Nicholas and Taylor, after the show

After the show in Cleveland, Taylor and I shared a bottle of bourbon in his suite while the rest of the band and crew partied downstairs.  We were both too old for such nonsense.  Even our show times started earlier nowadays to accommodate us “seniors” and the fans who’d made us famous.

“Why haven’t you told her how you feel?”

“I can’t,” I said with a sigh.  “Not yet.  She’s not ready.”

“How long has she been widowed?” he asked.

“A little over a year.  It was a car crash.  Very sudden.”

“Hmm.”  Taylor nodded.  “Will you see her during break, before we go back to Europe?”

I smiled involuntarily.  “I hope to, but I’ve not mentioned it yet.”  I ran my fingers through my hair.  “God.  Is this what it feels like to be in love?”

Taylor threw back his head and laughed out loud.  “I can’t believe you don’t remember.”

“It was forty years ago!”

“Yes, but how have you escaped it?” he asked, still laughing.

“Dunno.  Alcohol.  Drugs in the early days.  Too many women in too many cities?  I dunno.”

“Well, I can tell you, being ‘in love,’” he gestured with air quotes, “and loving a person are two totally different things.  Being in love sometimes leads to loving someone, but more often it’s like having a crush.  Loving someone requires commitment.  If you love someone, you’re there for them, no matter what.  I learned that from Leoma.”

Leoma was Taylor’s ex-wife, the mother of his grown children.

“I’ll never love anyone like I loved her.”  He sat up to refresh our drinks, then he looked me straight in the eye and said, “That’s not to say I’ll never love anyone again.  Just not the same way.  Everyone’s different.  Every love’s different.  Keep that in mind.”

*          *          *

I considered just that as I staggered my muzzy self downstairs to my suite.  I needed to get some rest before we rolled out, back to New York for more recording.  It was far too late to call Caitlin by then and when I got to my room, I picked up my guitar.  It seemed I had a song itching through my fingers.  I worked out the bones and wrote it down.  I’d flesh out the details on my Les Paul later, but getting it out of my system would allow me to sleep.

 

NEXT UP: Nicholas recalls his initial meeting with Caitlin.

The Guitarist



 

  The Guitarist

CHAPTER ONE

I straightened my signature Union Jack tie for the night’s performance and stared at the stranger in the hotel mirror.  I didn’t know who I was anymore. 

Sure, according to PlecMag, I was “British guitar legend” Nicholas Trent, a shredder of some renown, sought after by major rock singers such as my fellow Englishmen Billy Farmer, and Taylor Grande, with whom I was currently recording and touring.  I ran my fingers through my longish, brown  . . . well, greying hair.  My eyes had faded more to the colour of washed out denim than the aquamarine of my youth, although they still were fringed by thick lashes.  I lifted my cheeks with both hands in a mock facelift.  When did I get so old?

I shook off the thought with a lopsided grin and a shrug, and stood into my six foot frame, smoothed my shirt over the abs I’d worked so hard to achieve—continued working on to maintain—and pulled on the sport jacket I’d chosen for the night.  I nearly always dressed this way for a show—loafers, jeans, dress shirt, tie and coat.  Sometimes I wore a suit.  It was my “look.”  During particularly long or hot shows, I’d sometimes lose the coat and loosen the tie, but I started each show this way. 

Having finished a photo shoot that afternoon, it’s how I was dressed when I met her.  Caitlin Flynn.  I smiled into the mirror at the thought of her, my teeth gleaming white, back at me.

Was I in love?  I didn’t know what it felt like.  I’d been involved in a misbegotten marriage when I was very young, but once that was over, my guitar, my career, my music had been my life.  I’d been careful to avoid a complication like “love.”  I was no stranger to sweet, meaningless sex, but this was different, there was no doubt.

A knock on the door brought me back.

“Nicholas, you ready?”

I opened the door to the band’s keyboard player, Reuben Gaines, a large black man whose fingers, though the size of sausages, were magic when they made music.

“Yeah.  Let me get my bag.”

I glanced at Reuben as we walked to the lift and couldn’t help but grin.

“Pumped for the show?” I asked, knowing the answer.

“Always.”

“Ever been here before?”

“Where are we?”

“Cleveland?  Cleveland, I think.”

“I’m surprised at you, Nicholas.  You always know where we are.”

We stepped onto the lift where our singer, Taylor Grande, our young bass player, Evan Marks and our drummer, Kippy Palmer waited.  We greeted one another.

“Nicholas isn’t sure where we are,” Reuben announced to the others.

“I think our Nicholas is in love,” Taylor said with a grin.

I grinned as well, and studied my shoes.

 

Riding the Music

"Oh my, here we go."
Shinedown from
Sounds of Madness

Riding the Music:  Introduction

Okay folks, here we go.  This is the place to read what I've been working on for almost two years.  And here's how, following almost five years of dry spell, my muse returned to me through a cheesy movie.  He came at me with one idea, but others soon followed so that now I have two completed novels, two character studies whose stories have yet to be revealed, one 10K word "short" story and another story of indeterminate length in progress.

The inaugural PubSmart Conference (http://pubsmartcon.com/) in April took place here in Charleston.  I came away overloaded with information, ideas, and motivations.  Everyone stressed the importance of an author's online presence in blogs, Facebook, Twitter, and others including an author website.  I don't have a website yet, but here's another blog.

One of the keynote speakers was Hugh Howie, author of the popular Silo Saga (http://www.hughhowey.com/) and many other books.  He was incredibly inspiring.  He had stories in his head that needed to come out and so do I.  He began by posting short parts of his novels on his blog.  And then he'd post the next part.  And the next. . . .

People read and commented and clamored for more.  That's what I hope you'll do for me.  Just read and comment.  If you like something, let me hear about it.  If you don't like something, let me hear about that too, okay?  It'll be all right, I promise.

Here's the lowdown on The Guitarist, the first novel I'll try out on you.  The main character is Nicholas Trent who is a famous British guitar player and he's the one telling this tale, so it's written in British English.  Don't let the "humours" and "colours" etc. throw you.  There is romance of course, but also murder, deceit, and mystery. 

The blog will improve and fill out over time, as well.  It may change the way it looks and you can have input on that to a certain degree too.  I'm still figuring out how to work this thing.  It's changed since the last time I wrote in The Year of Guitar (http://writereflections.blogspot.com/) which was exactly a year ago on the 22nd.  Try to be patient.  Send me tips if you have any.  We'll get through this together.  I'll set this up to allow comments here, but you can also get me on--
 
Facebook: Mary Ogden Fersner 
Twitter: @maryfersner
email: maryogtrlvr@gmail.com

So, with gratitude to all of you, and especially to my muse, let's start this ride. \m/

--Mary O