I said goodbye to a friend this week. My novel ended, and Ambrose left town.
February 19, 2013
I finished the VG Serial of my novel, Conspiracy of Lies.
I wrote The End.
I looked around.
And Ambrose Lincoln was gone.
I had no idea I would miss him until I realized he wasn’t around anymore.
In Secrets of the Dead, rode along with him when he took an unauthorized flight during the late 1930s to Baden-Baden where the Jews had been staggered and stunned by the Night of Broken Glass.
Their world was coming to an end.
Nazi Brown Shirts vandalized their stores, packed them on trains, and shipped them off to camps that were building gas and execution chambers. Hitler’s final solution had begun.
No one knew.
No one suspected.
I was with Ambrose Lincoln when he found out.
In Conspiracy of Lies, rode along with him by train to Santa Fe when spies from Russia and Germany were frantically trying to pry the secrets out of Los Alamos, secrets about the most powerful bomb there ever was.
The country that owned it would rule the world.
Or the country would destroy it.
No one knew.
But many suspected the worst.
I felt a real kinship with Ambrose Lincoln. He had no idea what was happening while the story rolled along, and neither did I. He was in the dark and made room for me.
I simply threw him into opening sentence of a chapter, and Ambrose took it from there. Characters always do. Those of you who write know and understand. The rest of you just figure we’re crazy, and you’re probably right.
The characters get the credit when something works.
The writer takes the blame when it doesn’t.
Ambrose was a flawed man. He had volunteered for experiments with mind control, experiments that really took place during the 1930s, experiments conducted in high level secrecy by government paid psychologists, psychiatrists, and intelligence officers long before there was a CIA.
The doctors used electric shocks. They attached electrodes to his brain.
They kept erasing his memory.
That was the bad part.
He never had a guilty conscience.
That was what saved him.
I missed him as soon as he left. He didn’t tell me where he was going. I don’t know where he is. But if he ever comes back, we’ll sit down and do it all over again.
I know where I’ll send him.
I just don’t know where I’ll find him.
I guess he’ll find me.
That’s how we got together in the first place.