Everyone In Town These Days

  • k-avatara family of ducklings and a baby seal
  • Beatlemania epidemic
  • “Fetch me another drinky-poo, won’t you dear?”
  • fanciful scarves and costume jewelry
  • blaming Mountain Dew

Everyone in town these days went around bedecked in fanciful scarves and costume jewelry. It was no worse than the Beatlemania epidemic from a few years ago, but it meant that Tristan didn’t fit in. As usual.

“Fetch me another drinky-poo, won’t you dear?”

“Sure, Uncle Milt.” Tristan slogged to the kitchen. The fabulousness disease somehow impaired everyone’s normal ability to get things for themselves. The cause was unknown, but for now Tristan was blaming Mountain Dew. Still, that’s what Uncle Milt wanted.

“Here you go.”

“Oh, you’re just as cute as a family of ducklings and a baby seal all rolled into one!”

Tristan knew it was meant as a compliment, but he was in no mood to take it gracefully.

“If you rolled them all into one, they wouldn’t be cute at all.”

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No Matter What You May Be Thinking

  • eby jenffluvia on his desk
  • robes of office
  • dark bulk
  • “Mom! Mom!” he cried
  • everyone is offering him money
  • a story about prostitution
  • a late snack
  • waverings and backslidings

No matter what you may be thinking, this is not a story about prostitution, full of waverings and backslidings of the moral variety, but ultimately ending with redemption for the hooker with the heart of gold. This is a different sort of story altogether – although it is about prostitution. It is less like a smorgasbord of character development, deep, timeless themes, and witty prose, and more like a late snack of pure porn.

The judge stands in the shadowy corner of his chambers, his robes of office rendering him a mere dark bulk to Effluvia’s eyes. She knows everyone is offering him money to rule in their favor, but Effluvia doesn’t have much money. So she is offering him her body.

He stands in the corner, staring at the reclining Effluvia on his desk, nude and legs akimbo.

“Mom! Mom!” he cried, suddenly recognizing her.

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Slower Traffic Keep Right

r-avatarEverybody gets blocked once in a while. Maybe it’s due to burnout, maybe a plot tangle has you stumped, or maybe it’s just one of those days when the muse has fallen silent. It never feels good, whatever the cause.

It’d be great to be able to say there’s a sure-fire way to get past a blockage, but different things work for different people. Maybe working on another project for a while, or maybe just taking a stroll for some fresh air. You’ll need to try stuff and see what works.

Lately, Kent has been struggling to find his game face. The words are there, but they won’t do as he commands. (No one who’s met him believes a word of this, yet it’s true.) Meanwhile, Jen is on a roll. By working together, we greatly reduce the chances of the project getting stalled out completely. Oh, that happens. It happens a fair bit, actually. But either of us on our own would get stuck much more often.

With a partner who’s in a good place productivity-wise, you can be less stressed out over an occasional off day. It can also mean that while you’re stewing in frustration over your inability to write anything, you’ll have a partner in the room with you making it all look so easy. But don’t take it personally. Be glad someone’s got your back, and give yourself the time you need to get limbered up again.

Heinrich Floats Face-Down

  • k-avatarnibbled by snails
  • you selfish bitch
  • Germany’s not the holy land
  • chin, belly and balls are jutting promontories
  • grey stucco urinal
  • always so malignant

Heinrich floats face-down in the vast aquarium; his chin, belly and balls are jutting promontories nibbled by snails that have slithered up the sides of the tank. His buttocks and snorkel protrude above the surface; they bulge forth into the air and give landing space to multicolored insect life.

In Heinrich’s memory, his mother’s voice assaults him. “Germany’s not the holy land,” she says icily. Well, neither is Queens, you selfish bitch.

Her words were always so malignant, like the smell of the grey stucco urinal in the back room of the “pet store” where Heinrich found solace among his invertebrate friends, and their nibbling.

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Felicity Shook Her Head Sadly

  • by jenand a big swimming turtle
  • except his penis
  • his possible sexual approach
  • a sluglike glob of substance
  • a mysterious human skeleton?
  • no subtlety, just penis and vulva

Felicity shook her head sadly as she considered the naked man in front of her and his possible sexual approach, knowing there would be no subtlety, just penis and vulva, except his penis was merely a sluglike glob of substance, and a big swimming turtle-like scrotum dangled underneath.

What have I done, wondered Felicity, to prompt my pimp to sell me to such a mysterious human skeleton?

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Life Imitates Art

r-avatarAs we mentioned a few weeks ago,  it’s field trip season around the Skelley fiction compound. These recent excursions were great fun, and they gave us a lot of discussion time as we sped down the highway. We did a lot of brainstorming about our next novel, and came up with some excellent ideas. More about that in a future post.

When we go on a trip, Kent is the driver and Jen is the navigator. It occurred to us that this is also how it is when we write. After collaborating on the broad strokes of plot, characters, and outline (choosing a destination), Jen gets down to the nitty gritty of mapping out how to get there. She loves to develop backstory, and she’s always the one in charge of the stubs (our step between outline and first draft), just as she is always in charge of the map. But a map doesn’t do much good without a driver, and an outline doesn’t do much good without a writing workhorse.

During the composition process, Kent keeps his feet on the pedals and his hands on the wheel, and awaits further instructions. He propels the story forward, but knows that he can’t just go in any random direction. There needs to be a plan.

We could drive this metaphor into the ground (see what I did there?). We could talk about how when you’re driving you encounter detours, much as in fiction writing when you explore an intriguing side plot. We could compare traffic jams to writer’s block. We could change lanes entirely and write a big flowery paragraph about the journey being as important as the destination, but we think you get the point.

Much as having a navigator can improve a road trip, a coauthor can make writing easier. They share the burden, and they’re much more fun than arguing with the GPS.

The Final Ten Minutes

  • k-avatarsmelled like urine and something else
  • promised to be an energizing climax
  • Not bad for a peeping tom.
  • entering its treacherous swamps
  • punched the yellow button
  • Hot, in fact

The final ten minutes of the DVD promised to be an energizing climax, as the rugged and rogueish hero punched the yellow button to deploy his vehicle’s pontoons and give chase through the river delta, entering its treacherous swamps at full speed.

But Julia pressed the yellow button on her remote, pausing the action hero to study the reflection on the screen. A man stood outside her open window.

“Climb on in,” she said, and he looked around like maybe she’d intended the invitation for some other voyeur. Then he clambered over the sill and stood directly behind Julia’s chair. He smelled like urine and something else. Not bad for a peeping tom.

Julia turned to look at him directly. Not bad at all. Hot, in fact.

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When I Saw Him By The Well

  • by jenI intend to win!
  • I saw him by the well
  • what do you want, Raimundo?
  • a transaction betwixt you, me and the August weather
  • carrying a rubber dinosaur between them
  • I am like the fisherman

When I saw him by the well, I should have turned around and taken another route through town, but I did not and now I regretted it.

What do you want, Raimundo?” I sighed.

“Nothing at all Celeste, excepting a transaction betwixt you, me, and the August weather.” He waggled his eyebrows lasciviously.

I snorted at his feeble attempt to woo me.

“Laugh all you like, Celeste,” Raimundo said. “We are both familiar with the old story of the fisherman and the computer programmer carrying a rubber dinosaur between them until one collapsed, proving the superiority of his rival. I am like the fisherman in that story, Celeste, and, just like that fisherman, I intend to win!

I hate to admit it, but my heart fluttered at his declaration.

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Sunshine and Roses

r-avatarMost of the time, our process works really well. We might have mentioned it, in fact I’m sure we sometimes come across a little boastfully about it. “Watch how we make everything look easy.” Well, usually it is pretty easy. We mesh, so we can devote our energies to coming up with nifty concepts and stellar prose. (Modesty isn’t one of our strengths.)

There are some bumps in the road now and then, we must confess. Right now we’re revising a first draft, which in our case means we’re working in different parts of it and then synching up. How we sync up is that we dictate our changes to each other. It’s a good system, even if not the most efficient in terms of time. The benefit is that all the new stuff gets read aloud, and we have the opportunity to critique it while it’s fresh. The problem that came up recently was that we got out of sync with the synching up.

Kent’s engines sometimes take longer to warm up than Jen’s, and his powers of concentration can be iffy at certain times of day. So it has happened, rarely, that Jen went on a tear with numerous small edits while Kent scowled at his screen for a while. Jen had good stuff to share, but the repeated sharing broke Kent’s fragile grip on the changes he was trying to make.

Those bumpy stretches are few and far between on our writing-collaboration journey. But they do happen. Working solo, you never have to worry about distracting your partner, because there is no partner to distract. But you do have to avoid other sources of distraction, and there’s no one to give you a gentle nudge in the third hour of reading web comics when you’re supposedly writing. The plusses of teamwork far, far outweigh the occasional minuses.

My Left Lung Contains Compressed Natural Gas

  • k-avatarMy left lung
  • “Doc! Moose!”
  • and her pet Arthur
  • unfamiliar with “flipping the bird”
  • Puerto Rico meant nothing to her
  • “Survival of the fittest,” she hissed
  • “Far worse, Uncle Kent,”

My left lung contains compressed natural gas, which gives me a formidable weapon but impairs my stamina. My partner’s toenails can generate an electromagnetic pulse, making her a threat to sensitive electronics and augmenting her tap dancing.

“Doc! Moose!” That had to be Biff, counteragent and general numbskull, calling for his associates. We were in danger.

My partner rounded a corner in the warehouse and stopped short, confronted by all three of our enemies. I peered past her to see the men’s disappointed faces as they discovered she was unfamiliar with “flipping the bird.” Suddenly she leapt aside, and the bullets struck me instead. Moments later she returned fire, dispatching her clueless adversaries.

“Wait,” I groaned as she started to leave.

“Survival of the fittest,” she hissed. Puerto Rico meant nothing to her.

The gunshots had embedded harmlessly in the kevlar envelope surrounding my left lung, but I was woozy. I just needed a hand up, but she was abandoning me for dead. So I flicked my lighter and exhaled forcefully, roasting her where she stood.

Her, and her pet Arthur the Mouse who always rode in her pocket.

“Can this day get any worse?” I muttered.

“Far worse, Uncle Kent,” came my evil nephew’s chilling retort.

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