Fiction

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Reflections On The Nano Experience

Posted by george on November 29, 2010
Posted in: Fiction, Writing. Tagged: , , , . 21 comments

Well, I did it. I participated in the National Novel Writing Month (NaNoWriMo) this year. I won. 50,000 words in 26 days. I’m proud, pleased, ecstatic and all the other describers that fit for accomplishing something really cool. I feel the need to post a nano debrief. I’m sure that those who participated this year can relate. Those that didn’t participate may find this an interesting glimpse into what happens when you write a novel in a month.

Novel Background

I didn’t know I was going to participate until about a month beforehand. I had been reading the Alexander McCall-Smith series 44 Scotland Street which was originally published in a serialized format in a Scottish paper. I thought, hey, what a cool idea. Perfect for one of the local Alaska papers. I got the notion that mayhap I could put something like that together. As happens so often with my blog posts, a title popped into my head: Talkeetna Trouble. Immediately I had an idea about a cast of miscreants and Alaska anomalies that would fit just right into such a novel. For the first time in my fiction writing career, I sat down and listed characters along with some descriptions, I listed plot points and developed a basic structure.

Then it hit me. Nano was a little over a month away. This could be the perfect project for such madness. I made the decision to participate. I updated my Nano profile and even set up a display at the library announcing my intentions. No backing out now.

The Process

I didn’t get all whacked out crazy about getting set up. I cleared the writing desk in the bedroom, made sure I had plenty of coffee in the cupboard and set my alarm for 5am.

I caught myself up on my monthly writing obligations, scheduled “Classic” posts from the archives for Tumblemoose and essentially cleared as much of my writing plate as possible.

Other than those very basic things the only thing I did to prepare was get the book  No Plot? No Problem!: A Low-Stress, High-Velocity Guide to Writing a Novel in 30 Days by Chris Blaty. Nano Founder. This is important and I cannot emphasize it enough. If you are going to participate in Nano, you must read this book. The insight was invaluable. Everything Chris said would happen throughout the month happened. It provided perspective, encouragement and super-sage advice. Do not do Nano without it.

What I did

I awoke at 5am every day, including weekends. I mean every day. My regular work days span anywhere from 7am until 8pm. I knew if I was going to make nano progress I had to do the writing during those first two hours in the morning.

I wrote every day. Just under two thousand words. My nano commitment was done before I left for work every day so I never gave it much thought throughout the day other than to consider story lines for the next day’s writing.

That’s how I came to upload my novel on day 26 and collect my winner goodies.

I was interviewed at the mid-point by Judy at the Fear of Writing Blog. It is kind of a fun read, so I’d appreciate it if you took a moment and went over there to have a look.

What I Learned:

I can write much faster than I ever thought I could. I averaged about a thousand words an hour without being ridiculous about it. That included breaks to pee, refill the coffee mug or have a puff or two off the old pipe. (Regular tobacco, not the wacky kind.)

The characters themselves decided where the story went to some extent. I had an idea about a basic story line when I started but I really didn’t have any idea where things were going to go. Amazingly I was writing a particular scene and all of a sudden I knew exactly what was going to happen in the story. I knew the climax and the characters that would be involved and I also figured out how to get there, what building blocks were needed.

There are nano ramifications. One of the hints that Chris gives in his book is to decrease the amount of hyphenated words, since most word counters will count as one instead of two words. In the few days since completing the novel, I have a hyphen phobia. I don’t hyphenate words that are in desperate need of that little dash.

I learned to not look back. Once, I scrolled back two pages to find a little detail I needed and that was the only time I ever went back. Right now, I’ve got NFI what is in the book. I have vague remembrances of some scenes I wrote but most of it is stuck in a haze. Not looking back stopped me from letting my inner editor out of his cage and bogging me down.

As I approached the end, I started suffering from post-partum depression. I was already missing the characters, the story, the routine of writing so much every morning. And while I was so happy about typing “THE END” I was truly sad.

It’s only been a few days since I finished and I’m having a hard time focusing on all of the other writing I need to get done this weekend. It’s not that I’m burned out or anything, I’m just in a different writing place and I don’t know how else to describe it.

The Final Question

Now that I’m done with it, what do I do with it? Do I park it for a month and then dig in to the rewrite phase, polishing it up for submission? Do I bask in the afterglow that comes with finishing a real live novel, leaving it to rest in the confines of My Documents?

I think I know the answer. I like the story, I believe in it so chances are that sometime after the first of the year I ‘ll print it out and get busy.

Overall, this has been one of the greatest writing experiences I’ve ever had. Highly recommended.

What say other nano types? What did you learn about yourself, the process or writing in general?

The Story of Charlie Z – Write The Ending

Posted by george on April 12, 2010
Posted in: Fiction. Tagged: , , . 12 comments

A little different Flash Fiction today folks.  Remember that Flash Fiction by definition is less than 1000 words.  I’m at 850 the way it sits and I want YOU to write the ending.

Show us your twist prowess and just write the ending in the comments.  After a week or so I think I’ll set up a vote.

The Story of Charlie Z

Logan, he’s just your average 8 year old kid. His summer is filled with bike rides, Indian baseball until it’s too dark to see the ball and an ever present ear for the ice cream truck. He hears the other kids talk about Charlie Z. He shrugs. Charlie Z always has a smile and a wave for him whenever Logan cycles past his house on the way to the gulley. Logan has yet to form an opinion about Charlie Z. Grown ups live in another world, and that’s just fine with Logan.

This August is hotter than it has a right to be. It’s barely 10 in the morning and the few blocks Logan has ridden on his bike have already caused a sheen of sweat to appear on his forehead. The heat means the creek will be very low and the chances of getting some big ol’ frogs goes way up. He’s thinking that Barton weighs-a-ton and Ricky might already be down there and just when he’s  getting ready to put things into overdrive he passes the 50′s bungalo style house that passes for Charlie Z’s home. A glint from something metal catches his eye and as he passes the front hedge he can see a foot with a rake lying next to it.

Logan steps hard on the brake, leaving a long black streak and a little cloud of dirt.

“Mr. Z? Are you okay?”

He walks his bike through the hedge opening and drops it to the ground. Mr. Z is laying on his back, sweating profusely, eyes blinking rapidly, wire frame glasses askew on his face. A rivulet of spittle dries on his chin.

Logan kneels by his head, peering down into the old man’s ruddy face. Suddenly, a knarled fist has a solid grip on the boy’s arm.

“Who are you?! What happened?!”

Logan steps back, wrenching his arm free. “It’s me, Mr. Z. Logan!”

Charlie Z blinks, raises his head and has a tentative look around.

“Logan?”

“Yes! I was riding by and saw you on the grass…”

Mr. Z sighs and plops his head back into the cool grass. “Aww. Hell. I have seizures, Logan. Must have had another. Dammit.”

Standing back , Logan drops his jaw a bit. He’s never known anyone who had seizures before.

“Help me sit up, son.” Mr Z extends his arm and raises his head back up.

“Uh, sure.  Are you gonna be okay?”

“I always am, sometimes it just takes a minute or two. Gotta get out of this sun though. Help me get indoors, will you? I’m unsteady on my feet after one of these fits.”

Children hate Charlie Z because inside, they know people. They know the inside of people. They may not say it in front of grown ups, but things are said. They’re said down by the creek while looking for frogs or building a dam. They’re said while kneeling in the dirt, drawing pictures with sticks. They’re whispered by flashlight, under the covers that make bedroom tents.

You’d never know it by looking at him, Charlie Z. In other parts of the animal world, predators look a certain way. The prey know what to look for and are keen to spot anything that looks amiss. Well, most of the time anyway. It could be said that the Venus fly trap and other hide-in-plain-sight predators are the exception.

For humans, predators come in many disguises and for children many more still. Charlie Z wears a disguise. He wears it all day long. The only time the disguise goes away is when it’s too late for his prey to escape. Children are torn, because he looks okay, but there is a danger vibration that tickles just under the surface. Innocence battles instinct. Often, it is the last second of life that brings recognition and a knowing. A knowing of the end. It is this moment that Charlie Z savors. This moment that brings the hardness not seen since his youth. In fact his only way of achieving it.

Logan doesn’t notice the odd shape forming in the front of Charlie Z’s trousers as he lets Mr. Z steady himself on his shoulder.

“Got to go though the kitchen door in the back. Front door’s locked.”

“Sure, Mr. Z.” Logan takes a look back towards the hedge where is bike is laying. He figures no one will see it from the street so the bike won’t get stolen.

The ancient screen door lets out a little screech of protest as Logan opens it wide to let Mr. Z in. Charlie Z hobbles to the kitchen table and plops down in one of the chrome and plastic padded kitchen chairs.

“Son, this is different from the other seizures I’ve had. I better get to the hospital. There’s a phone on the wall over by the door – I can’t feel my legs too well, could you call Salty’s Ambulance? The number’s on the wall right there.”

Logan reaches for the handle of the once tan but now grimy phone mounted on the wall.

Charlie Z’s movements are rapid and feline. His hands wrap the throat of Logan before he had even punched the first number. Logan is amazed by the strength of the hands squeezing the life from him.

Flash Fiction: Night Stocker

Posted by george on March 13, 2010
Posted in: Fiction. Tagged: , . 9 comments

I’m a night stocker.  Not exactly what I had in mind for myself when I was growing up.  I guess I ended up here because the usual career goals didn’t fit.  Fireman?  Heh.  Yeah, I’m all about running into burning buildings.  Doctor?  Eight-plus years of college – no-thank-you-very-much.  Lawyer?  Ditto.

You could ask if I’m happy with my lot in life.  My response would be, “Well, it could be worse.”  I get to work alone, just me and my iPod doing what I’ve grown to love.  I should also say that I think I’m very good at what I do.  It’s not for everyone, you know.  A certain flair for keeping things tidy and in order is required.  It helps to be a bit of a loner as well because truly, it’s not the most social gig in the world.

There’s also something about working at night that is appealing.  Of course this work has to be done at night because there’s not so many bothersome people around.  Since I’ve decided that I don’t care too much for people, this works out just fine for me.  There are sounds, smells and sights that are only visible to those dwelling about after the sun has set and those things have become my friends, my source of comfort.

At first, I was nervous about doing this kind of work.  One careless moment or seemingly innocent mistake could set the wheels in motion for a lot of trouble.  It’s important work and at the end of the day, er night what I do impacts folks.  Sometimes in ever widening circles.  Those are my favorite, by the way.

Tonight, I’m anticipating a heavy workload.  I’ve know for a while that it’s been on its way and I think I’m prepared and up for the task.  I even double checked the tools for the job.  Box cutter with a new blade, sturdy gloves and comfy shoes are all ready to go.  About one more hour until the sun sets and I’ll be ready to head on in.  I sit in my easy chair, eyes closed and silent walls echoing the chants of my “Ahhh” meditations.  Meditating helps me to clear my mind of any insecurities while I visualize exactly how I’d like tonight’s events to go.

It’s time.  I gather the tools and head for the bus station.  My car works just fine, but I almost always take the bus to my job.  Not having to worry about driving and parking lets me keep my focus.  Not only that, but taking the bus is safer.

I ring for the stop at 76th and Carlson.  Squeaky brakes and a hiss of the door opening tell me we’re there.  The bus trundles away, leaving me with a cloud of black diesel smoke and a single streetlight overhead.  I only need to go a block or so up Carlson and I’m a few minutes early so I take a moment to have a smoke while waiting across the street from my job.  It being a weeknight, traffic is already thinning out.  All the better, me thinks.

In another minute or so, I’ll be in the thick of the work I love so much.

Jenny slips on her coat and grabs her purse as she walks out of the diner.  “Thank God that shift’s over.  How many non-tipping creeps could there be in this town and what are the odds they all would have shown up in one night?”  She turns the corner and starts walking to her car parked in the free lot two blocks away.  She doesn’t see or sense the dark shape as it crosses the street, comfy shoes making for nary a sound.

She drops her keys as she reaches her car.  Kneeling, she picks up her keys just as the first slash of the box cutter sweeps across her throat.  Instinctively, her hands rise to her neck and the second slash takes off her left thumb.  She lies next to her rusted Volvo, eyes open but vacant, a crimson river slowly heading towards the curb.

Wow.  That was a lot easier than the last couple.

I’m getting so good at this.

I am truly proud to be a night stocker.

Author’s Note:  A bit on the predictable side, I know.  But it was a lot of fun to write!

Orb Chapter Four

Posted by george on January 10, 2010
Posted in: Fiction, Writing. Tagged: , , . 7 comments

Richter was pacing.  Back and forth, damn near stomping.  Nelson, already keyed up and tightly wound, could only sit in the chair and watch.  Ordinarily, the view from Richter’s 14th floor office at One Ocean Boulevard would be serene.  Sailboat triangles slowly cutting a swath across Santa Monica Bay always held a fascination for Nelson, but not today.  He had a severe butt chewing coming his way and Richter had the teeth to make it most unpleasant.

The cell on Richter’s OCD driven uncluttered desk started to vibrate.  Thank God it put a stop to the pacing.  Stephen Richter picked it up, grunted his patented, “Richter” and listened.  Half a minute later, without a word he gently placed the phone back on the desk, gave it several nudges to line it up exactly with the keyboard and looked Nelson dead in the eye.

” You want to tell me how you managed to screw this up so badly?  No, wait.  On second thought I don’t want to know.”  The contempt for Nelson and his seething rage mingled into a vile stream that bubbled and ran just under his calm veneer.

“There was just this one thing you had to do. Child’s play.  I think those were the words you used?”

Nelson eyed him silently.  Instinctively, he knew that to respond was to rip Richter’s ire wide open and the swath of destruction would be wide indeed.  He had thought the assignment was child’s play.  That underestimation was the cause for the failure.  Nelson himself still couldn’t quite believe it.  The codes were right where he knew they’d be.  He didn’t think the old man would be so damned stubborn.  Or clever.

“We’ll head another direction on this.  Get out of here and wait until you hear from me.”

Nelson stood and turned towards the door, happy to be leaving the teak and brushed steel fortress of this dangerous man.

Reaching for the door handle…

“Nelson?”

He turned and faced Richter.

“Don’t fail me again.”

Nelson nodded, understanding his implied fate.

The heavy wooden door clicked shut, Richter reached for his phone and punched a button.

“He’s on his way down.  Take care of it.”

Richter sat in the leather high-back and turned to the ocean view.  The mid morning smog had been blown out into the bay, giving the horizon a ruddy brown haze.  This was a minor setback and while it might delay things a bit, it by no means meant an end to his plan.  He thought Nelson was just right for the job but he was coming to realize that there were just some things you had to do yourself.

***

The chill in the small cabin woke Francois and was a good indicator of how much time had passed since he fell asleep.  He looked over towards the bed and saw the furs and blankets all lumpy with a mop of black hair poking out from one end.  He replayed the events of last night over in his head just as he had before succumbing to sleep.  He felt certain things would make more sense in the light of day – all four hours of it.

He stood and stretched, his back letting off mini-reports and his knees following suit.  It had been a damned long time since he had slept in something other than his bed and his joints were voicing their opinion of his sleeping arrangement.  Grabbing three split wedges of spruce, he swung open the cast iron door of the woodstove and placed them on the last dying embers.  Closing the doors got the draft going and a minute later, he could hear the pops and cracks of the dry spruce catching.

Already, it was getting warmer in the tiny wood cabin.  He tossed some coffee grounds into the blackened pot he had filled with water and set it on the woodstove.  He gave another glance towards the bed and saw a pair of shiny black eyes and the grin of his new roommate.  His teenage roommate.

“So, Aurora.  You’re older still?  I thought as much.  You look to be about, what? Eighteen?”

Aurora just grinned and flicked his head back to get the hair out of his eyes.

“I’ve got coffee on.  Were you warm enough last night?”

Aurora sat up and sat crosslegged on the bed.  “I was.  Your generosity is noted.  And, it will all come back to you.”

Francois furled his brow and gave Aurora a sideways glance as he gave the Cowboy Coffee a stir.  “What are you sayin’ , son?”

“It is of no matter right now.  There is much that we need to do and time is short.  I need to ask one thing of you, one thing only for now.”

“No promises, but I’ll do my best.”

“That is all I ask.  I need to you to trust me.  No matter what happens.  Our success depends on it.”

“Our success with what?”

“Our success in doing what I’ve come to do.  That is all I can say for now.  Will you trust me?”

Francois sat back in the chair and watched the orange flames licking the sooted glass of the woodstove door.  So much had happened.  So fast.  He was a trapper, dammit.  Nothing more. How could he do anything to help Aurora in his mysterious mission?  He remembered the writing on the orb, and what Aurora had said last night – Ordo ab chao, Order from Chaos.   His internal protests dampened when he looked over at the alien-boy sitting on his bed.  There was an innocence there.  An innocence and something  that was just… right.  He knew of no other way to describe it.

He stood and faced Aurora.  “Damned if I know what I’m doing, but this is right.  It feels right.  So, where do we go from here?”

Flash Fiction – Orb Chapter Three

Posted by george on December 28, 2009
Posted in: Fiction, Writing. Tagged: , , . 7 comments

Image from: Themzini.wordpress.com

Francois grabbed one of his heavy flannel shirts and knelt down next to the boy.

He placed a tentative hand on the boy’s back.  It was cold and Aurora’s shivering resonated through Francois’ gentle touch.

“Aurora, my God.  You’re freezing.  Let’s get some clothes on you.”

With that, he scooped up the boy and placed him on the ramshackle bedding and fed Aurora’s arms through the woolen shirt.  Grey socks with red toes and heels were slid on and went up past the boy’s knees.  The shivering started to subside and Aurora looked up and with a half smile whispered.  “Thank you”.

Francois jerked back and blinked.  He could speak?  How was that possible?  It had been barely an hour since he had pulled the baby – now a boy – from the glowing orb.  Still reeling from the transformation from baby to boy in a matter of minutes, his head was spinning with questions.

“Aurora, can you understand everything I say?”

The boy responded with a slight nod, a lock of his long black hair falling over his eyes.

Francois let out a deep breath through his mouth and sat on the edge of the bed.  Head down, he was looking at his hands that hung lightly clasped between his knees.

He had always been simple, pragmatic.  This didn’t fit.  It just plain did not fit into what his life had told him thus far.  Life existed for him through the winters in this cabin tucked deep into the Alaskan wilderness.  Setting traps, walking the line, tanning skins that he would haul into Coldfoot in the spring.  Life as he knew it, as he remembered it, as he lived it.

***

“Francois!  Boy, come here!”

Gerrard Penkin could see the stick figure that was his son down at the creekside scooping up a bucket or two of the clear water that even in July would turn your hands pink and numb if you kept them in for too long.

The lanky teen turned and raised a hand, grabbed the old steel buckets and headed up the short trail to the cabin.  A flurry of dive bombing mosquitoes were happy to escort him up the path.

Gerrard settled on a large round of birch and pulled his well used pipe with the chewed mouthpiece out of his shirt pocket.

The young Francois huffed the buckets and sloshed them just outside the cabin door.  A sheen of sweat on his forehead threatened to gather and drip into his eye and he pulled his trusty kerchief from his back pocket, swiped it across his forehead and tucked it back home.

“I gotta get me a rest for a bit, boy.  Finish up splitting that pile of spruce.”

“Sure thing, Pop.”

Francois grabbed the splitting maul and swung his first arc.  The spruce was fairly seasoned and the round split evenly in two.  He continued working the wood pile, stopping now and then to swat one of the thirsty bloodsuckers that were a permanent buzzing shroud.  The sun beat down and was calmed by a cool breeze that trundled down from the glacier some twenty miles up the valley.

Francois split another round.  “Hey, Pop.  Later this afternoon you want to head up to the lake and try for some grayling?”  Silence returned his query.

“Pop?”

He dropped the ax and ran to where Gerrard sat, chin to chest, slumped over, pipe on the ground still leaking fragrant cherry/whiskey tobacco smoke.

Francois had never felt so helpless in his life.  He held his father’s lifeless body as the tears filled his eyes and blurred his vision, mindless of the incessant whining of the summer insects.

***

Gerrard Penkin had been a good man.  Wanting nothing less than the best that a simple life could offer for his only boy was his main mission in life.  Francois could sense this from the time he was knee high.  And now, at what Francois sensed was a juncture in his relatively uneventful life, his thoughts turned to his father.  He wondered what his Pop would have to say about all this.  What would he say, what would he do?

He looked up at Aurora.  If Aurora had noticed his slip into the past, he didn’t let on.

“I have so many questions.”

“Yes, you would.”  Aurora’s voice, while that of a six year old boy, had a timbre and a cadence that suggested something far exceeding his (at this moment) years.

“Who are you?  Why are you here?”

“All of your questions – and more – will be answered.  In time, Francois, in time.  Ordo ab chao – order from chaos.  This is important and explains many things.”  As he spoke, the spots on his upper chest luminesced  a soft but vibrant blue.

In spite of himself, Francois let out a little chuckle.  “I guess I kinda figured the answer would be something like that.  No matter right now.  What matters is that you’re here and you’re safe.  We’ll take this one step at a time I guess.”  He reached over and tassled the boy’s hair, at which Aurora sprung a grin from ear to ear.

“It’s late, Aurora.  Think you could sleep?”

Francois got his answer in the form of a big ol’ yawn.

He tucked Aurora under the beaver skin covers and grabbed a scratchy, thick wool blanket and took up residence in the overstuffed chair by the woodstove.  Tired as he was, he didn’t think sleep was in his immediate future.  He looked over and Aurora was already lightly snoring and deep in sleep.

That was the last thing Francois remembered before tumbling into an agitated sleep.  A sleep full of destruction, chaos and…

Hope.