As you know by now, I am deep into the re-write of my novel. A comprehensive read-through while I was in Switzerland revealed some major gaps in the narrative where characters pop out of nowhere and context is never given. So, having assimilated the subbing corrections made by Marc Pienaar and noted further changes I need to make myself, I am now in the process of writing in those missing links.

Go Don, Go!
Go Don, Go!

 
This is an odd process as I am very conscious of making sure it doesn’t look like I have just dropped explanations into the narrative flow after the fact. So far so good… I think! By the end of next week, I hope to have done all of this major correcting work on Part 1 (12 chapters). It is then my intention to print Part 1 up and subject it to another closely critical read and make whatever corrections are further needed until I am satisfied that it is as good, clear and clean as I can get it. I was in way too much of a hurry before now, so I am reverting to fine tooth comb now.

At this point I have to give a massive shout out to Marc Pienaar. Marc, you read the entire fucking thing and made such a vast range of minute and important changes that I am boggled every time I re-engage with your corrections. I doubt I can ever adequately express how important the work is that you did here. THANK YOU!

I also thought it was time that you met a few of the other characters that are in the book… most of my extracts I have published here have been about Andrew, the 1st person narrative voice. There is a host of 3rd person narrative characters too. The biggest and boldest is this guy, Johnny. He’s a bit of a psycho, but with a moral code. Yeah, the most dangerous kind. Here he is starting to wonder whether he CAN actually justify his vigilante-ism.

Johnny drops his hands. For once his sense of justice is confused. What does this actually mean? Drug dealers are scum. But he knows plenty of people who smoke weed, drop a pill or two every now and then, even do a line of something or other. This doesn’t bother him. The idea that a club owner might tolerate scum like Bud Bud affronts him. But he knows that the people who come here do drugs. So what does that make them? Where does that leave Bud Bud? At the time he was really pleased with the realisation he’d had at the bar chatting to the old guy about music. Now he’s not so sure.
Sensing his gap, Bud Bud leans forward. “Hey, let’s just have a beer and talk man. I swear, I meant no harm.”
Johnny shakes his head, drops his hands slackly to his sides. What the hell. If he is ever going to get through this, one conversation isn’t going to hurt.
“Sure, let’s talk.” He gestures to a nearby bench table. “Let’s sit here.”
From “Johannesburg”
©2013 David Chislett

Johannesburg