Sunday, April 27, 2014

The beginnning of Joan Bochmann's unfinished novel: Prism

Prism, by Joan Bochmann 
The Prologue:

She slipped silently through the grove of aspen trees and knelt by the clear mountain stream. Motionless, she studied her rippling reflection in the water. Small, slender, with straight blond hair falling below her shoulders, she was dressed in blue jeans and a plaid shirt open at the neck revealing a fine gold chain from which a small pyramid-shaped crystal was suspended. As she watched her reflection, her slim fingers strayed to the prism, exploring all its facets. She held it to her eye and watched the colors come to life.
Suddenly he gasped. The reflection in the water was changing—the hair was curlier and lay softly around a face that was hers, yet wasn’t. The shirt and jeans were replaced by a gown of some floating, wispy material.
“No,” she moaned. “Go away—please.”

Tuesday, April 15, 2014

Joan Bochmann's Writing

It's been a long time since I've posted here. Not because I've forgotten her—my dear sister, Joan. Far to the contrary. I miss her as much as ever, and I think of her a million times a day. I guess it's because it was just too hard at times. But Joan will never be forgotten, and in time, I will continue to share her wonderful writing—the book starts, the articles, and stories she entrusted to me—with the world.

I made a promise to Joan and I plan to keep it. She asked me to finish one of her books, if she didn't get it done. Unfortunately, she was unable to, although she worked on it almost up to the time of her death. The name of the book is Prism. There are nineteen chapters and various notes and possible inserts to it in her wonderful voice. It would be a shame to leave them hidden away in a box of file folders.

For a while, I suffered overwhelming sadness when I attempted to retrieve them. Besides, I was working on a novel of my own. I've finished the first draft of that, and so I attempted to delve into hers. At first I just couldn't do it. On the second attempt, I packed up all the files pertaining to that book and took them to a quiet coffee shop to work on them. It was a good start. I began by reading through her pages and taking notes on each chapter. In the process, I've been given ideas of where the story might go. Once I pick up her characters where she left them, I'll let them lead me to solve the story's mysteries and find the perfect ending. I don't know how long this will take. I've other jobs pressing for my time, making this a more or less spare-time endeavor.

I am somewhat surprised by the feeling that working on this book gives me. The grief and regrets that have plagued me since she died seem to be replaced by or maybe morphed into a feeling of solace as though through this work I am close to her.  Once again, I am blessed by her words.