Gosh, is it November already?

And time for National Novel Writing Month again?

Yes, yes it is and I have a story idea ready to burst out through my fingers and the keyboard into the written word. It’s an idea that has been kicking around in my head for a good while – another song-inspired story, as it happens, and this time the song is Saint James Infirmary.

This a venerable jazz & blues standard and has been covered by everyone from Duke Ellington to The White Stripes to Hugh Laurie.

One of the consistent parts of the lyrics in various versions is

Let her go, let her go, God bless her;
Wherever she may be
She may search this wide world over
She’ll never find a sweet man like me.

Most times, the singer then goes on to detail what he’d like at his funeral. Six crap-shooting pall-bearers, straight-leg britches, twenty dollar gold coin on his watch chain, etc, etc. In Rob Walker’s article on the song, he discusses this abrupt transition from contemplative sorrow of the dead lover to the arrogant assumption that he’s the best there is.

Sometimes, when the singer gets there, his lady isn’t quite dead yet. He hears her groan and he takes a moment to wish it were him dying instead. I’m fond of Bobby Bland singing this variation. It’s very mournful.

I went down to St. James Infirmary
I heard my baby groan
And I felt so broken hearted
She used to be my
Used to be my very own

And I tried so hard to keep from crying
My heart felt just like lead
She was all that I had to live for
I just can wish it
Can wish that it was me instead

And there’s another variation, which I have only heard from the Billy Joe and the Dusty 45s, a wonderful Seattle band who you should definitely go see if you ever have the chance. Flaming trumpet, people. Anyway, Billy Joe sings

Let her go, let her go, god bless her
She’s got more living to do

In fact he exhorts the audience to help him out with a “let her go!” callback, since ‘we’re trying to save a young girl’s life here.’
And all this has been percolating in what my taller half will tell you is my fevered imagination and I have a story to tell you. A story about Emmy Jane, a girl who has come to make a name and a place for herself in the big city of Delta Mouth, about Cal, a nightclub owner haunted by the ghost of his dead lover, and about a killer for the mob named Dapper Jack. It’s a tale of death and redemption, of love and hate and jealousy. It’s a tale of dream and of nightmares. It’s a tale that is still mostly in my head, but as NaNoWriMo steams along, it is coming into being. This year, I’ve decided to post a read-along version through WattPad. (Free to read, if you’re not familiar with it.) Sharing this raw, first draft is sort of the literary equivalent of walking around in my underwear, but I’m doing it anyway. Feel free to follow along and point out any developing plot holes. I’ll post new text Monday-Wednesday-Friday.