So, I’m thinking of writing a story about chess. Well, not actually about chess, but somehow it’ll feature chess. Why? Well, it’s popular at the moment, thanks to the Nexflix series “Queen’s gambit”. I should get some downloads on the back of that, especially if there’s a chess piece on the cover of my book. What’s not to like? Okay, let’s go,…
I see a couple of oldish guys. Yes, I know, young strapping bucks would be better, guys of college age, say, where the female interest is so young they’re still playing with Barbie-dolls. But that was all such a long time ago for me, so oldish guys it is because you’ve got to write what you know, and I’ve not the patience to fake it any more.
They meet in a coffee shop. One guy’s playing both sides of a pocket chess set. He sees our hero sitting there on his own, looking glum, so invites him to play. He’s testing this theory the world’s gone to hell in a hand-cart. Not only that, but he reckons the general public is as thick as mince, as evidence by the fact no one plays chess any more, except him. But our hero does. He doesn’t play like a pro, but he manages a decent game. He doesn’t win, but has the old guy sweating a bit. They agree to meet again and play some more.
The old chess guy has a daughter – ah, here we go! Her husband’s gone off somewhere with a floozy, and broke her heart. She’s no kids because I don’t want any kids in this story. Kids always take centre stage. They whine a lot, and have the adults running round like simpletons, trying to please them. So, no kids. Right?
The daughter? Well, she’s a looker of course, otherwise why bother? And she’s posh. She comes across our two old guys playing chess, and our hero falls in love with her, I mean at once. Heavily, deeply, seriously. But this is no ordinary love. This is from the depths. It’s an unconscious projection of ground shaking, Biblical proportions. But there’s a serious age gap. Let’s make it thirty years, so she’s not going to look twice at him. I mean, he’s not even worn well. He’s grey and craggy, and he’s been ill, and he looks a mess with soup stains down his jumper. And he’s not stupid. He knows there’s no prospect of a Hollywood dénouement there. But that said, what the hell is he supposed to do?
Then it turns out the old guy’s some kind of toff, with a big house in the country. He starts inviting our man out there for weekends, so he sees a lot of the daughter, as well as playing chess. She’s sweet and intelligent, still young enough to start over, and live a normal life with someone her own age. As for our guy, she’s a little frosty with him, thinks he’s weird actually, because he’s edgy when he’s around her, on account of him thinking she’s a goddess. But he’d never say anything about that because he’s a gent, and knows it’s better to do the decent thing. So far, so unrequited, and long may it remain so.
So that’s the set-up, but now the story’s up to fifty thousands words, and fizzling out because I’ve no idea how to solve the puzzle of it. It’s as well I never started writing the thing in the first place, isn’t it? Maybe it just needs another character to unlock it.
Okay, I see an older woman, someone unsentimental, practical, sturdy and above all human. I see the kind who’d wash his jumper in exchange for him mowing her grass occasionally, and just,… well, helping him to smarten himself up a bit, because she sees something in him it would be a shame to let life crush the – well – the life from. But let’s not get carried away here. She’s no time for love-stories. She isn’t even looking for a man. But she doesn’t mind sharing a glass of wine with one, so long as he doesn’t go thinking that gives him rights of ownership.
Now, she sounds interesting, and I’m liking the sound of things again, so we’ll push it out another twenty thousand, see where it leads. But then, ah,… damn,… there’s still the Covid problem. I mean this is a contemporary story, so strangers can’t meet that way any more, can they? Nor can they go inviting them round to each other’s houses. Plus, the cafés are shut, and we’re all wearing face-masks which makes it hard to read people, let alone fall in love or play chess with them. And the world’s such an unstable place now. I mean God knows what’ll come along next and hijack the story in the middle of my writing it? Been there, done that. Got the tee-shirt. Twice.
Maybe I’m better going off-world this time, writing a space-opera. I’ve done a bit of Sci Fi in the dim and distant, and that might be the safest thing to write in 2021, something well away from our physical reality. Or I could dip once more into the liminal zone between dream-time and topside, where anything is possible and anything can be true. But contemporary love, tenderness, empathy, the subtlety of human relationships? Hell, man, that looks like it’s over, unless you can do it by Zoom or something. I can set it back to 2015, but I can’t even remember what I had for breakfast this morning, let alone who the PM was in 2015, or what was on the TV, and was Netflix even a thing back then? No, I’m hardly going to do justice to the background details, am I?
So, we’ll park it there for the better and save ourselves a whole year of trouble, never having typed so much as an opening line. Maybe some other writer will have the pleasure and the pain of it. Or no, wait,… how’s this:
“Do you play?”
No, it doesn’t speak much to me yet, it doesn’t suggest this cast of characters has much to show me. And it’s me they’ve got to seduce first. But, that said, whether the story gets written or not, it’s as good a start as any. So we’ll sleep on it. If the dream fairy gives me a working title by morning, we’re on.
Good night all, and welcome to 2021.
The Rivendale Review 
Why does it have to be realistic enough to include Covid and all its crap? Why not have it be in the After Time or the How It Might Have Been Time? Sounds like a good story that would appeal to the middle-aged and maybe younger.
Thanks, Audrey. You have a point. I’d go for the after time, but I’m not yet confident enough the near future won’t throw us another curve ball. So I have my characters playing chess in a café when they should be wearing the equivalent of space-helmets and Haz-Mat suits, or the café closed for months and gone out of business. Or maybe if I write a bit of normality back into the world, it will encourage the world to settle down a bit?
Best wishes, and Happy New Year!
You might have picked up I was little grated by “winter”, it was not fair to be reading covid and living it at the same time. And I get tired of all the car reference, for some of my generation they’re just not a thing, so we don’t need to identify everyone by their wheels. I’d like you to start this novel off in a smallish town without the need for motors and then take it somewhere really mad. Of course they can go to the country pile to escape the madness?
And then one by one refugees come in and bobs your uncle?
But it’s your book and I’m not qualified to be any help, being a bit of a one off!
Don’t forget as we learn about the c word it becomes less scary. I think, for me the biggest thing is the characters, like Lottie, shouldn’t be afraid, but I guess the novelist needs, or thrives on that fear, and what it brings about. OK grant me one bit of fantasy; take us away from the fear of strangers!
Ps.
I like chess, and I like the idea.
Replying backwards to your comments here. I think I’ve covered the importance of the motor vehicle in he North due to an atrophied public transport network which means anyone living outside of say Manchester or Liverpool really needs one to get around. My uncle was also a mechanic so I’d spend Saturdays helping out at his garage. He also taught me to drive in an eclectic assortment of old bangers, so I suppose they’re in the blood – but fair point, not everyone sees others though the same eye. Trusting stranger’s was on the wane before Covid so it’s going to take some getting over now. Still, I was out today and people still nod their greetings in passing, so maybe it’s not as bad as we think.
It wasn’t a criticism in any way, and I’m sure you’re are aware that despite best efforts of advertisers, cars are becoming rapidly less aspirational. Electric driverless jobbies will herald the end of the romance all together.
At the weekend I lit the woodburner in my shed for my friend who illegally stayed over. The wood burner is now also persona non grata, what next?
And I really enjoyed winter on the hill, read cover to cover, I missed being in a book over the last b.h.
Ah here we go. .
I read your post on the train, 11 minutes from West Norwood, (inner city, next to Brixton), through Gypsy Hill and it’s tunnel and Crystal Palace to Birkbeck, (no man’s land between inner city and suburbs. Birkbeck is the last stop before the end of the line where the suburbs begin. If I’m not ready to get off I carry on to Beckenham and back, about 15 minutes, that gave me time to write my last reply. If you or your characters are transitioning away from diesel etc this train journey could surely be useful, of course it would be transplanted to the pennines, he gets off at the end of the line, she gets off at the stop before, they’ve been introduced, but they don’t know each other well, they sit together to avoid sitting with the scarier coughing strangers and they start getting to know each other.
Let me know if you need any more help no fee!
Sadly we’re served by Northern Rail, so would hate to rely on it for a successful plot. My local service is one every hour and a bit and more likely cancelled when you’ve done the outward journey and need to get home. Ditto the bus service. The uncertainty might add dramatic effect but might also stretch credulity too far. Thanks for offer, still mulling the story over but the fairy hasn’t delivered me my title yet, so it’s not looking good.