Conflict in the Year 21: Tokyo
Oh man, the absurd situations I foster on my poor main character.
As a ex-NI soldier and pilot, I was naked on base many a time. There were times where if I had anything touching my skin I would just lose it. It’s a common side effect of neural implants. My sensitivity to touch is higher than a normal person is, and sometimes that’s a disadvantage.
Today, nudity isn’t common, but it isn’t rare either.
So it was with some nervousness Kaoru is escorting me to the front of the hotel lobby where I can summon Thor, because I’m wearing nothing but a pair of spaghetti-strap fuck-me heels. Each step is a sparkly slither of the naked sexy.
And people are staring. Conversations stops, mouths hang open, women pause, men drink me with their eyes. Oh, this was a mistake. I feel self-conscious and stupid that I, of all people, feel self-conscious.
Kaoru is following behind me carrying a locked case containing my purse, PDA, and needler. She is smirking at the reactions to her handiwork.
Thor is suddenly at my side. Never have I been so grateful to see him. “I can take that, Miss Kaoru-san,” he says. She hands the case over, bows at me, and when I return her bow, she grins and leaves.
The lobby is still silent. Thor puts his hand on my arm.
“Look, Lieutenant, I want to be up front this was not my idea. I told them no. I might as well have been speaking to a rock.”
“What?” This doesn’t sound good. No, not good at all!
“Come.”
I plant my heels and almost fall over. “Thor, I am naked, wearing only scandalous heels and an absurd amount of credits in diamonds. Spit it out!”
“There is a crowd of people outside waiting to escort you to the Palace.”
No! Damn it!
I feel faint, on the verge of hyperventilating. I don’t do well with crowds. “Crowd? Can I slip out the back? Can we VTOL over? How many people are we talking about here?”
I detect a wisp of a smile from the normally stoic Thor.
“All of them, I think.”
Crap.
Murder in the Year 21
We emerge from the closet and I notice my PDA on the floor, where I dropped it, is blinking red.
Blinking is bad. I stop and motion for Caz to wait. She looks at the blinking light and frowns.
—Bambi, what up, boss?
—Have you ever been kissed by a wælcyrie?
—What? No! Of course not. Command gave direct, written orders to all NI soldiers to stay away from wælcyries. They separated us, not even the same base. What the hell, you blink me for that?
—Are you sure? Are you 100% sure?
—Yes, I am alive, aren’t I? What’s this about?
—Scott and I are in Portland. This case is—bad. We need you to primary an autopsy with Ivan in about two hours. We’re sending the body up there.
—Ugh. Look, I’ve actually done an autopsy under direction, but it’s really not my…
—Lexus, this is murder. Someone murdered a wælcyrie. And Ivan has been kissed by one. You have to help him. He won’t be able to do it and the client insists we do not subcontract any of this case. Scott and I need to wrap up here.
—Ivan? How did he live through that?
—You can ask him. He isn’t talking to us. Meet him in his lab in two.
—Okay.
—Gotta go.
—Love you.
—Love you, too.
Several things run through my head at once. Who would murder a wælcyrie? Why our east of Seattle agency and not a Portland one? How did Ivan survive the neurological changes of a wælcyrie kiss with his implants?
“Lexus, are you okay? Is there something wrong at work? You look funny…”
I look at Caz and think what I was avoiding thinking about: Bambi.
Bambi’s response to my regen brain damage was to give me more work.
Don’t care what those fucking charts say, Lexus. I believe in you. You’re an Investigator until I say different, she told me.
“Lexus?”
Bambi believes in me with all her heart. What if I let her down?
Don’t fool yourself Lexus, considering what you did last night, what if you let her down again?
“Lexus!”
Why am I looking at the ceiling? Ah cra…
The Writer’s Voice
Every Wednesday I post in Adventures in Writing.
Today I post about voicing, with two specific examples, Carrie Ryan and Gary Corby.
Voicing is what makes me read a book twice. Why I talk about that book to my friends, why I recommend the book to other people.
This is My Obligatory Rejection Post
I have a high degree of empathy. I also contain a substantial amount of self-confidence. Sometimes, these traits clash.
While I know problems are relative, I also an experienced Gentleman. I have seen bad things. Sometimes, when people adopt a defeatist attitude, it makes me want to smack them. Yes, that’s arrogant, but hey, I’m a bit old-fashioned. I’m the guy, who, when you cry on my shoulder, will pat you and go there-there and then explain how it could be worse.
Much worse.
Reading un-published writer blogs is difficult for me, sometimes. The angst. The fear. The desire of validation from people who don’t matter. It drives a person like me batty.
Now I have a bit of homespun sympathy. It is one thing to have your query rejected. It is quite another to see a requested partial go down in flames. What I felt was different. When it happened to me, I sat there and pondered the process of using an agent to sell your book:
- First, you have to write an outstanding book
- Then you have to write a query. A good query. And a synopsis
- Then you turn in partials
- Then you turn in a complete manuscript
- Then your agent submits a proposal to an editor
- Then some type of committee goes over your book project
At any point after step one; a rejection can pop in your inbox. Wow. Like, wow. So many chances to hear “no.”
In some ways, I am a machine. If my book I am floating doesn’t sell, I will try with another book. Because I love writing novels. I love reading novels. I love writing novels for people who love to read novels.
Something you may not know—I have already achieved success as a writer. Literally, as a hack writer, like the title of my blog says. I wrote technical papers, a training book and a software manual with a circulation any new author would feel very blessed if she could match it.
For the person who has not seen what type of success they can have with writing, a rejection probably, at some point, hurts badly.
And now I understand that.
This was my obligatory rejection post. If you cry on my shoulder, I may still pat you and go there-there, but then I promise to simply listen and sympathize. Because I’ve told that arrogant little spark in me to just deal with it, this time, okay?
Yours,
Anthony
Ps. Here is what I feel every time I get a partial request. Because that means at least I can write a query letter, ha ha:
Ideas and the Creative Process of the Hack Writer
Kiersten asks in a recent blog post:
If you write, where do your ideas come from? Do you start with a scene? A character? A premise? Or do you have some ridiculous trigger that demands you spin a story out of it?
That is a good question. A novel thrusts itself into my poor overloaded mind based on two things: a character, and a theme.
This is the heart of my creative process. I need both a main character with a distinctive voice, and I need a unifying idea. When the two meet, it’s magic. My brain will refuse to let go of the two, and, at some point, they merge and I will have the resulting plot and setting. I am now compelled to write the story.
But where do these characters and themes come from?
Mainly, I observe. I am not a shy man, but I am a quiet fixture. Why does that smartly dressed woman at the airport waiting for the same flight as me have a perpetual frown? Why are the neighbors across the street so reclusive? Is the wife sick? If so, will she ever get better? The Sheriff Deputy in the coffee shop–if she were in trouble, big trouble, would she have the will and fortitude, beyond her training, to survive? If she did have this internal strength, but was in the wrong place at the wrong time, would anybody come to help?
Observation can give me characters, and it can give me themes.
For example, why does our society have a culture of blame-the-victim, bordering on the tolerance for the criminal? Where did this corruption come from, and where will it lead? Why do some cultures today feed off each other, becoming stronger, while others clash, causing conflict? Is a society that devalues the lives of children for the sake of control and equality doomed to failure? If so, how will it fail?
Sometimes, I will be thinking these questions and suddenly they will merge into a story. Like this proto-outline:
The Sheriff Deputy in the coffee shop is in trouble. She is a strong person but in the wrong place at the wrong time. She is a righteous woman, but righteousness is not going to save her now (this is the character, maybe the main character, or an important minor one).
Career criminals, released by our society to prey upon the weak once more without mercy, decided they were going to kill a copy one day. Our society tolerates evil men such as this. It has happened before (in the real world), and it will happen again (sadly, this is also a reality). Where did this corruption come from, and where will it lead? (this is a theme).
The righteous and the evil go at it in the coffee shop parking lot. Outgunned and outmaneuvered, the death of the female deputy is a forgone conclusion. How would she get out of this?
She gets help. A woman caught in the crossfire draws her sidearm and joins the gun battle (this is the glimmering of a plot and also a very strong character).
Why did this woman have gun? Well, she has the typical ex-husband who has threatened to kill her. She decided she wasn’t going to use a paper shield and actually defend herself (this is related to the theme, but also further characterization).
Only, she isn’t defending herself. She is defending someone sworn to defend her! She is shot. Several times. Nevertheless, everyone lives, except the evil men.
And this heroic action caused the next American Civil War (this is now the plot).
That’s my writing process. For me, only when I have a firm character, or characters, and a unified idea to generate conflict as a theme, can I get a plot that works for me. At this point, I have a novel. All that is left is my outlining process (which I do in my head) and typing.
You may think a gun battle in a coffee shop parking lot and the next American Civil War is a gigantic, random leap–but it’s not. The theme, as you recall, is “Where did this corruption (tolerance for evil) come from, and where will it lead?” With these characters and this theme, the plot burst out of me like the alien from the chest of poor Kane on the Nostromo.
This is my creative process, how I obtain ideas and turn them into novels. And it works very well for me.
Save Your Lap from CERTAIN DOOM!
Every Wednesday I post in Adventures in Writing.
Today I post about how to prevent important parts of you from catching on fire.
Yowsers!
I need a secretary. Not to sit on my lap and take shorthand (although, that does sound appealing, right before The Wife Unit smacks me with a frying pan, that is), but so I can have another typist.
Lots of work. Mounds. Piles. It’s fun, but it’s a lot.
*~squee!~*
Congratulations Kiersten, who entered a three book deal with HarperTeen on preemption! Please pop over to her blog and add your congratulations! I so want to read her books!
Some people stumble onto things by luck.
That is not the case here. Kiersten is very talented and a ferociously dedicated hard worker. When these two meet, magic just doesn’t happen, it builds and gushes forth.
Wow! I am so happy for her. And I was like follower number three or something on her blog!
I am so happy, I do my happy cat dance. BEHOLD, HAPPY CAT!
Line Edits, Part 2
I received very targeted feedback on a mechanical problem with Armageddon’s Princess.
And it was dead on, with bonus laser focus.
So I am going through the manuscript again, line-by-line, making the occasional edit.
Sound onoerous?
It’s not. It’s not because I love this story. I love it very much. I love you Armageddon’s Princess. What a fun little number you are. If you were chocolate I would eat you. OM NOM NOM NOM NOM NOM.
Anyway, that’s where I’m at. I have a couple of partials out, but I’m not particularly worried about those. The novel has a distinctive, page-turning voice, and when I fix my little technical problem, it will be even better.
Don’t Be That Caller
Every Wednesday I post in Adventures in Writing.
Today, I talk about lessons from the computer days of yore.
Whoa.
Where the heck did the week go?
Oh, that’s right, working.
Wow that was a lot of work.
But wow, boy did I also do a lot of writing. Observe, my pets!
“Let’s do this,” I say and turn the recording equipment back on. “Cause of death appears to be from internal damage from multiple gunshot wounds.”
“Interesting hypothesis, Lieutenant. Explain.”
“When a wælcyrie is shot, her body closes the wound almost immediately. All these white spots on her skin? Entry points. If we flip her over…”
I flip her over.
“There. Exit wounds, at least some. Only slightly larger, indicative of pistol, not rifle, rounds.”
I flip her back over. “I count fifteen spots. A standard magazine load out.”
“Fifteen. Possible indication of rage and hate.”
“Not necessarily. It takes a lot of effort to kill a wælcyrie. A lot of effort.”
“It seems you have more experience with wælcyrie than I do, Lieutenant.”
A feeling of loss washes through me, but I shove it aside. Now is not the time to start treating death like a normal person.
“Only the dead ones, my Captain,” I whisper, “only the dead ones.”
I press virtual buttons and the robotics around me come alive.
Anthony the Snoop
Every Wednesday I post in Adventures in Writing.
Yesterday I overheard an amazing conversation about writing and authors. It was like a gift from God.
Revisions, Hack Writer Style
In this post, I showed a draft Chapter 1 of a book project, a science fiction murder mystery.
Occasionally, I will revise on-the-fly either to conform to the outline I have running in my head, or because, even if I am clicking along, there is something about the writing that bugs me (and ‘bugs me’ is a technical term).
I kept going back the this chapter, because the writing bugged me. Then I figured it out: the main character, as written, may have garnered sympathy but not a whole lot of empathy. If taken out of context as the opening chapter of a book 2, Lexus is just a junkie looking for an excuse to get high.
There’s the age-old problem. How do you get a reader to emphasize with the main character?
I am not sure of the answer for this novel, yet. I am a naturally empathetic person, I will think about why somebody does something by putting myself in her place. I guess that is what I attempted here. I am not exactly enamored by the first sentence, but it is a grabber of sorts.
The revision:
Chapter 1
My PTSD therapist told me, before he died and broke my heart, that, despite my aggressive desire for justice and a physiological and pathological need for constant sex, I was a caring, nurturing woman.
Then he died and for some reason, I could not cry at his funeral, and I never forgave myself for that.
Until now, because I have been thinking of him, and crying. It is a cloudy night on top of Mt. Si, where my Investigator office is, and I am at the precipice of a sheer drop, a good spot to view the forested towns below.
I miss him terribly. He did not deserve to die from an Uplink flashback, when his neural receptors caused his brain to link to itself. He died before he could Uplink with a real person, which would have prevented his nervous system from a cascading failure. It is a horrible way to die.
It should have been me.
I wish he was here, and I could talk to him. Four Husbands and two Wives, yet I feel alone, a deep sense of sadness, and I am paralyzed with dark, circular thoughts.
It is, of course, my fault. Everyone is the same but I have changed, drastically. I came out of the regen tank to fix my war-wounds for once and all, as a little teen sexpot. Not even a younger version of myself, I look like a little sister, if I had a little sister. Shorter. Lithe and svelte instead of curvy and athletic.
I am a pixie. All I need is wings.
I contemplate jumping off my mountaintop, falling unto the rocks below. Splat. No wings here. Just another broken vet offing herself, a grim post-war statistic: a little chit-mark in the right column instead of the left.
Suicide, while classic, would be dishonorable. I do not fear death but my honor is all I have left. I don’t have my body. I don’t have my wisdom. I don’t have my spouses. I gave my virtue to the Empress. All I have left is my damn honor, my warped sense of personal justice tied up with my duties as an Investigator.
I take a deep breath, and now feel the cold rain on my face as I look down at the rain-soaked forest landscape and realize I am feeling sorry for myself.
Well I have a cure for that. If my spouses won’t tend to my needs, I will seek intimacy elsewhere. I sub-vocalize to my Investigator PDA.
—Arune?
A pause. I sigh. Pause is bad. Arune is my old warship. The only reason he would not respond instantly is if he was out of range.
—Sorry Lexus, I’m on the moon with Tiff and Britt. Back in three days.
—Okay. I love you; call me when you get back.
Arune and Britt, two of my current lovers, while Tiff is a potential lover. Just like that, my list of lovers for the evening snipped short.
I am in desperation territory because the rocks at the bottom of Mt. Si are now calling to me.
—Empress, my love?
A pause. Oh no, please no.
—Lexus, my darling, my Concubine, my Princess. I have taken a trip to the moon. Be back soon.
The moon. What the fuck? Why would the military, and the Empress, go to the moon? Logically, it makes sense, the part about being together. Britt is a Military Police Lieutenant, Arune is a warship, and Tiff is his pilot. So yeah, the four have met before and I am sure they will meet again. But the moon? All that’s on the moon is some launchers and dusty old nano-factories that nobody wants to turn on, and some privately funded research bases.
I mentally shrug. I made the conscious decision to disengage myself from the Military. I don’t need to know, so nobody tells me what is going on. And when it comes down to it, I don’t want to know.
Now I am in trouble. My fellow Investigators, of course, would always tend to me, if I asked. Scott and I have never made love, but the unspoken opportunity is there. But Scott is in Portland on a sudden assignment.
Ivan is downstairs sleeping. He is exhausted from completing four insurance dictated autopsies. He didn’t even leave his office, crashing on the couch. Ivan is not a young man. To wake him up with my need to be touched and kissed would be very selfish.
And that leaves my boss, Bambi. My relationship with her is complicated. On one hand, she is like the daughter I never had, and my best friend in the entire world. On the other, I find her attractive.
Bambi is not into women. I could seduce her, but that would make me the Shit of the Century. I refuse to burn my friendship and my career to satisfy my lustful desires.
Look at me—I am all grown up. A giggle escapes from my lips.
I am at the end of my rope.
Well, when the going gets tough, the tough go on a snorf binge. Snorf will let me turn the insidious compulsion that owns me into a manageable burn.
As long as I don’t die from an overdose.
Rachelle Gardner, Literary Agent: Fiction Writing: Craft and Story
Writer folks, check out this post:
Rachelle Gardner, Literary Agent: Fiction Writing: Craft and Story
She says:
I get the feeling many people are so saturated with media (books, TV, movies) that they are writing not from life but from their perception of life as shown in media. They’re writing stories I’ve seen and heard a hundred times before.
I love this post. I love it very much.
Rachelle is talking about stories with a heart.
Stories that speak to your soul.
Stories that bypass the surface and talk about things the way they are.
Stories that are honest.
That is exactly what I read.
And that’s exactly what I want to write, and I do write.
What an inspirational post!
Wine Like a Kiss, Part II
This wine is exquisite. A blended red from Washington, the wine not so much swirls in your mouth, but french kisses the tongue. A heady wine rich with flavor, it reminds you of a woman who neither is teasing nor coy before embracing you for a night of sensuous lovemaking. It is the wine’s purpose. That is all she does. And after she is gone, the fruity taste on the lips remain, beckoning for more.
