For years, I had a quote pinned up on the wall of my work-place cubicle
attributed to congressional historian Daniel J Boorstin: “The greatest obstacle
to discovering the shape of the earth, the continents, and the oceans was not
ignorance, but rather the illusion of knowledge."
I'd like to share with
you something of my enthusiasm for disillusionment – the loss of illusion.
Discovery is an essential part of any plot, from clues in a murder mystery, to trust
(misplaced, real or withheld) in a romance, geographic exploration in an
adventure, or finding inner strength in the Hero’s Journey. While the need for
discovery is always present in our stories, the context for the discovery is
infinitely changeable.
Perhaps the most
important variable is the protagonist’s own attitude toward discovery. That
could be the beginning of his character arc: he may be certain he doesn’t need
to change, or that he is as self-sufficient as his reputation says he is. He
may be convinced a situation is hopeless. He may believe he is not worthy of
love. This is where the story gets really interesting! How the hero handles
that discovery is a crucial revelation of his character. What is he really made
of? What he does when a cherished illusion is dispelled will show it in spades.
The classic example is
an altruistic young person who, full of optimism and naïveté approaches the
world of commerce as if everyone were as honest as she is. That person soon
finds out that altruism, if it is to be a kind influence in a person's life
must be tempered with realistic caution.
While I rhapsodize
about the profound value of cognitive dissonance, I don’t enjoy the pain and
sadness (or embarrassment!) I can feel when a cherished belief proves to be
false. I believe emotional pain is probably the worst teacher of reality –
certainly the harshest. The problem is that so often it’s the only teacher left
to us because we’ve rejected kinder, less cataclysmic ones. We can be so damn
stubborn or blind about what we’re certain is true – the illusion of knowledge.
In the case of
Shepherd Bucknam, the protagonist in my new novel The Companion, disillusionment is a great but pain-inducing ally,
in two particular instances. When the story begins, he doesn’t see any need for
him to change. Privately, he carries a bitter disrespect for his dead alcoholic
mother, believing that she didn’t really love him. He is also afraid that a
recurring nightmare foretells his violent death.
In both these matters
he discovers that what he thinks is true is not true at all, and the shock of
discovery opens him to new experience and real growth as a human being. What
happens next? Well, you’ll have to read the story to find out!
And I sincerely hope
you do… :D
Blurb for The
Companion
Shepherd
Bucknam hasn’t had a lover in more than a decade, and doesn’t need one. As a
Daka, he coaches men in the sacred art and mystery of sexual ecstasy all the
time, and he loves his work. It’s his calling. In fact, he’s perfectly
content—except for the terrors of his recurring nightmare, and the ominous
blood-red birthmarks on his neck. He’s convinced that together they foretell
his early and violent death.
When Shepherd’s young
protégé is murdered, LAPD Detective Marco Fidanza gets the case. The two men
are worlds apart: Marco has fought hard for everything he’s accomplished, in
sharp contrast to the apparent ease of Shepherd’s inherited wealth—but their
mutual attraction is too hot for either of them to ignore.
Shepherd swears he’ll
help find his protégé’s killer but Marco warns him to stay out of it. When an
influential politician is implicated, the police investigation grinds to a
halt. Shepherd hires his own investigator. Marco calls it dangerous meddling.
As their volatile
relationship deepens, Shepherd discovers his nightmares might not relate to the
future, but to the deadly legacy of a past life—a life he may have to revisit
before he can fully live and love in this one.
Buy Links, Social Media:
At Dreamspinner:
http://www.dreamspinnerpress.com/store/product_info.php?products_id=5243
On Amazon:
http://www.amazon.com/Companion-Lloyd-Meeker-ebook/dp/B00M28O24S/
www.lloydmeeker.com
https://twitter.com/LloydAMeeker
Amazon Author Page: http://amzn.to/MBe1gp
https://www.facebook.com/lloyd.meeker
In this excerpt, Shepherd is a suspect in the murder of his
friend and protégé Steven Lewis. Detective Marco Fidanza, who is soon to be
Shepherd’s lover, has called Shepherd to the police station for more
questioning.
I DIDN’T see
any visitor parking at the police station, so I took a meter on the street and
reported to the desk. Five minutes later, Fidanza appeared and steered me to
what could only be an interrogation room. Two chairs and a metal table with a
welded bracket in the middle—for restraints, I guessed. Not even a wastebasket.
That was it. The air smelled of pine disinfectant, but I didn’t want to think
of why the place might have needed disinfecting.
He pointed to a
chair. “Have a seat.” He put a recorder on the table and sat across from me. He
spoke in a brusque monotone into the recorder: date, time, people present, case
number, murder of Steven Lewis.
Using the same
voice, he read me my rights and asked if I understood them. I said yes, and my
attorney was waiting for my call if needed.
He studied the
open file in front of him as if he hadn’t heard what I’d said or its warning.
But then I’d threatened to call my lawyer yesterday. He probably heard that all
the time.
“You say you
were a friend of the deceased.” He sounded nonchalant, even bored. Even without
Juergen’s warning, he didn’t fool me for a second.
“Yes, I was.”
“How close a
friend?”
“I was his
mentor. We were intimate friends.”
“Physically
intimate?”
“Certainly.
Once a month, sometimes more often. For his lesson.”
Fidanza looked
up, and his lip curled. “A lesson in sex.”
I shook my
head. “A lesson in sexual intimacy.”
“Come on,
Bucknam. You’re saying he didn’t know how to do it?”
“Can you sing
Happy Birthday, Detective?” I smiled. “I’ll bet you can.”
He scowled. “On
the right occasion. What’s that got to do with this?”
“Dmitri
Hvorostovsky can sing happy birthday too. Even though he sings the same notes
you do, I think you’d agree it’s a very different song when he sings it.”
I leaned
forward on the table and stared into Marco Fidanza’s glare. “Most men know the
melody of sex and can stumble through it, pretty much in tune. I teach them how
to sing their sexual intimacy like Hvorostovsky sings opera. At least as far as
they can go, and as far as I can take them.”
The air
crackled between us. I could tell I’d gotten to him, and it was clear he didn’t
like being bested on his own turf. A small ragged vein on his temple pulsed,
and his lips pressed to a thin line. I sat back in my chair.
“Very clever,”
he grumbled. “So you were teaching Lewis to sing sexual opera.”
I nodded. “He
was incredibly gifted—a natural—but still dangerously naïve.” I fought a lump
in my throat. “We were working on that too.”
“Yes, I’m sure
you’re not naïve in the least, Mr. Bucknam.” He was good. I folded my arms and
replied with silence. “Did you introduce him to customers?”
“Yes, a few. He
had no trouble finding his own, though.”
He drew some
rectangles in a corner of his notepad. “Did you get a cut of that action?”
“No. He
offered, I refused.”
“His car had no
loan. Was that your doing?”
“Everyone in LA
needs a reliable car, Detective. We agreed it would be a loan.”
“What about him
using your, ah, studio?” “What about it?”
“Did he pay you for its use?”
“Detective, you
seem fixated on money issues. That may make sense in other investigations, but
it doesn’t in this one. We didn’t have any money issues. I would have covered
all his costs without a thought, if he’d let me.”
He looked up,
searching my face for something. “But he didn’t.”
“He was a free
spirit. He didn’t like being fenced in.”
Fidanza nodded.
“Were you trying to fence him in?”
“Not
deliberately. And he had no trouble telling me when he felt like I was.”
He went back to
his doodling. “How did you stay in touch?”
“Phone mostly.
Sometimes a text.”
“What did you
do together besides your, um, opera lessons?”
I couldn’t help
but laugh. “Not very much.” Then I wanted to cry. The truth was that we hadn’t
done anywhere near enough together. We could have done so much more.
“He loved his
independence, as I said. We’d eat together once a week, maybe twice.
Occasionally, we’d attend a wine tasting or some other event. One weekend, we
went to a gay rodeo in Palm Springs. He loved that.”
He glanced at
the papers in front of him. “So part of your, ah, mentorship included cosigning
his lease and holding a key to his apartment.”
“Yes. He’d
arrived in LA with nothing. No credit, almost no cash reserves. Sometimes, he
was sleeping in dangerous places. He needed a place of his own. I wanted him to
stay safe.”
“Right,” he
said, his voice cold and dry. “That worked out well for him, didn’t it?”
“How—” I
gasped, blindsided by the deliberate cruelty. “I suppose you say that to the
children of every officer killed in the line of duty. You must be a real hit at
police funerals.”
“I thought that
might get a reaction from you.” He looked up, smug. “I was right.”
“Brilliant. You
get a reaction by hitting someone with a sledgehammer. Such sophistication.
Such finesse.”
My heart
hammered against my ribs as I leaned forward, hating that he’d found where I
hurt most. “Maybe I could have done more to protect him. I wish I had. But if
you think I didn’t want the best for Stef, you are wrong, Detective. Very, very
wrong.”
He shrugged,
unrepentant. The door opened and a heavy-set Hispanic man, probably early
fifties, with a tired, fleshy face and a soft middle came in, half dragging a
chair. He parked it facing the table, sat, and sighed as if his feet had hurt
all day and he’d just discovered the solution.
Fidanza cocked
his head at him. “This is my partner, Detective Tomás Alvarez. He’s here to
make me behave.” He picked up the recorder and turned it off before stuffing it
in his pocket.
I smiled
tightly at Alvarez, still stinging. “You’ve arrived too late for that, I’m
afraid.”
He lifted his
shoulders an inch, clearly used to the failure. “I do what I can.” He looked at
his partner. “Malena called. Nicki’s over, and the little one is sick. If I
want to eat, I’ve got to buy stuff at the store on the way home. I want to
eat.”
“You go ahead.
Mr. Bucknam and I have one more task,” Fidanza said as he closed the file and
stood. He stared down at me, and I could tell he was watching for something. “I
need you to identify the body, down at the Coroner’s Office. You can ride with
me, if you like.”
Sweat pricked
along my neck. I didn’t want to see Stef’s body. Then I surprised myself. Yes,
actually I did. I wanted to say good-bye. We both deserved that. What if I got
sick again? Then I got sick, it didn’t matter. I wasn’t going to try to get out
of it. That’s probably what Fidanza was hoping for.
There was no
way I was going to ride in his car, though. He would just try to nail me again
to see how I squirmed. I shook my head. “Give me the address. I’ll meet you
there.”
Maggie Rutherford jilts her too-perfect society groom at the altar and flees to the American West, 
