Blog for budding Sheikhspeares entering National Novel Writing Month 2006

November 17, 2006

Light a fire in the Heath

27.050 words at the end of day 16, and I am still not sure where the other 23,000 are going to come from. SD is TOTALLY stressing me out that I have too many characters in my book, even though I have pointed out that it is an ENSEMBLE piece. Grrrr. But tonight's nonsense has seen the introduction of my favourite new character, and SD and I spent 10 minutes arguing about what he should be called. Our conversation went like this (complete with the unedited random comments to increase the word count!!!):

me: I am having to introduce new characters or otherwise no chance of filling the second half of my book
secretdubai: put in some amusing scenes with the existing ones, even if they aren't relevant
me: Superb, the prodigy has just come on my i-tunes
secretdubai: have one of the guys go to "Zyklones" and score
me: Yeah I have a couple of set pieces coming up. One of my character will be discovered moonlighting as a male hooker. I need to name him - he's a rogueish raffish but loveable photographer
me: I need a supersexy name or maybe he could go by his surname only like the photographer Rankin does. Am thinking of just calling him Heath
secretdubai: have him some guy whose wife is overseas a lot, who moonlights behind her back as a bit of rough-trade-for-rent
me: Might name him ****** after an ex of mine
secretdubai: Gary is much sexier, and rogue, but if it needs to be a bit snooty then Piers or Miles
me: no, needs to be more "street"
secretdubai: Oliver Heath is ok then
secretdubai: I swear every single excerpt I've read of yours has totally different names!!
me: They may have different names, it's an ensemble book. You've stressed me now :(

So, enter Heath:

Robbie's spirits lifted when Oliver Heath turned up. Heath – he went by his surname only for work, having been inspired by Bailey and Rankin - was a photographer, but really only as an excuse to chat up women. He was mid-thirties, with bleached blonde hair, and wore his clothes with a raffish air of glamour. He was a total rogue, and one of the most entertaining people Robbie had ever met. He never apologised for his outlandish behaviour and was a shameless player.

He had made his name as a party photographer, though never the type of pictures that you would see in the social pages of Tatler or Harpers & Queen. His photos oozed atmosphere and sex appeal, which was often due to the fact he had popped an E in the bathrooms beforehand, or snorted a line with one of his international DJ mates. And sometimes, if Heath felt the party was getting boring, he would take his turn behind the decks or do a spot of lap-dancing to liven up the evening.

He was the worst possible wingman though. Women were just capitivated by his peculiar blend of style and downright dirtiness. Tonight he had turned up in battered jeans, a white shirt open to the navel to reveal a taut surfer’s chest, and a black Fedora, which he claimed was homage to his Johnny Depp phase five years ago.


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