1200 words today, most of it my final action-packed scene of avenging goodness.

PAX has kicked my ass. Going to go pass out now. I can’t write when I am tired. The words come out Teh Suckith.

Tomorrow I might just be done with my first draft!

Ken writes:

How would you describe your relationship with your writing?

My writing is my lover
Intimate, raw, unconditional
Honesty begets rewards
If I stray, I feel worse than guilt
I feed her creativity
Like a peeled grape
She demands nothing
But returns everything

No sooner did I blog about a second-hand suggestion from Wil Wheaton about writing (for example, his latest post), then I saw him at PAX. He was at his booth with his friends, not talking to any PAX attendee. No one was coming up to talk to him!

I so so desperately wanted to go up to talk to him about writing, but alas, that was not meant to be. I had with me Thing One, and he was expired, tired with dropping blood sugar. As any parent with a child like this would tell you, the singular goal in such situation is getting home as soon as possible for a meal composed of real food. To ignore Thing One’s necessary nutrition intake was to invite disaster.

Maybe next year! What a stange small world we now live in…

Writing must be a learning process. As a reflection of life, even of entertainment value, if there is no growth then there is stagnation. Writing, my creativity in particular (results may vary per package), needs both incremental improvements and proper reflection. What did I learn today?

I shared a conversation with Reader David on making cuts (from this topic) and I concluded the suggestion offered by Wheaton in putting cuts into a separate cut document is valid. I came to this as I encountered writing filled with characterization, a fun look at life and death. It was a good piece of writing but I realized it was not adding to the entertainment value of my story.

I will be damned before I delete that permanently. An enormous amount of research went into that theme, going so far as to buy used and new books (rather than use the library) on the topic to broaden my horizons. This type of research gets the juices flowing and as an unpublished novelist, I need all the juices I can get! Even if I was to delete it out of my novel without looking back, it did broaden my horizons.

That bit of writing is unto itself, research material. I could no more delete it as could throw away one of the books on the topic I bought with my hard earned money. It is writing I would not be able to recreate simply sitting down and typing.

I made a cuts.docx file and off it will go.

I bumped into my inner capacity to recall the main details of my cuts due to the complexity of the details involved. That tells me two things. One, I have never done a bit of writing as I have in Bunny Trouble. It is unique. How exciting!

Two, I excite easily.

My new workout routine: Follow the 3rd Grader all over the Seattle Convention Center from 11 to 5. Zip zip zip zip zip!

My poor feet. And ears. Andy eyes. At one point, Thing One played a game that made me motion sick. Thus, I knew I was an offical Old Fart.

<insert Jaws “Shark Theme” music here>

Coming along nicely. Soon my precious, soon. Next up: the bad guys gain ground but <spoiler deleted>.

Tomorrow: PAX. Thing One’s favorite part of the year, game that junkie he is. This year we are bringing our DSes.

I will finish the first draft of my current book this weekend. I can feel it.

Bunny Trouble, I give you life!

-1600 words on Bunny Trouble last night.

I wait until finishing a story (novel, short story, poem, etc.) to make substantial, non-readability edits. Mainly because in the first novel I wrote, I made edits that I had to go back and revert. It was a pain, lesson learned. I’m not particularly experienced in writing novels (novel 1: finished, novel 2: set aside after 80k, novel 3: currently working on), but I can learn new tricks.

Last night The Wife Unit caught me chuckling to myself. The main character in Bunny Trouble has two friends. Inadvertently, when these three get together they wind up doing something mischievously naughty. This particular bit of writing had them doing something very over the top and it was so out of character that I knew I had to kill it. She of course asked “what?” so I explained what I created and asked point blank if it should go. Maybe there was hope…

She rolled her eyes. “I wouldn’t read that, it’s just unrealistic. You shouldn’t be reliving some obvious teenage boy fantasy in your novel!”

Ah, well, I thought so. Secretly I was hoping, but alas, it was not meant to be. Highlight 603/143,722. DELETE.

While I was at it, I deleted a convoluted plot point that was… too convoluted. I felt it was safe to do so and the story didn’t even move when I was finished, a clear indication of a needed cut if there ever was one.

Here ya go Sven.

KABOOM KABOOM KABOOM went Lauren’s monstrous handgun. Michael and Terrance actually stopped firing, holstered and stared at her. It was the first time they were at the range with Lauren, having arranged with one of Joseph’s boys to cover for them in a little shift swap.

“Whot?” she asked when she realized she was the center of attention.

“What the fuck is that… thing?” Michael asked. She had worn a Glock 19 on her hip to the range, but she definitely was not using it. Neither man recognized the handgun, although the slide looked vaguely Glock 17ish with an extended barrel poking well out the slide.

“Oh this?” she asked innocently in exaggeration. “This little thing tis me sidearm. I call ‘em Evil Bob.”

“I repeat myself. What is that?”

“Tis is a Glock 20 with the factory six-inch hunting barrel and X300 Surefire that you gave me. I ordered the frame custom; it is a pure titanium rig. The trigger is standard but I did do a polish job on it so tis a might smoother than the normal Glock trigger. I added the Heinie figure-eight sights and a Crimson Trace 1911 rig. Right now I be shooting DoubleTap range ammo.”

Michael was speechless.

Terrance actually heard of the after-market Glock 1911 style frames. “Uh, why titanium and not stainless steel?”

Lauren ejected the magazine and cleared her firearm. She handed it to Terrance who checked it again and then studied it in earnest. The grip was pure 1911 but the entire firearm felt… strange. Heavier than it should be. The balance was weird.

“Okay, I give. I don’t get it. This feels like a steel rig but the frame is obviously titanium.”

Michael also examined it. Even though both Lauren and Terrance had cleared the weapon, he followed his training and assumed they were DEA agents professional enough to handle a Glock 40.

Also noting its strange balance, he frowned and handed it back to her.

“You got me,” he admitted. “This is heavier than it should be unless you are pulling our leg about titanium.”

She took it back. “See the little metal cavity plug ya normally see on Glocks? This frame has one of those too. This plug ets permanent. I welded it in place after filling the unused cavity to 90% capacity with liquid mercury after plug’n the other end with a custom bit of titanium. The result tis perfection. My perfection. As long as you have long fingers like me, you will not encounter a better handgun. Anywhere.”

“Liquid mercury?” Terrance repeated, stupidly.

“You welded titanium yourself?” asked Michael, almost as stupid.

Lauren merely smiled. It was predatory. Almost if she had fangs and wanted to bite them. “You think that’s good? You should see me Coulaux Freres dueling sword. Now that ‘tis a weapon!”

Michael and Terrance looked at each other and then went down on their knees. They started genuflecting.

“We are not worthy!” said Terrance.

“We are but worms!” said Michael.

Lauren laughed a rich deep Irish woman laugh. “Ya know if I actually found men attractive that would be fook’n hawt.”

“ThingTwo, can you please get the paper for me?”
“No thank you.”

Words expended: 12
Result: Failure.

Next Day:

“ThingTwo, get the paper please.”
“Okay.”

Words expended: 6
Result: Success!

Less is more. This advice was brought to you by Thing Two, who when I came down stairs this morning, was running around wearing nothing but his Transformer socks and eating a cheese stick. He’s five.