The Large, Leather-Bound Collection

  • by jenPoe was teetering
  • old man made an alarming sound
  • sought after by alchemists
  • the thief who stole your necklace!
  • the snowbound ruins
  • frivolity of the poets

The large, leather-bound collection of works by Poe was teetering atop the tall stack of books. The old man made an alarming sound as he lunged to catch it, but the tome was too quick and instead the old man’s hands caught a grimoire sought after by alchemists the world over.

His granddaughter picked Poe up from the ground and straightened the remaining books while the old man looked through the window at the frivolity of the poets and gypsies making merry in the snowbound ruins below his tower.

“Miranda!” he cried, “I spy the thief who stole your necklace!”

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They Say Size Doesn’t Matter

r-avatarAs predicted, we were not ready to start our read through of the music novel last week. The good news is that we started it last night! The main thing that slowed us down was the need to write imaginary record reviews. The first step in that process was accomplished ages ago when Jen developed the band’s discography. Next came discussions about the band’s sound. Then we had to find the right voices (the reviews aren’t all by the same person, natch). It turns out that music reviews are a completely different style of writing than straight-up fiction, even when the music itself is fictional.

All this to say that the second draft we started reading last night is 187,251 words long (!!!).

Gulp.

They say size doesn’t matter, but this is a bit daunting. Conventional wisdom has it that it’s hard to sell any novel over 100,000 words. There’s allegedly some wiggle room in that number when it comes to science fiction and fantasy, due to the need for more extensive world-building. And that we have in spades.

During last night’s session we got about 50 pages in and removed about 10 words. At this rate we’ll have it whittled down to a mere 187,000 by the time we’re done!

As we read we’ll be looking at the pacing, and the tension level. If those 187,000 words are all good ones, and they propel the story the way they should, then there really isn’t a problem.

At one point Kent predicted/worried that we might hit 200,000, and we still might. It’s unlikely that we’ll need to add any new scenes, or beef up existing scenes to the tune of 13,000 words, but there is still one aspect of the novel that’s not quite finished. In our other books we have epigraphs, snippets at the beginning of each chapter that expand the story world. This novel will (probably) not have epigraphs. Instead it has other supporting documentation that currently accounts for 20,000 of our words. Now that the second draft is so much longer than the first draft, we will require more of this supplementary material, which we lovingly call the Wingnut Chorus. We won’t know how much until we get the story part of the novel edited and divided into chapters.

To get a feel for the flow and pacing, we need to read quickly, like a real reader will. We hope to be done within a week. And then the next round of edits can begin. Luckily we have each other’s shoulders to cry on.

The Tough Thing About Communing With the Dead

  • k-avatar“Hasn’t been really wrung out, yet!”
  • he pantomimed
  • flailing arms sent
  • handle an ugly ghost
  • one stumbling organism
  • it was on Kent’s orders

The tough thing about communing with the dead is that they can’t make any sound and they’re just awful at charades.

“Hasn’t really been wrung out, yet!” he pantomimed, or something along those lines… His flailing arms sent swirling eddy currents through the aether. I can handle an ugly ghost, but this was just one stumbling organism trying to make a point.

Finally I grasped his message, something about how he died.

It was on Kent’s orders.

 

bonus points for using them in order!

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Kimberly Toyed with a Lock of her Hair

  • by jenperfectly overturned bowls
  • a lock of her hair
  • she heard the stranger curse
  • your mother was not a witch
  • full-fledged love affair

Kimberly toyed with a lock of her hair as she recalled her first full-fledged love affair.

“Your breasts are like two perfectly overturned bowls,” the man said in greeting. “I can tell your mother was not a witch.”

Although he was strange, and a stranger, Kimberly had been intrigued by him. They quickly found relative privacy in a stairwell where, with her permission, he stole her virginity. After, she heard the stranger curse when he realized she’d stolen his wallet. But she was quicker than he and escaped.

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Future Looks Bright

r-avatarWhen you’re writing about the far future, you can get away with practically anything. But the shorter your jump forward in time, the trickier it is to portray. You’re on the hook to describe what’s happened with cars and phones, and offer some social commentary. And you have to do it all with a fine-bristle brush, no broad strokes allowed.

We like to stir up a brew that closely matches what we encounter when we’re brave enough to venture forth from the writing cave. That is, the consensus reality of our characters is a close match for that of our readers. We’ve delved a few decades into the past, and ventured sideways somewhat, but our novels have all avoided the future.

Soon, though, that will have to change. The sequel to the music novel will concern a new generation of characters, and the plot sort of demands that they not be little kids. And wouldn’t you know it, that lands us squarely in the “trickier” kind of future.

Perhaps it will feel like a natural step for us. Novel #5 was, after all, significantly harder sci-fi than anything else we’ve done. Working together we’ll create the future our characters must struggle in.

“Steady Demand for Humanly Edible Dishes”

  • k-avataraffable, stimulating, with a phenomenal grasp
  • disappearance of the natives!
  • five hovercraft: three light
  • humanly edible dishes
  • the night before the simulacrum

“Steady demand for humanly edible dishes on Bleylox-9 ultimately caused the disappearance of the natives!”

Nobody was listening to Alex by now. They used to think him affable, stimulating, with a phenomenal grasp and a handshake to match. But he went too far. He had decided he had to rescue the things that go bump in the night before the simulacrum made them all into jerky. So he hired five hovercraft: three light, two so heavy they didn’t hover, and set off furtively into the deserted polar region.

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“In Any Case, Mr Roosevelt”

  • by jenIn any case, Mr Roosevelt
  • well, that’s one thing
  • relief evident in his expression
  • huge and hairy man clad in
  • a considerable extra expense
  • stroked his luxuriant moustache

“In any case, Mr Roosevelt,” Tammy said as she stroked his luxuriant moustache, “it would be a considerable extra expense.”

The president knew that there was relief evident in his expression. It was so difficult to find an escort willing to engage in a menage a trios with himself and a huge and hairy man clad in lederhosen and glitter.

“Well, that’s one thing I’m prepared to pay extra for, honey.”

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Squirrel!

r-avatarThings have been very slow in the writing cave recently. Ever since our triumphant return from our European tour we’ve struggled to get back into our routine.

It’s easy to come up with excuses. There were birthdays in the extended family. Our son plays in approximately a dozen different bands and orchestras, and they all have concerts this time of year. Spring finally arrived, and yard work along with it. Our puppy Lady Marzipan is an unholy terror if she doesn’t get two long walks a day. The TiVo’s getting full so we had to watch a movie (or two). Kent’s car gave up, so we’ve been shopping for a replacement. The teenager had tickets to a concert in Philly, so of course we both had to go along. I mean, there’s an IKEA!

What it comes down to is we’ve reached the stage with the music novel where we’re looking for any excuse to look away (have you seen this thing on youtube?). It’s a terrible feeling because we are so close (so close!) to being done. We’re each in the midst of a pass through the manuscript, looking for places to beef up certain aspects. If we can chain ourselves to our desks long enough to finish that, then I think we’ll turn a corner. The next step will be a read through, which (if we’ve done our jobs correctly) will be enjoyable. It will prove that all of this work was worth it.

Having a writing partner can make dealing with these slow times easier. We sympathize with each other when it’s frustrating. When one of us has a productive day it can inspire the other. And, with Lady Marzipan enforcing our walking conferences, we have someone to talk to about how little we’ve been getting done.

Goal: By next week’s collaboration post, we will have finished this round of edits.

Odds of success: It’s a longshot.

“No! Not a Poodle, a Paddle!”

  • k-avatarthey drank their soup
  • postdated receipt
  • you’re so inept
  • He was giving her clothes!
  • a fat paddle with a handle upside down

“No! Not a poodle, a paddle! A fat paddle with a handle upside down. You’re so inept.”

Simon, chagrined, led the dog away. Martin shook his head and sighed. What else had Simon screwed up?

A quick glance at his desk provided the answer in the form of a postdated receipt from the women’s department. This had Shirley’s signature all over it, as much as if it were literally inked onto the strip of paper. She loved to mess with Simon’s head, and now she was really taking advantage of him. He was giving her clothes!

Martin stalked down to the commissary to find Simon and Shirley at the same table. They drank their soup like old friends. It made Martin seethe with disapproval.

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Deirdre Just Couldn’t Get the Bellhop’s Attention

  • by jenmuscles I hadn’t used before
  • a phenomenally costly divorce
  • old-fashioned meat and potatoes
  • wouldn’t have mattered if she were chrome orange
  • “One suitcase,”
  • registrations in Culver City

Deirdre just couldn’t get the bellhop’s attention. It wouldn’t have mattered if she were chrome, orange-scented, and blinking, the man was studiously ignoring her.

“One suitcase,” his dismissive air said. “No tip there.”

Little did he know that Dierdre had just come out on the winning side of a phenomenally costly divorce settlement, and was in the mood to splurge. Her lawyer claimed the victory came from “using muscles I hadn’t used before, at least not in a court of law.”

Once the papers were signed and the divorce was final, leaving Derek nothing but a memory, Deirdre made several hotel registrations in Culver City under assumed names, and was attempting to check into the chicest of the bunch. The restaurant on the third floor bragged of their old-fashioned meat, and potatoes so modern they should be on display in the Tate. Deirdre couldn’t wait to spend Derek’s money on something so outrageous.

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