Sunday - October 12, 2008
November 1st, 2001My first day ever as a NaNoWrimist. What follows is my first day's output from my first NaNoWriMo. It's rough. It's the first draft of the first day of my life as a novelist, day one of a story that I have not bothered going back to read. It was tempting to repair the obvious errors, to tweak the repetitious phrases, and to generally smooth things out, but that would not be in the spirit of NaNoWriMo. Even the flagrant misspellings remain. I'm not entirely certain that I have the right end point for day one; seven years later it seems like the loss of the umbrella girl was more poignant back then. There is another moment later, but that's a hell of a lot of words in. In any case, there's no point inflicting any more than this on you guys. Rio Blanco The plane banked sharply as it made its way through the clouds. I was generally nervous when I wasn’t the one flying the plane, and descending into the airport, knowing there were mountains out there, and not being able to see the ground was nerve-wracking indeed. Down, down, we went, and I wondered how close we were. It seemed like we should be below sea level by now. Suddenly we broke through the deck of the clouds and I could see the lights of a small town about 1500 feet below the belly of the plane. Although the sun would rise soon, the clouds kept the land below dark. By the layout of the town I guessed that it was Ciudad de la Santa Fe del San Domingo, or San Domingo on the map. We were almost to the airport at Rio Blanco, my destination. If anything, I noted, we were coming in high. The pilot began to drop more quickly, scrubbing off as much speed as he could on the way in. The attendants defied reason and continued to move about; had I asked, I probably could have had another tequila. I didn’t ask. A few minutes later the last stewardess strapped herself in moments before the wheels of the plane bounced once off the runway and settled back down to stay. The engines roared as we slowed to taxi speed and pulled off onto the taxiway. As we approached the terminal, I noted that there was one other plane, smaller than ours and apparently deserted. With a lurch we rolled to a stop just as the clouds opened up and the rain started to fall with vigor. Beyond the airport the lush greenery of the rain forest bowed and waved under the buffeting of the gravid raindrops. Ground crew members rolled the stairs up to the plane and a flight attendant opened the door. A breath of the air outside replaced the stale air around me, and I inhaled deeply, savoring the clean, damp air. A good rain can even make an airport smell good. The ground crew undertook the task of getting the tourists off the plane without getting them too wet. The efforts to escort passengers down the stairs while holding umbrellas over them was the culturally correct thing to do, but was laughably ineffective. They were escorting the passengers in stages, first getting them under the shelter of the wing of the plane, and from there another crew was escorting them to the terminal building. I declined escort down the slippery stairs, and dashed under the wing of the plane. From there I intended to jog to the terminal unprotected, and save everyone the trouble of keeping someone dry who didn’t really care that much about it. I was in no hurry to depart that place, however. I have an affinity for machines and was distracted inspecting the engine, now quiet except for the tiny pings the metal made as it cooled off. Over the sound of the rain, I was probably imagining those sounds as well. As so it was, so it was meant to be, that it became my turn to be escorted to the terminal. “Sir, if you will come this way,” she said politely. I hade been vaguely aware that one of the ground personnel escorting passengers through the rain had been a smaller woman with a nice figure, but contrary to my usual nature I had not really paid her any attention. My, but I had been distracted by the air, and the airplane. Now, suddenly, those things vanished. She was beautiful. She was small, but had a nice figure. That paled in comparison with her round, brown smiling eyes and her sweet, almost-sincere smile. “I’m going wherever you’re going,” I managed, and I meant it. I realized that I had responded in Spanish. Her smile grew a little more (white perfect teeth lined up like dominoes, red lips full) and her eyes crinkled at the edges in a way that suggested playfulness. “Well, I’m going to the terminal,” she replied in credible English. With a suggestive swish she turned and raised the umbrella over our heads. I picked up my bag and we headed towards the terminal. Her perfume added to the smell of the jungle close by, and it was perfect; a blend of the exotic and the alluring, with just a hint of the cheap. She was the goddess of Rio Blanco come down to Earth; she was all that the town promised, all that the town dreamed of. I was in love with my umbrella girl. I tried to walk slowly, to prolong the moment, to cheat one extra breath of the perfume, to feel her hip brush mine once more as we walked under that tiny shelter, but mostly to earn one more smile. I needed something to say, anything, to get her to smile once more, to turn towards me with that swishing motion, to give me a glimpse down into her blouse just before swishing away again and looking at me over her shoulder in mock scolding for how I teased her. That’s the way it would have happened, had I thought of the right thing to say. I did not. As we reached the building, I touched her arm, the one not holding the umbrella, smiled at her and said, “Thank you.” She returned the smile with one that made mine seem like a horrific grimace (but a sincere horrific grimace, I hoped), and said “You’re welcome.” Before I could ask her if she was going to be at the festival she turned, making my heart stop for a moment with the pure grace and sexual suggestion of the motion, and headed back to retrieve the next passenger. I watched her for a moment, and I hoped she knew I was watching, hoped that she liked the idea that I was watching her, but just standing there waiting for her would be too obvious, too lame. The interior of the building was much like the perfume my umbrella girs had been wearing, filled with things you have never before seen or smelled, but somehow cheapened by the entrepreneurial spirit that is America’s primary export. The airport had been built in a different time, by people with different priorities than the airports of the States. I stood under a wide roof, next to a building whose walls served as doors and were currently wide open, letting the tropical air move through the space unhindered. People also moved about the space; there was about an even mix of travelers and those whose purpose was to separate the tourists from their money. Sprinkled here and there were police in neat uniforms, carrying serious-looking weapons in their white-gloved hands. In two hours, after the plane had finished exchanging its passengers for a new set, most of the businesses here would pack up and head back into town. I picked up my bag and moved into the flow of people. Near the opening that I entered the shelter through, there was a folding table staffed by three middle-aged women with a full set of teeth between them. On the table were some bottles of the local rum and a stack of small paper cups. There were several cups arrayed on the table, each filled about 1/3 full with the booze, and a sign, neatly hand-lettered, which read “Free Rum. Welcome to Rio Blanco.” There was no sign that said the same thing in Spanish. I paused to sample the local drink, testing it as if I had never had it before. It had been a long time, but the stuff still didn’t taste very good. Still, there is something to be said for supporting the local industry, especially if that industry is a distillery. At the behest of one of the women I had another sample. She didn’t realize that she had already closed the sale. I allowed her to offer me one more before I bought a bottle. I didn’t want her to think I was easy. The bottle cost three times what I could get it for in town, but I wasn’t in town. Location, location, location. It’s the key to a successful business. I looked back towards the plane, and it seemed that all the passengers had finally been safely ferried to the terminal. I looked for my little umbrella girl, but I couldn’t see her. I convinced myself that could feel her nearby, but people can convince themselves of just about anything, and I’m no exception. Posted at 07:56 PM | | 
Sunday - October 12, 2008
The Descent – ongoing commentaryThe name is starting to feel appropriate.  
If you've been here recently you've seen my review of the first four chapters and the beginning of the fifth of The Descent I don't know what it was that prompted me to set down the book and write the previous review, what instinct warned me that it was time to record my impressions – there was no time break or anything like that – but the very next paragraph announced a new narrative direction that almost made me put the book down for good. After spending four chapters introducing four interesting people, the point of view is wrested away from one of those characters and we are subjected to a series of anecdotes of only passing relevance to the story. We learn about the mobilization of millions of people, from dozens of countries, in absolute secrecy. Unlikely as that is, the secrecy turns out not to matter. The bad guys counterattack in a coordinated, lethal, downright evil fashion. Panic in the streets leads to great (but ultimately irrelevant) destruction. Our guy? The one this chapter started to be about? Oh, yeah, the author says (well, he practically does), probably should have mentioned – Branch is delirious with a fever in a hospital safely out of harm's way. At this point I started getting annoyed not only with the author but with the editor as well. If I had been the editor, much of this chapter would have been cut, and the story would have benefitted. Twenty (give or take) pages of blah blah blah in the omniscient point of view – "then this happened and then that happened" – while Branch, the interesting guy this chapter is supposed to be about, is mentioned now and then and winds up watching the worst of it on TV. Branch could have been in the middle of it, bringing us the events viscearally, which also happens to be the author's strength. If I'm his editor, I say to Jeff, "ok, you've written a synopsis of events. Now put it in the story. Some of it won't fit, and we'll just cut those bits." This is a lesson I would do well to remember. I did not put the book aside. I plowed through all the blah blah blah. Why? Because when Jeff Long gets to the parts he does well, he does them really well. Eventually the story starts again, with our man Branch down in the caves, and there's horror and fear and holy crap there's Ike. Ike was interesting before, but now... yeah, Ike has some stuff going on in his head. He gets full credit for my continued reading of this story. And that's what's driving me crazy. Why couldn't someone have gone over the manuscript before it got to me? I need William Goldman's dad to say, "what with this and that, two years passed." So three quarters of chapter five is crap, but then it ends strong. There follows some maneuvering to get people in the right places to allow the adventure to truly begin. Fifty percent blah blah blah and a parade of names I sure hope don't matter. And then a really cool encounter between Ike and Ali, a quiet meeting that shows Ike's humanity, and his almost magical understanding of what it means to pass from the light into darkness. It's a moment that will have repercussions, and just like that I'm back on board. I just want to grab the author by the lapels and say, "Do you see the parts you do well? Yes? Just do those. Leave the rest." At the end of my last review I thought I had gone through the introductions with the characters and now the story was going to get under way. It was time. A lot of pages later, I still have the feeling the story is about to get under way. Hopefully I'm right this time. Note that, as always, if you use the links above to order from Amazon, I get a kickback. Posted at 12:13 AM | |
Friday - October 10, 2008
My NaNoWriMo BiblographyAs close as I can remember, anyway. This year I will be participating in my eighth National Novel Writing Month, which is something not many people can say. My first year, 2001, was the first year the event started to gain traction; about 1100 people participated, if memory serves. So now I've written seven piles of words, and I'm getting a little vague on what they all were. Indulge me, then, as I climb into the way-back machine and try to excavate my NaNoWriMo career. This is mostly for my benefit; I've been trying to reconstruct my history for a while now. Hopefully I'll get it right. 2001: Rio Blanco – a spy vs. spy story set in Central America. When I bogged down I wrote sex. I've never read the result, but I think it had a few good moments, and the narrator had a strong voice. It was the voice that convinced me that maybe I could write something good. On December 2th I started my first serious attempt at a novel. 2002: The Test – This was the year of 30 days, 30 bars, 1 Novel. I have some documentary remains of that time, but my plan to keep a running log of my adventures was overwhelmed by the task itself. The novel I'd been working on for eleven months, While God Sleeps, has been languishing ever since. I plan to pick up The Test when I put The Monster Within to bed for the last time. There's some really good stuff in here (if I do say so myself), and Jane might be my best character ever. She is managing to survive in a very ugly industrial-revolution world. Some scenes are so gut-wrenching I'm surprised I wrote them. 2003: The Monster Within – Holy cow, has it been that long? I hated to set The Test aside, but I recognized that this story was structurally a lot stronger and would be easier to get into a publishable state. 2004: Worst Enemy – A techno-thriller that has some problems with the techno. There's a lot of chase and a clever idea – the guy on the run can never get ahead because the people he is running from have an AI that is based on the guy's personality. He is his own worst enemy. To escape he must do something that is completely against his nature – forgive. (Alternate title is Unforgivable.) This one might turn out to be better as a screenplay. As it stands, two good characters stand out in a field of poor storytelling. This story has a lot of my road trip in it. It was an excerpt from this that first attracted That Girl's attention. 2005: The Stan Man Plan – Previously excerpted in these pages. I reread it a few months ago and chuckled the whole way through. It's a long, long way from publishable, but it was funny and even had a heart. 2006: Untitled – A very heavy subject and extremely high literary ambitions (along with real-time publication) doomed this project from the start. I might try it again someday, but the constraints of NaNoWriMo, which seemed perfect for the idea on paper, turned out to not work at all. I got the word count, but the result was a total mess. 2007: Math House – intended to be a near-future social satire and adventure story, it quickly bogged down and I turned to the story of one of the secondary characters, which turned out to be a whole lot of fun. Beth's story had a Tim Robbinis sort of feel to it, and might be worth revisiting some day. One thing about NaNoWriMo, it's taught me a couple of times the sort of story I should not be writing. It's a good lesson to only lose a month to learn. 2008: I am almost giddy with anticipation for The Quest for the Important Thing to Defeat the Evil Guy. Since my last post about it, I have added a carp. Posted at 06:01 PM | |
Friday - October 10, 2008
It's Not Too Early to Start Begging, Is It?Wasting time is taking longer than it should. You know what I'd like for Christmas? I like a version of Adobe Flash that is actually designed to run on my computer. My old, old version of Flash (old enough to be made by a different company) works - mostly - but is slow and crash-prone. Anyone got a used version of Flash that runs in Intel-based macs they're not using anymore? Note that this would be a highly impractical gift, allowing me to waste time with greater efficiency than ever before. Flash is also very expensive and there's no way I can justify paying for a new version based on what I do with it. But if someone out there bought Flash thinking they were going to take over the Web and then discovered what a pain in the butt Flash can be, think of me. On a related note, I am making slow progress on the next animation, a much more ambitious follow-on to the ducks animation. I'm sure I'd be done by now if I had the right software... Posted at 01:54 PM | |
Wednesday - October 08, 2008
NaNoWriMo's Coming!November is a silly month. Those of you who have been around for a while have seen mention of NaNoWriMo before; it's something I spend every November doing. Here's the deal: during the thirty days of November a whole bunch of folks set aside the useful and productive activities they would otherwise be doing and instead they crank out a novel. This is National Novel Writing Month, or NaNoWriMo for short. I will be participating for my eighth consecutive year, and this year my story will be particularly silly. More on that in a bit. NaNoWriMo is a pretty popular pursuit these days, with tens of thousands of participants and a host of other lurkers and hangers-on. Best-selling authors write pep talks for the struggling masses, and the message forums are choked with celebration and cries of agony. Today I logged in at the NaNoWriMo web site for the first time this year, checked for a couple of the names I've seen over the years, and generally got my bearings. There was a time in years past that I spent a lot of time on the message boards but not so much anymore. It's just... too big. Lots of people trying to find new ways to say, "boy aren't we all so crazy!" The answer is no, you're not crazy. NaNoWriMo is not crazy, insane, or even particularly difficult. Almost anyone in the US could easily write 50,000 words in a month if they stopped watching TV. No other sacrifice need be made. (Oddly, most of the people I hang out with are exceptions to this rule.) So it's not crazy, not insane, not masochistic, nor any other adjective that implies that accomplishing this goal is particularly punishing. In fact, it's pretty damn fun. No, the people who perform this feat deserve your undying admiration for another reason. Or maybe three.
It is even less of an accomplishment when I succeed at NaNoWriMo – I sit down to write every day as it is. Those habits I mention in the list above have served me well for eight years now. So all of that has nothing to do with what I intended to tell you guys today, but one thing you learn during NaNoWriMo that has served me well ever since is that one should never (well, almost never) stop yourself from writing. You can always delete it later. The title of this blog gives me the right – no, the responsibility – to just ramble on. Anyway, on with the actual point of all this. On the site I updated my personal information (though I left my age at zero – that appealed to me somehow). There is one section of the profile that is about what you're writing. Right now I'm leaning toward The Quest for the Important Thing to Defeat the Evil Guy, inspired by a blog episode I posted some time ago. I won't use any of that in the NaNoWriMo effort – that would be cheating, and I need to start differently anyway (and the blog episode really isn't very good). However, the idea is there. Of course I'm not allowed to start on the endeavor until November 1st, but there was a section to enter a brief synopsis of the story. Here's what I wrote:
I added to the synopsis after I first pasted it in here. But just look at that! How can one possibly not be excited about writing TQITDEG? So I was pretty darn ready for November to start. But then, then, came the part of the Novel Info section that got me even more excited than ever, a part which I have no skill to execute. This year there's a place to upload cover art! Holy carp on a cracker that would be cool – I mean, what better than a racy fantasy adventure parody for a great cover? A big strapping guy, some kind of little funny-looking sidekick, a scantily-clad princess, a scantily-clad evil temptress, a scantily-clad elf hottie, a dark wizard, and any variety of odd, deformed creatures. In the background a castle or a spaceship or whatever's handy. So here's my challenge to you, dear readers, and your chance to challenge me. If you draw me a cover that even remotely resembles TQITDEG as synopsized (go to my profile page for the latest), I will include all your cover elements in the story, no matter how outlandish they are. Bonus points if you can identify the theme for many of the names above without using Google. I think John the Smith's name might really be Zaz. Kitty's real name could be Dacia. Posted at 02:34 PM | |
Sunday - October 05, 2008
At LastA good day of drafting One of the good feelings you get as a writer is when you've been beating youself against an idea that you know is good but you just can't get a working story out of it, and then suddenly you find the magic. You've all been there, perhaps not as a writer but the principle applies all over. Yesterday was one of those days. Today was the follow-through. Posted at 10:34 PM | |
Saturday - October 04, 2008
Hockey Night in the Czech RepublicA good game, but... It's hockey season again, and the NHL has decided to kick things off with a pair of games right here in Prague. The Czechs are excited about it; the matchup is the team that Jagr used to be on versus the team that Prospal is on, but the ticket prices are outrageous, so I am at the Budvar Bar Near Home (Budvar is the hockey beer). The game is in the first intermission, tied 0-0, and it's been pretty exciting. Yet, despite the full stadium, the crowd seems quiet. Sure there's plenty of shouting going on, but something is missing. Finally I realized what it was: There's no one playing drums! There aren't any horns blowing Poot Poot Poot-poot-poot — Poot-poot. There isn't even an accordion that I've noticed. I guess the drum corps comes out for the home team, and neither one of these teams is home. (Note to self: when I own an NHL team and it's playing here, recruit a drum squad. The rest of the crowd will assume that my team is their team. Instant home ice advantage!) This is a country that brings their drums to tennis tournaments (that is not an exaggeration - at the Davis Cup match between the US and ČR the drummers were out in force). The real shame is that the US television audience has no idea what they're missing, and the Czechs are missing a chance to show the rest of the world how things are done here. Posted at 06:51 PM | |
Saturday - October 04, 2008
Episode 28: The Invisible HandYou get the feeling that with all these people dying that the story might be coming to some sort of climax. I get that feeling, anyway. Our story so far: There's a thing that people want. Or maybe it's a pile of things. Fact is, no one seems to know what the thing is, but it's big. Big enough to kill for. Big enough to die for. Meredith Baxter just made that choice right in front of Charlie's eyes. Whatever the thing is, Charles Lowell does not have it, and he really isn't that interested in having it. That's what makes him a valuable ally. Now several factions are banking on Lowell to bring them the goods, and he's not going to be able to please all of them. There is a painting which contains clues as to the location of the treasure, and now Lowell has has the painting - or a least he has a box that everyone assumes contains the painting. He is trapped at the end of a pier after a gangland shootout, and who should turn up but his faithful and plucky assistant Alice... To read the entire story from the beginning click here. It starts out quite silly, but then settles down. This is all written in brain-dump style, so you get what you paid for it. From the far end of the pier, the end connected to land and to safety, a search light erupted. At this distance the beam was muted by the fog into a dull glow, and I knew that it was doing little more than lighting up the fog. We were safe for a few more moments. “You have a boat?” I asked. “Of course. Come on.” Alice gestured with her gun but didn’t put it away. She hesitated. “What do you think the distance is to that searchlight?” “You’re thinking about shooting it?” “It would buy us time.” It seemed there was a lot I didn’t know about Alice, but there are limits. She was not going to hit her target with her 9mm pistol when she didn’t even know the range. “Yeah, they’ll hold back and send bullets instead. A lot of bullets.” She nodded. “This way,” she said. I followed to another cold metal ladder vanishing over the edge of the pier. “You first.” Once more I negotiated a ladder with the package wedged in my sling. At the bottom was a dinghy, deceptively still in the water until I tried to put my foot into it. It swung around and I almost wound up in the drink. If I fell in, which would Alice rescue first, me or the package? I chuckled at my own naivety. Right then, I might have been able to destroy the painting. Sea water certainly couldn’t have been good for it. I could have taken a dive, gone deep, and cracked open the box. I didn’t. I pulled the dinghy closer with my foot and managed to fall into it without capsizing it. “What the hell are you doing down there?” Alice hissed. “I never got the seamanship merit badge,” I grumbled back. She responded by snapping off four quick shots with her pistol. A second later the spotlight went out and the cops opened up with their own arsenal. By then Alice was halfway down the ladder, her tight polka-dot skirt hiked up to her thighs. With my good arm I steadied the boat against the ladder as she stepped in. Yeah, she had gams all right. She pulled her dress back down with a little shimmy and fixed me with a glare more dangerous that any gun. “Some gentleman you are,” she said. Her anger evaporated and she turned away, suddenly shy. Then just as fast she was all business. “Looks like I’m rowing,” she said. I will never understand dames. Bullets cracked and snapped throught the air over our heads, digging into the wood of the pier with dull thuds and smashing into the little shed. In the heavy air the reports from the guns seemed dull, like they were happening in someone else’s life. Alice began to row. I sat in the back of the boat, facing her. She wore a dark number with white polka-dots that seemed to glow on their own in the low light. The pale skin of her arms disappeared into dark gloves which hardly seemed adequate for protecting her soft hands. Her strokes on the oars were smooth and what she lacked in strength she made up for in skill. Occasionally a light would penetrate the pea soup around us and I could tell that we were making good time; the tide was sweeping us right along. Her hands were full; I had a gun. We both knew that, so there was no need to pull it out. “Fancy meeting you here,” I said. She hesitated for a fraction on the oars, then began pulling again. “Does it have to be now?” she asked. “You lied to me, Alice.” “No!” She controlled her voice. “Only about small things.” “You brought Cello to the pier tonight.” “Yes.” “And now Meredith is dead.” “I didn’t think—” “Think what?” “I thought she’d handle it better.” “Better, huh? Perhaps kill me instead, for selling her out.” Alice stopped rowing and put her face in her hands. “It was Cello I wanted dead. Sooner or later he was going to kill you. And... I wanted her to take the fall.” “You got your wish.” Her sobs were getting louder. “You made me your partner, Charlie. You can’t imagine what that meant to me. You made me your partner.” “Who do you work for?” “You.” “Who else?” “No one. Not any more.” She took up the oars and began to row again. The splashing as the oars lifted from the water was the only sound for a while. A breeze kissed my cheek; the fog would break up soon. Alice looked tired. She spoke between strokes. “Before... I worked for Vittorio Fanutti. My father.” That was a dot I wasn’t ready to connect. The eels had barely started on Vic’s carcass when she came to work for me, for peanuts on a good day. And somehow her stepmother had come to me. I’d been on this case much longer than I had realized. Alice had singled me out. I tried to feel fortunate. “Meredith didn’t know, did she?” “Of course not. That bitch was ruthless.” High praise coming from this girl. In the wash of shock one thing became clear. “You good with a rifle?” I asked. “I prefer low-calibre, high-velocity,” she said. “I guess I owe you one, then.” “No,” she said. She smiled and in the dimness I saw the dark gap where her front tooth should have been. “We’re partners.” Tune in next time for: Clear as Mud! Posted at 01:26 AM | |
Friday - October 03, 2008
Curse of the High Bar
Thought I'd do a little stream-of-consciousness detective writing this afternoon. It's been a while, and I miss Charlie and the rest of the cast of Feeding the Eels. Of course, I have no memory of where things left off, so I went back and read the last three episodes. And there's a bit of a problem. See, there are parts of those episodes that are actually pretty darn good. Considering the rules I've set for myself as far as just spewing out the story, this next episode is sure to be a letdown. That's the way it goes, I guess. By the time you read this we will all know how well I did. Hopefully this little sorry-in-advance will allow me to kick back and produce some raw spewage. Posted at 04:38 PM | |
Friday - October 03, 2008
Dear Mr. Obama
I can dance you into the ground. Seriously. I think there might have been a time in your life when you could let go and allow the music to move you, but that was before politics. Take heart knowing that you are the only candidate worthy of my challenge. You. Me. Loud music. I will shame you. Posted at 03:49 PM | |
Thursday - October 02, 2008
The DescentThere's some crazy scary stuff gonig on.
I have read the first 4 chapters and a bit of the fifth in the novel The Descent Edited to add: apparently the reading public (all one person who has mentioned it to me) has gotten the idea that I'm really not enjoying this book. There are a couple of times near the beginning that nearly lost me, but then something really cool happens and all is forgiven. I think now that the characters are introduced things will just be getting better. Pseudo-LiveBlogging Descent's first 4.2 chapters: Acknowledgments Every kid who aspires to be a writer should read this. A lot of people worked very hard on this book, including a nameless copy editor. It is apparent that the author also worked hard, devoting himself to research on many different subjects. This book was not the product of some guy simply sitting in front of a keyboard and making the magic happen. We're off to a good start; I have already developed a personal attachment to the author. Chapter 1 We have a group of tourists trapped in a cave somewhere in the bumpiest part of Tibet. Nice. WTF??? we just had our first dramatic moment of the book, and it was totally contrived. I'm willing to suspend disbelief for almost any situation, but when people stop acting like people, that's it, I'm done. They're in a cave, in the pitch black, and only now someone thinks to turn on a light? Pleeeeeeease. So the big moment is ruined by a ridiculous and ultimately unnecessary need on the part of the author to have a Big Surprise. It's three days later now, and I'm picking the book back up. Despite the disappointment on the third page, I suspect I'm going to like this story. Onward, then, with chapter one. The thing revealed by the lights is pretty damn amazing, marred only by someone identifying an object as "solid gold" based on a glimpse of color beneath a coating of grime. Another silly detail that ultimately is not needed for the plot. But the thing itself, there in the cave, it's pretty intense. You know what I could use about now? Another page or two of backstory. You can't overdo the backstory. All right! Ike and his business partner/sweetie seem to be patching up some backstory relationship problems. It's too easy. These two are going to be fighting for the whole damn book. Now they have to find another way out of the caves. Sweet holy crap. I was undecided about this book until now. As chapter one closes, we learn just what Jeff Long is capable of. It's not the horror of the situation, it's how Ike judges his own response to the horror. All the above criticism is forgiven. Chapter 2 Another time, another place. Nooooooooo! Not the mirror! The nun looks in the mirror and once again feels bad about being attractive. Ali took the mirror down for a while, then she put it back up - which I suspect is more a description of the author's efforts to find another way to introduce her hotness. He wrote out the mirror then put it back in. Never mind that during the rest of the chapter there are plenty of times (especially during the extensive backstory) to present her hotness dramatically. From the mirror we learn two things: Ali's a looker and she has long blonde hair. At the time, her attractiveness is irrelevant. The color of her hair could easily be introduced in a dozen other places, and the length is incongruous with the local heat and available hygiene. Easy to mention. But the author wanted us to know right away that Ali was one smokin' nun. Like there's been a nun in modern literature who wasn't temptation personified. Goes without saying. Ooo! The intriguing native girl has given Ali a good luck charm. I will be sooo surprised to learn that it's made from human skin. The nun was a rising star in the church, but she stepped out of line at the wrong time. When she was relocated to the butthole of Africa, she went. Sometimes critical, but always loyal. She has given her life to the church and she will not be asking to have it returned. But... things are getting interesting. The locals, and the girl (reputed to be a witch) in particular, seem to know a deep, dark secret. Perhaps they've been trying to tell Ali about it all along, but she hasn't been willing to open her mind enough to hear them. There aren't any obvious connections with the incidents in the cave that we can decipher, but it's pretty clear that something big is going on. I want to know more. Yep... It's human skin. I lied before; I'm not surprised at all. Chapter 3 Bosnia. Rain. War crimes investigators. Branch is a career military guy who on that night accidentally lets his principles do the talking. He winds up flying an attack helicopter to investigate a strange occurrence. His commanding officer is not happy. Not at all. The colonel had put his foot down and Branch undermined his authority. A promising career just crashed against one man's morals. This isn't going to come out well. OK, the other guy in the helicopter has never seen his newborn son. Why don't we just paint a bulls-eye on him? Holy smoke. Let's just leave the chapter at that. Holy frickin smoke. Although the rockets don't really make sense. But I'll tell you this: I like the helicopter pilot, and I think these events are going to mess him up. I really care what happens to this guy. Like Ike in chapter one, Branch was faced with a choice between survival and compassion. He made a different choice. I think that's going to matter down the road. Chapter 4 Our fourth point of view. We have a vatican scientist named Thomas investigating some ancienter-than-ancient ruins that were accidentally exposed. The vatican is quite adamant that the ruins be hidden away again, but Thomas wants a look first. He has an old friend who has seen the site, who has said some interesting things about a carving there, a face depicted in the ruins that seems to be actively preventing the church scientist from seeing it. It's funny when there are characters who have no reason to suspect foul play, but we readers all know bad shit is going to happen. Hell, it's chapter four, and people have died in nasty ways in all the previous chapters. "Huh," says one of the scientists. "The security guard must be off drinking." Of course we know the security guard has died terribly, and we want to shout at the characters, "don't you see?" But of course they don't see. Why would they? Thomas is a pretty good guy. You can feel his quiet confidence and the internal consistency of his character. His presence is intimidating to those who feel themselves lacking. This chapter ends with a horrific revelation. What do you know? I like the church scientist, and with him came a couple of other characters that might prove interesting. We have met the intellect of our inevitable party of discovery (although the nun was also pretty damn smart). Chapter 5 Oh please oh please oh please don't introduce another character. I'm looking at the book sitting on the table in front of me and I know another character would be more than I can handle. It's not like I can't keep track of five people, it's that we have four completely different vectors toward the truth in this story, and that's plenty. Also, some of the folks in the previous chapters were in pretty deep doodoo, and I'm anxious to hear back from them. It has been pointed out to me that an odd-numbered group good for storytelling - it is always imbalanced, and can be imbalanced between different subsets of the group over different issues at the same time. We've got four characters right now, and that's enough. A couple of these introductions were brutal enough to last me for a while. I get the feeling that each character is crafted to represent a particular facet of humanity. Ali is compassionate, Thomas is intellectual, and so forth. One of the guys will get the hot nun, but at first it will be the wrong one. Chapter 5 underway. We're back with Branch, the helicopter pilot, and yes he's messed up. Spooky messed up. The burn scars are competing with the scars from cuts and trauma; he's still carrying a fair amount of metal around with him, as well as some medical equipment he absorbed while healing. His recovery was not normal. Now he's back in Bosnia. And that's as far as I've gotten. There have been a couple of close calls where I put the book down and almost didn't pick it back up again, but I'm hooked now. There will be a convergence, and the group will combine weaknesses as well as strengths. I did not mention above the style of the writer, and to be honest, I never thought about it much. That's a good thing. His voice is clear and doesn't get in the way of the story. If I discover anything else over the next 450 pages I'll let you know. Note that, as always, if you use the links above to order from Amazon, I get a kickback. Posted at 12:09 AM | |
Saturday - September 27, 2008
In Need of a Subject Matter ExpertSometimes Wikipedia is not enough... I'm writing a story right now, and it requires that I know many things I don't actually know. For instance, I know frightening little about the native cultures that were on the east coast when the europeans first started arriving. Names! I need names, at least. The exact tribe is not so important, I can hand-wave around that, although the Seminoles or another tribe in Florida would be the most historically accurate but not very convenient for the unfolding of my story. I do pledge, however, to NOT perpetuate the "Jamestown is America's oldest city" myth. Have I ranted about that on these pages yet? Anyway, I could use some advice about an east-coast tribe that greeted some of the first settlers, and what names they might have used (transliterated is acceptable, maybe preferable). Other details, like how they got along with their neighbors, their architecture, and diet would be extra-awesome. Less important, I have some physical chemistry hand-waving that, while believable, could be better - more clever. It's a fun story to write, but as it progresses I suspect I won't be hitting it out of the park with this one. I'll settle for a solid base hit, however. Any offers of help either email me directly or leave a comment. I look forward to hearing from you! Posted at 11:08 AM | |
Sunday - September 21, 2008
Bimbos of the Death SunNot what the title would suggest, but that's the point, really.  
When one is in a used bookstore with a bunch of writers, it is only natural to expect that you will end up with a couple of purchases you would not ordinarliy consider. I was at a science fiction writing conference, so naturally we were clustered in the SF section of Half-Price Books. The selection was impressive. As I browsed the colorful spines of the books, one title caught my eye. “Hey, guys!” I said, “Check this out. Bimbos of the Death Sun!” The response was not quite what I expected. “That’s a good book,” one of my party said. “Really funny,” another concurred. Then I noticed a badge on the cover proclaiming that it had won the Edgar Allen Poe Award in for best paperback mystery in 1988. What was I to do? Bimbos joined my other unplanned purchases. Note that the cover pictured here looks nothing like the version I have. Just look at that picture. Can you imagine a worse cover for a book with that title? Seriously. It took me a while to work through the reading pile to get to Bimbos of the Death Sun It follows the pattern my sister likes so much: create a really nasty guy, have him anger just about everyone, then kill him off. Lots of suspects, lots of motives, a crazy hotel scene with people coming and going to provide unlimited opportunity for mischief. The title of the book is simultanelously ironic and exploitative; one of the characters is a writer who wrote a hard science fiction novel that involved the effect of solar radiation on computers, and (as an afterthought) on women. The book is not at all sexist — the author’s girlfriend made sure of that — and has no sex in it. The publisher decided to call it Bimbos of the Death Sun and give it a suggestive cover to promote sales. The author in the story is embarrassed; I suspect that Ms. McCrumb was chuckling gleefully when she thought of the name. (Can you blame her?) In fact, I imagine her at a convention, sitting with friends, drunk, when an informal Most Salacious Science Fiction Title contest breaks out... [Hmm... I have a short story that needs a title. Maybe I’ve been going about it the wrong way.] This was a fun read. It’s not really a whodunnit because the reveal is gradual and begins long before the big final confrontation scene. There is a lot going on, however, and there is no shortage of odd characters. Every stereotype of trekkie and gamer and SCA member and fantasy addict is (lovingly) packed into a single hotel, and it looks like a pretty good time. You know, except for the murder. The book was marred for me by a couple of things. Foremost, some of the characters behave in ways I just could not accept as real. I’m not talking about the wacky Rubicon attendees, but about the people around them who are supposed to be normal. The police detective is the biggest offender in this department. More than once I thought to myself, “no cop would ever do that, let alone one who’s been promoted to detective.” My other complaint is that someone was given a very complicated task with almost no notice, then took it upon himself to make the task even more complicated to catch the killer, and then pull that task off with grace and style. In the movies, at least he would have had a chance for “Montage Training.” Despite those complaints, I greatly enjoyed reading Bimbos. It was a good light read with many, many chuckle points as it went along. I think folks who attend conferences like the one in the story would find even more humor that I missed. Oh, yes, they do exist, and probably thirty years later are even crazier — though perhaps more commercial. The book is not science fiction, but it belongs in the SF section of the store, all right, since that’s where the readers this book is aimed at hang out. If you run into this title in the used book store, take a look! Note that, as always, if you use the links above to order from Amazon, I get a kickback. Posted at 11:24 AM | |
Saturday - September 20, 2008
AiA: White Shadow - Episode 7An Ordinary Afternoon at the Diner Our story so far: Allison is an American high-school student who has transferred to a private prep school in Japan. From the very start things have been surreal. Kaneda has been assigned by a group of his classmates to be nice to Allison, to learn what her secret superpowers are. Because who ever heard of a transfer student without secret superpowers? Meanwhile, there is a computer virus running around, called White Shadow, that somehow infects the minds of computer users. Kaneda has been "infected" by the virus, and now White Shadow has contacted Allison directly. In order to save one of the only people who is nice to her, she was forced to brave being infected herself. Now Kaneda has been rescued, but that doesn't mean life is normal. Rather than go home, where her weird "uncle" is slowly being entombed by a growing computer system that is somehow connected to White Shadow, Allison agrees to go to meet with her classmates at a local diner. If you would like to read from the beginning, the entire story is here. Allison grabbed Kaneda’s arm as they walked into the diner, intimidated by the activity. She didn’t recognize anybody, it was all a rush of colors and noise. Kids were in every booth, looking almost horrifically cheerful. Waitresses flitted about, all young, all with tiny waists and large chests straining against their little aprons; their skirts were even shorter than Allison’s, revealing frilly petticoats underneath. Their stockings were decorated with lacy bows. “Two more sodas!” one waitress called out. “OK!” one responded from behind the counter. “Four cakes!” “Two burgers and fries!” “Got it!” Allison wondered why they needed waitresses at all; it would work just as well for the customers to shout out what they wanted. Still, at all the tables people were having conversations despite the racket. Allison tightened her grip on Kaneda’s arm, searching for the courage to she needed to walk into this confusion. Maybe it had been a bad idea to come... “Allison!” It was Ruchia, her best friend in class, the girl who sat next to her and who even made sense some of the time. “Over here,” Kaneda said, guiding her gently with his arm. They were seated at a booth in the corner, the only table with occupants who didn’t look like they were on happy pills. Tasuki was there, grinning mischievously as she looked back and forth between Allison and Kaneda. Allison felt her cheeks redden as she let go of his arm. Seiji was there as well, glowering under his bangs, his arms folded across his chest. Allison wondered if he had any expression other than scowling. Kouta sat next to Tasuki. Allison didn’t know much about him, except that he seemed to be the leader of the boys in class. She suspected that he knew why the boys never spoke to her. Tasuki scooted over, pressing herself against Kouta, perhaps a little more than was strictly necessary. “C’mon, guys, squeeze in!” Kaneda sat next to her, leaving Allison no choice but to push in next to Seiji. “We’re glad to see you’re OK, Kaneda!” Tasuki said. “We were worried!” “How did you know...” he started, before Allison kicked him under the table. No sense bringing up their brush with the White Shadow; they thought she was strange enough already. “Know what?” Seiji asked, his eyes burning into Kaneda. He didn’t look at Allison. “Something happened, didn’t it?” “What? Oh, no! It was nothing!” Kaneda said with a wavering voice. “You were on a date, weren’t you?” Tasuki asked. “I knew it!” “No!” Allison and Kaneda said together. “She was just... um... helping me with my English,” Kaneda said. A drop of sweat appeared on his forehead. “You sure it wasn’t French?” asked Kouta. He was smiling as he teased them. Did that mean Kouta had finally accepted her? Everyone laughed except Seiji. Ruchia elbowed him. “Geeze, Seiji, lighten up sometimes. You’re being a jerk.” “Yeah, Seiji!” Tasuke chimed in. “You could at least say hello!” Seiji took a long breath. “You’re right. Hello.” he never took his eyes off the table in front of him.
“Hellooo, Seiji,” the waitress said with a song-song voice as she hovered over the table. Allison thought she looked familiar. Had she been at the monastery? In class? She was looking at the brooding Seiji with wide, sparkling light-brown eyes, so light they were almost yellow. She didn’t seem to notice the other people at the table. “Hello yourself,” Seiji said. Ruchia elbowed him sharply. “Ow!” he said, then with a slightly warmer voice, “Hello, Tomoko.” Allison thought the girl colored when Seiji said her name. “Will you walk me home when I’m done with work?” she asked. “I—” Seiji glanced around for an excuse, but no one was willing to help him. “Sure,” he said. “Really?” she asked. “Super! See ya!” “I’d like a...” Allison said to the space the waitress had occupied, but Tomoko had already turned and vanished into the confusion. Ruchia leaned over to Tasuki across the table, as if she were telling a secret. “Tonight’s the big night, I bet.” “You think?” Tasuki asked. “She’s gonna do it?” “Yep. Tonight for sure.” “Oh, how romantic!” Tasuke said. She turned to Kouta. “Don’t you think it’s romantic?” “Uh...” Kouta sensed a trap, but didn’t seem to know what to do about it. “First Allison and Kaneda, and now Seiji too!” “What!?” The three people named said at once. “Is there anyone you’re interested in, Kouta?” Tasuki pressed. Subtlety, Allison thought, was not her strength. Kouta turned red and looked uncomfortable. Allison had never seen him look so human. “Um... I can’t say,” he said. Tasuki took that for a ‘yes’. “Is it someone... close?” “I guess you could say that.” He reddened further. Tasuke said nothing more, but she looked very happy. Kouta, Allison thought, looked more worried. “It doesn’t matter,” Kaneda said. Tasuki punched him in the shoulder. “What a terrible thing to say!” Kaneda blinked. “What?” “Take back what you just said!” Kaneda looked confused. “Did I say something?” The others at the table watched him closely, but he didn’t seem to be joking around. Allison thought about what White Shadow had told her. You may find your friend ... changed. No doubt about it, the trouble was getting deeper and deeper. Azusa stode down the hallway. The sound of her boot heels on the hard floor echoed off the stonework. She always felt like she was in a mideval Eurpoean castle when whe was in this building. Her red hair trailed behind her, the curls at her temples extending and contracting with her stride. Her face was set in a scowl, but that was not unusual. She stopped at a painting of Murai Kunio, the founder of the academy. Mr. Murai had served overseas somewhere, no one was exactly sure what he did or with whom, but he had returned a wealthy man. He had spent his entire fortune on the Academy, but it was unclear just where all the money had gone. Azusa knew part of the secret. “Fuyutsuki Azusa,” she said, and a laser scanner passed over her face. “Accepted,” a disembodied female voice said, and where before there had just been a blank wall, now there was a door. She entered, and went down a hallway to the Student Council chamber. The others were waiting for her. She never saw them in the hallway; she suspected they each had their own secret entrance. They each sat in leather chairs, deep and comfortable with wings that shadowed the faces of the others, protecting their identies for a time when it was more convenient to reveal them. A fire crackled on an iron grate in the cavernous fireplace. She was always last, it seemed. Didn’t these other people have lives outside this room? Azusa took her seat. The student council was in session. Their leader, a tall boy with pale skin and long, dark hair, spoke. “We have a transfer student.” Another boy, shorter, his hair short also, said, “it is as predicted.” A blonde girl spoke, “Pah. I have no time for silly prophesies. This is our chance to make our own glory.” The leader frowned slightly at the insubordination. “Kenzo will learn about her sooner or later.” All the members of the Student Council sucked in their breath sharply at the mention of his name. “We must move before he does,” the shorter boy said. The leader nodded. “The transfer student has decided to take up fencing.” “Yes, leader,” Azusa said. “Interesting, don’t you think?” “Yes, leader.” Azusa was thankful that her eyes were concealed; the leader liked to milk drama from things they all knew already. Azusa thought she could do a better job as leader, but the other was anointed by the Greater Powers. Only by following with absolute faith could she hope to advance. “You will humiliate her!” the leader cried. “Yes, leader!” “If we break her, she will be ours to use,” the blonde girl said. “So the Master has predicted,” Azusa said, “and so it shall be.” Posted at 10:11 PM | |
Thursday - September 18, 2008
A Station Wagon by Any Other NameThis is a follow-up episode to a quickie I wrote the other day and some of the comments that you guys left. Remember the station wagon? For a long time it was the perfect familymobile, with room for the kids and space in back for the new barbecue. It was the perfect icon of the American suburbs, but served faithfully on Route 66. The station wagon was America. Over the years things changed, technology advanced, and the minivan rose to replace the station wagon. That made sense; the minivan performed the same functions and did a better job doing it. But America was getting richer and people wanted sport as well as utility. The auto manufacturers were happy to supply the illusion of sport to the power-hungry yuppies. Take a minivan, add larger tires and an engine that produces more power than you will ever need, and you have an SUV. (At the time, SUV meant ‘minivan with bad mileage’.) In fact, more power was not a requirement. All that was necessary was larger, more expensive and less efficient tires. Suddenly, you’re cool. Let me deflect some folks by pointing out that some SUV’s aren’t macho minivans but rather relabled trucks. Why? They are trucks and they do a truck’s job. All utility. Gradually, the SUV market has gone two directions. One we will call the Hummer Vector. Vehicles so impractical that people buy them just to prove that they are too damn wealthy to be encumbered by issues like precticality. The other direction I will dub the Station Wagon Vector. It’s been going on a long time, and apparently now the vehicles on this path have ditched the stigma of being SUV’s in favor of being ‘crossovers’. We will ignore that Sport/Utility was itself a crossover... No we won’t. Crossover from what? And to what? Utility/Sport-Utility? What is being crossed over? Here’s my challenge to the marketing boys in the auto companies. Embrace the station wagon. Those guys buying cars, they’ve forgotten how much they hated sharing the back seat with thier sisters, and the road has regained a romantic aura. Those great road trips of their childhoods were in station wagons. The car that tamed the west. I personally guarantee that if Ford or Chevy came out with a really good station wagon, with somewhat retro styling and the same name they used in the sixties, it would sell like hotcakes. Call it a station wagon, and use the power of nostalgia to sell it. Before too long, people will realize that the car makes sense on its own terms, and our dalliance with silly cars not well-suited for any practical use will come to an end. Then in a few years you can reestablish the minivan as all retro and cool. Posted at 11:03 PM | |
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by Jeff Long. To summarize: Tiresome pages of backstory, cheap writer's tricks, and 