So, if you have tuned in regularly, you would be hip to the fact that I have a character, Lucian Covaci, that came and perched in my lounger one night demanding that he have a story. Out of the blue, sitting near my laptop, he sat, his arms akimbo and his legs haphazardly taking up the small den in which I write. He is definitely not going anywhere any time soon.
So, despite trying to leave it alone, Mr. Covaci has decided to start inhabiting my space until I finish his story. I am 7k words in and he has a lot more to say. I know, that sounds quirky or what have you, but trust me, this guy is definitely ‘unique’. Complete in the fact that he is possessive, brutally honest, brooding, unsparing, he is the perfect hero, right? Problem with him? He insists that he is not a hero…take a peek at his unedited excerpt and you will soon see why he doesn’t want to be a hero:
Lucian Covaci looked around the rolling green hill of the cemetery one last time. This would be his last visit to his country; the death of his mother left him no reason to visit Romania ever again. Brasov, the city he was born in was perhaps beautiful to a tourist, but for him it all looked black. Despite the soaring tops of ancient castles and medieval churches, there was nothing beautiful, peaceful or serene about his country in his mind.
Lucian kissed his index knuckle and made the sign of the cross. He bowed his head, his dark brown hair falling over his eyes. For some inexplicable reason, the chords of “Ain’t No Sunshine” started to play through his head. Lucian shook his head vehemently and squeezed his eyes shut. He would strangle Darius for giving him that Bill Withers CD before his flight. Although Darius wasn’t in Romania with him, Lucian could almost feel his friend’s presence. His business partner and only friend, Darius Ware wanted to drop everything and accompany Lucian to his mother’s funeral. As much as Lucian could have used the company, he wasn’t about to show his friend the hideous conditions he grew up in.
Burying Anca Covaci next to his brother was more trying than Lucian was prepared to handle. His heart constricted seeing Sorin’s headstone nestled next to his mother’s fresh mound. The damn migraine he’d been trying to drink away all week with Romania’s finest Ţuică ‘vodcă came back in full force. The memories were becoming too much, he had to get out of this country; now. Pressing his thumb and index finger into his eyes, in a feeble attempt to make the pain lessen, Lucian pulled out his cell phone. He was lucky it was illegal to drive with any amount of alcohol in his system or he would have been pie-eyed and piss drunk.
“I need to move up my flight. Please book the next flight out to Dulles. I’m leaving now. Mulţumesc.” Lucian thanked the hotel concierge in his native language. He hadn’t spoken the tongue much since he started living in America, almost twenty years ago, when he left his aging mother in Romania to attend Columbia University. Now, being home, it rolled of his tongue as if he never left. Lucian shrugged his wide shoulders and walked back to the rental car. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the one headstone he hadn’t bothered to look for. Anton Covaci’s headstone had been cracked down the middle. This is why I won’t be back, there is nothing for me here.
Lucian slid behind the wheel of small compact car. He felt as constricted in the car as he did in the graveyard. This is definitely not my SUV. I need to get back home. Lucian pulled away, the back tires kicking up pebbles as it bustled down the road. His mother’s lonely funeral had done him in and he had no desire to sit in a cramped apartment sorting through her personal effects. Pulling his cell phone out again, he left a message for the landlord to send the items to him in the States, promising to leave the crotchety woman with a stack of twenty-dollar bills that would more than cover the expense of shipping Anca’s meager belongings.
“La revedere,” Lucian said, bidding farewell to his country and his bad memories.
Now you can see why I am having troubles with this particular man. He is brooding and closed up like a clam. But that is what makes us authors right? We can crack that shell.