Tired
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!
Sexless Luvah
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
PAX Irony
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…
There are cuts and then there are cuts
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 This type of research gets the juices flowing and as an unpublished novelist, I need all the juices I can get!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
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.
1,529/145,300
<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.
#30#
I will finish the first draft of my current book this weekend. I can feel it.
Bunny Trouble, I give you life!
Die plot point die
-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.
For Sven
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.”
Writing Lesson, by Thing Two
“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.
Saved by Great-Grandpa
One thing about creativity, it can haunt you and save you at the same time.
Tonight I put in 1400 words on Bunny Trouble and it was pure Hell. That is, until I added a helpful and completely unnecessary old gentleman who just was as nice and honorable as a weary old man could be. The scene, without him, was this lifeless bit of muck, my dislike for the writing growing by the minute.
This nice older gentleman, one of those random people in my world who do the right thing simply because the right thing needs to be done, saved me from simply going to bed in disgust. Suddenly I was able to break my dour and advance.
Thank you, Sir!
The Monster that Ate the POD Topic
In reference to Ken’s post and others’ comments on Print On Demand, I would like to talk about Larry Correia. Mr. Correia is my new-writer hero, and I have an enormous amount of respect for him as an author. We’ve never met, but if we did I would have him sign my collector’s copy of the Print on Demand version of Monster Hunter International.
Mr. Correia is a monster B-Movie fan. He has more than a passing familiarity with firearms and the art of self defense. He is also a writer. Correia set about writing on those two topics in his novel.
MHI is a great book. It’s tight and fast-paced, and the characters, even the bad ones, are fun. It is a monstrously (ha ha) entertaining book to read. How good is it? Well my wife, Dainty Little Southern Girl Blonde has started reading it, and she doesn’t even like monster movies or guns. You can find the first chapter of MHI on his blog.
You can also read the full story on his search for a publisher and finally his contract through a major publishing house on his blog archives. I want you to consider this: I opened this post with information about Correia’s book. At the end of the day, Correia had a sellable book, and against the odds he sold it. He self-pubished it and the novel drew attention, and then a major publisher picked it up.
Thus Larry wins. Correia Wins New-Writer Book. He is being published by Baen. Baen. That is BAEN folks.
I encourage everyone to put their internal biases aside and consider this: the book industry is more organic today then the past. As an outsider looking in, this is my observation: like the internets, it is impacted by globalization and market forces beyond the reach of traditional media. It will change. How much Print on Demand will change it remains to be seen. You cannot deny there are positive aspects of Print on Demand, anymore than you can deny Correia’s business acumen.
Writing is our blood. Make every drop count.
The End is Near
Another 3,000 word day. 10,000 more to go. Four scenes, maybe five.
Wow.
The book ends with a bang. Specifically, a 6.8mm SPC bang. Followed by a 10mm bang from a Glock 20 using DoubleTap ammunition out of a 6″ factory hunting barrel.
Yeah, it’s a little awesome.
The Revenge of Baby Magic
Since my last post was about sex, it is more than fitting to follow up with the inadvertent follow up, babies. This topic also pertains to my writing.
BABIES! BABIES! B A B I E S !
Is there any doubt as to why there are so very many mommy blogs? That’s because babies are awesome. I just love babies. But I digress.
My wife and I practice what I call ‘rational attachment parenting’. Stick a researcher and a super-smart lady together and you get two practical parents. One of the benefits from our parenting technique is our kids are little sleepers, even as babies. As soon as their tummies got big enough, they were little snoozers, even with the reflux Thing Two suffered from. Sleep sleep sleep sleep. It was glorious.
The secret to that is no secret. Basically, make an assumption that for the last 100 years, the majority of the people shoving parenting advice into main-stream media were assholes. Then, have these assholes ignore contemporary American cultural shifts caused by two World Wars, and finally a sprinkle a smattering of basic incompetency and finish off with some group-think. At this point, you have some really good assumptions going, mainly a lot of people are full of crap and they are selling it:
Don’t have your baby sleep with you because you can roll over and squish you baby.
That is true.
If you are drunk. Or high. Or sick.
Guess what? If you are drunk or high or sick you can go sleep somewhere else. Babies were born to sleep with their parents. How many thousands of years has this been true? To ignore biology is pure hubris.
Many parents have, in the last century, started rallying against biology with marginal to no success. Then after awhile the child adapts because that is what children do. This sleep change is mostly moot in the long run, I feel. It’s not something I lose sleep over (ha ha ha I kill myself I really do).
Baby Thing One would wake up and pounce on me like a cat. The penalty of course for waking up Daddy by crawling all over him would be Torture by Tickles and sometimes wrestling and the obligatory baby arm chewing while going nom nom nom nom. I treasured these moments.
One morning, Thing One woke up, yawned, and tried to go back to sleep. It was really cute, he was trying to press himself back into the bed, and he rolled over with his back to me.
Okay little man, that’s just too tempting. I slowly reached out and scriched his back.
Scrich scrich scrich.
Thing One just giggled. However, instead of turning over, he reached out his little hand and… scritched Mommy on her back.
Daddy: Scrich scrich scrich.
Baby: Scrich scrich scrich (giggle).
Mommy: Er. Mrph.
Daddy: Scrich scrich scrich.
Baby: Scrich scrich scrich (giggle).
Mommy: Grr.
Daddy: Scrich scrich scrich.
Baby: Scrich scrich scrich (giggle).
Mommy: Pisht.
At this point the Baby goes “AHHHHHAAA!” and jumps on Mommy, who was trying to go back to sleep by pretending she was not awake.
Now how do I bottle that kind of Baby Magic and put that in a book? I do not exactly know, but I can try. I do know one thing, however, unlike the real world, where our society segments off people who harm children, Bunny Trouble contains people who will take a dim view of abuse and abandonment, and their pent up furry is Epic.
You can bank on that. I promise you.
Sexy Writing Fu
How does one deal with sex in a novel?
I remember getting into a discussion with a man from Germany about contemporary American attitudes about sex. His contention was that Americans were too uptight and formal about sex, nudity and what have you. For example, children must not see a single boob on Prime Time TV, yet there was a push for mothers to breastfeed their children. His point was the boob was not sex. It was a boob. Yet we were treating it as such.
I told him there was a segment of truth in that, especially considering that my solution as a parent who objected to the occasional boob would be to take away the TV. But that is a different discussion.
I pointed out however, he was parroting a common European media-fueled stereotype. Witness the firehose (ok that’s a badword) of porn coming out of California. It’s a mountain of porn. And don’t get me started on the interwebs. It’s everywhere.
No, I asserted, our cultural issue with sex has less to do with being uptight, and more to do with political correctness. It is not that we are adverse to sexy things, sexy things right now are politically incorrect. I also made a strong case for There Aint No Such Thing as a Free Lunch. If I want sexy programming, I can pay for HBO or such and get a show like Big Love.
This bias against sex can be found in novels. Either the sexual tension runs its course and the consummation of desires happens behind literary closed doors from the reader, or it is gratuitous and silly. It is a rare gem that actually attempts to deal with two passionate people in a sensual and beautiful way.
I have heard the argument that sex runs better in the imagination rather than in your pages. To a small extent this is true, to a large extent I feel that is an exaggeration. It’s like any other characterization. If you want to establish the character for the reader, ignoring that person’s sensuality can lead to a flat person. A more believable bias against sex is that sexy sex is difficult to write. If the sex is there to sell your book, like 99.99% of the video porn, it’s now just people having sexless sex for money.
I overcome that difficulty by cheating. As a young man I used to write erotic short stories for my lovers, and received appropriate feminine feedback. Soon I was able to tell what my friends liked to read, and what they didn’t.
In Bunny Trouble, my characters are sensual, playful people with a sense of humor and an eagerness to experience life. They have sex.
Any you, dearest 7.3 readers of my blog, get to watch.
“That would be ‘Your OODA Loop is Fucked’ technique… sir,”
Another 4,000 word day. That’s with doing some chores, fixing dinner, going grocery shopping, hanging with the kids… and blogging. Am I insane? What is wrong with me? How is that possible?
I am 13,000 words from the end of the book. The last chapter plus the epilogue will take 10,000 words, and I only need about 2000 or so to get to that point. The End is Near!
Here I thought I would go over 150,000. Ha. Bunny Trouble is looking to be 145K to 140K words after I take out my knife.
I’m really enamored with my writing today. Here’s a snippet from Super Terrance on page 326:
“Just what technique do you call that?” one of them asked.
“That would be ‘Your OODA Loop is Fucked’ technique… sir,” said Terrance.
He he he.
More fun then a basket of kittens.
Medic!
4,000 words yesterday! Plot points intersecting! Characters introduced at the beginning of the book have grown and learned, their fates their own, their lives coated in meaning.
The Good: The end is near! I can see the end of the book as clearly as if it was already typed.
The Bad: I need to cut 10,000 words. Ten Thousand! I refuse to have a 160,000 novel not just because I promised myself to stick to my limit, but because I honestly think there is 10k of crap buried in the manuscript. Maybe 20K.
Soon the rubber will hit the asphalt. It will be my true test. Can I polish this book down my second way through it? I think, dear readers, you demand nothing less.
Sleep now.
Hot Topic: Your Writing Ability
Ken started a great topic (look at all the replies!), but since Nicole took it up, I wanted to circle back and expand on it here.
My writing routine
I come home from work. Work does not come home with me. I make an espresso from The Wife Unit’s snobby Italian one-button press Espresso Magic Machine of Love™. If the kids are home and are in a mood to be sociable, I play with the kids, the dog or a combination thereof.
If not I look at the Honey Do list, feel 3.5 nanoseconds of guilt, and fire up the laptop while sipping said espresso. Left alone I can write and average of 24 words a minute. I can type 60, but with self-editing and looking up the occasional factoid, it drops to about half that.
After dinner, Dearest Wife and I attempt to be social with the kids. Sometimes they want to play, sometimes they want to go outside (if the weather is nice), and sometimes they want to play board games. I treasure these moments. I have banned electronics after dinner, and it is a great way to talk and have fun with Thing One and Thing Two.
Through attachment parenting techniques that—wonders of wonders, work for us—the kids are in bed before 9:00 after reading time. While they are sleepy, either I tickle them or we simply talk.
Around 9:10, well that is when the flood starts. The TiVo hard disk is full and deleting things I would love to watch but cannot find the time. The Xbox 360 is lonely. The wife is playing her online game. The dog is sleepy. You cannot find the cats. The laptop beckons. The fingertips engage.
The torrent has started. It will not end. I drink a glass of wine to make me sleepy or I would stay up too late.
This is how I write 1,000 to 3,000 words a day, every day. On the weekends, I add an hour or two to the routine.
It is a flood
It is water to the parched
It is a sunrise to the blind
It is music to the deaf
It is an addiction both wondrous and frightening
It is euphoria.
Household chores, my lovely wife, fixing dinner, special occasions, the piano, the kids, going to the firing range and in-depth research will pull me from this routine, but inadvertently I snap back on the rails.
I will let you in on a little secret: analytical thinking is a skill and if you are good at it, you can write with your outline solely in your head. There is no plotting. The plot simply is. The Zen of Writing is now caressing you like a lover. Your characters breathe. They are sitting in the same room with you. In this state, it is possible to write as fast as you can type, and your brain is running ahead of your typing ability to pave the way to the conclusion. Some can write this way. Others cannot.
Left alone, one day I wrote 13,000 words. It was easy. I wrote a 150,000-word novel in three months. That was easy too. Research… ugh. Not so easy, but research is fun.
On Word Counts
I have fallen into a rhythm while watching my word count. I use it both as a progress meter but also as a bloat detection device. Free-flow writing has its disadvantages. You go off into places you should not go. Now I use my word count to stop screwing around and get crisp. The word count is a great tool: Do I need to go forward? Or do I need to back up?
I am approaching 600 words now. See? If this were not a blog entry, I would start deleting things to make my point in 500 words. 400. Can I do it in 300? I believe the six readers of my blog will forgive me if I let the dog out and clean the bathroom a bit instead. Life is wondrous, I must have it all, even the mundane parts.
I assume…
What are your writing assumptions? I assume…
My readers are smarter than I am.
One singular grammatical error will cause my peers to taunt me.
The passive voice is a Spawn of the Devil.
Readers do not need to be spoon fed plot details.
When walking along the Maine countryside, do not read obelisks that will summon Cthulhu. Do not visit, sleep in or drive by any town Stephen King may have stayed.
Readers do not like it when you build up a steamy sex scene and then turn them away with a closed door.
Bad things happen to good people. Bad things also happen to bad people.
My readers understand the proper response to the serial killer entering your home is to shoot him with your personal sidearm.
Conflict is all. Fake conflict is insipid.
Life is sensual.
Many readers appreciate good research.
The cliché is both a festering pit and a tool.
Women readers will roll their eyes at the hot lesbian kisses. The men will think that is hot. The women will read it anyway.
Sarcasm is an appreciated art form.
Men still think of their honor.
Real equality means firearm parity.
Passive Aggressiveness is not conflict. It is just a reminder how crappy our society can get.
Justice shall not be denied.
My readers are critical thinkers.
Everyone likes a good back scratch.
This teaser is for David
Being the sixth reader of my blog has it’s perks!
In refeence to this post:
Terrance leaned back in his chair. “This case needs to go by the book and we need a conviction. Because this case will piss off my guy. I’m not sure a death sentence is necessary—there is suffering in rotting away as a living reminder of the Dendel family failure. Nevertheless, if we don’t get a conviction, then I will turn Mr. Fallujah II loose and he will be the Hammer of God. I will then let free my own honest fury.”
Bill opened his mouth to say something but Terrance continued.
“No fuckups Bill. Consider this. You’ll be hard pressed to find two other living people on this planet with more experience in raw, righteous killing. I need your help Bill.”
Terrance looked out at the ocean.
“I need you to remind me to be a member of society.”
One of my characters is kicking my ass
Stephen King takes an interesting (or soon to become interesting) character and sticks him in situations that run from the absurd to the horrifically fatal, and sees what happens as he is writing the story. He does this without an outline in mind. Sometimes they die, sometimes they triumph. Sometimes they die triumphantly.
If it works for King, I thought I would try it. I put one of the main characters in an absurd situation. As the story progressed and this poor fellow overcame his hardships, he went from war-weary mild-mannered coastal citizen to a man of firm convictions and outstanding moral character.
Granted these problems were not horrific in nature, rather social and tactical. Now, he is able to apply his former Army experience to his social situations.
Well, damn. That was unintended. He is overcoming problems with such acumen that he might become uninteresting to read about.
Dude, stop that. You’re smudging my plot. I’ve got my eye on you.
Murder Most Foul!
Last night one of my pretend people in Bunny Trouble solved a crime. And now, he is righteously pissed. As an upright and moral man, he wants to bring the bastard to justice and watch him squirm in court. As the warrior champion against evil, however, he wants to hunt the murderer down and rip out his heart.
It’s a moral quandary. Terrance lives in a sick society where the wicked go unpunished and there is no justice, only the illusion of justice (much like the difference between being safe and feeling safe). He has decided to take matters into his own hands, but I think he might get talked out of it. Convinced, if you will, to use The System to his own ends.
It was a great bit of writing, and I will take unholy delight in turning this cliché inside out after running it through a blender. For in my world, the victim has the final say. The world belongs to the living, but the dead sometimes have their revenge.
All this over a nice big glass of Little Bear Creek from Woodinville Wine Cellars. Damn I love being me.
10% Jetlagged
Small Bunny Trouble update: About a thousand words and many edits, most consisted of grammatical and readability fixes. Right now a lot of people in Bunny Trouble are busy having sex. What else are you going to do on a cold rainy evening on the Washington Coast? I’ve been there and let me tell you, your choices are read a book or engage in lustful play. Usually there is alcohol involved, most likely coffee. Of course in the real world we are not being stalked by nefarious agenda fill…
I digress, for it is impolite to taunt my five potential readers about a book they cannot yet read.
In this blog post I write about talent and ability. Here’s a blog that is full of energy and makes my point. Mr. Kiser writes 900 words a day, six days a week. He calls it easy.
If you have the talent and the ability, it is easy. It is easy because Ken Kiser is a writer. He has already written one book, and cannot wait to write the other. It may take him years to get published, but is that really a concern?
If you have interest in writing check out his site. Not only does he have blog entries, but wallpapers and a forum. If you would like some niffty detail on world building, check out this category.
Girl
Girl
There was a certain sensual flow in the lines
The wood stock, the bolt? handles, even the barrel
I thought they would look evil somehow,
But obviously the manufacturers of many of them
Were concerned with a pleasing appearance
“Why are there so many,” I asked, “why not just two?”
“It is that boy thing we talked about,” she said, smiling.
She smiled more, lately
It was nice
“I think we should pick two each,” I said.
“Did he say what we should do with them?” I ask.
“This cabinet he said to leave alone until.”
“Until what?”
“He didn’t say,” she said.
She points. “This cabinet has what he thought we would like.”
I unlock the cabinet. More pretty rifles, and several black ones
Those were not so pretty
“What about the rest?”
She shrugged
“Would he be mad, if we sold them?” I ask.
She thought for a while.
“No. Maybe he would think they should be used,” she said.
“Yes. I think so.”
“Who will teach us?” I ask.
“One of his friends, I think. Men, they like to teach guns.”
There was something in the way she said that
I give her my version of The Eye
“Is he married?”
She laughs
“Not anymore,” she admits.
“Does he have any kids?” I hold my breath.
“Yes.”
Joy!
Later at night I think about a black rifle
I picture myself shooting it
Looking down the… optic?
Then I wonder if I have a dress that goes with it
Black goes with a lot of things
Girl enough to know that one
