Often, when writing a novel, there are scenes left over that either didn’t fit, were necessary, or had to be rewritten. Here is one from my novel, Mortals As They Walk, which turned out to be not unnecessary. It didn’t add to the story, moreover, I decided the character did not need to take the actions he took in this scene because the plot line had been altered in rewriting the first draft. (It’s also rather boring, but may give you an insight into the writing process and novel development, if that interests you.)
He adjusted his tie as he gazed at the bathroom mirror. Walking back into the main room, he picked up his watch, phone, and wallet. He texted the following message: “ Inform me of your location every hour.” He set the phone down on a table as he donned his suit coat. The phone chimed. He glanced down at it, then made a face of disgust. Pierce and his puerile whining.
He left the room. Once in the hotel lobby, he checked with the desk to ensure that the mirror would be repaired before he returned this evening. The sycophant behind the desk assured that it would, and the staff would do “anything for you, sir.” Disgusting.
The doorman opened the large glass door for him, and he stepped into the street and glanced up and down. The Metro or a taxi? He preferred the Metro: it was more anonymous, and, for some reason, he actually liked mixing with the crowds. The rich and poor, the natives and tourists, the obnoxious and the friendly, the good and the evil. His acquaintances found this preference a bit eccentric at the least, and dangerous at the most. He smiled.
His phone rang, it was Monsieur Domsierre. He had the list of trainers narrowed to ten of the best in France, but one of them could meet him within the hour if he wished. That’s what Pate liked about Domsierre: he was efficient, quick, and took initiative outside the original plan when appropriate. Most competent people would simply have delivered the list to him that night, as he had asked. The incompetents would have had excuses as to why they couldn’t complete the task—or they would complete it, but it would not be the best list.
Pate listened to the address, thanked Domsierre, and hung up. He signaled a taxi, climbed in and announced the address. On the way, he called up the Thalys rail website on his phone and checked for trains to Köln. Good. One left tomorrow evening at eight from Gare du Nord. He booked a first-class ticket.
He spent an hour at Le Physical Therapse at Salut Monde. Though they thought that they were interviewing him, he was interviewing them. He spoke first with the director, and met with top staff doctors, nutritionists, therapists, and, finally, the organization’s top facilitator. He left with pages of information, a month-long schedule, and the top trainer’s cell phone number.
Leaving the facility, he walked to the nearest Metro stop, and, after switching once, got off that the Clemenceau stop on the Champs-Élysées. His favorite shops were along here. As touristy as it could be, of course, if one did not know where to look. He browsed and thought about the near future.
After about an hour or so, he took the Metro to the Trocadéro stop, then walked past the Tower to the Champs de Mars to walk among the grounds. He stopped for a bit and watched a young women’s soccer club practicing, then grabbed a bite of lunch at the Jules Verne. As he was finishing, Domsierre called with the name, phone, and address of one of the top personal style consultants in Paris. He had an appointment at 1430. He arrived early and, once they realized the nature of his bank account and his intentions, were completely at his disposal. He spent the entire afternoon being examined, probed, measured, and with various experts in clothing, hair, skin, and every other relevant field to one’s appearance. The late afternoon was spent choosing clothing and accessories. By the end of the day, he had purchased a whole new wardrobe—for his future physique. Not only did this save him time, it gave concrete reality to his intentions. He gave instructions to have all the items, tailored and ready-to-wear, to be delivered to his apartments in ten days. Before leaving, he made all the necessary and desired appointments for over a sixth-month period.
He went back to Le Physical Therapse and spent two more hours there. He retired to his apartments, ordered a light dinner, and went to bed, satisfied.
Immerse yourself in a compelling exploration of the human condition in the near future with Mortals As They Walk, another masterpiece of speculative fiction by Markus McDowell.
In an age when biotechnology stretches the limits of ethics and legality, a man, woman, and young child are caught up in a heavily funded project based on the work of a brilliant geneticist. But bio-research firms, Big Pharm, governments, and black marketeers see a way to become wealthy and powerful. Kidnappings, payoffs, political intrigue, and murder follow the test subjects, who must decide what to do with the data and the lives that have been destroyed—and find a way to save the child.
Available from select retailers in paperback, eBook, and audiobook.
Discover more from Markus McDowell, author
Subscribe to get the latest posts sent to your email.
You must be logged in to post a comment.