#248 Inside the Emotion of Fiction: Samuel C. Greenlees’s THE FALL OF NEVER

Name of fiction work? And were there other names you considered that you would like to share with us? This was a story that came to me in the summer months following a move to Whidbey Island, Washington.  The beautiful landscape that contrasted with a daughter’s heavy heart gave me the title in a way that wouldn’t allow anything else.

Middle: Deception Pass Bridge in Whitby Island.


What is the date you began writing this piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of fiction? The vast majority of this piece – on the order of 95% – was developed in a two-week period in September 2003.  I spent hours each day marinating in the view of Puget Sound while tossing and catching a black basalt stone that had been worn smooth.  The further the story grew, the more excited I became, and the higher the rock sailed.

Left: Samuel Greenlees compiling initial notes for THE FALL OF NEVER in 2003. Copyright by Samuel Greenlees
Right: Pudget Sound

Within a month, maybe two, I had a workable rough draft.  But life has a way of altering your schedule and I spent years following my family’s short time in Washington engaged in the business of raising children and working.  By 2015, however, I had managed to complete all but the final chapter.  Again, however, life stalled my efforts.  Then in May of 2020, the tragic events of the pandemic paused the world and ironically gave me the final space I needed to finish.

And yes, I still have the dark touchstone.

Left: Samuel Greenlees in 2015.
MIddle: Samuel Greenlees in May 2020.
Right: Copy of THE FALL OF NEVER with the touchstone.
Copyright by Samuel Greenlees


Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work? And please describe in detail. And can you please include a photo? I have always written at home.  The effort began in Washington State, migrated to Central Texas, but finally came together with a move to West Texas – the city of Lubbock, specifically – where I am currently working on Book 3 of the series I began with “The Fall of Never”.  No matter where I have worked, however, I can never forget the images of the mountains, the water, and the trees that came back with me from Washington.  But in all honesty, I needed to leave that beauty behind to use it as inspiration.  It is a wellspring for me still.

Samuel in his home office in Lubbock, Texas. Copyright by Samuel Greenlees


What were your writing habits while writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day?
I am a pencil and paper lover.  I am quite anti-vogue as far as such things go.  But the tactile experience of putting graphite to the lines of the paper seems timeless in my mind.  Dixon Black Ticonderoga #2 pencils are what work for me.  But, I will admit, these are only for the notes and first rough drafts.  Beyond them only a keyboard is practical.

Samuel’s notebooks. Credit and Copyright by Samuel Greenlees

I drink coffee by the metric ton, I’ve been told, but only the first few cups are caffeinated.  The smell of it and the feel of a warm cup in-hand are as mood altering as are the hidden stimulants.  But I will open a bottle of brown ale or pour a small glass of wine when facing a particularly halting moment – when the voices in my head fight one another.  Sometimes logic must fall away to move past a moment and there is nothing better than a glass of Sangiovese to make that argument for you.

I am a morning person but have been known to drag a writing effort through the day and into the evening when so inspired.  At all times, however, I will rise and pace when not attached to the keyboard.  I think on my feet when working through logistics.  But with a quiet moment in a story – when the emotions pull – I can never seem to pull my fingers away.


Please include just one excerpt and include page numbers as reference. This one excerpt can be as short or as long as you prefer.

(Pages 81 – 83) – Chapter 7: The Legend of Laura Bean

Millie watched this strange ritual with a bit of trepidation but also with intense curiosity.  She wasn’t sure what she was witnessing, but it certainly seemed as though Aunt Trina knew what she was doing, and, as she watched, the oddness seemed to wear off.  After the second pair of large potatoes had gone into the bag, Millie had to ask.

“Aunt Trina?”

“Yes, child?” she answered between hums.

“What are those in the bag for?”

Aunt Trina stopped and turned back to Millie, pulling the brown bag over and placing it between them.

“These, my dear, are the seeds of the next generation.  They are the offspring of those that have come before and the hope of the plants that bore them.”

“Hope?” Millie asked as she cocked her head slightly.

“Yes, dear.  Hope.  A parent has no greater hope than that which is placed in its child.” 

Aunt Trina’s voice seemed to resonate with the conversation as though she spoke of some profound truth that has been passed down since the dawn of time.  Millie had no reason to doubt her, but she was still confused.

“But hope for what?” she asked.

“Oh, my,” Aunt Trina sighed as she looked up to the sky and then back down at the plants.  “Well, I suppose they are a hope for…for life, for another chance.  They hope for what any of us might, I suppose.”  She tightened her lips and squinted for a second and then added, “Within reason, of course.”

“I guess.”

“Well then, child, what is it you hope for?”

Millie picked up one of the potatoes out of the basket and turned it back and forth in her hand as she tried to think of something she might want.  However, all she could see in her mind were visions of towns and friends that would never be hers – of homes that always belonged to someone else.  For a moment, the picture of Laura Bean crossed her mind.  Besides her parents and her sister, would anyone anywhere miss her if she disappeared?

“I don’t really hope for things anymore,” she answered after a long pause.  She tossed the potato back into the basket as easily as tossing away forgotten dreams.

Aunt Trina watched her young companion with eyes full of compassion and turned back to the potatoes still in the garden soil.

“These,” she pointed down to them, “they’ve been left behind.  No?”

“Not yet,” Millie answered dutifully.

“No, my dear,” Aunt Trina smiled, “not yet.”

She leaned over and gave Millie a firm, one-armed shoulder hug and then righted herself as she began dusting the soil from her skirt.

“Besides,” she said absently, “plants are proof that there’s more going on beneath the surface than any can see.”  Aunt Trina spied Millie out of the corner of her eye as she said this.  “And if I’ve still got my wits about me, I believe the same might be said for you.”


Why is this excerpt so emotional for you as a writer to write? And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this specific excerpt? One of the more profound sequences of life, much less of a story, comes from instances of revelation when someone or something pulls back the veil of mystery that covers our eyes.  To have that moment pull through you as a writer into existence is as satisfying as any experience that we might otherwise find.  For that small moment as we give birth to it, we are the moment itself.

To find Aunt Trina’s voice and her words in my head, was an exceptionally emotional experience for me as the author.  I could feel her warmth and calm, but loving, heart as she carried the concerns of a child in this moment.  How important is it to listen to a young mind in this world?  Are we aware of the weight of our own words on their path?  Do we understand our place in their life, even if that time is short?

Basket of Potatoes by Vincent Van Gogh in September 1885


Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked-up rough drafts of this excerpt? Unfortunately, this particular passage was written early in the effort to get this story onto paper.  Any of the earlier changes have been lost and no changes were required in the final edits.

http://www.scgreenlees.com

All of the Inside The Emotion of Fiction LIVE LINKS can be found at the very end of the below feature:

http://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2021/03/stephenson-holts-arranged-marriage-is.html

The images in this specific piece are granted copyright:  Public Domain, GNU Free Documentation Licenses, Fair Use Under The United States Copyright Law.

The other images are granted copyright permission by the copyright holder, which is identified beneath each photo.

Some of the links will have to be copied and then posted in your search engine in order to pull up properly


The CRC Blog welcomes submissions from published and unpublished fiction genre (including screenwriters and playwrights) for INSIDE THE EMOTION OF FICTION.  Contact CRC Blog via email at
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