Lyudmila Kept the Blade’s Keen Edge

  • by Kent… just in case a perfect opportunity should ever arise
  • Planet of the Help Desks
  • as the beasts in a menagerie
  • For years.
  • worried-looking men were sprawled

Tune in next time part 61                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

Lyudmila kept the blade’s keen edge pressed firmly under my windpipe, ensuring my cooperation. She towed me to a pickup truck and stopped. Evidently we were waiting for Tessa to conclude her business with the garbagemen, which only took another few seconds. The two men in gray-green jumpsuits lumbered into view, followed by Tessa’s katana and then Tessa herself, who ordered them to lie on the sidewalk. In moments, the worried-looking men were sprawled amid the discarded gum of hundreds of anonymous pedestrians. Gum that had been burnished by the soles of countless other pedestrians, gum-chewer and non, walking to and fro in quaint Ipswich. For years.

As Tessa turned our way, Lyudmila released me. Her sword had left only a small nick just below my larynx, enough to leave a thin residue of blood on my fingers when I rubbed it. The women said nothing, and for a few moments I thought perhaps I’d misunderstood the whole ambush, that maybe it was a rescue after all. But then I detected the narrowing of my vision, the numbness of my limbs, and realized that Lyudmila’s blade had been envenomed.

“Get his legs,” Tessa said. They hoisted my body, stiff as a board, up and over the side of the truck. I thudded painfully into the bed and could only listen as they climbed in and got it started. What I overheard told me that Lyudmila had been assigned to learn how to bypass this type of alarm system… just in case a perfect opportunity should ever arise to employ such a truck in a kidnapping, presumably. Finally, the drug dragged me down utterly.

I spent an unknowable time in a haze of pharmacologically augmented dreams, a journey whose in-flight movie would have been Planet of the Help Desks. In my fugue, I struggled to debug printer glitches for clients as diverse and hostile as the beasts in a menagerie. When finally I opened my eyes and dispelled the phantasms, at first I could see only blue. What I mistook for the open sky was a heavy tarp. Throwing it off, I sat up in the bed of the pickup and looked around at the cavernous warehouse. Or was it a warehouse-like cavern?

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Despite Tessa’s Dire Warning

  • by jenonce he becomes self-aware
  • using taxidermy as a front to smuggle drugs
  • dressed in a Goofy costume
  • I’m afraid that our hunt’s over
  • We all loved him

Tune in next time part 60                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

Despite Tessa’s dire warning I found my way to the jail’s exit rather quickly, and stumbled out into the sunrise with some of my fellow former inmates, including a woman dressed in a Goofy costume who had been using taxidermy as a front to smuggle drugs. But Tessa was nowhere to be seen. Either she had remained behind in the holding cell, or she was using her ninja powers of disguise again. She could be anywhere.

I didn’t know where to go. Back to the church where Jason and Uncle Jinx were hiding? To the White House to recruit help from my powerful relatives? In my indecision I lingered in an alleyway. From above me on a fire escape, voices filtered down. Familiar voices.

“We all loved him,” Tessa said, “but he’s just not the same man he once was.”

I knew she was talking about me. I strained to hear the other side of this clandestine conversation.

“Our troubles will only multiply once he becomes self-aware,” was Lyudmila’s reply.

I was very uneasy about those two being aligned in any endeavor, especially one that involved talking about me. My only chance was to find where Tessa had stashed the loot. I stayed still and quiet, listening, until a garbage truck rumbled into the alley.

The sanitation workers were on the move.

A few flakes of rust drifted down from above me, as ninja Tessa sprang from her place of camouflage. She landed on the hood of the garbage truck, brandishing her katana.

Lyudmila appeared suddenly at my side. It seemed that she’d learned a few tricks of stealth from dear old Tessa. The blade at my throat was icy. She drew me backwards out of the alley and around the corner, whispering, “I’m afraid our hunt’s over.”

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If You Say It Enough Times

r-avatarDuring the early phase of creating a new novel, which consists almost entirely of talking and note-taking with occasional forays into rainbow architecture, we have to figure out what is and what isn’t part of the story. Basically we have to figure out from scratch what’s true.

That’s a tough process sometimes. There’s a lot of hedging our bets and playing with counterfactuals, and it can become really swampy. If you haven’t ruled out at least some of the theoretical possibilities, then you have to be able to hold all of them in your head. (Good luck with that if your story is complex.) Because that fills your head with overlapping contradictions, none of it will feel true.

So that’s the basic lesson: you have to stop hedging and fix certain events in place, at some point. (Or, you have to pretend they’re fixed. By the time you’re revising a finished draft, it’s unlikely that all these truths will still be true. But most of them will be.)

Kent made the observation the other night that at some point the hypothetical story beats we were discussing had started to feel — a little — like things that had really happened. Where previously had been multiple, mutually incompatible possibilities, there was left a clear notion that “this is how it went down.” Getting to the stage where you can internalize the narrative makes it much easier to write about it. Now you know what happened, which leaves you free to focus on doing justice to the tale instead of being on the spot to invent it as you go.

Working with a partner at the story development stage provides a setting where the tale can be told and retold as many times as it takes, until it starts coming out the same way every time. It lets you leverage the instinctual storytelling impulses. Eventually, it gives you an outline so you can start actually writing.

Don’t think of your outline as a constraint on your creativity. It is an expression of that creativity. It’s your diagram of what’s true, which no one else could know.

The Ipswich Jail

  • by KentI still get goosebumps
  • for the first time since breakfast
  • thought snow, felt snow, smelled snow
  • without a handrail to guide you
  • you should wash that spoon

Tune in next time part 59                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

The Ipswich jail had one of the coziest holding cells I’d been in, but I still get goosebumps remembering my time there. With nothing to do but wait for Lyudmila, I lounged on the cot while Tessa paced. I paid little attention to her for an hour or so, but then noticed the troubled expression on her face. I was about to ask what was wrong when her look turned icy, and for the first time since breakfast three days ago, when I drank six cups of black coffee, I was utterly awake.

That coldness in her gaze made it impossible to imagine anything but winter. I thought snow, felt snow, smelled snow, and shuddered convulsively. The lights in the jail went out, and I heard the cell door open in the inky blackness.

“You can leave the cell,” Tessa’s flat voice said from everywhere, “but the jail is like a maze, and without a handrail to guide you I doubt you’ll reach the outside before they restore power. Oh, and one other thing,” she intoned as I stumbled out of the holding cell and my foot skidded on something metal laying on the cement floor, “you should wash that spoon.”

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Tessa Leapt From the Roof

  • by jenon foot
  • “They’re after us, Bill.”
  • perhaps a seal
  • I don’t wanna call bullshit on that woman
  • confiscated her hip flask

Tune in next time part 58                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

Tessa leapt from the roof and landed in a squat on the sidewalk below. She waited impatiently as I clambered down the drainpipe and we set off on foot, Tessa leading the way.

Before we turned the corner onto the main boulevard, some quick adjustments to her ninja garb transformed it into a sleek black cocktail dress. The residents of Ipswich were still under Dr Minka Stiletto’s control. Her power over them had not ceased with her death. We would have to be careful.

“Where are we going?” I inquired.

“Don’t worry your pretty little head about it,” Tessa whispered as we joined the throng queued up outside the opera house. “Follow my lead.”

Tessa’s lead had a way of getting me in trouble, but in this case I had little choice.

She jostled and cut in line ahead of a pair of middle aged men, making just enough of a fuss that the ushers were sure to notice.

“What do you mean we should just let them? We were here first!” she said loudly in my direction. “They’re after us, Bill.”

She only called me Bill in times of great peril. It was code for ‘be on your toes.’

When the ushers rushed over to break up the kerfuffle, Tessa flashed something from her purse at them, perhaps a seal or a badge. I didn’t get a good look.

“I don’t wanna call bullshit on that woman,” said the shorter of the men we were scuffling with, “but we were here first.”

Tessa winked at me, and then slugged the man in the chin.

In the ensuing melee, I got a black eye, Tessa got a bloody nose, we both got arrested, and they confiscated her hip flask, which is what I had foolishly mistaken for a badge earlier.

In our holding cell Tessa explained that adrenaline and violence was the only way to break Dr Minka Stiletto’s hold over the populace. She’d sacrificed our freedom in order to return the town’s to them.

“And anyway,” she concluded, “Lyudmila will be here to bail us out any minute.”

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Double Your Pleasure, Double Your Fun

r-avatarDouble your plotting?

Sure, why not!

The outline for Son of Science Novel came together pretty well about a week ago. We don’t know all the details yet, but we have a complete through-line, beginning to end. The ending that we envision allows for this book to stand on its own while also throwing to the next book, Grandson of Science Novel, which will finish out the trilogy.

In a fit of madness and/or brilliance we decided to go ahead and plot out Grandson (Novel #8) before hammering out all of the details for Son. (The plot hammer is another tool in our writing kit, used in conjunction with the goose wrench and the monkey wrench.)

Our previous trilogy was not written this way. We were still learning what worked for us, and developing our process. Now, though, we are geniuses, and we’re ready to tackle anything.

The advantage of getting into the final book before tightening everything up in the second is that we have the freedom to make adjustments all throughout the story. The downside is that too much freedom can be paralyzing. When you try to keep too many options open it’s impossible to hold the whole thing in your head. The plot threads ramify and peter out in dead ends instead of cascading smoothly through a flow chart to a satisfying conclusion.

In the week that we’ve been talking about Grandson, we’ve made a lot of progress. Almost all of the characters will carry over from the previous two books, so very little work is needed on their backstories. That leaves us free to really tighten the screws and make their lives miserable. Fitting fates have been devised for almost everyone, much to their chagrin.

Had we waited to outline this third book until the second was written (or even just thoroughly outlined) we would have felt constrained by what was on the page. Changes could be made, but would have meant a lot of wasted effort. So far we haven’t devised anything new that necessitates big changes in Son, but we have uncovered some thematic elements that will resonate more if we introduce them earlier, and we discovered the solution to a lingering question. In Son we had gotten as far as “there’s something wrong with this character’s process,” and by talking through Grandson we’ve decided what that “something” is.

Will we write the two stories back-to-back? Doubling up on everything else (right down to the number of writers we are!) has worked in our favor, so it seems quite likely.

“It Feels Wrong to Have You Fighting All My Battles”

  • by Kentstill (uncomfortably) close
  • manacled together in front of him
  • entertaining a theory concerning those skeletons
  • thronged into his memory
  • very few molecular biologists

Tune in next time part 57                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

“It feels wrong to have you fighting all my battles for me,” I said to Tessa as I made sure the Uzi’s safety was off. Heinrich lay groaning at our feet. “Also,” I smirked, “shouldn’t this be a deactivated speargun?”

“Sorry, I’m fresh out,” she replied, deadpan. Her smile was ninja-like, flitting across her face as stealthily as she’d flitted over the rooftop.

I wanted to ask her about the treasure, I wanted to ask so many things, but Heinrich’s continued mewling reminded me that he was still (uncomfortably) close. If I shot him we would be able to speak openly, but I couldn’t bring myself to plug an unarmed man, not even Heinrich. Tessa shook her head and pulled out a length of chain from some mysterious compartment of her black outfit. Soon Heinrich was fastened to a sturdy pipe with his hands manacled together in front of him.

By then he’d recovered somewhat from his beating, enough to mutter something about “heaps of bones on the beach” while looking sidelong at Tessa. To me, he added, “I’m entertaining a theory concerning those skeletons.” He winked at me, a ponderous droop of one creased and greasy eyelid that left me tempted to shoot him after all. But clearly he was trying to tell me something, something he thought should matter to me. What was the significance of the bleached remains that had thronged into his memory?

Tessa took off one of her socks. Just before she gagged him with it, Heinrich blurted out, “The art of such flensing is a secret known only to a very few molecular biologists.”

Hefting the submachine gun, I weighed the wisdom of pressing Tessa for an explanation.

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“We Can’t Use the Front Door”

  • by jen“Keep your hands above your head.”
  • I hate that little fucker.
  • people with no job or family
  • overwhelming and compelling
  • attack was largely fueled by anger

Tune In Next Time Part 56                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

“We can’t use the front door,” said Tessa, “or the back. They have spies everywhere. We’ll need to leave through the skylight.”

I was just relieved that she didn’t say sewer.

“Keep your hands above your head.” Tessa squatted down and laced her fingers together. “Put your foot here and I’ll lift you up so you can reach the rim.”

Her plan worked beautifully until I hoisted myself onto the roof and found myself face to face with Heinrich Hunter. He stood there, casually holding a katana in one hand and an uzi in the other, a sneer protruding from beneath his floppy red mustache. Man, I hate that little fucker.

“All alone I see,” Heinrich gloated incorrectly. “I suppose I shouldn’t be surprised. People with no job or family are often alone.”

I struggled to keep my eyebrows from furrowing. I had both a job and an overabundance of family, and with Tessa about to climb up through the skylight I was hardly alone in my danger. I had to keep Heinrich distracted so she might have a chance to escape notice.

“Your evidence is overwhelming and compelling, Heinrich,” I muttered. “I am alone. So, so alone.”

I felt the merest breath of air against my ankle, my only indication that Tessa had joined us on the roof. I’m not sure when she became such an adept ninja, but in the moment I was grateful. Later, not so much.

Heinrich threw back his head and laughed, and that’s when Tessa struck. Her attack was largely fueled by anger. I could tell because Heinrich’s head stayed firmly attached to his shoulders. She pummeled him about the midsection, her ninja stealth faltering and allowing me to catch a glimpse. The next thing I knew, Heinrich lay groaning on the rooftop and Tessa was handing me his uzi. She kept the katana for herself.

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Checking Your Wing Mirrors

r-avatar

We all have strengths and weaknesses. Authors, wrangling entire fictional universes and speaking on behalf of the disparate denizens thereof, must be able to pretend to strengths (and sometimes, weaknesses) that they don’t really possess. We must speak with authority even when we don’t know what we’re talking about. And we must assemble a world that coheres, hiding its seams lest readers trip over them.

On the subject of blind spots, Charlie Jane Anders did a great think piece recently arguing that your personal blind spots hold a powerful key to better writing. Focus on identifying the gaps in your view, because that’s where treasures are hiding.

Writing as a team is a good system for minimizing blind spots. There being two of you doubles the chances of someone noticing an issue, but the benefit is even greater than a simple linear effect. Working together forces you to articulate ideas before they’ve become entrenched in prose. In the auxiliary writing cave, we speak often of “magical thinking,” and work to root it out. As new plot possibilities come up while we’re developing a story, we challenge them, prove them out. As the “official” plot grows, we talk it through in turns. That puts one of us on the spot to be able to string all the ideas together, meaning if the logic is flimsy in spots that’s where the stumbles will happen. Meanwhile, the other person listens and chimes in with corrections and questions where needed. It’s a very robust setup.

Talking things through is a great way to verify what you know and uncover unspoken assumptions, and it works even better when there’s someone to listen.

I Sprang From The Couch

  • by Kentbefore anything broke
  • She laughed. “Ole!”
  • get yourself another lawyer
  • do any of these words embarrass you?
  • self-inflicted gunshot

Tune In Next Time Part 55                             Click Here for Earlier Installments

I sprang from the couch to confront the ninja, except that with my hands tied I wallowed and flopped gracelessly into a kneeling position beside the couch. Cursing the overly tight polyester slacks I wore, I clambered to my feet.

My wrists suddenly separated as the curly ribbons floated away like confetti. The ninja’s blade was now aimed at my crotch. She laughed. “Ole!”

“Tessa?” I asked. She pulled off her mask and shook out her glorious red hair.

“The one and only,” she said with a wink, making me wonder if she knew about her robot doppelgänger. “You did great, by the way. Dr Stiletto never suspected a thing. Now the sanitation guild will be freed from her influence and the conspiracy will collapse.” She frowned at me. “Do any of these words embarrass you?”

I shook my head, wondering what expression I wore on my face. I was shocked and confused, but not embarrassed. Gesturing to Minka’s head, I asked, “Won’t you have to get yourself another lawyer?” Decapitating a hypnotist was probably a felony in a bucolic town like Ipswich.

Tessa laughed again, a sound I relished despite the gruesome circumstances. “Who needs lawyers when you’ve got the cops and the press in your corner? The headlines will all say Stiletto died of self-inflicted gunshot therapy.”

My mind chafed against the inside of my skull. One conspiracy might be about to crumble, but it sounded like Tessa was involved in another. The strain on my mental gears increased when it dawned on me that she must have been part of it for as long as I’d known her. What was her real reason for saving me? My thoughts accelerated, playing back all my memories of Tessa and trying to cross-reference them with the interwoven intrigues that always seemed to surround us. It was too much to take in, overloading my mental hardware. I stopped trying to think about it before anything broke.

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