, based on my novella, Reunion   Marty leaned against the piano, her fingers tracing the keys. She looked at me with a mix of nostalgia and regret. “Can you believe it?” she said. “This is it. The end of the line.”   I shrugged, trying to act casual. I didn’t want to admit how much it hurt to say goodbye. We had spent three years in this chorus room, singing our hearts out, sharing our dreams and fears. We had become more than friends. We had become a duet.   “Aren’t you going to miss it?” she asked.   “Of course I will,” I said. “But life goes on, right? We have to move forward.”   She nodded, but I could tell she wasn’t convinced. She had a wistful look in her eyes, as if she wanted to freeze time and stay here forever.   “I wish we could have sung that song together,” she said.   “Which song?” I asked, playing dumb.   She gave me a playful punch on the arm. “Don’t pretend you don’t know. The one we we