I think this is the best novel I’ve ever written.
Such as it is. I can’t point to some massive, accomplished body of work. I can’t point to much success—though it’s not nothing—and I doubt the Island Circus books will ever see the light of day … but my fourth novel, subtitled Cougar Clinkscales’ Island Circus, is the best work I’ve done.
I worked on it over several years and through some difficult transitions in my life. I started it as a novel-within-a-novel amidst Magic Spiders, cranked out the first half—my aforementioned third novel, Revival Theater Thunderdome—before my output rate slowed to a crawl for the initial draft of this novel.
I started it in approximately 2003 and wouldn’t finish it until 2009. During this time, I would endure one of the most difficult years of my life, 2004, change jobs a few times, go through a year-and-a-half writing dry spell, and finally—enter into a long-term relationship I should never have gotten into.
I’m not writing these entries to relitigate old grudges and choices, but I do want to give you some idea of the backdrop behind these novels. I struggled through the first draft of Cougar Clinkscales’ Island Circus and left it unfinished for a year and a half before buckling down, finishing it … and then launching into my rewrite almost immediately. This rewrite informally marked my transition from pansting to planning.
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What the hell was I thinking?
In my previous entry, I described the structure of The Island Circus, Part One:
Oda McGaw — narrates his half of the story in first person to Johnny Major.
Beverly Thundercracker — flashes back to her half of the story in third person.
You’d think for part two, I’d follow a similar pattern, right? Wrong. For some ungodly reason, I shifted to a fully third-person limited omniscient perspective for the whole book.
Why? Well, I wish I had a more elegant explanation besides “I fucked up,” but … I fucked up. I like this book’s original draft; it’s shaggy and strange and channels even more of the Twin Peaks vibes I was going for, but it’s also dense, meandering, and thematically vague.
When I started my rewrites, I knew I was going to have to tear it apart, but there was one huge problem: In part one, the characters flash back to the book’s main action from a vantage point in the future; no such vantage point existed for part two—so what would it be?
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A true sequel
I took a week or two to sit with my original draft and ask myself “What is this book about, and more important, who is it about?” The answer presented itself almost immediately:
Beverly.
I think Beverly’s the best female character I’ve ever written. I know that’s probably not saying much—after all, I don’t have a huge body of work to point to—but through Beverly, I engaged with a lot of prickly feelings about my body and appearance. I was a fat kid, and I lost a good chunk of weight in seventh grade. Since then, I’ve grappled with body image while also staying in good shape, I think. I used to be a fairly serious runner until injuries sidelined me, but I’ve since supplemented those activities with weightlifing, power and some Olympic. (And again, with regards to these issues, let me emphasize that legions of folks have it worse.)
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That said, in Beverly I imagined a female bodybuilder who lives her life convinced she’s ugly and undesirable, but who through the crucible of the events of part one, discovers who she really is. While writing part two, I found that the core relationship of part one—Beverly and Oda—falling apart as Beverly fell for one of the novel’s new arrivals, and it’s with these new arrivals that I introduced this novel’s core magical device.
A recurring image or device in my novels is ritual. Over and over, I’ve imagined huge, massive rituals—and I don’t mean a ritual you carry out over an hour or an evening; I’m talking weeks or months. My first novel, Devil’s Jukebox, depicts a supernatural demolition derby where shadowy forces try to bring about the end of the world. Years later in Strong Bones, I depict another ritual involving an enchanted theme park ride.
In the Island Circus books, I depict two rituals.
Over the course of the second book, it’s revealed that Beau Bryant built his deathmatch arena, the “Cock Ring,” as a part of an ages-old ritual that calls for a massive assemblage of people. Imagine if you could channel all the power of a football stadium during a touchdown into one magic spell—that’s the idea. For unknown reasons, Bryant spent the first novel trying to cast a spell of unimaginable evil, but when Oda and Bev destroy the his “cauldron,” it causes his spell to misfire.
When they arrive in the East Tennessee town of Fenton, the setting for book two, they soon realize something is amiss:
Everyone who died is back.
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From 1982 to 1985, DC Comics published a limited series called Camelot 3000. In it, the Knights of the Round Table are resurrected in the year 3000 to fight off an alien invasion. I am not making that up.
It’s one of the first exposures I had to what would, if it were a movie, probably be rated R. My older siblings left an anthology lying around our house, and because I read everything I could get my hands on, I inhaled it and was swept away by the crisp storytelling, bonkers genre mashup, and gorgeous artwork by the great Brian Bolland.
The notion of reincarnation lingered with me, and when time came to write The Island Circus Part Two, the idea bubbled up that I should bring back all the characters slain in the book’s first half—there were six—and not only reincarnate them into new bodies, but to also mix and match their souls.
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I must’ve spent a week or two just cooking up these six new characters. They’re all important to some degree—including the reincarnated person of the title, Cougar Clinkscales, but for the purposes of this discission, I’ll highlight:
The Good Reverend Mariposa “Mare” Brown. Rev. Brown was reincarnated from the body of part one’s Lester Ostrum and resembled him almost exactly, but where Lester was a villain, Brown is one of part two’s heroes.
Remember when I said part one depicted a massive ritual of evil? Part two and its titular circus is another such ritual, conceived and intended to undo the damage done in book one. Brown is instrumental in the execution of that ritual.
But even more important, he and Beverly become romantically involved.
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I think a big part of becoming a more complete adult is to realize that being in a relationship isn’t everything and that it’s just as important—if not more important—to be single and happy with who you are. I know I’m stating the obvious, but it took me way too long to figure that out. The Island Circus books are a reflection of that progression. I tackled a lot of this rewrite amidst a relationship I was trying to extricate myself from, and in both Oda and Bev, I explored characters who were getting to know themselves.
And during that exploration, they come to the realization they weren’t meant to be together.
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That brings me to the “future” vantage point. At this stage of my life, I’d never written a sequel to anything—meaning, I’d never thought beyond the end of any of my stories to imagine where my characters might wind up. (The closest thing might be my outline for the sequel to Magic Spiders, but I at least had a vision, however vague, for that all along.)
But for The Island Circus Part Two, when it dawned on me that it was Beverly’s story, and that I’d need to conjure some sort of future vantage point, I zeroed in on her relationship with. Rev. Brown and what it meant for their future.
In short, I saw a happy one, while for Oda, I saw a long road of hard personal work ahead for him.
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Part two opens about a decade after the events depicted in East Tennessee. Johnny Major has retired to the mountains of eastern Oregon, where he’s opened a small lodge. Beverly arrives, having rented out the place to host a funeral … for Reverend Brown, who’s died of some unknown ailment.
Meanwhile, Oda has become a world-class black operative who works for a shadowy organization known only as “&,” or “the Purse.” (I clearly had Bob the assassin from Devil’s Jukebox in mind.)
This sets up a new narrative pattern for part two:
The funeral prep: Beverly narrates her half of the East Tennessee adventure in first person to Johnny.
Oda’s journey: Oda has to travel around the world in order to make it to Rev. Brown’s funeral. Along the way, he flashes back to the East Tennessee adventure in third person.
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While Beverly narrates her half of the story, Johnny becomes more of a lead character, as we learn he gets involved in the magical shenanigans, too. He calls his superiors in Georgetown to explain why he abandoned his post, expecting his commanding officer to fire him, but instead, he orders Johnny to go undercover to investigate the mysterious circus that’s coming to town.
This leads to some of the most insane comedic writing I’ve ever done, where Johnny has to audition to join the circus’ clown troupe, known as the—and I’m not kidding—Ka-Blammity Show-Stopperoonie Clowns. Another of the “reincarnated” people, Jerome Ledford, runs the troupe:
“Where’s your outfit?’ Jerome snapped.
“I beg your pardon?”
“Don’t ‘beg your pardon’ me—” (Jerome made a show of looking at Johnny’s information sheet) “—mister Major. Mister Johnny Major.” He slammed down the info sheet. “Well, mister Major, what in God’s name makes you think you have the sack to be a Ka-Blammity-Show-Stopperoonie Clown?”
“A what?”
“A Ka-Blammity-Show-Stopperoonie Clown.”
“A Ka … excuse me?’
Jerome leapt to his feet. His men nodded and harrumphed behind him, folding their arms and shaking their heads. Jerome stalked around the desk and grabbed a candle, which he shoved in Johnny’s face.
“What makes you think you can join our hallowed ranks?! We make people laugh like our fucking lives depend on it, because they fucking do!” Jerome wheeled on one of his men. “Bill! Do something funny!”
Men scattered, leaving a buffer zone around Bill, a tall and husky guy with big hands and a small head. He immediately started halfheartedly jumping from one foot to the other and saying something like, “Doop-dee-doo,” but Jerome cut him off, yelling, “Not fucking funny!”
Jerome whipped out a nine-millimeter pistol and fired into poor Bill’s chest: bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang-bang! Johnny jumped. The rest of the men covered their faces. Bill flew a few feet, slammed onto his back and did a dance of death on the floor as blood spurted from his wounds and Jerome finished the clip, dropped it out of the handle, slammed in a new one and emptied another clip into his chest. Wheezing with murderous adrenaline, Jerome turned to Johnny and blew the smoke off the barrel of his gun.
“So, let me ask you again, mister Major, can you guarantee us that you can produce Ka-Blammity Show-Stoppers on command?!”
Johnny felt like his insides had liquefied. “Uh–”
“Because we are not fucking kidding!”
“Uh—”
Jerome smiled. “Yes, we are!”
As one, Jerome and his men jumped forward and blew out all the candles at the same time as the overhead lights came on with a whump. Bill lumbered to his feet and bowed to his colleagues.
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Earlier I said this book marked my progression from pansting to planning. Here’s what happened:
After realizing that this book belonged to Beverly, and after coming up with the framing device, I took stock of what I’d written, catalogued every scene, and then spent several months outlining a new novel that echoed the structure of part one—one lead narrates while the other flashes back—all while carving out a smaller adventure in the “future” timeline, where Oda finds himself running from a specter called Wendigo, seemingly the ghost of a rival operative he’d previously killed.
Let’s also jump back to book one, where Oda and Bev conspired to destroy Beau Bryant’s deathmatch arena. I never actually showed that event, intending to hold it in reserve until the very, final end of this entire long story.
Which I did.
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About a year before I ended a difficult relationship, I finished a draft of this book. I planned out the entire second half, tossing out much of what I’d written, all while writing the new framing device and, in many cases, rewriting key scenes in Beverly’s voice.
I also set up a triple climax, where the following events unfold:
- The Island Circus unveils its one and only performance, on Halloween night. Oda and Johnny thwart a plot to bomb the event, all while Beverly performs onstage.
- In the “future” timeline, the Wendigo spirit arrives in Oregon, only to be slain by Beverly.
- Also in the future timeline, Oda arrives too late to stop Wendigo but is relieved to find everyone safe, though Beverly is wounded.
- The funeral for Reverend Brown intercuts with both the Island Circus and the earlier destruction of Beau Bryant’s deathmatch arena.
- All of this pulls the curtain back both on why Oda abandoned Beverly at the altar—he’s a coward—and why Beverly winds up with Rev. Brown at the end of the island circus—she’s not.
- But after Oda helps to thwart the bombing of the circus, he takes great pains to make sure no one ever finds out about his selflessness, and he immediately leaves town.
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But what, you might be wondering, becomes of the six “reincarnated” people?
Remember that letter Oda delivered to East Tennessee? He brought it to a mansion located on the aforementioned island. This mansion become ground zero for the Island Circus’ work, which involves transforming this crumbling antebellum estate into a performance space.
Once the Halloween night performance is complete, the circusfolk head back into the mansion itself, where six doors lie open and waiting. The six “reincarnated” souls who are still alive—not everyone makes it—enter these rooms. We learn which soul was housed inside of which body, and further, we watch each soul be put to rest.
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But how, you might be wondering, did that mysterious letter come to be on that doorstep in Georgetown?
Oda put it there.
Various time-travel shenanigans figure into this long novel, including that letter. At the end of the entire story, Oda opens one of the doors in the magic mansion, sees that it’s giving him a view onto that Georgetown street years ago. Oda decides to leave the letter there not only to fulfill the time loop, but also because he knows it’s the only way to make sure Beverly meets Reverend Brown.
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In all of my books, I tacitly make a decision about whether or not god, gods, or the supernatural exists. In the Deadblast Chronicles, they don’t, but in the Island Circus books, as well as my later novel Strong Bones, they do.
I don’t believe in god myself, and although I’m not religious, I’ve almost always been in a dialogue with faith in my writing. With that in mind, here’s an excerpt from Beverly eulogy for Reverend Brown:
I don’t believe in God, but I believe in the God of the Good Reverend Robert “Mariposa” Brown.
I believe in a God who gives you a second chance because you deserve it, and who gives you a third chance because you need it. I believe in a God who can make old grudges disappear, and I believe in a God who can help you make new friends no matter how old you feel.
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It’s funny — there’s one scene I’ve still yet to write for this book. I won’t bore you with the gory details, but it’s a heist that takes place during a Tennessee Volunteers football game. The Vols play their home games next to the Tennessee River, which attracts a huge amount of “sailgating,” dozens of boats line the river for a huge party, known as the Big Orange Navy. The heist unfolds across a few of these boats, during which a secret is revealed.
I don’t know if I’ll ever actually write this scene. There’s a part of me that likes having it to look forward to, even if these books never find a home.
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Finally, I’ll spoil the ending for those of you who’ve been kind enough to read this far.
After the funeral, Oda leaves. Johnny and Bev say goodbye to the rest of the visitors … and for reasons he can’t quite explain, Johnny tells Beverly about Oda’s heroism at the Island Circus.
After listening for the whole book, Johnny narrates its final scene, which shows Oda swearing Johnny to secrecy before leaving the letter on the magical doorstep. Johnny breaks his promise to Oda at the very last possible moment to give them a shot to be together.
I’ve always felt so deeply proud of this choice, to let Johnny narrate this final scene. He falls into a special cohort of characters I’ll describe in greater detail in my entries on The Deadblast Chronicles.
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A friend mine once said, “If we’re lucky, life is long.”
Sometimes I look back across my life, and all I can see are friends I’ve lost, people who have died, or opportunities I’ve missed.
If my wife had met me in my twenties she wouldn’t have liked me because I didn’t like me.
But fortunately, we met a little later, when I was in a better place. Finishing The Island Circus wasn’t a huge part of my progression, but it was a small part of it, and through it, I reckoned with and processed a lot of who I was, all while pushing myself as a writer.
I doubt these novels will ever see the light of day, but I’m glad they exist, if only so I can enjoy its ending, where Oda and Beverly, after (rightfully) spending so many years apart, might have a chance together, or as Johnny says:
Oda McGaw may be a son of a bitch, but that son of a bitch swam across the Tennessee River to save all our lives. And Beverly, I may have written Oda’s name on that letter, but he left it there for you.
He did. He left the letter on that doorstep and closed the door just enough to hide himself but still be able to see himself, and as his younger self came to a halt before that strange house, Oda opened his mouth to speak, then stopped. A moment later, he looked up and whispered one word to his younger self.
“Beautifuller.”
And he shut the door.
I think I know which way he went, Bev. You can still catch him.
Robert J. Peterson, Author 