Isla | Chapter Notes
Musings about each chapter — Warning: May Contain Spoilers
ISLA is a serialized novel written by
with new chapters added weekly.ISLA : Pop fresh batteries into your Walkman and follow twelve-year-old George Perez from Chicago to the Yucatán coast, where myth isn’t as dead as it seems.
With every step, the line blurs further between memory, music, and a history he can’t ignore.
Warning: May contain spoilers.
Before
Like many of my stories, this one took a while to gestate.
ISLA was conceived, in part, during a trip to the Yucatán in 2012. Under the shade of a palapa I drafted the rough story in my travel notebook. When I got home I transcribed my ideas into a file (or app) which, regrettably, now seems lost to time. So, for over a decade, the story has lived somewhere between the digital ephemera and the images in my head.
But the idea—the spine of it, at least—was never far from my mind. Every few months, I’d poke around, doing a little research, until a few months back when I finally dove in. What you’re reading isn’t a first draft, or even the third. For some chapters, it might be the tenth. A few were pulled apart, mashed together, run through the mental blender, and came out as something entirely different. Call it a “writer’s want,” like a chef-in-training assembling a meal from the better leftovers.
These Chapter Notes won’t be a compendium of all the turns a novel takes to reach a reader’s eyes… egad, who would want that? But where it makes sense, I’ll refer back to notes or recollections from the story’s creation.
As a side note: I keep all my journals, and just this morning (March 30th, 2025) I pulled out the one from that 2012 trip. After dusting it off, I could barely recognize my own handwriting, let alone the version of the story on the page. I like to think the time between sipping Don Julio and scribbling those sun-dodging thoughts and the version you’re reading now has aged the story the right way—a slow, lasting pour of 1942 in words.
-j.
Chapter One | “Snakes, Jolt and the City"
Where to start a story is always a gamble. Do you dip a toe in the primordial ooze of Gondwana, or much later, where the action heats up? Most stories drop you straight into the fray. It’s called “in medias res” or “in the midst of things.” I prefer this approach in my short stories, where you pick up the backstory like grabbing snacks on a road trip—always moving forward with only quick stops for essentials.
But I kept questioning it with this story. Like a lot. In the weeks before publishing things kept shifting things around (some still are). I really hadn’t considered rolling out this story in a serial form and I’m unsure if bouncing through time will confuse people. To combat that I’ve made a few modifications to my original story that should help ease that cognitive burden. After a few chapters you can tell me if it worked. But this beginning, the one with the hissing snakes where George is listening to Kathryn argue with the fella, was always how I started the story and any last minute headfake of doing it differently was just a fever dream. (sorry pre-readers)
The tick-tock of it all aside, we’re meeting George for the first time but a lot has happened prior. He and his mother Kathryn are living in Chicago and, well, things aren’t working out. Again. Here we get a view of George’s world where bedrooms are a sanctuary but there’s a lot going on in his head, but only a little bit of life outside of it. We get some inklings about George’s artwork and the magical nature it takes on when the light hits just right. When you’re twelve, I think that happens a lot, probably more than it does later in life. I also think there’s something about being an only child and/or being tossed around with life that makes you grow up a bit faster, even while trying to hold onto the elusiveness of childhood.
Throughout, we’ll be hearing the soundtrack of George’s world. It’s a mad mix of eclectic 70s and early 80s music. Some of the tracks you might recognize, others I hope are a surprise. Music plays a significant role for George and how he sees the world. Links to music that are referenced, overt or obliquely, are noted below each chapter. You can also keep up with the playlist on Spotify.
Oh, and there’s a journal… and map. Definitely more about that later.
Word count: 1942
Chapter Two | “The Ticking Begins”
Moving day has come, quickly. Kathryn doesn’t seem to be much for hanging around and she’s pulled the ripcord. George knows this about her so he’s not entirely suprised. Bus rides to the airport on a cold morning are sort of a lonely affair—perhaps not quite as desperate looking as just about any flight leaving Las Vegas, though.
As George draws on the glass, some part of his inner world spills out through his fingertips in real time—the plane he sketches is going down, a tiny "HELP" scrawled in the window, as if searching for a way out. I think of it like a weep hole in carpentry—those tiny gaps built into window sills to let the rain escape. His fingers, his drawings, are just that: a quiet outlet, a necessary release for what can’t be held inside.
And there's a ticking feeling beneath it all, a quiet urgency he can’t shake.
For those of you fretting that we’re now two chapters in and things haven’t ramped up yet, just hold tight a bit longer. The sweet isn’t so sweet without the sour.
Word count: 913
Chapter Three | “Voice of Legends”
This is our first time jump of the story, back to 1983. I don't know how much people pay attention to that time marker but we’ll see if it causes confusion.
And this is our first time seeing George's father in his element. We get a pretty good view of the ebb of his life. And, of course, Kathryn who’s in a very different place than we’ve seen her so far.
Let’s talk about George’s father for a minute. I don’t channel people often, in real life or in writing. I mean, there was a short while, maybe 3 or 4 days when I was a kid where I borrowed a pair of khakis and wore a white shirt to look like some cholos in my neighborhood. But, that was because of a girl. Anywhew… The first half of this chapter is an homage to my buddy
. Many of his posts about music could be written by George's father (or, perhaps the other way around) with their fiery, musical insight pointed at listeners with both barrels. As an aside to this aside: I looked through our text messages and thought I’d made mention of channeling him while writing this but, alas, this is the first he’ll hear about it. Also, Jason, you’re welcome.George’s father’s radio broadcast, I imagine, is as much a part of his on-campus personality as his classes. In the vein of one of those larger-than-life teachers who always seem to occupy a humanities course where people rush to sign up.
The car ride home is a different story, perhaps the more subdued flip side of the record—if there’s an apt analogy. I never named the college/university but in my mind it’s UC Berkeley. And, I can imagine how, even as progressive as that school has been, it must have been swayed by the predictions of John Naisbitt. His book, Megatrends, would have been anathema to people like George’s father where the future looked backward less often, toward history or mythology, and more toward an Information Age. It’s, perhaps, worth noting here that Naisbitt’s theories came mostly true. There are some wonderful summaries available if you’re in the mood (link, link).
Also embedded in the car ride home is a brief moment with Kathryn. We get to see her directly, hear a few of her thoughts and memories. Not one to shy from challenging her partner she’s also more moderated, reflective. We’ll hear more about Kathryn later so I’ll leave it at that.
George, for his part in both sections, is taking it all in. We are experiencing the world through his eyes while peeking in just a bit at his thoughts. He feels something coming but, like a kid, senses it in more grand ways: moving. Those tectonic shifts, the ones that don’t have visible volcanic activity are much harder to understand but they’re definitely felt.
But, he’s left with something to look forward to: a story from the vault.
Word count: 2267
Chapter Four | “The Bedtime Story”
Remember in the first note where I mentioned trying out a different orientation of chapters? Yeah, I debated a lot about starting with this one. Again, apologies to early readers who gave great notes but it just didn’t feel right to jump to this without seeing the rest of the world first. And, truly, even still in serializing all of this, it still feels like a gamble to leave it to later.
Suffice to say, the bedtime story is the launchpad. It’s the start of the avalanche. The Big Bang for George. In the same way those wild stories our family or friends told us when we were young, this one will stick.
In it we’re treated to a first-hand account of an adventure by George’s father… down, down, down into the cave. with glowing bats. and fierce creatures. and, and…
…and that’s all I’m going to say about this chapter, for now.
Word count: 2898
Chapter Five | “Pez Doblado”
Every kid has a night so enchanted by the things you’re making that you hope your parents will forget to tell you to go to bed, right? I know I did. Drawing, models (my room sometimes smelled like a gas station), or even writing. Oh pleeeeeease, just five more minutes?
George is in that state of mind when he’s hot on the trail of pulling at the threads of his father’s story. If only he could sink into the carpet he’d be invisible. Unfortunately, something else transpires that interrupts both the map making and his life.
I wrestled a lot with the timing of this sequence. If you know none of his other tracks, you’ve heard some rendition of Hallelujah. But it’s a dead giveaway (pun intended) unless you creep up on the idea that it’s playing and shift the focus to a moment of exhiliration. I hope that I've done that here. You tell me.
As with all things fiction, some artistic license taken but, perhaps, not a far stretch. Cohen’s album Various Positions came out in 1984, but probably safe to say it was being circulated to record stations by the end of 1983. Maybe I didn’t need to add the “for radio station use only” sticker as it feels like, well, an add-on but I kinda like the backstory it gives the record, too. Incidentally, Hallelujah is a killer way to start the second side of the record. Just a few years later, and a different label, it would have either been track 1 or 9 on the CD.
In case you’re wondering, my favorite version Hallelujah is by Jeff Buckley
Word count: 1190
Chapter Six | “Patterns, Part 1”
We’re finally at the airport. I know, I know. Because this is a serialized version of the story there’s a natural tendency to move with speed and take things to the N’th degree right away… trust me, I feel it, too. But, like in my favorite 70’s-80’s movies I wanted there to be more of a build up first. I hope the wait hasn’t been too long because, you’re going to have to wait just a bit longer for the explosion you just know is coming.
There’s a lot to unpack in this chapter as the radiator in George is starting to boil over. That pressure has been building and now we see it escaping via music. In this case it’s the repeating pattern of the carpet and the sound of New Order’s Blue Monday. As I was scouring for the right feel many moons ago, I happened across an episode of Song Exploder—one I’d missed. I’ve probably listened to the New Order track a dozen times over the years but hearing the stems of the recording unveils a very different set of highlights to listen for in the mix.
Like most things I write I tried to think through this in a cinematic way where we’re moving in and out of George’s mind, pretty quickly in some cases, and to the surroundings (real or imagined). I think I’ve said this before, maybe in Notes, that George and I share the same proclivity for imagining things and the spilling of his drink that creates the hole in the table, the carpet, is something I would definitely have done in that moment. Oh, and New Coke was a fucking travesty, so, maybe it’s not crazy to think he could have been looking down at the baggage handling system had he dumped it on his ticket.
And now, George has set off through the crowd at the airport. He’s got an idea, sort of, about what’s going to happen next…
Word count: 1868
Chapter Seven | “Juxtaposition”
The root of all things George, so far, are from these moments with his father. In this case, a lesson how music and myth are intertwined. This chapter might have the most overt musical references than any other. And, so many of them are great that I had to pare back which would be part of the ongoing playlist. I opted for fewer than I could, slimming down to the essential ones.
Of the music George’s father talks about I can honestly say I had to do some serious research. I think it’s well-known that Led Zeppelin lyrics are full of Tolkien references but I hadn’t really thought much about, or listened to, Marillion. Clocking in over 17 minutes (!!), Grendel is a hard listen if the style isn’t your thing (see my other thoughts about prog rock here). And, only after listening with my oldest son did I happen upon how Jackie Paper might be the actual villain in Peter, Paul and Mary’s mega hit Puff, The Magic Dragon.
A dragon lives forever, but not so little boys
Painted wings and giant's rings make way for other toys
One gray night it happened, Jackie Paper came no more
And Puff, that mighty dragon, he ceased his fearless roarHis head was bent in sorrow, green scales fell like rain
Puff no longer went to play along the cherry lane
Without his lifelong friend, Puff could not be brave
So Puff, that mighty dragon, sadly slipped into his cave
In any case, this chapter is a bit of an origin story for Blue Monday in George’s pantheon of musical influences. And, while it’s that, I hope you catch that it, also, waters the seeds of how George views mythology in music and his introduction to how music and lyrics can juxtapose each other.
Word count: 997
Chapter Eight | “Patterns, Part 2”
Serializing a novel makes you consider it differently. Sure, there's word count—too few can leave the audience baffled while too many fight the uphill battle of waning attention spans. And, the order of chapters can also change at whim. Just the other day I mentioned this:
And it’s true. Originally, what became chapter 7 was somewhat of a punchline for the previous (the one you’re about to/have read the second part of).
But because of serialization, this chapter, Chapter 8 (Patterns, Part 2) is a continuation of Chapter 6. We pick up where we left off with George storming away. There are a few convenient things that happen in George's favor here. They’re not exactly “gimmes” but like often happens in a story, a confluence of circumstances that help alter the trajectory.
The first is how, and this will seem very foreign to a younger audience, in 1986 you didn't need a passport to go to Mexico from the United States. A simple ID would do, sometimes not even that depending on the border you crossed (cough, Nogales). Oh, the halcyon days before the TSA. There were also no metal detectors or pat downs. In reality, you could go right to the gate without a ticket and have one printed for you there (assuming it was already purchased). And, the same with border security simply asking for ID, while computers were used for ticketing, airlines all still relied heavily on what was printed on our boarding passes and could make many more adjustments at whim.
The next change in trajectory is a two-fold distraction, the first being the Challenger disaster. On the morning of January 28th, 1986 it was world news. I remember coming out for recess, I was in 5th grade, and being stopped by our art teacher who, clearly distraught, told us the space shuttle had exploded. It had been 16 years since another US space catastrophe had happened with Apollo 13 (“Houston, we have a problem”). I say US because in 1971 there was one in Russia—the Soyuz 11 had a depressurization problem, killing all three cosmonauts aboard. Suffice to say, were you to be in this moment on that January morning, especially when TVs were in short supply in airports, you would have been glued to the news (possibly watching a fledgling CNN).
Then, there’s the lie, the big lie about the looky-loo and George’s mother, Kathryn. And poor Annie is caught in the middle. While the Challenger news might have provided enough distraction I think it’s reasonable that George would swing for the fences here and hedge his bets with something more. In doing so, we get a glimpse of how far George might go—the repeating pattern of Blue Monday driving his feet, the pressure of the patterns wrecking his brain.
Who knows, maybe New Coke would have provided a simpler means of mutilating the airline ticket. But, we’ll never know, because he and Kathryn are now heading toward Mexico.
Word count: 1858
Chapter Nine | The Creation Story
Chris Isaak sang, “Baby did a bad, bad thing,” and I think of that with this chapter. Maybe I’m making too much of it but, because I’m not a historian or theologian, taking a swing at writing a version of a creation story—any creation story—feels like you’re asking for trouble–even under cover of the fictitious book, Shadows and Echoes.
Still, the Popol Vuh is old. Not Bible-old, but close. It’s a woven record—part myth, part memory, part instruction manual for being human. Which, if we’re honest, isn’t so different from most sacred texts.
The version we know today only survived because a Dominican friar named Francisco Ximenez copied it down in the early 1700s, translating the oral stories of the K’iche’ Maya into Latin script. But that was long after the Spanish arrived and lit a match to most of what came before. Like the Crusades, this is a pattern: a religion rolls in, claims dominion over a place, and burns the stories that held it together. That the Popol Vuh was transcribed at all was an act of both defiance and survival—the oral stories of the Maya were never documented this way (the oral stories date somewhere around 200-600CE). So, a written record may have been the only way to keep those stories from being lost forever, even if done reluctantly.
What I’ve taken liberty with doesn’t mess with the core—the characters, the failed tries at making man. Where it veers is in the telling: a little extra flair, and a bit more weight on why creation mattered in the first place. The Maya gods weren’t just looking to create—they wanted connection. Not ritual for ritual’s sake, but recognition. Praise. That’s the thread I pulled on: the idea that without reverence—without being remembered—the whole thing unravels. That last line? It’s not just a warning. It’s the engine of the myth—and maybe a glimpse of divine insecurity.
As an aside, I’ve been reading a lot of Chuck Wendig over the last few years so the seemingly non-sequitur format of an interlude is, ahem, borrowed. Thanks, Chuck.
Word count: 505
Chapter 10 | “Give ‘em hell, kid!”
Oh, the shit’s hit the fan now.
George and Kathryn are on the plane, bound for Cancun. We’ve just taken a big step toward whatever George thinks is at the other end of this flight. Hopefully, for his sake, it’s the island in all its glory, just as the map predicted it is.
But, he’s having second thoughts. Tertiary thoughts. And Kathryn is watching him like a hawk over the tequila on ice. While I disagree with the addition of ice—blech—I hope it’s, at least, a reposado.
In this chapter I hope you find the something sweet that lies beneath the anxiety of it all, I hope you see the turn that’s happening for Kathryn. She’s confused, probably angry at it all. But she’s also allowing for agency. Perhaps this is a moment where serialization wins in publishing because it’s been a couple of weeks since we saw her at the airport and it’s possible to feel some amount of time has passed where she might calm down. But, make no mistake, Kathryn remembers everything. She’s no dope.
Writing this chapter was fairly quick work once you put yourself in George’s brain. He’s scared of the power he’s just wielded. But knows what has to happen next: lies. Maybe really big ones. And to kick that into high gear he’s having a conversation with the in-flight magazine cover(s). Those sassy ladies are George’s conscience. Maybe ours, too.
In researching another project years ago I learned a bit about the early days of Pan American Airlines—they pioneered the use of inflight magazines starting with Horizon. Juan Trippe, then president of Pan Am, hired aviator Charles Lindbergh to scout new routes. A hero of the early days of aviation, Lindbergh was game to bring the capabilities of the flying machine to anywhere his wings would take him (pause for looking at Wikipedia). On one excursions, in 1930, he found several unmapped Mayan ruins in the jungle of the Yucatan. But I digress…
George has landed and he’s got an open sea and smooth sailing ahead… right?
Today’s soundtrack update is the original Rock Lobster by The B-52s. But, if you’re more daring, please listen to the version by Grupo Langosta. It’s a bit more punk, more offbeat, but wholly missing from Spotify.
Word count: 1174
Chapter 11 | “Bienvenidos!”
Just about every book will tell you to "write what you know." In the case of George and Kathryn making their way through this new world to the shoreline with a lengthy sightseeing detour, it's pretty close to reality. Except mine was a stupidly expensive trip from Heathrow to Stratford—linguistic and exchange rate mishaps included.
But, even in those moments, there's something really special about how wide-eyed you are in a new place. Quoting Vincent Vega, "I mean, they got the same shit over there that they got here but it's just there, it's a little different."
I think this chapter is the second time I added a small nod to the teacher, Mrs. Romey. That's a real name, and a real person—she was my High School journalism & video production teacher. We've kept up over the years and, in fact, she might be reading this right now. 👋
In any case, we're now at the shoreline but something's amiss and we're not sure what George is going to do now.
Word count: 1423
Chapter 12 | “Normal”
We haven't spent much time with Kathryn, just a few sparse moments here and there. In this chapter we get to hear a bit more of her inner voice and her view of the world. And, while she might still be the "relationship assassin" there's a lot more going on inside.
Again, write what you know: "Sand at her collar and bellies full of beer and oysters—an indulgent meal for meager salaries" is exactly how I felt spending time at Inverness not long after I moved to the Bay Area. The route to there is exactly as she describes it with the exception of a few more restaurants that probably didn’t exist in ~1974. Also, if you’re looking for the one I have in my head, get to Kehoe Beach. But, first, make a stop at The Marshall Store for some killer oysters.
There are a couple of striking moments of honesty in this chapter that might be surprising for how we’ve seen Kathryn so far. The first is how welded her lips would be about spilling the beans of her pregnancy. So far she hasn’t been short on what she thinks about other people, even if heard indirectly through George’s ears. The second is her recognition of not being the parent in a later scene with Mrs. Mireya. Writing that from the perspective of a parent is a bit like witnessing a gut punch that you also felt.
And at the end, we’re left with George and his music. Peter Gabriel in this case with sort of a B-side from the Melt album. The song feels like looking through the bars of an asylum and that’s probably a bit of how George feels about living anything other than the moment right in front of him. So, in recognition of that, he’s rewarded by a glimpse—ever-so-slightly as it may be—of the island.
Word count: 2121
Chapter 13 | The Dream
I got quite a few questions about this chapter. All I can say at the moment is: Shrug.
Trust me when I say it’s not being flip, it’s just that there are other things afoot and to explain it now wouldn’t do anyone any good.
Word count: 129
Chapter 14 | The Lion
There’s a meme going around that pretty much explains this chapter…
I’ve been looking forward to introducing The Lion for a while. He’s changed shape quite a lot in the planning, even still as I’m writing this he’s changing. Though, I can say with some thanks, his motivations haven’t. In this published version he’s more grizzled in introduction but there’s a similar spirt to earlier revisions that will get some daylight in the next few appearances.
And, while he didn’t inspire the whole thing, his character is meaningful to ▓▓▓▓▓▓▓▓.
That’s all I should say for now.
Word count: 2656
Chapter 15 | What’s Owed?
If you’ve been reading along with these notes—likely getting aggrivated by the lack of “between the cracks” details—I’m sorry. This notes section probably won’t be much better.
In this chapter George is following the Lion to the alley where we see him negotiate a better price for some stolen fish. God, while writing that I’m thinking this sounds like the most boring story ever. But there’s a lot of history in this interaction between the Lion and the sunglasses man. More on that in later chapters.
While that’s happening George is watching some crazy shit go down with two kids who are stealing eggs from a bunch of chickens. The idea of this came from the ether. Really, I had many other ideas about how to introduce them but when I started writing the alley scene there wasn’t much for George to do and I couldn’t make it solely about the Lion. So… voila!
Writing their interaction and George’s reaction made me laugh out loud. Not like when your friend texts lol and says they’re still drying their pants and can’t go out, but like a real like a really real LOL. We’ll see more of the boys later, for sure.
Word count: 1790
Chapter 16 | Monsters
From the first moment I started writing ISLA—like, for reals—I knew I wanted iguanas to have a moment. Any number of times I’ve napped while on vacation in Mexico I seem to attract them. They seem to not be scared of my snoring, which is nice. And I’ve always found them to resemble, like the Komodo dragon, leftovers from the age of dinosaurs.
The trick here was two-fold: 1. to give them a sanctuary somewhere that Kathryn and George would stumble upon and 2. to not make it obvious. Therefore: Palacio de Garrobo. But, as Roberto (the Lion has a name!) says, “Aterrador, pero dócil.” … yes, terrifying, but docile. This is mostly true. But it doesn’t mean they’re not frightening up close.
That moment of Kathryn running out, jumping over them, is a bit of comic relief. Though, perhaps not for her.
Down at the beach is where things come to a head. She’s done with the charade and it’s time for her to come clean about the journal and George’s father’s stories.
As I’m writing, putting myself in George’s position, I thin the worst thing I could hear is a trusted adult tell me it’s all bullshit. Kathryn does this in her own way, mostly devoid of sympathy.
I’ve attempted to walk a thin line in Kathryn’s multi-faceted behavior. We’re introduced to her in Chapter 1 as being the “relationship assassin” and having command over the smallest details.
Then, in Chapter 6, George describes her this way:
She’d have a few days of licking her wounds, maybe sleep past noon. But when she emerged from the cloud, the funk, her whole demeanor would be different, somehow cleansed. Scowl lines on her face would reshape themselves and her laugh would reappear. She’d get a new haircut, maybe a new bag or dress. That’s when he’d see her, really see her: Kathryn and her unflappable charm that could pull anyone, everyone, into her tractor beam. That best version of Kathryn is what his father saw. It’s what George remembers from the black-and-white strip of pictures stuck to the fridge.
In Chapter 12 she’s wrestling with taking a backseat as the parent and the potentially skipped maternal genes. And now, in Chapter 16, she confronting her limitations again:
Kathryn never bent down to talk to George. She never squatted or met him at eye level, always keeping her distance—that gene the rest of her family had been gifted but skipped her entirely. The warmth that seemed to come so easy to everyone else felt like an ill-fitting mask when she tried to wear it. So she didn’t. She’d stopped even trying it on. That was just who she was. Is.
I’m fond of saying that humans are walking inconsistencies but Kathryn is nothing if not a pattern. She’s still figuring it out in front of us.
Word count: 1751
Chapter 17 | La Boca Vieja
A murder ballad, a mumble and a quiet move to the back, Jack. I love this chapter. But, it fits all of these categories:
There’s a lot happening here.
We start with Kathryn’s reaction of the bar—in another life called La Sirena Escondida—but not pointedly named in this version. It’s Roberto’s dive, one where the history of the area is cataloged and mixed with those of the passersby, the tourists.
Let’s pull on a few threads from this chapter. Most notably, George is getting tired of not having enough information. He’s seen the island, sort of, he’s been told it doesn’t exist and that the things his father has told him are “really good stories” but at the end of chapter 16 he’s dropped a line of hope by Roberto. So, here, he squares off for questions after the nicety of the moment wears thin. In turn, Roberto seems to be the keeper of some information and it’s up to him to decide how to unravel (or not) that mystery.
Kathryn gives us a glimpse of her background here as a sous chef and is working up toward the idea that she’s the mother and will begin (again) taking care of things. But she’s mostly absent, a disembodied voice from the kitchen.
So, round and round George and Roberto spar about what the island means and what it contains. But Roberto has seen it all and he’s not quite as willing to give up that information… until he sees the journal. Showing it is a last resort for George but he knows it’s the only thing that could possibly tip the scales.
In turn, this sets Roberto on his heels, opening up a growing but invisible wound. He gives George a brief but guarded history to explain the logic about why the island is cursed—treasure hunters, sin respeto.
And, of course, two other noteworthy items happen right before George leaves:
The picture of Roberto and the sunglasses man as teens. Brothers perhaps?
And the boys beckoning from outside.
More about all that, and Roberto, and Kathryn as we slip a bit closer to the island.
Word count: 2445
Chapter 18 | la Caída Azul, Part One
Sometimes when you write…
let me stop there for a minute and point out that I’m only speaking for myself here, not the whole of Writerdom whose form, style, process is as different as fingerprints…
Sometimes when you I write it’s a struggle to get any words down on the (virtual) page. Othertimes, the story spills out mostly intact. This chapter was the latter. I knew the boys and George needed to find their way onto a boat, and shove off. I knew that moment would be exhilarating in a way freedom sometimes happens as a kid — out on your own, uncharted spaces. That unmoored feeling was something I felt while writing. It’s a slippery feeling where anything can happen—to the writer, to George, to the reader.
I also knew something mythic had to transpire. A yin to a later yang.
What I didn’t expect until writing it was the sharks. Or the way the boys would use the eggs to draw attention away from the boat. That was made up in the moment. And it made me laugh out loud. I may have said “whoa!” in my best Keanu voice. But I can’t be sure since I was still trying to figure out how the world would seem to George during and after. When the shapes arrived later, the turtles, that was my aquatic yang.
Several weeks of massaging the text followed but this first half was mostly there.
Word count: 2223
Chapter 19 | Leaving the Age of Wonder
First, let’s address some criticism that hasn’t surfaced aloud yet: George’s dad is a didactic SOB, isn’t he? I mean, who just keeps talking like that without bringing you into the conversation, asking questions. Instead, he presupposes most of the conversation and brings it to George in a way math is both self-serving but, also, illuminating.
Records as bibles. A music shop as a cathedral. These were all things I’ve thought many times. Sadly, we don’t congregate at such places anymore. But there was a time when we did. It was altogether frightening, cliquish, glorious and mind boggling at the volume of options.
If there’s a central thesis to this chapter is can be summed up this way: Don't loose your sense of wonder.
George, the ever-observant eight year old, seems to be locking these moments away. I know this is how I felt at the time through the interactions of my friends, our visits to the local comic book store, the record store and escaping into a library during the hot Glendale summers.
George’s father, the professor, has his own rhythm of how he gets to that point. It takes a while and he’s trying to point out the pitfalls of what he sees in the future. Sure, I’m writing this retrospectively with a hindsight greater than 20/20, but someone so steeped in mythology might also be seeing that subtle change, too.
Let me point out one other item: Dr. Demento. For those who have lived under a rock, this was a radio show that aired on Sunday nights and featured oddball music by Stan Freeberg, Spike Jones, and launched the career of one Weird Al Yankovic. I may have listened to a lot of other radio shows at the time but nothing embedded in my brain more than what Dr. Demento was about: absurd music. Gawd I loved that show. and miss it. Though he’s since retired, you can catch streaming versions of his show online.
You can thank me later.
Word count: 1759
Chapter 20 | la Caída Azul, Part Two
Like most of the chapters of Isla I couldn’t wait to write this one. Through the miracle of microattention™ found in Substack fiction I broke this chapter in two. Though, as I see this story playing out in a serialized form it’s not such a bad thing.
There’s a lot going on here. Starting with the turtles.. the silent phalanx of shelled warriors. They’re protecting and guiding the boat across the water. Important here are two things:
1) Sharks?
2) Why turtles?
…all for sometime later.
But here we are, arriving at the shores of the island. We get a little more about the boys, who entrust George with their satchel. Oh, and there’s a girl.
But this chapter is only partially about those things, isn’t it? It’s a wrestling match for George who is overwhelmed. By the turtles, for sure, but by the arrival. It doesn’t feel earned since he’s somehow found his way here, by hook or crook. As I was writing I had been thinking about my own kids, both very different personalities, but my oldest has a very keen sense of process. In that I mean he wants to know every detail, when it will happen, who will be involved and, most importantly: how. George bumps up against that expectation, too. Somehow, he thought the moment of arrival would include Kathryn. But what he really wanted to do, since hearing that bedtime story, was be there with his dad. The heart of the chapter is the misaligned experience and how he decides to deal with it. He seems to have tilted a bit toward accepting the moment, even reveling in it. But, there’s that whole thing about being left on the shoreline, isn’t there?
Hmmm.
Word count: 2571
Chapter 21 | Lady Blood
I’m captivated by the stories in the Popol Vuh. This one, Lady Blood, is—like the creation story—my own take on the tale. As with before, the main tenants are there: Xquic, Hun Hunapu, the lords of Xibalba and the owls—but I’ve fleshed it out in a way the main text, whichever translation you read, does not. Scolars of the text, I’m sure, will take umbrage with my version but, well, this is my story. [raspberry sound]
The main takeaways here are yours to decide. I’ve placed a few pointers around that will be making later appearances.
Word count: 729
Chapter 22 | Island, Alone
George finds himself in one predicament after another here. He’s been left (effing ditched) by the boys and chases after them. Except that doesn’t work out so well and he finds himself in a massive corn field. Now, I don’t know about you but I’ve stood in the middle of a few fields and I can’t see over the top. The Spanish had it right by naming it maize and the only way out is through. This is George’s plan, too.
Except that doesn’t really work out so well after a time, either.
Like I’ve said with most of chapters, this has been a difficult one to draft/edit/rewrite. I think I got it mostly there. I toyed with the idea of splitting it up but that felt like giving in to the whim of reader attention. Hardcore readers… I’m talking to you now… don’t give up when the prose gets lengthy, do you? Nah, this is your adventure as much as it is George’s. So, to hell with length.
If you’re reading carefully you’ll notice a couple of references. The first is a reference to The Phantom Tollboth. I haven’t read it in years but have very clear memories of it as a kid, mostly the dreamy way things happen in the different lands. And I’m constantly reminded of Tock, the watchdog, who tells Milo:
“Time is a gift, given to you, given to give you the time you need, the time you need to have the time of your life.”
The next is Indiana Jones: “I don’t know. I’m making this up as I go.” Pretty self-explanatory. It’s something that lolls around in my head–writing or not–and therefore, in George’s.
Finally, one I rewrote several different ways and I’m still not sure it works, is a reference to Stephen King (writing as Richard Bachman) from The Long Walk. Of all the King novels I’ve read, The Bachman Books has probably stuck with me the most. There’s something in those early manifestations of King that felt pretty raw and undiscovered. I think George might have liked them, or identified with the feeling of that long trudge into the known/unknown as the main character Ray Garraty might.
Maybe they’ll make the final edit, I don’t know. You tell me.
Word count: 3249
Chapter 23 | Echoes
For this chapter we go back in time to December 1983 and begins at a forced basketball game. I know this story because I’ve lived a version of it. I wrote a bit about a similar event of my own life back in Dispatch No. 6. Similar, but different circumstances as my life was interrupted by a death in the family.
It’s interesting what details come back when you’re writing and delving into your own past. I thought it was a good moment for George to feel alone even while being surrounded by people. Perhaps these moments we all feel alone?
And that feeling, the hot, flushed one where you wish you could hit something hard enough to crack the universe is something I’ve felt before, too. Maybe you have as well?
In this chapter we get a glimpse of something new: George’s father’s name: Arturo Perez. And the name of a book he’s been writing that’s nearing publication, Shadows and Echoes. This is where our interludes are coming from. More about those later.
Word count: 1916
Chapter 24 | Details
This chapter was a bitch to write. It does a lot of work in only 1500 words by giving us some time with Kathryn and Roberto but, I hope, expertly threads the needle in the right way.
It was time for Kathryn to have some activities that would be a way of illustrating her personality (we haven’t spent much time with her since Chapter 12). The dull knives detail is one I wanted to revisit, both overtly and in a way that gives Kathryn some amount of agency for recurring reflection:
From Chapter 12: “She feels dull—a kitchen knife left too long between sharpenings, tossed in the dishwasher, forgotten.”
From Chapter 24: “She started with the knives. Dull blades broke her rhythm. A sharp edge was worth the effort.”
From Chapter 24: “Somewhere just beyond reach, she could feel more pieces—present but unmovable, like dark tiles at the edge of her mind. The feeling was frustrating. Like those kitchen knives—she’d spent too long dulled by life, unsharpened by the men she’d surrounded herself with.”
To me, the metaphor is apt for her as someone who takes a bit of pride in being sharp.
This chapter we also get some time hearing the inner thoughts of Roberto. Like most good passages in my writing, I couldn’t tell you where some of them come from. Here’s one that spilled out almost verbatim from a first draft:
“That’s what boys did here. Girls too, he supposed. Explore. Wander. Every child on the island, up and down the coast, wrestled themselves from the nest, wings still soft, not ready to fly. They tumbled and got scars. Found and lost love. Maybe they were surrounded by friends as they tried—but ultimately, they did it alone.
Her boy was no different.
Roberto wondered if she understood that her protection couldn’t stop the boy from becoming whatever came next. Her child was in the middle space between. Maybe not a man yet. But boyhood, Roberto saw, was already loosening its grip.”
Word count: 1564
Chapter 25 | Treading Water
I made a comment some time ago about how I feel my writing is akin to being the person with the broom ahead of the curling stone, just clearing the way for the story’s eventuality. So, we knew this chapter was coming at some point. All the signs have been there since we first got a notion of the island’s curse and, later, as we meet Roberto.
To do this we have to go back in time a bit, to the “honeyed” days of his and Esteban’s youth. In the lead up of Chapter 24 we walked through a bit of Roberto’s thoughts about exploration, how he’d been hearing the stories and how they hummed under his skin. This chapter is the in medias res version—the tail end of those explorations.
I’ve broken up the chapter a bit, which I find a really difficult thing to do. I really want to spend every minute and walk through every detail but after reading some Cormac McCarthy… I just can’t find a way to do it justice and keep the story moving along. Therefore, it’s in three parts: Before the curse, the curse and the aftermath.
In all, the middle portion is really the meat of the story where the pride of looking for the “archive” is evident and Roberto is denied. This sentiment is echoed a few times in things Roberto says along the way. Namely this, from the end of Chapter 16:
Roberto raises a stumped finger toward the horizon. “Finding it is not hard. What matters is why.”
I got a couple of comments about the sad nature of the chapter. It really is a low spot, a dark cloud that ripples throughout the story, but it’s thematically purposeful because there’s no where to go but up from here… maybe.
When I was in high school I became a lifeguard. Our pool manager was a former beach lifeguard (before Baywatch was a thing) and he was ruthless about training. He often pulled emergency drills and made us swim laps until we were nearly puking. I took the training seriously, maybe to a damaging point because it took years before I could go to a pool or body of water to relax without constantly scanning for signs of distress. But a couple of things we did during that time are reflected in this chapter.
We would sink a truck rim to the bottom of the pool with plastic milk jugs tied to it. Then, at the bottom, we’d slowly tip the jugs skyward and breathe the air trapped inside. If we brought enough jugs we could stay down there for quite a while.
Why did we have a truck rim at the pool, you ask?
Well… some extreme training he made us do was for two or three of us to hold a truck rim over our heads in the deep end of the pool and tread water to keep it, and ourselves, afloat. As I write this the gooseflesh is running up my arms just thinking about the feeling of near drowning and claustrophobia of being under that rim as exhaustion started to set in. Those moments came back to me as I wrote about Roberto’s trying to get the rubbings in the cave or reaching up to grab the stones.
Word count: 2377
Chapter 26 | Nicte
…coming August 26th.