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Elsewhere’s Twin
a novel of sex, doppelgängers, and the Collective Id
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“Your New Uniform is in the Wardrobe”
brought into the kicking chamber- howling, drooling
- “We’ve had our fun.”
- not a cold day by Lapland standards
- what a beautiful dance
Tune in next time part 895 Click Here for Earlier Installments
“Your new uniform is in the wardrobe,” Fleur said. “Dress quickly.”
I groaned. “I’m too hungover to do anything quickly.”
“Then I shall have you brought into the kicking chamber where all the howling, drooling, tantrumming babies are kept.” Fleur gave an evil chuckle. “That should clear your hangover right up.”
With another groan I heaved myself to my feet. “We’ve had our fun.” I stood still until my head stopped spinning. “No need to bring the children into it.”
I showered quickly, shaved, and scraped the eggnog fuzz off my teeth. “What’s the weather like in Colloquillia today?”
“It doesn’t matter if it’s not a cold day by Lapland standards, or if it’s as hot as the Sahara, you’re wearing the same uniform in any case.”
Contrarian military uniforms are uniformly outlandish. The higher the rank, the more ridiculous the accessories. Judging by what awaited me in the wardrobe, I’d been promoted again.
I started with the underwear, complete with all the bells and whistles. As I shimmied and tugged everything into place, Fleur said, “What a beautiful dance. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to seduce me.”
If it meant not having to put on the rest of this outrageous getup, it might be worth it, monster hangover and all.
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Even The Best Advice
It is vital for writers to seek feedback, from beta readers and also from our fellow authors. Finding out what works and what doesn’t is the only way to get better. But, you need to bear in mind that all this input is coming through a filter, and ultimately it’s up to you to decide which notes to apply and which ones to disregard.
When you get input from another writer, it’s usually them saying you should do it the way they would do it. It might not be phrased with quite such blunt honesty, but when anybody gives advice about anything, how else can it work? Your colleagues are trying to share the benefit of their experience. They mean well. But if you’re not careful, you might get steered toward someone else’s voice and vision.
When you collaborate with a partner, you have someone telling you to do it the way you do it, only better. Your partner has an intrinsic sense for how things are intended to come across, and thus won’t offer advice that leads you astray. Jen and Kent are co-authors, but a similar partner dynamic could exist between, say, a writer and an editor. The key is that you’re teammates with a shared vision, so when you advise each other you’re honing in more strongly on the desired end-product, not diluting or distorting it.
Working with a partner is not a substitute for seeking outside feedback, and you really should listen with an open mind to the comments and suggestions other people offer. That same remove from your work that imposes a filter also lends perspective. They’ll see things that you and your partner missed due to being too close to it. Gathering and processing outside feedback together with your partner helps in identifying which notes are important.
A writing partner is like a voice inside your head, but in a good way.
I Awoke With Bleary Vision
look at all the hip movement- escaped through the tunnel system
- (Chum, chum, chum)
- a bonus grandma
- no longer necessary to rely on insects for most outfits
Tune in next time part 894 Click Here for Earlier Installments
I awoke with bleary vision and a head filled with unclean dreams. My head was pounding too hard for me to shake away the dream-residue without my skull flying to pieces, so I was left to puzzle out which memories were real. Surely the enormous velvet bed where Fleur laid me must have been a confabulation.
But, no. It loomed over the cramped husband-bed where I found myself, with numerous hens for companionship. They scratched at the sumptuous bedding and shot me beady, disapproving looks. As if it was my fault there were no worms or seeds tucked among the folds.
That meant we must be about to arrive in Colloquillia, unless we were already there. I sat up, straining for a view out the modern windows. Not that I’d recognize the country even if I did manage to get a look outside. I slumped back in disappointment, setting off a blizzard of chicken feathers.
“What are we doing in your quarters?” I bellowed. “You said we were bound for steerage, for a party.”
She came into view around the prow of the mammoth bed. “And it thrilled me to look at all the hip movements you performed as you eagerly staggered along. If I’d told you the truth, you might have broken away and escaped through the tunnel system that permeates my airship. Even I don’t have it all mapped out. There’s something in there making an ominous sound, like this:” She paused to demonstrate the noise (Chum, chum, chum) conveying its ominousness mainly via her eyebrows as her pleasing contralto voice couldn’t manage alone.
I sighed. “You said something about a summit?”
Fleur nodded as she adjusted an earring. “And I need you as an interpreter. Otherwise, I’ll just have to take it literally when the ambassador mentions having a bonus grandma or finding it no longer necessary to rely on insects for most outfits.”
I laughed, which made my headache worse. “You do realize that my Colloquillian is rustier than a beached trawler in the Salton Sea.”
“Sounds like you’ll do just fine,” she replied.
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“You’re Too Drunk”
- Cleopatra’s 20-foot-long velvet barge
- with its modern windows
- recalled antediluvian monsters
- an embarrassing experience for everyone involved.
- Where are these live chickens coming from?
Tune in next time part 893 Click Here for Earlier Installments
“You’re too drunk to even be fun,” Fleur said. She dragged me through the airship to her suite. Her grand bed was modeled after Cleopatra’s 20-foot-long velvet barge. I was not permitted to sleep in it, though. Instead, my wife tucked me into the small husband-bed that sat by the footboard like a pet basket, and whispered about how this suite, with its modern windows and elaborate wallpaper, recalled antediluvian monsters and gothic horrors, and how the design meeting with the first decorator was an embarrassing experience for everyone involved.
“The second decorator really nailed my vision, don’t you agree?” She seemed genuinely pleased. “Get some sleep.” She tapped me on the forehead. “When you awaken you will be surrounded by live chickens, all ready to lay your breakfast.”
“Fleur,” I mumbled through sleepy lips. “Where are these live chickens coming from?”
“Colloquilia. We’ll be arriving exactly on time for the summit, assuming the winds cooperate.”
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Making Ourselves Believe the Make-Believe
A hallmark of well-crafted fiction is when readers effortlessly suspend their disbelief. Creating good fiction calls for writers to suspend their disbelief as well.
For instance, to write our ghost story we need to convincingly portray a world in which ghosts exist, so we have to embrace that alternate reality. In our Divided Man series, it was extra-terrestrials, nanotech, and psychic powers. In the Music series, it was something else (which you will not be able to guess, ever, we guarantee that), and in the Science series it was immortality. Each story we tell gives consensus reality its own unique twist, which on a certain level becomes “true” for us also. That immersion is crucial for us to bring richness to the setting, and to keep its physical laws consistent.
And that’s the easy part. Writing a novel calls for the author to see the world through potentially disturbing eyes. Could be a cult leader, a mad scientist, a serial killer, or a televangelist. If you’re a nice person — which we’re sure you are — the behavior of such characters seems unthinkable to you. Then again, you’d probably make a rather dull bad guy. Every villain is the hero of their story. They believe in what they’re doing. So the writer must be able to believe in it too, at least while they’re writing. This is still true even if the villain isn’t a POV character! Like an evil marionette, it’s relying on you to pull its strings.
A writing partner is someone who encourages delusional ideation, but only when you’re on the clock.
Aha! Thought I
- described in orientation documents as “human lasagna.”
- a ritual in which
- how sarcasm works
- no one wants to hook up with a lemon-scented lizard-person
- All claws and teeth
Tune in next time part 892 Click Here for Earlier Installments
Aha! thought I, that confirms that Yolanda is there. But not alone. I remembered a bit of detail then about yodeler subculture, something that didn’t actually come up in my time at Enigma Fortress but was described in the orientation documents as “human lasagna.” It was a ritual in which the yodelers would layer themselves and then “bake” together in a sweaty pile. I wondered, would an airship journey be an appropriate occasion to observe this custom?
“I’m sure she’ll be thrilled to see you no matter how you’re dressed,” Fleur said haughtily.
I was drunk, but not too drunk to know how sarcasm works, so I shot back, “And I’m sure no one wants to hook up with a lemon-scented lizard-person no matter how you’re dressed.” Evidently I was too drunk to know when to just keep quiet.
Fleur did sometimes seem like a lizard-person. All claws and teeth and cold, shimmery scaly armor plating. As she gazed at me with intense calmness, I wondered what it would take to make that cold blood of hers boil.
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“Of Course They’re Super Flattering!”
- feel like an enchanted goddess with a delicious secret
- glittery bedazzled applique shirts
- You are your mother’s daughter.
- tenderly kissing her father-in-law
- bizarre and frequent tradition
Tune in next time part 891 Click Here for Earlier Installments
“Of course they’re super flattering!” I said of my pleated pants. “They make me feel like an enchanted goddess with a delicious secret.”
Fleur’s eyebrow could not go any higher.
I drunkenly went on. “The only thing more flattering, in fact, is my collection of glittery bedazzled applique shirts.”
My wife sighed. “You are your mother’s daughter. I’ve never known a president to wear more rhinestones. Hell, I’ve never known a country singer to wear more.”
The bubbles popping in my brain made me reckless. “How rude! Are you the kind of girl to be tenderly kissing her father-in-law with that mouth? I know your country has a lot of bizarre and frequent traditions, but c’mon!”
“Just how drunk are you?” Fleur huffed. “Wear the damn pants if you want to. We’ll see how impressed Yolanda and the others are.”
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Radiant Is the Blood of a Vibrant Writing Partnership
We’re big fans of the Venture Bros, and recently completed a binge of the entire series plus Radiant Is the Blood of the Baboon Heart including the extras. Our favorite extra was John Hodgman’s interview with series creators Doc Hammer and Jackson Publick.
Other writing partnerships fascinate us, so hearing Doc and Jackson describe theirs was a treat. (Pretending we’re on a first-name basis with those two is also quite a kick!) In their case, each episode was written entirely by one or the other of the duo. That means that both partners could do the show’s voice. No matter which one did the honors for a particular episode, from the audience perspective it always felt like the same show. That stuck a chord with us, because Jen and Kent have both learned how to do Rune Skelley’s voice. Back in our very early days, our process included a step where we’d edit each other’s stuff. That step was there explicitly so that the voice wouldn’t be “too Kent” or “too Jen” in the finished product. We no longer need to do that.
Another thing that felt familiar was the zany complexity of the plotlines and of the characters’ myriad backstories. In our novels, we always wind up with intricate situations involving complicated people. Tonally, those novels are nothing like Venture Bros. But, Tune In Next Time, our gonzo flash-fiction chain story, comes a lot closer. And listening to Doc and Jackson tell stories about producing Venture Bros reminded us of what it’s like to do Tune In Next Time. Lots of weird shit gets thrown into the mix, and it’s hard to predict which stuff will turn out to matter later on. It takes a lot of agility to sustain something like that. For us, it’s just a whimsical way to keep adding content to our blog. But for Jackson Publick and Doc Hammer, the stakes were considerably higher. Our hats are off to them for delivering a show that stayed true to its insane internal logic.
A writing partner is someone who knows when the two of you should and shouldn’t be working without a net.
“He Better Be Dead”
- Scandinavian alternate universe versions
- built like a brick catastrophe
- sly, evil smile
- tap-dancing, yodeling, you name it!
- “Those pleated pants aren’t super flattering.”
Tune in next time part 890 Click Here for Earlier Installments
“He better be dead,” Fleur said, still in that same sing-song voice she’d decided was the best way to communicate with me. She leaned way over the bar to address the supine bartender. “Otherwise he’ll need a good flogging for lying down on the job. But Gulliver knows that, doesn’t he?”
The fragrant bubbles in my brain were beginning to pop, each one releasing a strange thought. One of those thoughts was that there must be Scandinavian alternate universe versions of Gulliver’s Travels where the tiny people glue him down with frozen piss. I doubted that it would suffice to restrain this Gulliver, though. He was built like a brick catastrophe, lumpen but in a powerful way. The smurf mask’s expression seemed to change as I stared at it, the grin evolving into a sly, evil smile. Was it not a mask after all? Or was my over-nogged noggin making me see things?
Fleur announced, “Time for us to leave. We’re awaited in steerage.”
I was sure I’d misheard her. “You’d never willingly go down there.”
“That’s what you think. They have the best parties. There’s always bullriding, tap-dancing, yodeling, you name it!”
At the mention of yodeling, another bubble popped in my brain, making me wonder if Yolanda might be there. To my horror, I heard myself ask my wife, “Will Yolanda be there?”
Fleur shot me a sharp look, but she didn’t seem irate. She said, “Probably, which means you’ll probably want to stop off along the way for something else to wear.” She tsked. “Those pleated pants aren’t super flattering.”
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“Why is the Bartender Wearing a Smurf Mask?”
- flair for the outrageous
- routine handling at the post office
- Now you know.
- a maze of twisty little urine puddles
- diamond-scented bubbles
Tune in next time part 889 Click Here for Earlier Installments
“Why is the bartender wearing a smurf mask?” I asked.
“One must have a flair for the outrageous to work in my speakeasy,” Fleur explained, as if to a child. “Nothing about this enterprise is normal. It’s clandestine! Procuring quality eggnog is not as easy as assuring your letter gets routine handling at the post office by simply affixing a rodent pelt to the corner. It requires finesse and connections and a penchant for the dramatic.”
“Rodent pelts? I guess that explains why my letters never get delivered.”
“Now you know.”
As Fleur filled a mug for herself from the nozzle, I noticed something else about the smurf-masked man on the floor. “I think there’s something wrong with him,” I said. “See all the pee?” The man was in the middle of a maze of twisty little urine puddles, all frozen to the icy floor. All the eggnog I’d ingested had filled my brain with diamond-scented bubbles, and I was pretty sure I was still officially stupid. Perhaps this was all normal? Or… “You don’t think he’s dead, do you?”
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