Tag: speculative fiction

The Writing Moment

I’m still working on a novel. Finished one earlier this year and edit and revise it when free time gestures, do it. Meanwhile, I’m writing another. Thought I’d have it finished by September’s middle. Did. Not. Happen. I wrote an ending but it didn’t work. Yet it did work.

Why it didn’t work… Well, it wasn’t satisfying. None of the characters liked it. Especially the protagonist. You wouldn’t believe her reaction. The Writing Neurons were also pissed by the ending, and also let me know.

Hush, hush, I told them all. That was just the climax. Now I’ll write a denouement and all will be well. You’ll see.

Snorting, the Writing Neurons muttered, “Bullshit.” The Muses were more restrained, expressing their WTF doubts with a smirk.

Ignoring them, I pressed on. That’s when I realized why the ending did work. It did work because I had to get it out of me. It also worked because I saw that I was aiming toward the end of one story line, involving the main person, but there was a larger story line that needed an ending. I’d become so focused on my main person, I overlooked that other story line.

When I wrote that ending for the story, I killed one trending direction. Doing so freed the character to take over. Completely unaware of where I was going, like trying to find the bathroom in an unfamiliar, pitch-black house, every new paragraph was a challenge. I often rewrote paragraphs several times, trying to figure out what they meant. Is that how novel writing is supposed to go? I actually think so.

Now, I think I see the real ending. I don’t say that too loudly. Don’t want to piss off the protagonist, Muses, and Writing Neurons. It’s hard enough keeping them all in line and moving in the same direction. Like herding angry feral cats.

Got my coffee and a table. Got my ‘puter. Time to continue writing like crazy, at least one more time.

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Mundaz Theme Music

57 F was our morning air temp, giving us a comfy chill for an Ashlandia summer morning. Clouds were squirreled into one sky corner, presenting the sun with an open path. A high of just 82 F, below our average, is expected to crown the day. No smoke; no fires, knock wood.

I’m just climbing back into the world today. Yesterday was chill. Wife and I visited the Oregon Cabaret to see Disaster! and have a brunch. Quite a silly musical, exquisitely campy. Taking off on the disaster movies which ruled like Marvel movies back in the 1970s, the setting was a casino on a docked ship. The dock was new, incomplete, and built on a fault line. The shady owner skirted regulations and cut corners. We had earthquakes, a tidal wave, fire, explosions, and a few love stories. One love story was behind a retired couple’s story while the other was about a couple with an aborted wedding. All this was structured around popular music from that era, such as “Saturday Night”, “Hot Stuff”, and “Sky High”. A couple of the performers, such Molly Stillens as the singing nun — it’s a 1970s disaster setting, remember? — really leaned into the campiness and made it shine. Good food and a fun show that fostered multiple belly laughs.

Back home in mid afternoon, reading to finish a book due back to the library was undertaken. Ministry of Time was well written, with deeply drawn characters and an interesting variation on standard ‘time-travel’ concepts. Kaliane Bradley is beautifully inventive polishing phrases. Then I wrote for an hour, followed by yard work. Little news was taken in.

Today’s song is “After the Gold Rush”. The Neurons remembered the song as I took coffee on the front porch and investigated nature’s plate with idle curiosity about what was planned, what was done, what was to come sort of montage. Neil Young wrote it and released it while I was in high school. Many covered it later. One famous cover came from a trio of famous singers: Dolly Parton, Emmylou Harris, and Linda Ronstadt, which was released in 1999. While Neil’s version as as heartfelt and raw as Neil sings everything, the trio’s harmonizing lifts the lyrics into another realm. Hope you enjoy it.

Time to let Munda stamp me with its intentions. Coffee has been had. Let me go forth. May peace and grace find you this day and everyday. Cheers

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The Writing Moment

I was sitting on the porcelain can taking care of needed business but also reading S.A. Cosby because I like multi-tasking when a new aspect of the novel in process came in. Had nohing to do with what I was reading; my novels don’t run in the same genre as Cosby’s offerings.

But Cosby offers sharp, fresh writing and twisty plots. It awakens and stimulates the Writing Neurons. They come out and start playing. And suddenly the tale I’m working on has a new facet to be introduced. It emerged from one sentence, one word, really. And I said to myself, that’s something I should put into that scene I wrote yesterday. Then, bing, the rest flowered fast.

Such fun.

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The Writing Moment

I’ve re-written the last 20% of the current novel in progress. Again, I guess. Guided by muses, and getting out of my own way, I added a whole other first section. Started it on Dec 26, 2024. Finished that section yesterday. How well it fit in really surprised me. I sweated and cringed as I wrote, wondering with clenched teeth, where is this all going? How does it tie together? But while I fretted over those things and tried my hardest to step up in front of myself and squirm and overanalyze, something inside me managed to push me aside again and again, and keep writing.

Then, suddenly, OMG, plot twist. And another one. And another.

I’ll tell you, all these plot twists make me nervous.

Am I close to writing a final ‘the end’? Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps… I can’t seem to really say. There’s a writer in me who took over, and he/she/they don’t let on about what they’re doing. I’m just going to sit down, gulp up coffee, write like crazy, and see what’s delivered.

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The Writing Moment

It’s a bumpy writing ride right now.

The novel in editing, Memories of Why, fishtailed and went sideways. On page 550 of 580. Realizing that it needed work brought me down. This is the manuscript’s rev 6.

Fact is, it’s sloppy at that section and the thinking behind it needs tightened up. A few inconsistencies are evident. I gloss over them, but I hear my reading side saying, “That’s weak. I don’t buy it.” Grumbling about it to myself, I thought, look, put it off, ignore it, the first five hundred pages are good. But I can’t. I know it needs work. I can’t look away from that. I’ll need to mask up, get up the scalpels, and go in there. It’s for the patient’s own good. Yes, I’m mixing things there, aren’t I? LOL. More coffee, stat.

Reflecting on it and my writing process, I realized that this section was written late. I’m a writer who likes writing and editing a great deal. I overwrite, then retreat and revise, smoothing and polishing. As this was written in the late stages, it’s not been subjected to as much revising, smoothing, and polishing. I also suspect that the rest of the ms reads and feels better because of the process, so this section comes off as shabby.

The new novel, Gravity’s Emotions, is going fast. Or so I thought. Started on July 19, I’m on page 120. I thought, that’s pretty fast progress for me. But when I actually crunched the numbers, it’s average.

Thinking about why it seems or feels like it’s going faster, I realize that I’m thinking about it less. Attempting to write in a different manner than usual and utilize a different approach, I told myself to get out of the way, don’t overthink it, and just let the words go. It often feels edgy and terrifying. But I’m pleased with how it’s going, knock on wood.

Writing yesterday, I was so caught up that I realized that I’d gone into overtime. See, we had this thing planned and I was to be home at a certain time, which means, naturally, leaving the coffee shop by a certain time, and there I was, still hammering away when I was supposed to have been gone ten minutes before. But the scene, the scene, I had to finish it. Type faster, I mentally exhorted my fingers. Be more nimble.

It all worked out. The scene was finished and I made it home with time to spare. I’d already begun writing the next scene in my head before finishing that scene, so I now have a firm jumping off point for this morning.

More coffee! Here we go. Rock and write. Cheers

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The Writing Moment

Finished editing and revising the current novel in progress. It’s either the sixth or seventh iteration. Doesn’t matter.

My vision for it has clarified through the process of writing and then reading and changing it. One storyline was excised as meandering, dull, and convoluted. Firmer insights into relationships, terminology, and setting crystallized, leading to more slices. Explanations and clarifications were thinned. Characters and relationships found sharper evolution.

All good. I enjoy the manuscript and that means something to me. It is lengthy and meaty, and I wonder and worry about its length. But then I shrug, because nothing emerges for me to deliberately remove.

Now I’ll begin editing and revising again. This time I’m pursuing more of the novel’s voice and feel. I suspect — it’s a feeling — that this will be the last go around. And then I’ll begin pursuing publication.

A friend — another writer — asked me what titles I would compare it to. And gosh, I came up with nothing. I have some vague notions. Historic fiction, science fiction, and fantasy all combined in this speculative effort. And it has stories and characters embedded in it whose stories I’d like to pursue. Like Humans. Humans’ are in the book’s forefront and background, as they were moved to isolation in a forbidden zone long before events in this book. They are important to the novel because the primary antagonist is a Martian who loves Humans and conquers others to spread Human cultures. That’s one reason the rest of the civilizations consider her so dangerous. The other is that she’s proven difficult to kill.

There’s also the main character’s stepmother and her complicated story. I’d like to pursue exploring her and how she developed into the person she is. Then, there’s the main character’s relationship to his sister, and what happened to her in parallel to him, and where she is and if she’s still a cat.

But then, there are also so many other projects sitting in the wings, waiting for me to come back to them. And they’re all stories, concepts, ideas, which interest me.

It’s all fun, reading, writing, editing, imagining, thinking, the life of a writer.

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The Writing Moment

Finished. Done. Over. Completed.

Yes, I’ve completed rev five of the novel in progress. Its current working title is Memories of Why. Speculative historic fiction. Couple cups of science fiction tempered with a pint of fantasy and a few tablespoons of revisionism. 523 pages in Word. 160,000 words. Probably over three hundred large cups of coffee. Began writing it in March of last year. Started with a character — a cherub — and their imprisonment and sugar addiction. Grew from there. Humans are about as involved as Martians. Or the reverse. Azure Iarnum — AI — had a bigger role than Humans or Martians. Dragons played a small role, as did ‘spaceships’.

Next: revise again. I think I’m getting somewhere.

7

The Shimmering

When the shimmering began, he took no notice. Half an ear heard of it, a quarter of his brain gave it a few seconds of attention, but that was mostly because he was a dirty old man. He was a dirty old man, couldn’t help himself, though he tried to be woke or whatever the right expression was, so the three young women caught his attention.

They were right beside him, so young, healthy, and energetic, drinking some kind of holiday coffee drink loaded with whip cream and sipped up with straws. He could even smell whatever perfume of shampoo or lotion they wore. Their behavior kindled a universe of remembered thoughts about what being young meant. One, the brunette, a tall person with wide dark eyes, maybe endowed with some Korean heritage, gasped and said more loudly than anything said previously, “Marcus has the shimmering.”

Voices dropping, heads moving toward a center point, the conversation’s tone was a serious counterpart to their previous merriment. Such behavior just sucked him in.

“He does?” said one blonde. As she continued with rising concern, “When,” and “Who told you,” the other blonde said, “Oh my God, when did he get it?”

Their voices dropped lower. Coffee house adult contemporary rock and mild tinnitus kept him from hearing though he pushed his mind to deeper levels of concentration. Nothing came of it.

They left five minutes later, texting on phones, drinks in hand, moving in a line to the exit and out. The shimmering was such an unusual expression, hours later, at home while watching The Kominsky Method again and eating a piece of Marie Callender apple pie which he’d baked, he remembered it and asked his dog if she’d ever heard of it. Although the dog’s intelligent face perked up, she said nothing.

“Fine help you are,” he said, the expression the two shared often, especially when he thought he heard someone creeping around outside at night. The shimmering still gnawed at him like an earworm which wouldn’t let go, so he turned to his ancient laptop and brought up Google. He hated Google almost as much as Twitter and Facebook, but Google unfortunately delivered the best results.

The shimmering, he typed in, figuring that it was probably using a traditional spelling, chuckling to himself at his droll wit. The computer screen went black as soon as he pressed enter.

“What the — .” He stared at the screen. What now? Damn technology. Stupid computer. He pressed enter a few times, hoping that would stir the screen back to life, and the did alt-ctrl-delete. Ah, yes, the old three-fingered salute. Remember the BSOD, he told himself, and laughed.

Grimacing, he acknowledged, he probably needed to do a hard reboot and pray to the tech gods that the stupid machine worked. Well, it was old. He couldn’t remember when he’d bought it. Seemed like it’d been at least ten years. Could that be right?

The screen lit up as he reached for the power button. It was kind of lavender-ish and blue, but also white and almost bright as looking at the full sun on a clear day. Pulling back with a hard wince, he closed his eyes, said, “Damn,” loudly, and leaned back.

Shelby said beside him, “That is bright.”

Eyebrows jumping, he peered at the black and white dog. Did she speak or was he imagining that? “What?” he finally asked.

The dog turned her brown and amber eyes on him. “I said that it’s bright.”

He gawked at her.

“I mean the screen,” Shelby said. “At least it’s bright to me.” The dog pointed her nose at the screen. “Hey, there are words.”

“You can read?” he asked. “You can talk and you read?”

“Look,” the dog answered, backing away. “Your skin.”

“What?” He looked down in almost the same second. A gasp rode out of him. His hands were shimmering like white sequins under hot spotlights.

Then a voice from the computer said, “You have been given the shimmering.”

“What?” he replied, because his neurons had abandoned their posts and nothing made sense to him. He might even be having a stroke. He’d always feared having a stroke.

The computer said, “Initiation beginning.” The light flowed out of the screen and embraced him.

An unexpected life was about to begin.

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Car In A Dream

He awoke with a fast start. Pulse still hammering, heart palpitating in his chest, he kept still, eyes wide open, focused on the dark night around him, waiting for his eyesight to catch up.

Common sounds asserted themselves: others snoring throughout the house, including the dog on the floor and his wife beside him in the bed. Wind was kicking around something loose on the house, reminding him that he’d need to hunt the object down before it broke free. Something to do when daylight arrived, after the other winter chores were completed, something to complete while the sun shone and he paced himself until spring.

Sleep was not coming back soon. Lightly he unfurled the heavy blankets and quilts, untangled himself from his wife’s grasp, and slipped free. An icy floor met his soles. Shivers jumped through his body. Eyes finding form in the darkness, he eased out of the bedroom, past the old dog, and out into the kitchen.

A tabby was settled on the kitchen counter, watching him with still eyes. Drifting to the window, he peered out past the curtains and glass while he scratched the cat. It purred happy in response. He’d dreamed of cars again. The car in this dream had been from about 1980, although he thought he was living in 2021 when he dreamed it. Just speculation about that, as those dates felt elusive. He knew the car, though, green and low, was not like anything seen in this century. Cars were still to be invented. He shook his head at that. Cars were still to be invented, but seemed so real… If the car was from 1980, that was still one hundred twenty years away. Scratching his face, he prepared to return to bed.

He awoke with a fast start. Gaping at his familiar bedroom, he settled onto his side with a long sigh. He’d dreamed again that he was living on a farm in eighteen sixty. Breaking free of his wife and the cats huddling against him, he slipped out of bed and moved through the house. Night lights embedded in the walls helped guide him as he made his way to the garage and flipped on its lights. His BMW M1 reflected the scene in its gleaming green surfaces, including himself, staring at the car. For a moment, he saw himself as another person, the old farmer? And then another — the man from 2021?

Shutting the garage lights off, he returned to the house. Cats had followed him and now demanded food, attention, or both. Touching his wrist, he woke his Backhand. “Show me today’s dreams,” he said, amending, “from the last two hours.” The dreams paraded by until the green car arrived. “Freeze.” He drank it in. “Enlarge the driver’s face. Clarify and sharpen.” He squinted as it grew in size, trying to decide if it was him, the man from 1860, or the guy from 2021.

Were they — he — all the same?

He closed the dream. Either something — worlds — were coming together, or something — the divide between worlds? — was coming apart. Maybe something else, like his sanity, was coming apart. Padding down the hall, ambivalence slowed him. He wasn’t certain he wanted to return to bed, wasn’t certain if he wanted to return to sleep. For to sleep meant to dream, and he was becoming worried about where his dreams might next take him.

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