Inspiration – for me at least – is a funny old thing, and it usually arrives while in the shower or in the garden or on the run. Something triggers a rush of ideas and on occasion I am able to write out a whole scene in my head then it is just a case of getting to the wordprocessor ASAP and get these thoughts typed.
When I am banging away on the computer at full tilt I usually work with music and often I will have a particular piece of music depending on what I am writing.
During the writing of the novel, The Pourne Identity , I had one particular favorite: Claude Bolling – Picnic Suite, which I have on LP and I listened to it almost exclusively during the entire time spent at the keyboard. I stress almost, as to listen to it without any variation would have driven me
For some reason I got it into my head that this was a very French piece of music and as the book is set in France it seemed appropriate.
Anyway, see what you think?
This is track 1 Rococo.
The Pourne Identity. Extract
Jim Logan sprinted through the concourse but reached the pick up point too late, just as the back of the limo began to weave its way through the nighttime Parisian traffic.
‘Damn,’ he swore, then hailed a taxi parked twenty-five metres further along the pavement. He waved frantically but the driver, who was plainly visible under the bright lights of the airport, remained impassive and did not respond. Logan walked a few metres closer and tried again. Still no response. After a third attempt he walked to the taxi, yanked open the back door and yelled.
‘Oui monsieur, I ‘eard you the first time. Zere is no need to shout.’
‘So if you heard me yelling why did you not come pick me up?’
‘Ah, monsieur, it is only twenty-five metres. Mon dieu, you are not a fit looking man. The walk did you good. Besides, monsieur, zis is my spot. If I leave it I might miss a fare.’
‘But I was hailing you, for god’s sake. I am your fare.’
‘True, I suppose. But what if you changed your mind? Then I would ‘ave wasted the drive, wasted petrol and lost my parking spot. Tu comprend?’
Logan, feeling exhausted and exasperated climbed inside the taxi and handed the driver a piece of paper.
‘You know this address?’
‘Mais oui. Le safe house.’
‘Can you take me there, then? Sil vus plate?’
‘But of course. In a moment please.’
‘I’m in a hurry. This is a national emergency.’
The cab driver suddenly looked shocked.
‘Mon dieu, Thierry Henry is defecting?’
‘Who?’ Logan asked, almost at his wits end.
‘Thierry Henry. Ah, my god. One of the greatest footballers on the planet and you don’t know ‘oo ‘e is. That is a tragedy.’
‘Just drive, for god sakes man.’
‘Hold on, monsieur, I ‘ave nearly got it.’
‘Got what?’ Logan asked.
‘Ze combination for the lock on my sandwich box. Ze other drivers are always trying to steal my food. It’s a conspiracy I tell you. A bloody conspiracy. Ah, there you ‘ave it. Of course, 666, I should have known. My little Emily is such a devil.’
The Pourne Identity © Douglas Pearce
Something to read. It’s free and for gratis. Enjoy 🙂