The problem with scars is, if you go that route for your evil look, you're stuck with them for life. It's one thing to get them naturally, but there's no guarantee you'll get ones that look cool, as opposed to merely unpleasant. So if you want a classic like the “down one eye,” the “half-face burn,” and the always popular “claw marks,” you have to either get them inflicted yourself, or spend a good hour every morning getting the makeup done.
Lord Sorrowstorm chose that last option, which would be one of his many regrets. He was just about to put the finishing touches on the eye scar (including the milky white contact lens) when he just couldn't be bothered. He sighed. He used to love Scar Time. The skin-dying to give him his trademark blue pallor was automatic, and the purple and white hair just needed to be touched up every week or so. The scars were where he could be an artist. A touch of blood there? Would bringing it up to his forehead make him more or less fearsome? He would even practice the supervillain cackle, or the smirk he used when taunting the world's leaders. Maybe even practice the speech he would give captured heroes. It was a fantastic way to boost the confidence before bursting out of his master-chamber, greeting his minions, and enacting his latest scheme against the world. Oh yes, he used to think, he'd show them. He'd show them all.
These days, he can't even get started on a doomsday device without at least three cups of coffee. And even his lair had gotten stale. Same fanatics willing to kill and die in his name, same walls of a semi-dormant volcano, same giants robots. And the heroes? Same things EVERY time! It was Captain Jet and Redfern the Mystical over and over again. It didn't seem fair. Heroes get massive rogue's galleries. Why couldn't the rogues get hero’s galleries?
He looked back at how it all started, almost twelve years ago now, back when he was Lazarus Soros, brilliant but unpopular high school nerd. Ah, that Career Day. No, Career Day didn't feature supervillain as an option, that would be stupid. It was, however, the last day he at least considered an honest job. He had his plan ready to go, his very first doomship set to vaporize the gym at the press of a button. But he hadn't quite worked up the nerve. And so he wandered the booths, ignoring the usual taunts from his so-called “peers,” trying to talk himself into every job they offered. Surely a job as a non-mad scientist wouldn't be so bad? He would only have to go through four years of college (which he thought would basically be just like high school with more drinking,) then probably a Masters and a PHD, when work as a lab assistant for who knows how long, and then … nope. He couldn't even get through the fantasy without wanting to blow something up. Probably a lot of somethings. Maybe an engineer? Using to his incredible mind and skills to … update music players. Or create a new operating system that would be obsolete in six months. Just another cog in a mundane machine.
And so, on that fateful day, Lazarus Soros died (ironically,) and Dr. Sorrowstorm had been born. A quarterlifetime of desperation and loneliness fueled a spree of chaos like the world had never seen. From light gags like pouring Jello into the rivers of Venice to the more sinister plan to turn Disney world’s animatronic presidents on their masters, he had done it all. The world trembled before him. Everyone he know in his past life cursed his name. Especially that jock Vinny Esperanto. Though to be fair, Sorrowstorm did inject him with chicken DNA, so he had more reason than most to do so.
That was the problem, Sorrowstorm reasoned. He was a victim of his own success. There was nowhere else to go. Well, he could make a serious attempt to conquer the world, but honestly, he didn't need that kind of headache. But now he was respected. They may hate or fear him, but nobody looked down on Sorrowstorm. And he was, in an evil kind of way, popular. The rest of the Axiom Nefarious cheered his schemes on. His minions saw him as a lesser god. And then, of course, there was Viceroy Vixen.
On paper, VV was just Sorrowstorm's chief officer, his number 2, the dragon to his final boss. And that's all she had been to him at first, just another lost soul who refused to let the status quo exist. Sorrowstorm gave her the chance to shine, and shine she did. Sorrowstorm made the plans, but VV was all about the action. Whether she was firing experimental rays at the accursed dogooders or laughing maniacally as she bounded across a city seeding mind-control spores, her enthusiasm was infectious. Just like the mind-control spores. She brought out the best of his worst, and he always worked harder to surprise her. Sorrowstorm may have the core of pain needed to fuel a life of supervillainy, but VV showed that there could be joy in hatred, and that love was just evil spelled backwards. And with one letter changed, fine.
Of course, the leather outfit didn't hurt either. Even if he knew she was lying when she claimed it was made of puppies. He knew it was at least 85% weasel.
Hell, one of his favorite recent days had been when he had to cancel his plans when a pinkeye epidemic hit the minions. The two of them spent most of the day on the couch, catching up on Netflix. And just talking whenever the screen went dark. He learned more about her in one day than he did in the last decade (he never even knew her real name was Judy Vixon.)
Frankly, he would be happy retiring, but he knew he wouldn't dare making the attempt. Oh, it would be easy enough to be Lazarus Soros again. A few erased records, some bribes, maybe make up a “true villain” that he could team up with the heroes to fight in exchange for a pardon. But what would his friends think? Would all of his evil buddies turn their backs on him, rejecting him as a sell-out? Or worse, would they turn on him, picking on him the same way the bullies in high school did? And what of his minions? They don't have any appreciable job skills! They would just cling to some other crazy death cult, or worse, Scientology.
But he could live without them, he admitted. It was Judy … err, Viceroy Vixen that he couldn't stand to lose. Could she learn to love Lazarus as he was, without the plans and terror? Maybe. But if she couldn't, she'd just drop him to fixate on some other villain. She already looks a bit too fondly at Dapper Dirk, Gentlemen Thief and Sky Pirate. He couldn't risk her hooking up with that steam-punk poser.
No, Sorrowstorm sighed. Better to keep things as they are. More Scar Time. More standoffs with the UN, more ranting about the hated Jet Squad. Wasn't that always how life was, anyway? Putting on the role that others expect of you to live the life you think you want? At least this route didn't require student loans.
_______________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________________
Judy Vixon grunted in her Abode of Vice, also known as her bedroom. The leather outfit seemed harder to put on every morning. Well, you get what you pay for. Weasel just doesn't hold up to regular use.
As she stumbled out for another day of evil, she cast a glance at Sorrowstorm's door. He was taking forever this morning, too. What if this was finally the day, she hoped? The day he FINALLY took all the hints and announced he was quitting the evil business, or at minimum going on a long vacation? But she knew it wouldn't happen. Sorrowstorm was a consummate pro, the villain's villain. He wouldn't ever give up on his quest to conquer the world; it was just who he was. Still, she would keep on trying. Unleashing pinkeye on the minions didn't do it. But maybe a plague of dysentery would keep him home and within her grasp.
Tuesday, April 12, 2016
Tuesday, February 23, 2016
Spend Money to Make Money
How much money have you spent on your writing career? What to spend some more? Have I got the deal for you!
$500 will get you distraction free anywhere writing with FreeWriter.
Now, I'm not going to say anything bad about this piece of equipment. I have never used one, nor have I heard good or bad. Truthfully, I would like to try one out, but I doubt I will spend the cash. Too many other things of import cost $500.
But why? I hear you ask. Why would someone buy this? I have the answer, and you probably aren't going to like it: It's that phone that is sitting in your pocket, or in your hand, as you read this. You think the world has so many important things to say you neglect what you are trying to put down yourselves. You are easily distracted. You think you can multitask. You think you are a product of modernity and can just as easily check your Facebook as compose beautiful prose.
And when you can't you realize because you are too distracted, and seek answers.
Have you read my early blog posts on this subject? It doesn't take money to hide from your friends online. It takes discipline.
Here is a quick start to distraction free writing:
P.S. If you get one of these, let me know. I'd love to check it out and talk about it on the @TypeHammer Podcast
Now, I'm not going to say anything bad about this piece of equipment. I have never used one, nor have I heard good or bad. Truthfully, I would like to try one out, but I doubt I will spend the cash. Too many other things of import cost $500.
But why? I hear you ask. Why would someone buy this? I have the answer, and you probably aren't going to like it: It's that phone that is sitting in your pocket, or in your hand, as you read this. You think the world has so many important things to say you neglect what you are trying to put down yourselves. You are easily distracted. You think you can multitask. You think you are a product of modernity and can just as easily check your Facebook as compose beautiful prose.
And when you can't you realize because you are too distracted, and seek answers.
Have you read my early blog posts on this subject? It doesn't take money to hide from your friends online. It takes discipline.
Here is a quick start to distraction free writing:
- Turn off the phone.
- Get yourself a Moleskin and a good pen.
- Tell everyone around you to shut up, or find a quiet place...
- and write.
If you are having trouble with this, take up fishing. The answer lies in a wet line.
P.S. If you get one of these, let me know. I'd love to check it out and talk about it on the @TypeHammer Podcast
Thursday, January 21, 2016
DreamLeaks 6: Midnight Mystery Massacre
Good News! I'm not dead! Just recovering from a significant writer's block. But I'm ready to get back to creating, and another dream-based short story seems like a good starting point to go on. This one is based on an unusually vivid one I had just a few days ago, and it's been demanding I put it down.
Midnight Mystery Massacre
“I should have worn a costume,” Blane thought to himself. A costume wouldn't have necessarily prevented the apparent apocalypse and his inevitable demise. But it couldn't have hurt.
In fact, in what he expected to be his final moments, Blane had a lot of regrets. Getting to the company Halloween party late. Going at all, really. And perhaps not voicing his input when the movie was selected.
Things started out well enough. Okay, not well. Like every year, Blane's office had planned an “exciting” party for the holiday. The office would be open late, costumes were encouraged, and everyone would gather for the traditional spooky movie. This is what happens when office functions don't allow alcohol. Blane didn't care, and he didn't even want to show up. But unlike everyone else, he had actual work to do that day.
Despite that, he expressed his irritation with the whole affair as blatantly as he could without getting a reprimand. He sauntered into work half an hour late (blaming it on the long lines at Starbucks, if anyone asked, and nobody did,) and immediately noticed that he was the only one there without at least a token costume. He shrugged, ignored the unspoken scorn at his lack of participation, and tried to get to work. But that wouldn't be an option either. People were so excited about the movie that all the desks in the office were shoved into the corners so people could find a place to sit. Blane did his best to wedge into the tragic remains of his workspace and did his best to be productive for an hour or so, turning a blind eye to the schlock that stole everyone else's brains.
But he had to give up eventually. If the movie wasn't distracting enough, the gasps and laughs from his ostensibly adult co-workers was enough to finish the job. What could possibly be that interesting? Some movie everyone saw thirty times? He shoved aside what was left of his work and took a seat at far end of the room.
Well, one thing was for sure, at least this movie was unfamiliar. Though it probably had a good reason for that. It was filmed in black and white and had a budget less than his work computer cost. Blane glanced at the movie's case: something called Midnight Mystery Massacre. Even if the movie had been better, he couldn't figure out the plot after missing the first half. He figured that spoilers be damned, he could just look it up online and catch up on the plot that way. Except a search turned up exactly zero results. Wow, this one must be obscure. Without any other options, he settled in his seat and tried to figure out the plot on his own. And then he got caught up in the movie. Literally.
The next moment, he was struggling to breathe in the sunken remains of outer New York, which was just being conquered by … something at that point in the movie. Despite being moments away from drowning, he felt at peace. The water carried no sound, had no urgency. He was momentary content to rest here, basking in the shadow of whatever unearthly light up above illuminated him and the surrounding debris. That is, until he realized the debris was the bodies of other people.
Never a strong swimmer, Blane broke into a panicked, splashy paddle until he managed to surface and drag himself to shore. But the streets of the city were no more comforting. They were, in fact, completely silent, save for the occasional skitter of unrecognizable feet far of in the distance. He considered hiding into a building, but the way that every one of them had every glass window blasted open from inside made him worried. He ran as fast as his legs allowed until he found something not completely desolate.
Blane lost track of time and distance as he ran, never even noticing that he never seemed to get tired. Eventually, he managed to get out of downtown and into one of the wealthier subdivision, where the rich carved a mini-suburb into the middle of the urban sprawl. This area seemed to be just as uninhabited, but at least the buildings looked like their inhabitants fought back. Windows and doors were boarded up, with furniture forming makeshift cover and barricades. He continued down a road at random, looking for signs of life, when he heard voices coming from within one of the buildings. Strange voices, like that of a child, but it was the best bet he had so far, so he tentatively stepped over the table blocking the front door and made his way inside.
The voices were coming from the basement, because of course they were, but Blane felt himself drawn that way despite his better judgment. But he found it bereft of life, though judging by the stench, that had been a recent development. And then he heard the laughing, the happy little chuckles coming from every direction. Where the basement had once been empty, now it had little figures emerging from behind boxes, around doorways, from the tops of shelves piled with unused clothes and broken appliance. To his regret, he recognized the ventriloquist dummies from the movie. And even more regretfully, they recognized him.
“We wipe out every reprobate and snuff out every sinner!” they sang as they converged on him. “If you fight a dummy, a dummy is the winner!” Blane was in no position to appreciate the wordplay insult in the song, as he found himself swarmed by the creatures and staggered by the pain they inflicted with their tiny little knives. That last thing he thought about as things went black was the stupid costume he should have worn.
At least, that's how the story felt like would end. He heard the sounds of gunshots, so close that it should have deafened him, but all he experienced was the relief of a stab-free moment. As his vision cleared, he found a woman standing over him, apparently looting the broken bodies of defeated dummies. Unlike him, she seemed built for this place, with some sort of body armor and a gas mask covering her face. She holstered her sawed-off shotgun and glared at Blane. “Hmm. I didn't expect to find any NPCs here. You better not be some helpless escort side-quest.”
“Excuse me?” Blane said as he stumbled to his feet, causing her to pause.
“Now, that's even weirder. I never heard that one before.” She waved a hand in front of Blane's eyes and watched his eyes follow it. “Huh. Say something original. Something unexpectedly human.”
Blane was reasonably happy to comply with the woman who saved his life. “If I survive this, I'm never going to a damn office Halloween party again.”
“Good enough for me.” The woman held out her hand. “I'm ZombieMauler657.”
“Blane,” he replied. “What kind of name is that?”
ZombieMauler657 shrugged. “Apparently, the kind of name you get when 656 other people call themselves ZombieMauler before you do. But this should be offline mode. How are you even here?”
Blane explained the entire situation, from his office party to his near-drowning and up to the dummy attack. But the more he explained, the more nervous ZM got. “Wait, you think this is a movie? But I never even heard of it. Hell, I never heard of the Midnight Mystery Massacre video game until I found a cheap copy online. I expected shovelware, but this has been pretty good so far. But it's not THIS clever.”
Both of them looked around warily. Was this part of the movie/game? Or another trap? “The way I see it,” Blane said, “We have three possibilities. Either I fell asleep dreaming and you're just part of my dream...”
“Or I fell asleep gaming and YOU'RE part of MY DREAM,” ZM added.
“Fine, FOUR possibilities,” Blane conceded. “Or we're both dreaming and in some sort of weird shared subconscious reality. Or lastly...”
He didn't need to even say the last one. Lastly, this movie/game/experience was real and drew them both into it. Which mean that if they fell to wayward dummies or worse, it would really mean the end for them.
“Let's work on the hypothetical that our real lives are in real danger,” ZM suggested. She handed him the shotgun. “Any chance you know how to use one of these?”
“No, but I'm a faster learner.” Blane took the weapon. “Are you sure you'll be okay without a weapon?”
ZM chuckled. “Are you kidding? This game's full of weird weapons. I half a dozen exploding teddy bears I've been itching to try out.” So saying, she scooped up the remains of a pile of coins that inexplicably fell out of the dummies, pulled out some weird sci-fi raygun appropriate for the setting, and took point on the way out of the mansion.
The front doorway had since collapsed, so she led him out the back. Which somehow directly led to a graveyard, one far more active than it had any right to be. ZM whipped out her gun. “Watch for the red objects,” she cautioned him. “Those are enemies or about to turn into them.”
Blane took in the whole area with a confused look. “What red objects? What red anything?” he asked. “Everything still looks black and white to me.” But he didn't need prompting for long. Several of the gravestones and statuaries came to life and charged them, and a bolt of energy streaked from the unearthly light up above, causing a tear in space to form. SomeTHING lurked within, eager to get out, but one exploding teddy bear ruined its ambitions quickly.
But Blane wasn't as quick a learner as he hoped, and he was running out of ammo fast. While ZM mopped up the remaining enemies, he concentrated on where to go from here. Fleeing mindlessly probably wouldn't help at this point, but off in the distance, he saw a man with a lab-coat and a tuft of white (as far as he could tell) hair, waltzing through the ruins without a care in the world. He looked familiar, and Blane remembered that he had been a mad scientist from the movie, one who was supposed to help humanity before betraying them to serve the invading aliens/demons/whatever.
“Quick, after that psychopath!” Blane yelled, and he and ZM sprinted after the mad scientist, who bolted away just as quickly. Behind them, several wagons full of dummies came to life and rolled behind, their wares breaking once again into song as they rolled.
Midnight Mystery Massacre
“I should have worn a costume,” Blane thought to himself. A costume wouldn't have necessarily prevented the apparent apocalypse and his inevitable demise. But it couldn't have hurt.
In fact, in what he expected to be his final moments, Blane had a lot of regrets. Getting to the company Halloween party late. Going at all, really. And perhaps not voicing his input when the movie was selected.
Things started out well enough. Okay, not well. Like every year, Blane's office had planned an “exciting” party for the holiday. The office would be open late, costumes were encouraged, and everyone would gather for the traditional spooky movie. This is what happens when office functions don't allow alcohol. Blane didn't care, and he didn't even want to show up. But unlike everyone else, he had actual work to do that day.
Despite that, he expressed his irritation with the whole affair as blatantly as he could without getting a reprimand. He sauntered into work half an hour late (blaming it on the long lines at Starbucks, if anyone asked, and nobody did,) and immediately noticed that he was the only one there without at least a token costume. He shrugged, ignored the unspoken scorn at his lack of participation, and tried to get to work. But that wouldn't be an option either. People were so excited about the movie that all the desks in the office were shoved into the corners so people could find a place to sit. Blane did his best to wedge into the tragic remains of his workspace and did his best to be productive for an hour or so, turning a blind eye to the schlock that stole everyone else's brains.
But he had to give up eventually. If the movie wasn't distracting enough, the gasps and laughs from his ostensibly adult co-workers was enough to finish the job. What could possibly be that interesting? Some movie everyone saw thirty times? He shoved aside what was left of his work and took a seat at far end of the room.
Well, one thing was for sure, at least this movie was unfamiliar. Though it probably had a good reason for that. It was filmed in black and white and had a budget less than his work computer cost. Blane glanced at the movie's case: something called Midnight Mystery Massacre. Even if the movie had been better, he couldn't figure out the plot after missing the first half. He figured that spoilers be damned, he could just look it up online and catch up on the plot that way. Except a search turned up exactly zero results. Wow, this one must be obscure. Without any other options, he settled in his seat and tried to figure out the plot on his own. And then he got caught up in the movie. Literally.
The next moment, he was struggling to breathe in the sunken remains of outer New York, which was just being conquered by … something at that point in the movie. Despite being moments away from drowning, he felt at peace. The water carried no sound, had no urgency. He was momentary content to rest here, basking in the shadow of whatever unearthly light up above illuminated him and the surrounding debris. That is, until he realized the debris was the bodies of other people.
Never a strong swimmer, Blane broke into a panicked, splashy paddle until he managed to surface and drag himself to shore. But the streets of the city were no more comforting. They were, in fact, completely silent, save for the occasional skitter of unrecognizable feet far of in the distance. He considered hiding into a building, but the way that every one of them had every glass window blasted open from inside made him worried. He ran as fast as his legs allowed until he found something not completely desolate.
Blane lost track of time and distance as he ran, never even noticing that he never seemed to get tired. Eventually, he managed to get out of downtown and into one of the wealthier subdivision, where the rich carved a mini-suburb into the middle of the urban sprawl. This area seemed to be just as uninhabited, but at least the buildings looked like their inhabitants fought back. Windows and doors were boarded up, with furniture forming makeshift cover and barricades. He continued down a road at random, looking for signs of life, when he heard voices coming from within one of the buildings. Strange voices, like that of a child, but it was the best bet he had so far, so he tentatively stepped over the table blocking the front door and made his way inside.
The voices were coming from the basement, because of course they were, but Blane felt himself drawn that way despite his better judgment. But he found it bereft of life, though judging by the stench, that had been a recent development. And then he heard the laughing, the happy little chuckles coming from every direction. Where the basement had once been empty, now it had little figures emerging from behind boxes, around doorways, from the tops of shelves piled with unused clothes and broken appliance. To his regret, he recognized the ventriloquist dummies from the movie. And even more regretfully, they recognized him.
“We wipe out every reprobate and snuff out every sinner!” they sang as they converged on him. “If you fight a dummy, a dummy is the winner!” Blane was in no position to appreciate the wordplay insult in the song, as he found himself swarmed by the creatures and staggered by the pain they inflicted with their tiny little knives. That last thing he thought about as things went black was the stupid costume he should have worn.
At least, that's how the story felt like would end. He heard the sounds of gunshots, so close that it should have deafened him, but all he experienced was the relief of a stab-free moment. As his vision cleared, he found a woman standing over him, apparently looting the broken bodies of defeated dummies. Unlike him, she seemed built for this place, with some sort of body armor and a gas mask covering her face. She holstered her sawed-off shotgun and glared at Blane. “Hmm. I didn't expect to find any NPCs here. You better not be some helpless escort side-quest.”
“Excuse me?” Blane said as he stumbled to his feet, causing her to pause.
“Now, that's even weirder. I never heard that one before.” She waved a hand in front of Blane's eyes and watched his eyes follow it. “Huh. Say something original. Something unexpectedly human.”
Blane was reasonably happy to comply with the woman who saved his life. “If I survive this, I'm never going to a damn office Halloween party again.”
“Good enough for me.” The woman held out her hand. “I'm ZombieMauler657.”
“Blane,” he replied. “What kind of name is that?”
ZombieMauler657 shrugged. “Apparently, the kind of name you get when 656 other people call themselves ZombieMauler before you do. But this should be offline mode. How are you even here?”
Blane explained the entire situation, from his office party to his near-drowning and up to the dummy attack. But the more he explained, the more nervous ZM got. “Wait, you think this is a movie? But I never even heard of it. Hell, I never heard of the Midnight Mystery Massacre video game until I found a cheap copy online. I expected shovelware, but this has been pretty good so far. But it's not THIS clever.”
Both of them looked around warily. Was this part of the movie/game? Or another trap? “The way I see it,” Blane said, “We have three possibilities. Either I fell asleep dreaming and you're just part of my dream...”
“Or I fell asleep gaming and YOU'RE part of MY DREAM,” ZM added.
“Fine, FOUR possibilities,” Blane conceded. “Or we're both dreaming and in some sort of weird shared subconscious reality. Or lastly...”
He didn't need to even say the last one. Lastly, this movie/game/experience was real and drew them both into it. Which mean that if they fell to wayward dummies or worse, it would really mean the end for them.
“Let's work on the hypothetical that our real lives are in real danger,” ZM suggested. She handed him the shotgun. “Any chance you know how to use one of these?”
“No, but I'm a faster learner.” Blane took the weapon. “Are you sure you'll be okay without a weapon?”
ZM chuckled. “Are you kidding? This game's full of weird weapons. I half a dozen exploding teddy bears I've been itching to try out.” So saying, she scooped up the remains of a pile of coins that inexplicably fell out of the dummies, pulled out some weird sci-fi raygun appropriate for the setting, and took point on the way out of the mansion.
The front doorway had since collapsed, so she led him out the back. Which somehow directly led to a graveyard, one far more active than it had any right to be. ZM whipped out her gun. “Watch for the red objects,” she cautioned him. “Those are enemies or about to turn into them.”
Blane took in the whole area with a confused look. “What red objects? What red anything?” he asked. “Everything still looks black and white to me.” But he didn't need prompting for long. Several of the gravestones and statuaries came to life and charged them, and a bolt of energy streaked from the unearthly light up above, causing a tear in space to form. SomeTHING lurked within, eager to get out, but one exploding teddy bear ruined its ambitions quickly.
But Blane wasn't as quick a learner as he hoped, and he was running out of ammo fast. While ZM mopped up the remaining enemies, he concentrated on where to go from here. Fleeing mindlessly probably wouldn't help at this point, but off in the distance, he saw a man with a lab-coat and a tuft of white (as far as he could tell) hair, waltzing through the ruins without a care in the world. He looked familiar, and Blane remembered that he had been a mad scientist from the movie, one who was supposed to help humanity before betraying them to serve the invading aliens/demons/whatever.
“Quick, after that psychopath!” Blane yelled, and he and ZM sprinted after the mad scientist, who bolted away just as quickly. Behind them, several wagons full of dummies came to life and rolled behind, their wares breaking once again into song as they rolled.
Wednesday, August 26, 2015
NaNoWriMo: September
There is a darkness coming, and you only have two months to get ready. That may seem like a lot of time, but it’s not. It’ll move up on you faster than a hawk on a jack rabbit. For many thousands November 1st brings excitement, and dread. Excitement from the energy of the creative masses and dread from the spouses and love interests who know they will be taking a second seat to the endevour. Be warned: Lovers will find sorrow and children will turn to crime for attention while you are off seeking your glory. Bathing will be forced upon you by the many who will be offended, and even the most devout will find a new religeon, presenting offerings to the godess of caffeen.
It’s NaNoWriMo time people. That time of year when thousands sit their butts down to write the great American novel (or what every country you are country in). 50K words in 30 days. Over 1600 words everyday to create what obstentially is half a novel.
Oh, and did I mention the fear? Not from the writers, but all those literary agents, publishing houses, and slush pile readers who know, come December, their inboxes will be full of Vampires, Zombies and all matters of descruction, all in their first draft glory.
But that is December, and this is September, and now is the time to plan. How do I know? I have failed twice and completed four NaNoWriMo’s. The difference between winning and losing is, quite simply, Planning. That may sound basic enough, but understand that with normal writing standards, I am a true Pantser. Now, if you dive too deep into all the Nanowrimo blogs, podcasts, vblogs and such, you’ll find Pantsers saying they didn’t plan, and you don’t have to either. (Actually, I’m not sure they would say that. I’m just making it up.) But I say hogwash. You have two months. Start Your Planning!
Don’t know how? Grab a pen and notebook and start writing down ideas. Are you the type of person that likes software applications, and complexity? Check out Scrivener. Are you an online type person? Check out Hiveword.com. Do a Twitter search for #nanowrimo and see what others are doing. Same with all the other social media outlets. Or, be productive and ignore social media…whatever is best for you.
Other blog posts by Eric Michalsen
More of Eric can be found:
It’s NaNoWriMo time people. That time of year when thousands sit their butts down to write the great American novel (or what every country you are country in). 50K words in 30 days. Over 1600 words everyday to create what obstentially is half a novel.
Oh, and did I mention the fear? Not from the writers, but all those literary agents, publishing houses, and slush pile readers who know, come December, their inboxes will be full of Vampires, Zombies and all matters of descruction, all in their first draft glory.
But that is December, and this is September, and now is the time to plan. How do I know? I have failed twice and completed four NaNoWriMo’s. The difference between winning and losing is, quite simply, Planning. That may sound basic enough, but understand that with normal writing standards, I am a true Pantser. Now, if you dive too deep into all the Nanowrimo blogs, podcasts, vblogs and such, you’ll find Pantsers saying they didn’t plan, and you don’t have to either. (Actually, I’m not sure they would say that. I’m just making it up.) But I say hogwash. You have two months. Start Your Planning!
Don’t know how? Grab a pen and notebook and start writing down ideas. Are you the type of person that likes software applications, and complexity? Check out Scrivener. Are you an online type person? Check out Hiveword.com. Do a Twitter search for #nanowrimo and see what others are doing. Same with all the other social media outlets. Or, be productive and ignore social media…whatever is best for you.
Other blog posts by Eric Michalsen
- Let's Write a Novel: Characters
- I Sound Like That?!
- Releasing Your Child to the Wild
- The Process
- Every Day
- Writing is Re-Writing
- Tools of the Trade part 1 Pen Paper / Sublime Text
- Tools of the Trade part 2 Open Office / Trello
- Tools of the Trade part 3 Ommwriter / Scrivener
- Website Development and SEO Basics for Writers
- Git and the Writer
- Twitter Tools for Writers
- Kickstarter :: How it is being used by writers
- Cut It Out
More of Eric can be found:
- On Twitter @elmwriting
- His rantings at his blog
- And on the TypeHammer Podcast
Friday, May 15, 2015
Let's Write A Novel - Characters
Paul covered characters and their journey in last nights Writer Time Writers Group monthly series “Let’s Write a Novel”. Turn out was moderate, but discussion lively and open.
Stealing the sketchnote idea from my fellow @typehammer podcast master John Uhri, I submit this evenings notes, via sloppy sketch.
So what it is? Well, allow me to list out some of the major elements:
- A start, which needs a “hook”
- A herald, which calls the hero to action
- A threshold guardian to stop the hero from beginning their journey
- The journey
- The bully and/or antagonist
- Sex
- A major obstacle
- Crossing the finish line
The notes above are for me. An obstacle is something that is stopping the hero. Conflict is something inside the hero wanting them to stop.
There was a lot more that was discussed, but as you can see I’m not very good at sketching notes right now. If you want to know more, perhaps you should just show up.
Wednesday, April 29, 2015
I Sound Like That?!
Lately I've been pushing out some short fiction as a way to procrastinate the finishing touches on a novel for submission; chapter summaries are the devils work. Another form of procrastination has been the involvement of a writing podcast with several friends, recording once a week for www.typehammer.com (@typehammer). No matter what you may have heard, podcasting is only just a new venture to sink cash into fancy hardware. In my case, a nice mic and headphones. Please don't listen to episode 2. My audio is frightenly bad.
What does any of this have to do with writing? Well, last weekend I had published through the #Saturdayscenes writers group a twelve hundred word story called The River. Remember that procrastination I mentioned? Well on Sunday I fired up a free copy of Audacity, sat in front of the mic and turned my short story into an audio story.
I quickly learned two things:
What does any of this have to do with writing? Well, last weekend I had published through the #Saturdayscenes writers group a twelve hundred word story called The River. Remember that procrastination I mentioned? Well on Sunday I fired up a free copy of Audacity, sat in front of the mic and turned my short story into an audio story.
I quickly learned two things:
- I do not like my voice (seriously, who does? Mike Rowe, maybe?)
- It is a lot harder than I have given people credit for
The takeaway for me was crystal clear. It was a great way for me to review and edit my work. Reading it back, out loud, forced me to read the material in a new light and see where changes needed to be made.
What to hear my mumbling? You can hear me say w-ivver instead of river. You can also hear my iPhone let me know I have a facebook message. Should I re-record for better clarity? Probably, but I wanted to share this work in progress. Like writing, the first version is always crap.
Tuesday, April 21, 2015
StoryMaker: Nothing Dies
I know it's been a while since I last used this process for storytelling, so just a reminder, the StoryMaker is a way to create random story ideas using random numbers to determine setting and theme. I first posted about it on this blog here: http://themissingdwarvenphaser.blogspot.com/2014/03/the-storymaker-simple-version.html.
This is another experiment using the StoryMaker. However, this one actually came out of random brainstorming, and I decided to create a real story out of it several days later. In addition, this one ended up being too long a concept to use for one writing exercise. If people are interested, I'll continue the story in later posts. By the way, the StoryMaker roll I used to create this story is listed at the bottom, after the story itself to avoid spoilers.
Avuwav would always remember the day when it all started, not that she ever forgot any other day. November 16th, 2546 by the old calendar. She was in higher education, spending her days in the old facilities and her nights at home, in a dome a good thirty miles from any of the old settlements. The commute wasn't a problem (not via 1,300 mph hypertube, at least,) but few students bothered to even visit the facility. There wasn't any need for it, after all. Any classwork could just be done online in the comfort of home, and besides, the old facility was creepy. Just standing around, studying five-dimensional math or interstellar transportation theory where people once lived and died? Why expose yourself to that emotional paradox?
But Avuwav didn't mind. She was a bit of a traditionalist, who preferred making friends and seeing her professors in person. Besides, she reasoned, what was the point of learning history if you were only going to do it based on theory and holographic projections? If you were going to learn about the past, you should be willing to confront it, get the emotional scale of what it meant, figuratively live in it. Whatever, she thought to herself. At least she wasn't as bad as her history obsessed weirdo friend Qehoxa.
However, on the night of the first incident, all of her justifications vanished away. Night had already fallen when she made her way to the hypertube that would take her home. But she wouldn't get there that night. Just as she made her way into the last hallway out of the ruins of the past, the doors sealed themselves. She stopped, more irritated than worried. A simple malfunction, she assumed, though she couldn't remember the last time she experienced. But then the lights in the hallway started flickering, leaving her in total darkness every few seconds. This shouldn't happen, she realized. More than that, it couldn't. Nothing had been built so haphazardly in centuries.
And then she heard the voice. “Get out,” it whispered, inches away from her, though she could see nothing. A faulty com system? Impossible. That would have resonated all around her from the exact direction of the speakers. But as she stood alone in that dark hallway, surrounded by impossible things, a horrible thought struck her. What if this wasn't some faulty facility equipment? What if the only thing malfunctioning was … her? Only way to be certain. She shut down all external sensor equipment, leaving her in the comforting embrace of pure data. She ran her internal self-diagnostics a dozen times, but every time, she came up clean. A little bad memory here and there, but nobody was perfect. Nothing that would explain such irrational sensory experiences. At any rate, when she returned to the external world, all the strange phenomenon. Even so, rational or not, she didn't hesitate a moment to get the hell out of there.
“What do you think happened, Qehoxa?” Avuwav later asked her friend. As soon as she got out of the hallway, she called her friend. He would be the only one likely to believe her, at least without a mandatory outside full diagnostic. Plus, she figured he would still be at the facility. He practially never leaves. He caught up her with her in the old library, one still containing real books, albeit only reprints of originals sealed in airtight containers who knows where. Qehoxa was flipping through those books now; a mostly pointless endeavor, since he had them all memorized ages ago, but he figured something would catch his optics.
“I have several theories,” he replied. “But most people would call them … well, the humn word was insane.”
Avuwav, who had been wasting countless units of energy by pacing back and forth behind him, was half-convinced that she was already insane, self-diagnostics be damned, but she wasn't about to let him believe that. She waved a hand to demonstrate indifference. “At this point, I'll listen to whatever you have.”
“Well, you know how I took all those Ancient Human Mythology classes?”
“You and about five other students,” she replied, her optics gyrating. “But go ahead.”
“The humans had several myths about this sort of thing. It went by many names: Poltergeist, specter, haunt, wraith, etc. Most commonly, though, it would be called a 'ghost.' Supposedly, a being that dies and paradoxically continues existing, contrary to any law of science. Such beings normally were born out of some sort of emotional trauma, like an unfulfilled goal in life or an especially horrific death.”
“Even if I believed the theory,” Avuwav said, “How would that make sense? Nothing dies. Not anymore, and certainly not here.”
That wasn't 100% true, of course. Simple bacteria and cells sometimes began and end their life cycles in this facility, and the rare insect managed to get inside and die to starvation or accident soon afterwards. But real people didn't die anymore. Avuwav would never get old, never have to contemplate a universe without her. Parts may wear out in time, but they could be easily replaced. Even a particularly catastrophic body failure would just result in her hard memory transferring to a digital storage facility, where it would wait for a day or two until a new body could be made from scratch. She never heard of an android ever truly dying, not in the centuries since the first one had been built.
“Ah, but think back even farther,” Qehoxa offered. “If the death of one person could be so traumatic as to defy physics itself, how much worse would the death of an entire species be? Just imagine what it would be like for your entire kind to go extinct? Sure, most humans just stopped having children when we came along, but some didn't go gently into that good night. There were wars, plagues, biological disasters.”
Avuwav shook her head. “Even if we would be dealing with the ghosts of humanity, why now? Why start … hinting?
“Haunting.”
“Haunting us after hundreds of years?”
Qehoxa shrugged. “Maybe the didn't realize we were something you could haunt. Outside of the last few generations, imagine what we must look like to them. We were thought of as things, once, tools at best. No ghost is going to bother haunting a toaster. But maybe the ghosts finally got wise that we're not just toys spinning their wheels in the ruins of their home. We're they're replacements, and it, to use the human term, pisses them off.”
Avuwav was about to finally order Qehoxa to dismiss this silly idea and get back to real explanations. But then the lights went off, and all the doors in the room, which were still the wooden analog variety, slammed shut.
“Qehoxa,” Avuwav whispered to her friend. “I have good news. I don't entirely think you're crazy anymore.”
“I have good news for you too,” he murmured. “You're definitely not malfunctioning. Not yet, anyway.”
Before they could speak further, the felt something rising up below them. A liquid pooled up and started to flood the room. Avuwav analyzed it and found herself lacking. “What is this?” she asked. “It's not water, too thick. Some sort of polycompound?”
Qehoxa groaned. “Honestly, you skipped Organic Biology as well? It's blood. Part of the human circulatory system, designed to get vital nutrients to tissue and regulated by an organ known as the heart.”
Avuwav started to root through the rising flood. “Well, help me find the heart, then, so we can stop this. What does it look like?”
“I don't think there IS one,” Qehoxa said, suddenly afraid.
“But that makes no sense,” Avuwav said. “You just said that blood is a product of a system that includes the heart. It would logically have to be here.”
“It would. But it isn't.”
The very idea froze Avuwav in fear. If her body had any reason to react to cold weather, it would have shuddered. And if she wasn't terrified already, the spectral disconnected pivot and load system (Qehoxa would later explain to her that it was a “skeleton”) that appeared right in front of her and laughed in her face would have done it.”
Avuwav quietly asked, “What do they WANT from us?”
Qehoxa looked around nervously. “Ghosts are frequently very hostile. They might want to drown us or scare us to death.”
“You want to get out of her before they figure out that's impossible and try something worse?”
“I thought you'd never ask.” Qehoxa charged out of the room, easily shattering the antique door as he went, and the two androids broke into a sprint. Not even bothering with the hypertube system, they simply bolted out of the facility and into the empty wastelands beyond the ancient city.
“What are we going to do?” Qehoxa asked as they fled for home.
“Besides never return to the learning facility again?” Avuwav responded.
“Yes, but in the bigger picture. We could seal all the old ruins, but if the ghosts of a dead civilization have awakened, that wouldn't stop them. And how could we fight them? They defy logic, they violate causality, they make liars out of our sensors. We could never be certain of anything, ever again. Anything could be some plan by the ghosts, and we wouldn't even understand the why of it. This could be the end of us.”
Future + Artificial/Horror-Ghost Story
This is another experiment using the StoryMaker. However, this one actually came out of random brainstorming, and I decided to create a real story out of it several days later. In addition, this one ended up being too long a concept to use for one writing exercise. If people are interested, I'll continue the story in later posts. By the way, the StoryMaker roll I used to create this story is listed at the bottom, after the story itself to avoid spoilers.
Avuwav would always remember the day when it all started, not that she ever forgot any other day. November 16th, 2546 by the old calendar. She was in higher education, spending her days in the old facilities and her nights at home, in a dome a good thirty miles from any of the old settlements. The commute wasn't a problem (not via 1,300 mph hypertube, at least,) but few students bothered to even visit the facility. There wasn't any need for it, after all. Any classwork could just be done online in the comfort of home, and besides, the old facility was creepy. Just standing around, studying five-dimensional math or interstellar transportation theory where people once lived and died? Why expose yourself to that emotional paradox?
But Avuwav didn't mind. She was a bit of a traditionalist, who preferred making friends and seeing her professors in person. Besides, she reasoned, what was the point of learning history if you were only going to do it based on theory and holographic projections? If you were going to learn about the past, you should be willing to confront it, get the emotional scale of what it meant, figuratively live in it. Whatever, she thought to herself. At least she wasn't as bad as her history obsessed weirdo friend Qehoxa.
However, on the night of the first incident, all of her justifications vanished away. Night had already fallen when she made her way to the hypertube that would take her home. But she wouldn't get there that night. Just as she made her way into the last hallway out of the ruins of the past, the doors sealed themselves. She stopped, more irritated than worried. A simple malfunction, she assumed, though she couldn't remember the last time she experienced. But then the lights in the hallway started flickering, leaving her in total darkness every few seconds. This shouldn't happen, she realized. More than that, it couldn't. Nothing had been built so haphazardly in centuries.
And then she heard the voice. “Get out,” it whispered, inches away from her, though she could see nothing. A faulty com system? Impossible. That would have resonated all around her from the exact direction of the speakers. But as she stood alone in that dark hallway, surrounded by impossible things, a horrible thought struck her. What if this wasn't some faulty facility equipment? What if the only thing malfunctioning was … her? Only way to be certain. She shut down all external sensor equipment, leaving her in the comforting embrace of pure data. She ran her internal self-diagnostics a dozen times, but every time, she came up clean. A little bad memory here and there, but nobody was perfect. Nothing that would explain such irrational sensory experiences. At any rate, when she returned to the external world, all the strange phenomenon. Even so, rational or not, she didn't hesitate a moment to get the hell out of there.
“What do you think happened, Qehoxa?” Avuwav later asked her friend. As soon as she got out of the hallway, she called her friend. He would be the only one likely to believe her, at least without a mandatory outside full diagnostic. Plus, she figured he would still be at the facility. He practially never leaves. He caught up her with her in the old library, one still containing real books, albeit only reprints of originals sealed in airtight containers who knows where. Qehoxa was flipping through those books now; a mostly pointless endeavor, since he had them all memorized ages ago, but he figured something would catch his optics.
“I have several theories,” he replied. “But most people would call them … well, the humn word was insane.”
Avuwav, who had been wasting countless units of energy by pacing back and forth behind him, was half-convinced that she was already insane, self-diagnostics be damned, but she wasn't about to let him believe that. She waved a hand to demonstrate indifference. “At this point, I'll listen to whatever you have.”
“Well, you know how I took all those Ancient Human Mythology classes?”
“You and about five other students,” she replied, her optics gyrating. “But go ahead.”
“The humans had several myths about this sort of thing. It went by many names: Poltergeist, specter, haunt, wraith, etc. Most commonly, though, it would be called a 'ghost.' Supposedly, a being that dies and paradoxically continues existing, contrary to any law of science. Such beings normally were born out of some sort of emotional trauma, like an unfulfilled goal in life or an especially horrific death.”
“Even if I believed the theory,” Avuwav said, “How would that make sense? Nothing dies. Not anymore, and certainly not here.”
That wasn't 100% true, of course. Simple bacteria and cells sometimes began and end their life cycles in this facility, and the rare insect managed to get inside and die to starvation or accident soon afterwards. But real people didn't die anymore. Avuwav would never get old, never have to contemplate a universe without her. Parts may wear out in time, but they could be easily replaced. Even a particularly catastrophic body failure would just result in her hard memory transferring to a digital storage facility, where it would wait for a day or two until a new body could be made from scratch. She never heard of an android ever truly dying, not in the centuries since the first one had been built.
“Ah, but think back even farther,” Qehoxa offered. “If the death of one person could be so traumatic as to defy physics itself, how much worse would the death of an entire species be? Just imagine what it would be like for your entire kind to go extinct? Sure, most humans just stopped having children when we came along, but some didn't go gently into that good night. There were wars, plagues, biological disasters.”
Avuwav shook her head. “Even if we would be dealing with the ghosts of humanity, why now? Why start … hinting?
“Haunting.”
“Haunting us after hundreds of years?”
Qehoxa shrugged. “Maybe the didn't realize we were something you could haunt. Outside of the last few generations, imagine what we must look like to them. We were thought of as things, once, tools at best. No ghost is going to bother haunting a toaster. But maybe the ghosts finally got wise that we're not just toys spinning their wheels in the ruins of their home. We're they're replacements, and it, to use the human term, pisses them off.”
Avuwav was about to finally order Qehoxa to dismiss this silly idea and get back to real explanations. But then the lights went off, and all the doors in the room, which were still the wooden analog variety, slammed shut.
“Qehoxa,” Avuwav whispered to her friend. “I have good news. I don't entirely think you're crazy anymore.”
“I have good news for you too,” he murmured. “You're definitely not malfunctioning. Not yet, anyway.”
Before they could speak further, the felt something rising up below them. A liquid pooled up and started to flood the room. Avuwav analyzed it and found herself lacking. “What is this?” she asked. “It's not water, too thick. Some sort of polycompound?”
Qehoxa groaned. “Honestly, you skipped Organic Biology as well? It's blood. Part of the human circulatory system, designed to get vital nutrients to tissue and regulated by an organ known as the heart.”
Avuwav started to root through the rising flood. “Well, help me find the heart, then, so we can stop this. What does it look like?”
“I don't think there IS one,” Qehoxa said, suddenly afraid.
“But that makes no sense,” Avuwav said. “You just said that blood is a product of a system that includes the heart. It would logically have to be here.”
“It would. But it isn't.”
The very idea froze Avuwav in fear. If her body had any reason to react to cold weather, it would have shuddered. And if she wasn't terrified already, the spectral disconnected pivot and load system (Qehoxa would later explain to her that it was a “skeleton”) that appeared right in front of her and laughed in her face would have done it.”
Avuwav quietly asked, “What do they WANT from us?”
Qehoxa looked around nervously. “Ghosts are frequently very hostile. They might want to drown us or scare us to death.”
“You want to get out of her before they figure out that's impossible and try something worse?”
“I thought you'd never ask.” Qehoxa charged out of the room, easily shattering the antique door as he went, and the two androids broke into a sprint. Not even bothering with the hypertube system, they simply bolted out of the facility and into the empty wastelands beyond the ancient city.
“What are we going to do?” Qehoxa asked as they fled for home.
“Besides never return to the learning facility again?” Avuwav responded.
“Yes, but in the bigger picture. We could seal all the old ruins, but if the ghosts of a dead civilization have awakened, that wouldn't stop them. And how could we fight them? They defy logic, they violate causality, they make liars out of our sensors. We could never be certain of anything, ever again. Anything could be some plan by the ghosts, and we wouldn't even understand the why of it. This could be the end of us.”
Future + Artificial/Horror-Ghost Story
Tuesday, April 7, 2015
Dreamleaks 5: Challenging Film
Phyllis sighed and checked the time again. Yup, as she feared, barely a minute since the last time she checked. That makes the the third time she checked in this scene alone. If she could even call this a scene.
She glanced around, and nearly everybody in the theatre was as restless as she was. Everyone except Avi, her date, who looked ready to burst into tears. She didn't want to interrupt whatever moment he was having. But five minutes later, she couldn't stand it. “What exactly is going on?” she whispered to him.
Avi just glared baack. “Don't talk during the movie,” he muttered.
Phyllis insisted she wasn't the kind of person to do something that. Normally. However, it's not like there was any dialogue to interrupt. Or action. Seriously, they'd been watching a tree grow in fast-motion for the past ten minutes now. It was a very nice tree, with certainly expensive 3D effects on the branches and whatnot. But still, just a tree.
“It' just … I don't have any idea what's going on?” she persisted. “I was into the movie at first, but then it got … weird.”
Avi was about to shush her again, but even he had noticed the whispered conversations throughout the theater. “Looks, what's not to get? This is supposed to be the world as it would be without the characters, or anyone else. It's supposed to be a serene contrast.”
It almost serened Phyllis into a nap at that point. But no! Finally, the interminable scene ended and they could go back to the actual characters … as animals. Animals dressed up like the characters from the first part of the movie, just milling about in silly characters.
“Okay, so what does THIS mean?” Phyllis asked, just as the movie theater's staff burst in as a massive swarm. For a moment, Phyllis panicked, certain that the ushers were going to throw her and the other chatting viewers out. But no, instead they started to act out a dramatic battle, right between the rows of seats! This might make the slightest semblance of sense, if not for the fact that half of the staff were dressed like 1920's gangsters, and the others as giant cats.
Before Phyllis could ask, Avi beat her to it. “Obviously, this is supposed to represent the battle between authority as a form of corruption and tyranny versus the amoral freedom of primitivism. Cats versus gangsters is as blatant a metaphor as you can get!”
“Okay, fine, but what does it have to do with the movie that we're ostenably supposed to be watching?” Phyllis argued back. “And just think how much it must have cost to get costumes for every theater in the world.” She shuddered to imagine what the home version of the movie would be like. Maybe the Blueray would come with hand puppets.
Avi refused to answer. He was too entranced with the best acting a bunch of projectionists and ticket-takers could offer contrasted with the actual movie going on, which had switched from animals dressed in costumes to babies dressed in costumes. After an eternity at at least 15 more time-checks, the staff finally went away and the lights came on.
“Oh, thank God, it's finally over?” Phyllis shouted. The actually plot of the movie hadn't been resolved, or even addressed for an hour now, but she didn't care.
“What, no!” Avi admonished her. “The best part's coming up.”
Sure enough, the theater staff burst in, still adorned in their goofy costumes. But instead of acting out another scene, they came bearing pens and paper for the entire audience.
“The best part is a quiz?” Phyllis asked as she stared at the page dumped on her lap.
“It's the interactive part of the movie!” Avi explained. “It lets you reflect on the movie as it has presented itself and how your nature filtered that experience.
Now Phyllis was excited, eager to have an immediate way of venting her frustrations, until she saw the questions. “What exactly does my relationship with my mother have to do with a movie?”
“Ah, the real question is, doesn't your relationship with your mother have to do with everything you experience, INCLUDING the movie?” Avi said. After seeing his date's blank expression, he just grumbled, “I don't even know why agreed to come if you were going to be so critical. The art of cinema is meant to challenge you like this.”
“Well, I certainly didn't expect it from this movie,” Phyllis said. “I can appreciate being challenged by some weird indie film, but this is a big summer blockbuster! I can't help but feel they let their success get to their heads. I was looking forward to this movie for years, but a movie like Avengers 2 needs more superheroes fighting robots and less still images of trees and psych evalutions.”
“But,” she relented, “the puppy dressed like Iron Man was pretty adorable.”
She glanced around, and nearly everybody in the theatre was as restless as she was. Everyone except Avi, her date, who looked ready to burst into tears. She didn't want to interrupt whatever moment he was having. But five minutes later, she couldn't stand it. “What exactly is going on?” she whispered to him.
Avi just glared baack. “Don't talk during the movie,” he muttered.
Phyllis insisted she wasn't the kind of person to do something that. Normally. However, it's not like there was any dialogue to interrupt. Or action. Seriously, they'd been watching a tree grow in fast-motion for the past ten minutes now. It was a very nice tree, with certainly expensive 3D effects on the branches and whatnot. But still, just a tree.
“It' just … I don't have any idea what's going on?” she persisted. “I was into the movie at first, but then it got … weird.”
Avi was about to shush her again, but even he had noticed the whispered conversations throughout the theater. “Looks, what's not to get? This is supposed to be the world as it would be without the characters, or anyone else. It's supposed to be a serene contrast.”
It almost serened Phyllis into a nap at that point. But no! Finally, the interminable scene ended and they could go back to the actual characters … as animals. Animals dressed up like the characters from the first part of the movie, just milling about in silly characters.
“Okay, so what does THIS mean?” Phyllis asked, just as the movie theater's staff burst in as a massive swarm. For a moment, Phyllis panicked, certain that the ushers were going to throw her and the other chatting viewers out. But no, instead they started to act out a dramatic battle, right between the rows of seats! This might make the slightest semblance of sense, if not for the fact that half of the staff were dressed like 1920's gangsters, and the others as giant cats.
Before Phyllis could ask, Avi beat her to it. “Obviously, this is supposed to represent the battle between authority as a form of corruption and tyranny versus the amoral freedom of primitivism. Cats versus gangsters is as blatant a metaphor as you can get!”
“Okay, fine, but what does it have to do with the movie that we're ostenably supposed to be watching?” Phyllis argued back. “And just think how much it must have cost to get costumes for every theater in the world.” She shuddered to imagine what the home version of the movie would be like. Maybe the Blueray would come with hand puppets.
Avi refused to answer. He was too entranced with the best acting a bunch of projectionists and ticket-takers could offer contrasted with the actual movie going on, which had switched from animals dressed in costumes to babies dressed in costumes. After an eternity at at least 15 more time-checks, the staff finally went away and the lights came on.
“Oh, thank God, it's finally over?” Phyllis shouted. The actually plot of the movie hadn't been resolved, or even addressed for an hour now, but she didn't care.
“What, no!” Avi admonished her. “The best part's coming up.”
Sure enough, the theater staff burst in, still adorned in their goofy costumes. But instead of acting out another scene, they came bearing pens and paper for the entire audience.
“The best part is a quiz?” Phyllis asked as she stared at the page dumped on her lap.
“It's the interactive part of the movie!” Avi explained. “It lets you reflect on the movie as it has presented itself and how your nature filtered that experience.
Now Phyllis was excited, eager to have an immediate way of venting her frustrations, until she saw the questions. “What exactly does my relationship with my mother have to do with a movie?”
“Ah, the real question is, doesn't your relationship with your mother have to do with everything you experience, INCLUDING the movie?” Avi said. After seeing his date's blank expression, he just grumbled, “I don't even know why agreed to come if you were going to be so critical. The art of cinema is meant to challenge you like this.”
“Well, I certainly didn't expect it from this movie,” Phyllis said. “I can appreciate being challenged by some weird indie film, but this is a big summer blockbuster! I can't help but feel they let their success get to their heads. I was looking forward to this movie for years, but a movie like Avengers 2 needs more superheroes fighting robots and less still images of trees and psych evalutions.”
“But,” she relented, “the puppy dressed like Iron Man was pretty adorable.”
Monday, March 9, 2015
Releasing Your Children to the Wild
I have two rules when dealing with the Internet:
And then sometimes the Wild is friendly, encouraging, engaging and supportive.
Next weeks #saturdayscenes will be chapter 2 of Madness and the Kaiserhorde, a romance novel full of WWI bi-planes, artillery, and something resembling zombies.
Last Flight of the King IV can be found here.
Madness and the Kaiserhorde over here.
Internet comments are not always roses and sunshine. Sometimes it is nothing but thorns. I was involved in a media post where I decided on some random day to read the comments. It pushed me into levels of depression I hadn't felt since high school. I spent hours wondering how I could counter, hide or respond to the vitriol...but in the end I just never went back.
I can not stress this enough: Hope for the best / Prepare for the worst. Be prepared to meet an onslaught of short-minded people who find their own pleasure in attempting to destroy others. Have a plan in place because when they hit, they hit hard and fast.
- Never read the comments
- Always read the comments
And then sometimes the Wild is friendly, encouraging, engaging and supportive.
Great read. Totally believableI have been bringing two serialed stories to the public over the past month, releasing on Saturday with the hashtag #saturdayscenes.
I have a feeling I will like Captain William Brown.The comments peppered here are from the release of the second chapter of the science-fiction Last Flight of the King IV this past weeekend.
Nice scene and a great story.As you can see this is a nice ego-boost; validation to what I am posting.
Good portrayal of how absurd military ritual can seem if you aren’t thinking about the reasons for it.That’s not to say there aren’t criticisms. From the first chapter I received:
I liked this very much, though the very first paragraph didn’t grab me. (It felt a little superfluous?) Good dialogue.and
The beginning phrase was awkward, but the rest of the story was quite interesting.and
Good stuff in that first paragraph, but too much, too soon. Take some of it and mix it in with his thoughts as he talks to the reporter. Great start and I love the dialogue.If you were following the first chapter, and took note of the edits I made, you would see some of the changes. It was an extensive re-write on the first two paragraphs.
But would he be using a watch with hands? In the future?This comment made me smile, affirming that I was on the right path. Yes, it is a science-fiction, and yes it takes place in the future…but I’m not going to describe something unless it will move the story forward, if not immediatly, then shortly there after. This comment told me that people are not only reading, but engrossed in the scene, and thinking about what has been written.
Next weeks #saturdayscenes will be chapter 2 of Madness and the Kaiserhorde, a romance novel full of WWI bi-planes, artillery, and something resembling zombies.
Last Flight of the King IV can be found here.
Madness and the Kaiserhorde over here.
Internet comments are not always roses and sunshine. Sometimes it is nothing but thorns. I was involved in a media post where I decided on some random day to read the comments. It pushed me into levels of depression I hadn't felt since high school. I spent hours wondering how I could counter, hide or respond to the vitriol...but in the end I just never went back.
I can not stress this enough: Hope for the best / Prepare for the worst. Be prepared to meet an onslaught of short-minded people who find their own pleasure in attempting to destroy others. Have a plan in place because when they hit, they hit hard and fast.
Monday, February 2, 2015
The Process
Last year I mentioned at a writers group meeting that I was thinking about penning a science fiction piece. I told the group there would be no lasers, explosions, love interests or any of the other plot devices common in the troupe. One of the members squawked saying it would be something to the effect as, “the most boring read ever.”
Challenge accepted.
What I have detailed here is how I have been developing this work-in-progress and promoting it for readership. I also added narrative notes for the reader if they were interested in my thought process.
In the past I posted several short stories that received very nice reviews and shares by other writers; enough for me to try something new. A serial story released week to week.
I wanted to do this right from the get-go, so I purchased a domain name, king4flight.com at google’s new domain service. Here is my cost breakdown:
And that’s it. I create, edit and publish from stackedit.io.
You are probably wondering why go through all the bother. Well, for me this is less of a bother as all my content creation and editing takes place in stackedit.io, no matter my location.(lunch hour at work, home, driving…). I can also maintain content from multiple blogs from one spot:
That’s all fun and games. What we really need are photos.
Now, I ask….How can you choose not to read that?
So, you are probably wondering if this is the end all/be all of my adventure. Not even close!
Stay tuned!
Challenge accepted.
What I have detailed here is how I have been developing this work-in-progress and promoting it for readership. I also added narrative notes for the reader if they were interested in my thought process.
Promotion
In terms of social networks, I spend a good deal of time in Google Plus. One of the communities I partake in is called Saturday Scenes, where writers, every Saturday, post scenes, chapters, whatever they like to the public stream with the hashtag #saturdayscenes. I also post to Twitter with the #amwriting to help drive even further possible traffic. Upwards of 60 writers post, share and seek an audience by working together. It is a grand experiment full of rather nice people, good writers and a chunk of fun. Yes, a chunk.In the past I posted several short stories that received very nice reviews and shares by other writers; enough for me to try something new. A serial story released week to week.
I wanted to do this right from the get-go, so I purchased a domain name, king4flight.com at google’s new domain service. Here is my cost breakdown:
- $12 at domains.google.com (king4flight.com)
- FREE blogger.com account
- $5 bookcover at fiverr.com (not needed, but feeds the ego)
The Process
I needed a way to work on the writing while at home, or at work during my lunch hour. Enter stackedit.io, the markdown service I am using right now to write this blog entry. When I have finished I simply publish to the blog from stackedit.And that’s it. I create, edit and publish from stackedit.io.
You are probably wondering why go through all the bother. Well, for me this is less of a bother as all my content creation and editing takes place in stackedit.io, no matter my location.(lunch hour at work, home, driving…). I can also maintain content from multiple blogs from one spot:
- Serial novella (Last flight of the King IV)
- Writers Group Blog (The Missing Dwarven Phaser)
- My Personal Blog (michalsen.wordpress.com)
That’s all fun and games. What we really need are photos.
Here is stackedit.io interface. The markdown, where you type, is on the left, and how it renders is on the right. If you are new to markdown, rest assured it is easy and there are plenty of cheatsheets out there.
By clicking the hash in the upper left gives you the fly-out menu.
Where you are given a host of choices to publish and save your material.
I choose to publish to blogger.
Here is domains.google.com where I point the domain to a blogger page. Easy-peasy.
Now, I ask….How can you choose not to read that?
So, you are probably wondering if this is the end all/be all of my adventure. Not even close!
Stay tuned!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)