Two things

1) Miss Gayleen Froese, lately of the place where I live, has hit her 50,000 word mark and has therefore succeeded at NaNoWriMo. The book, as it happens has exceeded its original scope and will go on to 80,000 words or so, she reports. Laud her. I command it.

2) I have been recapping the 3-Day Novel Contest reality show at Television Without Viewers. I've been sort of finding my feet a little on the first few episodes. I think I've really hit one out of the park this week. You should check it out. I hate to blow my own horn, but nobody else will blow it for me.

I'm so lonely.

Anyhow. That's about it.

Shame

At this point, I think I need to admit NaNoWriMo is not happening for me. For some reason, and I don't know why, I am not able to write fiction right now. I even tried switching gears. And, this book is something I really want to write, and I've got the whole thing pictured in my head.

So I'll write it, but probably not over the course of the month.

Does daylight savings time fuck with everybody's head this bad? Is it just me?

So, yeah, public shame for me.

On the other hand, my recap of the first episode of the 2007 3 Day Novel Contest reality tv show is up, and I welcome comment and vociferous disagreement/praise. At least, I'm keeping the words moving in some small way.

Ms. G, on the other hand seems to be making acceptable progress on her NaNoWriMo, so do root for her.

That's about all I have for you today.

Shame.

Day 3...

I wrote nothing yesterday.

Shut up.

In other news, I have a new recap blog about the 3 Day Novel Contest reality TV show, currently airing on Book Television (at last).

Feel free to drop by Television Without Viewers, brought to you by a pretty quiet day at work, and snark.

NaNoWriMo

So, Ms. Gayleen Froese and I are both doing National Novel Writing Month this year. Over 30 days, we will produce a novel of 50,000 words. After the 3 Day, this feels like piker's work to me, but I think the added time could easily serve to make me cocky.

For example, I am at 2500 words and it's day three.

G can tell you about her novel if she likes.

Mine is called "The Murder at the End of This Book". I've decided to post my first draft here in my daily chunks. Feedback is highly welcome. I need to know what's working and what isn't. This book requires me to walk an unusually fine line.

You'll see why.

Anyhow feel free to add me as a buddy. My NaNoWriMo username is RyanStates. Click the link to the right there to sign up. Never too late.

G, you should still have posting privileges, but if not, let me know, or add in the comments.

Here's the first chapter of my book. It's two days in.

Chapter 1


My name is Harry Monster. I'm a private detective. I am about four feet tall, covered in long shaggy blue fur. I have large googly black and white eyes. I have a large purple nose shaped a lot like an egg, and covered in what looks like felt. I wear a fedora and a rumpled grey suit. It's not fashionable anymore, but it's what private detectives wear. It's going to look silly on me anyway. I'm a puppet.

I used to be a cop. I worked with the Caraway Street Precinct. it was the neighborhood where I grew up. It was good to see those streets, and to be seen, walking the beat in uniform. It felt good to be a walking example for all the kids, human and puppets, that there were other ways to live than in the pocket of Big Alphabet. I'd have been happier if I'd stayed a uniform forever. Instead, the department offered me a promotion to detective. I took it for the same reason I liked walking the beast. To show the kids you could do it.

It was a whole different kind of crime as a detective, and not all of it in my little neighborhood. By the time it was over, I could barely remember how to get back to the little street I'd grown up on.

It ended for me with the death of my partner. He was a human. His name was Carlos Gonzalez, and he was my best friend. We were investigating a rhyme syndicate. Some shady operators out of New Jersey were stealing the ends off of words and selling them on the streets. We had a lead on a guy we thought was involved, and we headed out to his house in Queens, looking to ask some routine questions.

In the driveway we saw a tan van. The rest of the neighbourhood was showy sport cars, and Soccer Mom minivans. This was one of those windowless panel jobs, with the back end half rusted out.

"One of these things is not like the others," Carlos said to me, and put his hand on his piece.

"One of these things," I said, "just doesn't belong."

He gestured for me to head around the back door, and I did. I'm small, and I can move pretty quietly. I hadn't even made it all the way around, when I heard him shout, and there was gunfire. A second later something hit me hard in the back of the head and I went down into a deep black hole inside my own head.

When I came to, I was dizzy and my eyes were still shaking around on the front of my face. The van was gone. There were a couple of kids standing on the edge of the driveway looking at me, and one of them just pointed west, not saying anything.

I shouted Carlos' name, and went to the radio to call for backup. He wasn't out front. I started to search the place. I looked around the house. I looked over the house. I looked under the steps. I looked near, and far. When I found him, in one of the back bedrooms, he was through.

I quit the force a week later. I haven't slept since. Not in any meaningful way. This is about as nasty as it sounds. I'm not a human, and so I don't need sleep in the same way, but I certainly miss it. It gives me a lot of time to lay awake in my bed, or to read books and watch movies.

I don't make much money as a private eye, but I don't need much, either, and I have a small trust fund from my time with the show. Which reminds me, back on Caraway Street, I was a child star. I did a children's show there with some other puppets. Some of them have moved on to bigger things, and some are still doing it. For me, it's a lot of good memories, and a small subsidy to my earnings every month.

And I rarely get recognized. There are a lot of blue shaggy monsters. I could be any of them.

So that's where I come from, and what you need to know about me. I'm the protagonist. A protagonist is a central character in a story. Over the course of a story, the protagonist faces conflict and undergoes growth. The setting of this story is New York City in the year 2005. W had just been elected to a second term. The first term had been a doozy. W stood for war, and it also stood for weather. A hurricane is a kind of weather. A hurricane had almost ruined New Orleans with wind and water. Wind and water also begin with W. We were fighting a war in a country most Americans couldn't find on a map. People took to the streets every other week chanting "No Blood for Vowels". The letter shortage was hitting everybody in the vocabulary, and everyone had the willies, and the wigwams. It was no secret that W was in the pocket of Big Alphabet. Both him and his human vice president.

It had been a slow year for me so far. The last case I'd taken had involved helping a little kid find his dog. He paid me in nickels. I was leaned back in my office chair, with my feet up on the desk. I was reading the paper, my little silver reading glasses perched on my nose so far down, you'd think they'd be useless, but they weren't. I needed them to read these days.

I'd been doing this for half an hour when I suddenly looked up and saw that a woman had walked into my office. She was a human woman, tall and blonde in a red Chanel suit, carrying a small red clutch. She was about thirty, and probably pretty if you like human women. I realized this was how all the important cases started, and I sat up in my chair.

"Hey," I said, " I'm sorry. I didn't hear you come in. My name's Harry..."

"Monster," she finished. "I know. Formerly of the Caraway Street Precinct. One of the first monsters to make detective, I believe."

"Heck," I say, "I think there've been a lot of puppet detectives before me."

"Not so many as you'd think. Most of them have been...well...mascots."

I nodded, a little at sea.

"Well," I said, "I guess you did your research. Good for you. There are a lot of questionable characters in this business."

"I like to be certain of what I'm getting into," she said, offering her hand to shake.

I leaned awkwardly across my desk to shake.

"Jelinda Holt," she said. "Pleased to meet you."

"You wouldn't be any relation to Dean Holt?"

"I'm his daughter," she said.

My rear end hit my seat slightly harder than was needed. Jelinda Holt was worth more money than God, or would be some day. Dean Holt was the owner of Holt Software. There wasn't a computer anywhere in the world at this point that didn't run on Holt's Phonix OS.

"How can I help you, Ms. Holt?"

"My sister has gone missing, Mr. Monster."

Her voice shook a little. I made my way around the desk and pulled out her chair for her.

"Please, have a seat. May I get you a glass of water?"

"No. No thank you, but would you mind if I smoked?"

Under the circumstances, what could I say? But I knew that smoke would get in my fur for days.

"I won't tell, if you won't," I said, "but I don't have an ashtray, I'm afraid."

She smiled weakly and produced a small aluminum disposable ashtray from her purse.

"I'm used to bringing my own these days."

She lit the cigarette and took a deep breath of smoke. I could see her face relax a little.

"Have you gone to the police with this?" I asked. It's a legal obligation.

"Of course," she said, sounding about as angry as the average person who takes a missing person to the cops. "They weren't particularly useful."

"How old is your sister?"

Jelinda hesitated for a moment, and then blew some smoke to the side, toward my open window.

"That's complicated," she said.

"No," I said. "It's just subtraction. It's 2005 right now. Subtract the year she was born from 2005 and you'll have her age. Isn't that neat? You can tell how old all kinds of things are. For example, I bought this tie in 2003. 2005 take away 2003 is 2. So this tie is 2 years old."

She blinked, and looked at me without saying anything for a beat. "Well, Mr. Monster," she said, wryly, "If I follow your method, then my sister is 16 years old."

"Yeah," I said, "that's hard then with the police. They have to take it seriously when the missing person is a minor, but with a teenager 9 times out of 10, the kid took off and wasn't abducted."

"The kid is named Darla. She did not run off. I think she has been kidnapped."

"Have you or your father gotten any ransom demand?"

"No. I don't think we will."

"How come?"

"Well, Mr. Monster..."

"Call me Harry," I said.

"Well, Harry. As I was saying. It's complicated."

I poured myself a glass of water and came back to my desk.

"Tell me why."

"Teenagers rebel, Harry. My sister is no different."

"Sure. That's normal. It's hard sometimes, when you're angry, to know the right way to behave, and the wrong way to behave."

"Yes. Unfortunately, she's chosen some of the wrong ways to behave."

"Uh-oh," I said.

"Yes. Also unfortunately, my sister has a lot of money available to her. In addition to her allowance, Darla has made some shrewd investments of her own. She's a very clever young woman."

"How does her money play into this?" I asked. "Do you think she was robbed? Murdered?"

"I hope not," Jelinda said, with a little less concern and worry than I would have wanted to hear from my own sister. "Though that's possible. The real concern is that Darla's become an Anything Person."

"She's a puppet?" I asked, confused.

"No, she's human."

The Anything Persons were a particular sort of puppet. They swapped facial features and clothes, and identities the way other people swapped books. They weren't particularly common except in show business circles where they often made excellent character actors. I had heard that a few humans had embraced the philosophy, but of course it wasn't as easy to do for a living creature made out of meat instead of felt and foam. It would certainly take surgery and lots of it.

"You don't know what she looks like?" I said.

"No. She could look like anybody right now, more or less."

"Okay. What makes you think she was kidnapped?"

"Kidnapped might be the wrong word," she said. "She might have gone along willingly. I think she's gotten involved in a cult."

"Which one?"

"The Church of Etymology."

I almost asked her to leave right then. People who got involved with the Etymologists had a tendency to wind up disappearing suddenly. If they were very lucky it was just a lawsuit instead and you ended up penniless.

"Ms. Holt. The Etymologists are very good at what they do, and if your sister joined of her own free will, it will be very hard to..."

"Damn it," she said. "I know all this. I'm not asking you to get her out. I just want to find out if that's where she is. The rest of it I can handle."

I raised one side of my black busy unibrow.

"Well, I might be able to do that. Where did you see her last?"

"She went to visit some of her friends on Caraway Street, a week ago. She called us from their apartment, and we saw the caller ID reading properly, and we've talked to them, so we're sure she was there as of last Friday. Her friends said that she left with two men in a big black limousine. Nobody has heard from her since."

She handed me a big brown envelope.

"This has the phone numbers and addresses of her friends and people with whom she regularly associates. Also a few pictures."

The early ones were all the same, a shy little girl with dark hair and glasses. Sometime around 12 or 13, she loses her glasses. From that point on, it's a variety of hair dyes, and extreme makeup, and then a series of pictures that may as well be different people. The bone structure is there but that's it. In each of them her face seems to lose character. Her features just become simpler and plainer. In the last she seems to have no lips at all.

"I don't understand why anyone would do this," I said. "She was so beautiful."

"She wants to be a puppet," Ms. Holt said.

"Lots of kids do. They tend to grow out of it," I said. "Doesn't she understand that while pretending is fun, it's only a sometimes thing. Doesn't she understand that she is special, and that people love her just the way she is?"

"No," Jelinda said. "She doesn't. She says that her real life is a lie. She says that we're all puppets, humans too, and she at least wants to be honest."

I felt bad for the kid. It was clear that she was all mixed up, and needed someone to explain things to her. I knew I'd take the case.

"That's just awful," I said. "I'd like to help."

"I'm glad. I wanted someone who knows that neighborhood, and I wanted a puppet. I think she'll be more likely to listen to you than to a human."

"My fee is..."

She waved a hand dismissively.

"I know it vaguely. Keep a record of expenses of course. My people will be in touch with you. Is there anything else you need to know?"

"Not right away," I said. "Try not to worry. I'll start right away, and I'll stay in touch. Is your number in here as well?"

"It is," she said, tossing her cigarette butt and little ashtray in my wastepaper basket.

"Thank you for not littering," I said.

She laughed politely, as though I'd made a little joke. I get that a lot.

"It's been nice to meet you Harry. Would you mind if I told you something?"

"Nope," I said.

"You look very tired. Your fur is all sticking out, and your eyebrows are drooping. You look like you might need a nap."

"Yeah," I said, "Or a dry cleaner."

She laughed again, and left. The little chime on my door worked this time, and she headed out into the street. The smell of fog and the sound of kid's skipping rhymes rose up through the window. I settled in at my desk with the file to plan the days' work.

And that wraps it up for another year.

I finished my second draft 1t 11:58.

The final word count is now 32,042. Silver Bullets was 33,161. So this is slightly more than a thousand words shorter.

Even more than last year, I have NO idea if this is any good. I've spent three days in it, and I've lost all scope. It went so quickly when it was going well, and so slowly when it wasn't.

It is, I think, already much improved for a simple go through to tighten things up.

Once I realized the central thesis of the book, it made it much easier to pull it all together.

Also I fixed all the times accidentally called the main female character the real name belonging to C3nobyte, on whom she is partially, but only partially based.

One thing you do, when you write at this pace, is check that you've not had any of your characters change names. It's not just me, apparently. It happens quite a lot.

Tomorrow I will print this up to send in.

I'm tired, but it's a good kind of tired, and I'm not a bit sorry.

This is me signing off. I will probably respond to comments, but I am still lying a little low on the Internet right now.

Thanks for your support.

First scene

One final post in this marathon: the last Illustration that I did. It also happens to be the first scene in the story.

Other nice things:

Puppies, roommates, and the spelling and grammar checker feature in Word.

It's the first level of my planned three-level revision. Two hours and twenty minutes to go.

Ahhhh

You know what's nice? Being clean.

Also, birch beer.

Draft 1 is finished

At 6:55 pm, the novel came to a close. At nearly the same time, I realized what this book was actually about. This leaves me about five hours to clean it up, and make changes that will strengthen that theme.

This feels like an insane luxury, but the writing today was easy, and I will take it, because frankly, this book is a mess.

Anyone wishing to read this tangled wreck is invited to contact me, but I'd advise you wait until I've gone through it.

It's currently 31,398 words. That's about 2000 words shorter than last year.

Unlike last year's novel, though, this has a beginning a middle and a definite end. There was no hasty drive to the conclusion this year. Last year I had done so much pondering and planning in advance of the writing that I had too much story to tell, I had to pick an end point and find a way to stop.

This year, I had literally no idea half the time what was going to happen, but I did know what the very end of the book would be.

So I built this crazy, chaotic story that ends abruptly in the spirit of that madness, and then I drop him back in his little bubble of peace, and hopefully, the reader understands a little better how he wound up there.

So I'm happy with the actual very end of the piece, and I'm happy with a lot of the early parts, but the whole Frankenstein plot needs some tightening up and some clarifying...but only some.

And I need a name, but I don't know what it is yet.

I also wonder if this book will get bigger or smaller before midnight.

Huh. I think I'm going to celebrate with a shower and some vigorous dog bothering before diving back in.

Anticlimax

All that remains of the story now, is the denouement. Tom goes back to his normal life, but with maybe the hint of a notion he might have some grown-up responsibilities to look after.
I think my biggest worry with this book is that I rather deliberately did a lot of buildup to a mystery that IS NOT revealed. Instead, as is often the case, somebody does something stupid, and a lot of bodies hit the floor.
Tom sort of just crawls away like Mr. Pink in Reservoir Dogs after the Mexican Standoff, and runs away.

I worry that people are going to feel a little ripped off, but that's kind of the point of the book in a couple of ways 1) the mysteries are better when we just see little glimpses of them and 2) sometimes excitement and involvement are overrated and it really is better to just have a happy little life.

I guess we'll see. I should be finished by 8, and then I can spend a few hours tightening and cleaning it up, and killing loose ends I dropped and did nothing with.

So there's that.

Bathroom break

I just wrote a letter from William S. Burroughs to William S. Frankenstein.

Either this book is funny, stupid, or sad. I dunno.

It's also probably incoherent.

But I am enjoying myself.

Okay. Going to pee now.

Then William S. Frankenstein meets his biological father/mother.

Heh. Heh heh heh.

Oh, and I also rewrote a bunch of stuff before moving on. Not traditionally a good idea, but it was stinking up the whole room just sitting there like that.

Monday morning

A few notes:

1) Good on you Grymm. Knowing you were out there in the slave pits with me buoyed my spirit. Also, I'm not too proud to admit that my male ego was threatened by the possibility you might last longer than I would, and without that spur I might have surrendered in those darkest hours on day 1. Thanks so much.

2) My dreams are often interesting, but rarely so useful as they were last night. There is no longer any question that I will finish the book. There is only the question of how much time I'll have to edit before midnight.

3) I am under no illusions this book is as strong as Silver Bullets, but considering I had two concepts and one name as I sat down at the keys, I'm just a wee bit proud of myself at how insane this book is. I just hope that the unanswered questions about Tom's life are interesting without making the story unreadable.

4) I slept until nine, and then went for breakfast out. I don't regret this, exactly, as I'm now feeling very relaxed and loose, but I may regret it in a few hours.

Back to it.

Thanks for your emails and comments, folks. Day three was my favorite day last year. Here's hoping.

Draft

As the counter indicates, I decided to call it at 15000 words (that is 51 pages), as I had written basically all I wanted for it. I will likely continue to revise it, and add illustrations to it, because it seems like it wants some pictures in it. I may post some of those.

If I do this again, I should consider actually trying to get more planning for it, probably 50 to 70 ideas to be covered, as I know I can get about a page an a half out of anything. However, I am not sure about it. I don't really do narrative fiction that much. Could be the gamer thing, but I like fictional worlds, possibly with an implied narrative, but ones that are more immersive. Things like false document encyclopaedias and the like, or collections of myths or the like. In this way, I wrote the type of work that I like, as it is more of a semi-narrative world building than a true novel.

Parts of it will likely be seen by others in likely the near future, as it could be seen as a setting chapter for something like 1st edition Vampire the Masquerade. We also have most of a cobbled together system, that if we filed the some of the cobbles down so they were more obviously our own, could make a compelling game of sorts.

(For those wondering, it is a Supers setting with very a high villain quotient, and questionable characters. The system is on the conflict resolution rather than task resolution side. It has meant that it is effectively a supers game with no specific rules for powers).

If you want to see it, ask.

Okay....

Im going to read some comics and go to bed. My brain is melting.

I think I know what I have to do tomorrow, and that's all to the good.

Now if I can just figure out the very next part.

In the morning.

I'd like to finish by about 8 pm tomorrow, and that will give me the last four hours to revise.

I just hope my pace is quicker tomorrow than it is today.

Coming up short

Well, I have used up most of my secondary ideas. It will still be over 50 pages, but that is short of the 100. I guess I could keep adding bits to the written topics, but it is getting rather done. Good that I didn't really enter. As I figured, not worth gambling on something that I know that I would never win with. I like the writing, but it is not worth dealing with.

I am getting the idea of inserting some illustrations, but everyone who follows this site should not be surprised by this. That will add some length, and really, some of the beings are better described through illustration than through prose. Also something that doesn't quite work with the contest.

Kim Jong-Il

is now a character in the book. Either this book has gone insane or I have.

Actually, that's not an either/or.

But I am only a short hop away from the part of the book I've been looking forward to. William S. Frankenstein is going to narrate his life story, just before I get Tom out of this totally unfeasible situation he's in.

Then, the denouement.

So I see the shape of it now. More or less.

Never underestimate the tenacity of a terrified mind.

I'm a whole different writer when I'm scared.

Breakthrough

I just realized that I shouldn't be spending my time writing a 3 Day Novel. I should be trying to save the environment by writing a hit album of catchy jams.

No?

Oookay.

Aargh!

Okay, I wrote myself out of that corner...sort of. Then I rewarded myself witha wee malenky nap.

Day 2 suuuuucks. It was the same last year. Many people say it's their favorite day. Not me.

Progress Report.

I hit a wall. I took an hour to grab lunch, and I'm about to hit the keys again. I'm really scared just at the moment about my ability to pull out of the tailspin.]

I shortlisted last year. I have to AT LEAST finish this year to maintain self-respect

Anyone out there with a few minutes, drop me a note or an email, and talk me down....

I'm up...I'm up.. Wha huh?

Thank god for dogs. I might have slept in even later. I am now going to have a quick breakfast and check my email and plunge back into the book.

A thought occurred to me as I lay in bed last night, and has been bothering me.

In order to do this without an outline, you pretty much have to dive into your comfort zone and write from that place.

Why is my comfort zone so dark and violent and creepy? What does this say about me? I don't know. I like to think that the relationship between Tom and his upstairs neighbour girl is sweet and loving in the midst of all the dark. So maybe I have that in me too.

Anyway, now is not the time for self-examination I suspect.

I have two-thirds of a novella to make.

bracketing text

The day was pretty good. However, this basically ate what preparation I had. Basically, this portion is a series of loresheets (ala weapons of the gods). This portion is what I really wanted to get completed. However, this is only about 40 pages. I will be continuing, but I realized that I would need to bracket in an actual story, vs the format I was writing before. I am going to move into this new format tomorrow.

And so to bed.

Okay. Tom Bradstreet has just met William S. Frankenstein face to face. I am better than a third of the way into the book, and I'm going to bed now.

I have an idea how Tom ends up in that shipping container, but I have no idea what happens when he gets out.

He will almost certainly get out tomorrow. That also means another tense switch.

So I will have to figure that part out, AND cope with present tense.

Unless a solution occurs to me in bed. I expect it may.

Impressions so far?

This is a less ambitious, and more straightforward story than Silver Bullets, but it's ten times more weird and bloody and dark. It's a lot sloppier than Bullets and no wonder. I had the plot totally sketched out for that one, and I could focus on the writing a lot more.

This time it's just a struggle to make a coherent narrative.

I don't think I'll be shortlisting with this one, but there's no shame in that. Considering the prep time i've had, I think it's going well.

Once revised, I think it will make an excellent addition to the Sel Souris cycle of stories. Certainly a major revelation is forthcoming.

And so to bed.

Pace.

Okay, the book came to life on me somewhere this afternoon. I have a sort of loose skeleton for the story, and some concepts I want to use. My pace is getting better. I think I can hit 12,000 before I sleep tonight. Maybe more. Unless I hit one of those annoying stumbling blocks.
I had the joy of finding a character in the middle of the action I did not know would be there. That's always good.
I've been getting a few people to read my first two chapters and see if I'm on target. So far, I'm getting the impression it's worth going on. Thank god.
I just typed this to my friend Arthur, "All I need is the gut. And I appreciate the hell out of this. It's like doing a tightrope walk naked. I have no idea how the performance is going.. All i can think of is that I'm naked, and it's cold up here."

That about sums it up for me.

The good news is that I'm now enjoying the work. It isn't just work. Nice feeling. I'm still far more behind than I want to be.

Back to it.

Panic.

My progress is very slow, and this is much harder without the huge prep I did last year. I predict a very late night to get back on pace.

Grymm, how are you finding the experience?

For me, last time it was exhilarating. This time, it's really hard going.

Normal

Sleep is important. But I usually sleep about where I did there. Being up till six is not unusual for me.

Writing on 4 hours is also not unusual. That is one complete melatonin cycle, give or take. I spent six months on a very similar schedule when you were finding out that sleep was important.

Someone stayed up late.

Me, I learned last year that sleep was worthwhile. I also think a night of subconscious mulling should help me out here.

Now for a quick breakfast, and then back to the word mine.

It is more fun with at least one other

As Ryan mentioned, I offered to play along, though I am not entering the contest. This is for a number of reasons. First, I decided to join in too late. Second, I have many things that I would rather spend the money on. I have done multiple 24 hour comics before, and much in the same way, I know I have the motivation to do it for myself. Third, as somewhat explained in the next paragraph, it is not going to really be a narrative. Fourth, though the work is going to be all mine written now, the world that I am dealing with has been developed collaboratively so far, and will be afterwards. I don't want to limit myself to being tied down by being the only author on this.

All that being said, my work is somewhere between a yanyi, a hagiography, a cosmogony, or perhaps just a history of the forces of Conglomerated Union for Dastardly Deeds and Licentious Endeavours. As these works tend to be, it will be rambling and somewhat directionless. I guess in some ways it won't exactly be a novel be some standards as it won't really have a plot. But I knew this from minute one.

Okay

So it's a mystery, though not a murder mystery. And it's a sequel to my book Now England Sees and to Silver Bullets but it requires neither to be read. I hope.

It's a start, but a small one. I know where I'm driving now.

Tomorrow.

And so it begins

Thank you again to all who offered suggestion and support. To be honest, I'm still not a hundred percent sure what I'm doing, but I've started. I'm going to write for an hour or so and then get a good night's sleep and see what comes in the morning.

Lordgrymm has, in private correspondence, indicated that he has decided to do the challenge himself, though unofficially. So I may have company. Hooray!

I will create a sidebar for him as well, and he can update it as he sees fit.

So far, I think mine is a kind of murder mystery.

More before I retire.

A follow up suggestion from the same bloke

"Hey Ryan

Just thought of one.

Nice Cream.

The name of ice cream company for which a struggling actor works inbetween endless auditions with only moderate success (including wearing the Lion suit outside the theatre when Lion King is playing).

He is an ice cream van salesman, going from snot-nosed neighbourhood to over-privileged, spoilt rotten neighbourhood, selling ice cream to little shits.

There is one particulr kid who pisses him off immensely with his bad manners and attitude. One day he decides to stuff the ice cream in the kid's face and then tell him it's on the house.

Things escalate and as he's driving off one day, the kid grabs hold of the back of his van. He speeds off and the kid falls off. He laughs and carries on.

Days later he gets called into his boss' office to be told the parents are suing him and the company. It all escalates from there.

That's all I've got for now. As I said, all taken from real life experience (my brother was the ice cream man in question and all of that happened). It could get all Travis Bickle and could be fun. Or you might think it's a shit idea. Either way, it's the best I could think of at short notice!

Good luck, amigo."

That is a hell of an idea, and on my short list in one form or another, but I don't think I have the comic chops to pull off a sustained novel. Hm.

Another piece of advice...

This one is received from one of G's trenchmates two years ago.

"You're in deep do-do, mate.

The only thing that will get you out of it is to stick to the old adage - write about what you know (and, more importantly, who you know). This way, you don't have to invent a story or characters, just take them from real life and exaggerate the hell out of them.

Maybe go back to something that happened out of school and turn it into something resembling Colombine. Or your first, really boring job job turns into a major adventure in which you come out with your life intact by the skin of your teeth.

Three days is such a short time, don't waste any of it actually creating too much, just exaggerate and expand on what you already know.

Bonne chance, mon brave."

Ideas thus offered

1) Someone wins a lottery, does something weird with the money.
2) An organized crime story.
3) My serial killer story I talked about last year, where the killer is an angel, and the detective solving the case is unaware of this.
4) A Quincy style story that starts with a corpse and works backward from there.
5) "Just saw an article about Twitter stalkers who follow people's Twitter
positings -- so that they can determine when they're not home, then break
into their homes and steal things. Thought to myself, 'there's definitely
a story in that...'"

Do keep them coming.

3-Day Novel Contest 2009

Long time no post, texterinos.

I have been on a deliberate retreat from the blogosphere for reasons I'll talk about eventually, but I'm coming online here for the next few days. Here's the why:

I had assumed that my job was going to interfere with my participation in 3-Day this year. At the last minute, I've discovered that it won't. So, without preparation, without outline, without any actual idea what I'll write, I'm plunging in and doing it again.

Just like last year, I'll be regularly posting here. Unlike last year, I don't think I have a team mate. Nonetheless, I beg of you to post and cheer me on, and all that good stuff.

Any suggestions on a topic would be welcome at this point.

I'm at work right now, so I can't post further. Expect another update later tonight. For those of you who still even check this page. Which, I suspect, must be nobody. This is why I'll be emailing folks as well.

A question...

Well, obviously that was a bust. I had a title and everything. I was going to do "A Farewell to Arms and Legs" by Ernest Hemingway.

Obviously, I didn't do that before the deadline.

I've got nothing this last month or so. Just...nothing.

Is it just me? Adjusting to the new job has been taking more effort than I expected, but that's not all. I've been working on my writing projects at a slow but regular pace.

Still, I just don't have my usual pep.

Perhaps it's the season.

Victory by default is not a good victory

My story was alright, but really, there were lots of ways to beat it. I mean, my excerpt barely contained zombies (the zombie part was in the stuff I cut out from the translation), the title was somewhat lacking (good for being a literary reference, but not really the catchy title that was requested in the challenge). The subject was shocking, but really, that was the easiest part to come up with.

Though it is not my turn, I propose another challenge, to run concurrently with whatever our host has. The prize? Some of your dignity back, and any claim to heckle in the comments. The contest: "Why I didn't bother to submit an entry to a textFIGHT challenge." The entrants will be judged by their entries. The non-entrants will be judged far more harshly I am sure. This contest is open to anyone but me, as I have not missed a contest I was eligible for yet.

Vanished into the Clouds (zombie mashup)

(I have chosen to submit the beginning and end of the lost chapter of the Tale of Genji, Vanished into the Clouds, which comes after Chapter 40. In most editions it left blank, as they are based on an old manuscript form where the chapter is left blank with only the title. This is because the chapter was considered too heretical to leave about, and when that copy was made, it was omitted. I wish I could take full credit for it, but alas, I could only offer a poor translation. I have used the names from the Seidensticker translation. In it, Genji decides to use forbidden knowledge which he gains from the many sages to travel the path that Izanagi did to the land of Yomi to get Murasaki back. However, in the process he raises Izanami to full vengence, and her and her servants wreak havok on the lands, rasing the dead and being problematic. Over the course of the chapter, Genji lives up to his oft ommitted destiny of cleanser of the land in the same fashion of his ancestor Ameterasu, ultimately purifying himself and Izanami in the process, and performing a great sacrifice in holding Izanami in check for eternity, thereby letting the world flourish.)

Vanished into the Clouds

In secret, Genji had spoken with the holy man who visited in the twelfth month, about knowledge not spoken of. The clinging of a spirit can cause it to languish beyond where it should. Though Yugiri had taken charge of the memorial services twelve months before, Genji had made his own. Now the holy man confirmed his suspicion, that Murasaki could be brought back, if one were to travel the paths that Izanagi walked, in the veil of clouds beyond the world.

Genji made his silent preparations, not even letting the third princess know of his planned travels. Gathering his meagre supplies, donning a black conic hat, saffron jacket, black trousers and crimson cloak, he set off towards Yomotsuhirasaka, leaving only a single poem written on pure white paper to be delivered to Karou.

“In the darkness of the mists beyond the lands

The comb shall reveal the platter placed for her still full”

Such was the glory of the shining prince that none would confront him about walking the forbidden way, towards death. His eyes sparkled like those of a phoenix. Onward he marched, first to the shrine of the sage in the hills to the north who had known her first all those years ago, who was said to know the way.

After, he continued on towards what for lesser men would have certainly been doom, to Hibasan to roll back the boulder. The foul vapours were unleashed, but even amongst them lingered the sweet smell of blossoms.

Traveling into the dark, he danced the path, to not disturb the inhabitants. He dared not light anything, less they befoul him. His movements were such perfection that even these lost demons and gods could not touch him, but only sit in wonderment.

There in the depths he found her, his poem to Karou being revelation instead of desire. But there he also found the mother of the islands.

….

….

And so, after all that had happened, his saffron jacket stained as crimson as his cloak from the blood of those raised from death by the shikome and the shikome themselves, he stood facing the mother of the islands. Even her skills could not best him, even as she struck down and raised the dead to fight him. He was quick, the most glorious mortal ever to live.

As she gazed upon him, the impossible happened. Where the first man failed, the bright Genji succeeded. Her countenance lost the maggots, and became sweet.

“Oh bright child of the Sun forgiveness is undeserved,

But something I will accept from you that I would not from the spearbearer.”

With all he had lost, he had found the path of Kannon. The relentless hordes of Yomi had burned away desires from his form, so that all of the many indiscretions of his life were burned away. In a final sacrifice, he took the lady’s hand, her form returning to that like life. Together, they retreated into the darkness that was dark no longer, past the clouds and bright Genji walked the earth no more.

A Challenge!

As of today, we have a new contest.

It's a literary mashup sort of a deal.

I want you to take a classic work of literature, and add zombies to it.

Points will be given for the best title. Points will also be given for the best short excerpt from that book. Lastly, points will be given for the most shocking juxtaposition.

Contest ends on March 1st.

I am the judge of this contest. The prize will be revealed later this week.

Start your engines.

This contest is the first part, by the way, of a larger series of contests. Points will carry over. More details to come.

Start mangling the greats!

Submit!

Just a heads up on this call for submissions. These people could not possibly be making this easier for you. So do it. Do it.

SUBMISSIONS FOR ESCAPE CLAUSE

This is Ink Oink Art Inc.'s first annual speculative fiction anthology.

If you're looking for this, you probably know that the proper website is down today-- but here is most of the pertinent information.

Escape Clause:

Who we are: a predominantly, but not exclusively, Westcoast anthology of speculative stuff—fiction, poetry, and art. We’re published by Ink Oink Art Inc. and edited by Clélie Rich. Our splendiferous cover is by Thomas Anfield, and our interior illustrations by Lee Tockar. Our writers so far include award-winners Eileen Kernaghan, Linda De Meulemeester, and Rhea Rose. We’ve got space left, and we’re looking for new friends. Original unpublished work only, my lovelies.

What we want: short fiction (2000 to 5000) for which we will pay $200; and poems up to 50 lines in length, for which we will pay $50. We’re looking for character-driven pieces; for whimsical, absurdist, elegant, horrific, heart-felt, energetic, sad, scary pieces; for hard sf, sf with a bit of give in it, fantasy, and everything in between. Pick one or all of the above. If you’ve put your heart into it, we want to see it. Just respect the word limits.

How we want it: one story per submission please, or up to five poems; as an attachment only (not in the body of the message) in either Word or RTF, with your name/[PTY or FCT]/title in the heading, and send it winging through the ethers to escapeclauses@shaw.ca

Reading period: January 15th to February 28th 2009.

That is all.

I'm sort of a big deal....

Hi gang. My life is crawling back to the land of normal now. I'm more or less settled into my new job, and more than halfway through my secret novel for G. I'm still having a blast writing it. With these things falling into place, I have been considering the months to come.

First, the whole shortlisting thing.

I am really happy about it, but I'm also pretty realistic about it. It's very flattering to have placed so high, but I don't actually know what it means as far as my career. People have been very kind in their congratulations, and people do seem to really like Silver Bullets. I like it too, which is nice. I don't very often look back on something I've written and read it with much pleasure. I guess that's pretty common. With this book, I can see what's wrong and how to fix it, but, basically, I think it's a good book. So that's great. However.

People have very often said "Congratulations! What comes next?" The truth is that I just don't know. Bullets is something I'll be back to work on in about a month, and that will take a little while to revise and expand. IF I even should expand it. I'm not sure I should. It might be best as the anchoring novella in a linked story collection. What it ISN'T is the first book I want to see published. For one thing, it's half a sequel to my much longer book, which still has no title I'm happy with.

I mean, what comes next for me is shopping THAT book. Which still has some issues I can't seem to resolve. What I hope is that there is an editor out there who will see that the book is basically sound, and have the ticket to help me fix the things that are clattering a little.

I've been calling the book Now England Sees, and I think it is a good book. I think it could be better, but I don't know how. It's frustrating as hell, at least in part, because Bullets is going to be so fucking easy to fix.

And I don't know if having placed in 3 Day is helpful or not in shopping it. I don't know how prestigious the contest is, and if shortlisting carries any prestige at all. I don't know if people will be all like "Well, can I see THAT book?" If they were, I don't know what to do.

Because I love my first book the way you love your kids. I think it's good, and all that, but mostly I love it because that was the one that clicked for me.

I have tried and tried and tried to write a novel since I was eighteen or so. Lack of discipline was part of the problem, but that wasn't all of it. I was having trouble managing the structure and pacing, and with my self-censor. Now that I finished the first book, the words have just NOT stopped coming. Writing Bullets was, though crazy, by comparison like a walk. That is also true with the book I'm doing right now.

Something in me has switched to on. Writing novels is something I can do now. Yay!

So, if nothing else, the first book gave me that. But I want people to read it.

So, what next? I don't know. I don't know the BUSINESS side of writing very well, and I need to bone up on that, clearly.

I'll be documenting all of that over on Fishclock as I go through it.

And now the second thing: This place.

TextFIGHT is a good thing. It's a place we can all hang out and shoot the shit about what we do. Contests can and should happen, but I'm not going to beat myself up about it. Feel free to start them, feel free to do just about any damned thing here. Post contests, all of that.

And let's try to grow the community. With this in mind, may I ask, is this site too hostile? I mean, I thought it came off as tongue in cheek, but maybe we're spooking people away. On the other hand, maybe that's keeping the prissy people out. I'm okay with elitism to that extent.

Hell, I don't know. I'm at a crossroad.

New job, new life chapter. I'm coming off this moment that feels like a victory, and, truthfully, I'm less sure what to do than ever.

So, I'm asking for guidance. Tips, hints, all the rest. I can't promise to take them, and I may even disagree. Please don't take this as me being ungrateful. The dialogue matters. We might even disagree and argue. Your attempts to persuade me will likely be good for everyone in any case.

This site and this little gang is one of the little things that I am genuinely grateful for. And I need your thoughts.

What next?

Congrats to Ryan

I know I should wait until he's had a chance to check his e-mail and post a post of his own and all that jazz, but I'm too psyched. Waiting is not an option.

Ryan's 3-Day Novel was an Honourable Mention. I believe that means that he's made the short list. Which I also believe means that he and G "tied" for their 3-Day Novel efforts.

I don't know how this works within the roommate dynamic, but I'd say it's damned good news.

So, congrats. Congrats. Congrats!

Here's the link with all the winners.

The finale of the telling stone

This is what I had as the orthodox interpretation of the telling stone. It is made effectively in two parts. The first part is on the larger figure in the centre, who is an important cultural figure in these engravings, and then goes through an explanation of the telling stone itself.

The Nature of the First (from the "Pack Within (seventh edition)" 2003)

The First (the Progenitor, the pack within, the undying, the flaming eyes, the fire crown) is an interesting figure. The First is the one of the D. habilis that is truly alone, and may not exist. The first is in some ways a god to the people. The stories say that it was generations before others of the people awoke. It is thought that they are all descended from the first, from clutches of clutches he sired in his wily travels. Some accounts seem to hold that the first invented everything, and that all innovations of the people are stolen from him. A common theme is that the first is immortal, for he is to crafty to be killed. It seems to be a thread that D. habilis did not die of old age, but all met violent ends. Therefore, one who can evade all threats cannot die.

The first, being this solitary figure, is both saviour and villain to the people, a force of nature. He is both saint (providing all of the tricks the people have) and bogeyman (he stalks even the people, and he is the greatest hunter). The people seem to hold that seemingly unnatural deaths are from him creeping up and attacking without anyone seeing.

The first is often depicted with a neck ornament (which goes unexplained), and a halo/crown of fire about his head, which is also unexplained, but could be that he has dominance, thus this is the reason that his eyes cannot be met. This crown makes him obvious in illustrations even when he is not labelled. He is usually depicted larger than the other figures, but this is thought to be convention rather than fact, as some of his tales have him fitting in perfectly.

The typical translation of a story of the first and the people reads halfway between an Anansi story and the story of Prometheus. The first is the most clever, and so has all that is good. One of the people gets into a trick war with him, and with great cost manages to steal one of the First’s many secrets. Usually they overcome him with teamwork, though personal cunning is also stressed. Innovations, or tricking the First if you will, is a sign of leadership competence. The story of Fire Trap is one of the pack tricking the First, and is close to the Promethean tale, except Fire Trap returns to the people to live with them, as the first cannot go against them all. That is another common motif, how alone the people are in danger from the First, and must match their wits against a god, but together they are safe.

There is one innovation that the First never has attributed to him. That innovation is the “Fire Within”. It seems to be an object of some form that the First fears. What it is has been speculated on wildly, but it is one of the most potent items used by the people. However, they primarily seem to use it on one another. This story is repeated time and time again. Both of these stories are the central tales of the telling stone, the tale of the Fire-Trap and the tale of “Fire Within”, and are the most common motifs. They are the best stories about the people overcoming the first, and becoming the people, unafraid and strong.

The Telling Stone (traditional interpretation, Occam and Giles 1983)

1. Fire Snare steals from the First

The First was lonely, for he was alone. All others of the Packwithout did not understand. He bred upon them, but always it came without hope. That is until Fire Snare. Fire Snare was the second, though the Packwithins did start to appear at that time as well.

Fire was used by the First to startle the Packwithouts, driving them away from the great kills. This let him feast, taking the best for himself. Fire Snare was not afraid of the fire, but that did not the stop the First from driving her away anyways. Fire Snare, like all of the Packwithins, was driven from the Packwithouts, and therefore needed to fend for herself. However, other Packwithins started to appear, and Fire Snare made them her pack.

With more mouths, tactics were needed. Fire Snare earned her name by snaring fire from the First, and bringing it to the people, though it singed he plumage to do it, and earned her the enmity of the First, such that all treasures would need to be plucked from him forever after.

2. Snare

Snare was the first census taker, as well as the stealer of the snare from the First. Before Snare, like in the time of Fire Snare, the Packwithins were driven to the winds, individuals driven away, cautious, in pain, in hiding, lesser beings. Snare was sent by Fire Snare to go get a new tribe for them.

Snares were made by the First, though the Packwithins did not recognize why the false vines were made. Snare took them and used them to catch the young, to unite them. With fire from Fire Snare and rope from Snares, the Packwithins were able to first thrive. Snare was said to have captured one giant and 2 scores of the Packwithins, giving rise to the first conclave.

3. Firewithin

Firewithin is a tale that does not include theft from the First, for the First does not understand firewithin. Firewithin developed his namesake alone. Whatever it was, when it was wielded, the first was driven away. This stopped the First from raiding the Packwithins as hard as he raided the Packwithouts, as they now could keep him away.

The story of Firewithin also kicks off a lineage, where Firewithin sired Rat Snare

4. Rat Snare and Needle Rat

Rat Snare was a great matron to many broods with her consort Needle Rat. Together, they began to seriously use the “Rats”, sewing them into capes, and catching them, as they saw the first do.

The greatest of their lineage was Fire Tooth.

5. Fire Tooth and Giant Firewithin fell 2 giants and 3 score Tenontosaurs, to feed the Packwithins

The numbers of the Packwithins was growing large, and there was not enough to eat. Fire Tooth, with his warclub and armour, and Great Firewithin, with her sword fashioned from the jaw of one of the great predators stepped up to save the Packwithins. Where no kills could be made before, these two slayed many of their food, saving the people. They called them up somehow, and are thus remembered.

6. Three Feathers slays Giant Tooth

Giant Tooth was some form of large predator, like a Tyranosaurid. He had taken to eating the young of the Packwithins. Three Feathers, who earned that epithet by daring to steal three feathers from the tail of the First, managed to save the little ones. He decapitated Giant tooth, letting the young run free. Three Feathers is notably shown wielding a spear the majority of the time.

7. Armour Fang

Armour Fang is thought to be the Alpha when the Telling Stone was made, possibly even the one who made the stone. This is the only mention of Armour Fang on any of the stones, and so it seems that it was boldness that caused Armour Fang to be added, Armour Fang claiming that they were like the near godlike beings elsewhere on the stone, who performed basically miracles. Obviously, this ended up not being the case. All of the other figures feature elsewhere, usually many other elsewheres. Not Armour Fang. The exaggerated appearance also cleaves to this interpretation, as they are probably attributes of greatness being applied to this figure.

7a. The Graffiti theory of Armour Fang

The carving style presented by the figure Armour Fang appears different than the others engravings in the telling stone. Some would suggest that the stone was carved over time by many hands, and this is true. If we were dealing with human carvings, this would be much easier to determine. However, the patina of 100 million years erases much of the ease of telling relative dating of the carving that we can do with our items.

One theory overlooked is that the carving of Armour Fang was done later and illegally, where he defaced the artefact by writing that he was here, a student scribbling in the margins. That would explain the exaggerated appearance. The question becomes why he wasn’t carved off then. Perhaps no others were audacious enough to carve the stone again. Perhaps it was discarded, as a secondary tool, not the great item we hold it to be in their culture. However, the graffiti theory does nicely lessen the importance of this non-important figure. Maybe the boldness of writing it was what earned him his names amongst the people.

7b. Armour Fang as Fire Sling

A common figure missing from the Telling Stone is the figure of the Fire Sling. Other stones have occasionally shown that many of the names of these beings change during their lifetime. Giant Firewithin has been shown on two other carvings to once be called Fire Rat, only to have that struck off. Fire Sling is a much rarer carving than Great Firewithin, so the lack of these transitory carvings are quite possible.

Fire Sling stole a new type of warfare for the people. Carvings show them hurling fire at their foes, or perhaps just flint or the like. Maybe they are like us, where fire is seen as power and destruction. More so, as they saw it as captured lightning. Fire Sling was known to lead a powerful band of the Packwithins as the culture developed.

The proposal that Armour Fang is Fire Sling mostly comes from some of the sharing of exaggerated traits by the pair of them. Both exhibit the large crest, and despite the protestations of others, this crest is carefully carved in all renderings, including the telling stone. The other reason for this attribution is that instead of downplaying the importance of Armour Fang, relegating him to being a vandal or upstart, it is important to recognize that he was likely important, and see how this was lost. Perhaps Fire Sling was known by many names. Other figures have had small lists of names given to them in the carvings as well, often depending on context. Perhaps Armour Fang is what his followers called him deified, but that did not catch on. Armour and Fang are found consecutively in some of the written period works. It is questionable if this simply means warfare or the like, or if he became a greater cultural hero once our knowledge of their communication declines through lacking the visual clues.

Critics Wanted

I'm posting a snippet of something that I've been thinking about for a long time, but I have just recently gotten the balls to start writing. I have a chapter written, and I wouldn't mind if any of you would eye it over and let me know what you think. Read through the snippet, and if it's something you think you might "get" then let me know and I'll e-mail you the rest. If you're not interested in the genre/style, then no harm no foul.

Cam smiled wryly enjoying her own secret joke at what Daphne had said. The truth was, she was never wrong when she read palms. That, more than anything, was why she had shied away from that aspect of her business. She could do the other stuff, tarot cards, runes, and psychic readings, but she was simply a queen of bullshit at those. Palm reading was her gift, but she had grown tired of telling people to get their head’s checked only to have their software fry them mere weeks later. She learned the hard way that people went to palm readers for entertainment’s sake, not for any sort of insight.

A Different Postcard Competition

WRITERS UNION OF CANADA POSTCARD STORY COMPETITION

Deadline: February 14

The Writers' Union of Canada is pleased to launch its 10th annual Postcard Story Competition, which invites writers to submit a dynamic, lean, and efficient piece of just 250 words. A $500 prize will be awarded to a Canadian writer and the winning entry will be published in the Union's Newsletter. The entries of the winner and finalists will also be submitted to a Canadian magazine for consideration. For more information, please visit http://www.writersunion.ca/cn_postcard.asp.

Welcome to the New Year!

Ryan, your humble coordinator here.

This site has suffered, as many do, from the holiday season and the many stressors therein. My super secret writing project is still underway, though at a stupidly slow pace. I know not why.

I do have a new day job, and that is not helping. The job is fine, but it is the thief of time.

I do have some ideas that I want to bring forward in the near future.

The dino-contest appears to have died a death from lack of participation, as has the postcard contest. Pity, but natural selection will do its thing.

I have, however, a rack of new prizes thanks to an anonymous contributor who old me a schwack of excellent books for a pittance to use as prizes.

If i owe anyone a prize, please email me me here at textfight so I can rectify. I think I've mailed out the prizes to all who have them coming, but my brain is made of swiss cheese as the long nights of winter drag on.

It is getting better now, thank god.

In an unrelated note, I am still looking for people to critique my three day novel. Volunteer, you bastards.

Let's get some talk going in the infield, anyway, people. Let's kick start one another.

Oh, and congrats to G and out mystery Blogshy person once again on completing their November novels. I've read G's, and really like it.

And so we go. Let me spark conversation.

I think slavery is just wrong. Who here thinks it's right?