A few weeks ago, when I posted a design for the cover of my novel-in-progress, I said it was way too soon to be thinking about such things, and sure enough, I’m thiiiiis close to changing the title. And even though I am, therefore (ergo and to wit), on the very verge of proving that it is, indeed, too soon to be considering cover designs, I’ve spent a little time today putting together this cover design:

I’ve had this new title rattling around in my head for a while. I first intended it for a different project, a play that I’ll probably never write. For a while it was attached to a different novel that I may or may not write. But–for the moment, at least–I think it belongs with the novel I’m writing now. At least three overlapping, interconnected story lines will incorporate events spanning some forty-odd years. The thing as a whole is shaping up to be about transition and transformation, about examining the past in order to find a way forward.

Just for fun, here’s a bit of the play, originally called The New World, that I’ll probably never write:

(The gift shop and office of the Piney Stop Campground and Resort. A Friday afternoon in August.

On one side, a window looking out on a porch. A desk serves as a check-in counter and work area. An old PC sits on the desk. Upstage, the front door opens onto the porch. Above the door there is a set of bells and a wall-mounted air conditioner. Opposite the window, a bank of glass-fronted coolers filled with beverages and groceries. At front, a door opens onto the cold storage room behind the coolers. In the back corner there is a coffee station set up on a low table: a coffee urn and stacks of plastic cups and coffee supplies.

Between the desk and coolers, rows of shelves contain souvenirs, groceries, books, and magazines. At back, there is a door to a restroom and another to a stairway. The latter stands open, and from above we hear dissonant MUSIC being played very well, though haltingly, on a viola.

GEORGE, sweaty and unkempt, enters through the front door, carrying a full propane tank in each hand. He wears jeans and work boots and carries a damp T-shirt tucked into his back pocket.

He stops, listens to the music from above, shakes his head, sets the tanks on the floor in front of the desk. NOISES from the coolers startle him. Crossing, he tugs his shirt free and slips it on. From behind the coolers there’s a KNOCK.)

GEORGE: Ah. Wade.
(He opens the cooler door and peers in. He stammers, muddling two different greetings.)
Hey-hi-you.

WADE (off, from the cold storage room): George. How ’bout you? You sticking around a bit? Something I wanted to run by you.
(George shrugs and nods.)
Be right out.

(Closing the door, George edges away, out of Wade’s view. He sniffs his armpits, winces. He uses some napkins from the coffee station to blot sweat from his face and neck.

WADE enters from the cold storage room, pulling an empty dolly. He’s taller than George, and more muscular. He wears a uniform–shorts, short-sleeved shirt, work boots.)

GEORGE: I expected you on Wades-day–. Wed–. Wednesday.

WADE: Are you making coffee, George? It’s a hundred degrees out there.
(The VIOLA plays a triple-stopped chord, then goes silent.)
What is that? You got a family of screech owls up there?

GEORGE: It’s Helen. I’m just tidy–. Just tidying up.

WADE: Helen. Hm. About damn time. It’s been, what? Six weeks? When did she–?

GEORGE: Yesterday night. Yester–yesterday evening.
(pause)
I think I know what you want–. I know I’m a little late on the–. I’m meaning to do the accounts here shortly, and…

WADE: Say again? Oh, no, no, not that. I don’t give a shit. Take all the time you want. I was just thinking of taking some days off. I’ve got like three weeks of vacation saved up. I was thinking I might stay here.

GEORGE: Here.

WADE: Relax. You know. R and R. Do some fishing. Y’all got fish in the pond?

GEORGE: Not since 1973, no. Helen was–. It was a little joke of Helen’s–. She–. She–.

(The VIOLA resumes, pizzicato now, an edgy, tuneless series of notes played over and over.)

WADE: What’s she doing?

GEORGE: Composing.

WADE: Never heard anything so ugly. We’re not far from the water, right? The inlet, I mean.
(points over his shoulder)
Back that way, isn’t it? The inlet? I could walk down there–. Up there? Over there?

(George goes to the desk. He shakes the mouse to wake the computer. The viola falls silent.)

GEORGE: You want a cabin? Um. And when would this be?

WADE: A cabin, yeah. Soon. It’s hell lugging this shit around in the heat.
(rattles the dolly, then plucks at the leg of his shorts)
Even with these things.

GEORGE (looking at Wade’s knees, absently shaking the mouse): I’m pretty sure any time you…

WADE (stands behind George, looks at the computer): You don’t have any cabins booked next week? George, isn’t this supposed to be your high season?

GEORGE: Supposed to be.
(looking at the computer)
It’s–it’s up to you. When–whenever.

WADE: Book me for week after next.
(George types. Wade reaches for his back pocket.)
Do you want a deposit or–?

GEORGE: I don’t–.
(The VIOLA plays a progression of strident chords, then falls silent. George cringes. He waits for more music, and then, when it doesn’t come, relaxes in his chair.)
Don’t worry about it. It’s–its–. Consider it my–my apology for being so late on the…

WADE: George, isn’t this your, uh, quote-unquote busy time?

GEORGE: Well. But–.

WADE: If there’s a deposit, then there’s a deposit.

GEORGE: What I meant was–. What I mean is, just come on, and don’t worry about–.

WADE: George. Don’t embarrass me, now.

GEORGE (resolutely staring at the computer): I think–. It’d be nice having you around, is all. For more than just twenty minutes or a half-hour.
(Wade leans closer, propping his arms on the back of George’s chair.)
Helen’s here. Maybe she could watch the desk.
(He points out the window.)
The inlet is that way, by the way. We could go fishing together. You and me together, I mean. You and me fishing.

(Hearing the stairs CREAK, Wade jumps back, away from George’s chair.)

Some years ago, I wrote this for an online playwriting class. I struggled mightily against my novelistic impulses to keep it within the assigned length. If I recall correctly, the set description was originally at least twice as long as it is now. Even after many cuts, I’m pretty sure there are still too many stage directions.

Someday I’d like to take a crack at writing a play–it was, after all, one of my earliest ambitions to be a playwright–but before that I’ll need to acquire a great deal more discipline than I currently seem to possess. That’s a new world I’ve yet to discover.