John Closed His Eyes

  • by jenWho’s jealous?
  • in the dental infirmary
  • you do have a baffling language
  • introduces me to all her friends as ‘no fun.’
  • thinking about that taste right now triggers my gag reflex

Tune in next time part 723      Click Here for Earlier Installments

John closed his eyes and went completely still. He looked like he’d fallen asleep, a state I hadn’t enjoyed in ages. Who’s jealous? You’re jealous! I was just relieved that Mother’s trigger phrase merely took John out of commission instead of initiating some sort of berserker rage that would end with all of us in the dental infirmary. The dental infirmaries on Contrarian airships are rudimentary at best, and they use an off-brand novocaine that numbs your tongue and lips so thoroughly that you do have a baffling language all your own for hours and hours. It’s because I refused to indulge Fleur and sing karaoke in that state that she now introduces me to all her friends as ‘no fun.’ It’s so bad that thinking about that taste right now triggers my gag reflex.

Luckily I remembered another trigger phrase that might get John back in motion.

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Stub Resistance

Last week we extolled the virtues of stubs. Everything we said about them is true, but they aren’t magic. So this week we’ll talk about how sometimes it’s challenging to apply the stub system in practice.

Some stories seem more resistant than others to having their parts written out of sequence, and Untitled Ghost Novel Number One is such a story. The stubs themselves are not unduly difficult to create, but during our conversations about how to assign them, we got stuck a few times. It felt a bit like trying to assemble a piece of furniture without the instructions. We wondered why that might be happening this time around.

One possibility is that there are fewer parallel plot threads in this one than in many of our previous projects. It’s pretty much all one thread geared around the main locale. So, we can’t have Jen take care of the scenes on Bespin while Kent deals with the action in the Dagobah system.

Another potential explanation is that so much about it is new. It’s the first time in long while that we’re creating a new story universe for ourselves, and it’s a pivot into a new genre for us. Whole new cast, new plot, and new world-building with new constraints. So, it feels like asking for one thing too many to also jump ahead in the timeline.

As noted in a recent installment, we’ve had some trouble keeping to our writing schedule. Apparently sometimes writing at all is kinda hard, so perhaps it’s not the story. Maybe it’s us.

It’s quite possible that we just occasionally get a little precious about things, and blow momentary setbacks out of proportion. The good news is, we got over ourselves and got on with the job. Stubs really do work. Even if they’re not magic.

A writing partner is someone to help you line up the pieces when your Pröze-Eppik seems like it came from the meatballs-and-furniture emporium.

“What I Suffer From”

  • by Kentsnow’s a scary thing
  • utter lack of regard for any sort of utensils
  • festering for several weeks near the butt crack
  • actually her brother
  • You are not the fire.

Tune in next time part 722      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“What I suffer from is a lack of maternal neglect. But if my face looks a little queasy, well, my experience in the mountain garrisons taught me that crash-landing in the snow’s a scary thing to contemplate. Those who are lucky enough to survive the initial impact will need to live off whatever small creatures they can catch, and they’ll have to eat them with utter lack of regard for any sort of utensils.” Given how arduous it had been to track down a single fork on this airship, I was confident about that statement.

Mother tutted. “I would have thought your chionophobia stemmed from festering for several weeks near the butt crack.”

She was making veiled reference to my time in Twerkistan. If she knew about that, she was bound to know about my marriage to Hildegard, and was hinting that she could weaponize that info at any moment. I wished I possessed some secret of comparable destructive potential. I wished John were actually her brother, or at least that I would be able to convince people that he was. I could reveal her Plentylvanian heritage, but that would cause too much collateral damage.

“All the same, Mother,” I said in the calmest voice I could, “please direct your husband to complete his task so we don’t get blasted out of the sky.”

She sighed. She turned to John and placed a hand on his shoulder. She said, “You are not the air. You are not the ocean. You are not the dirt. You are not the fire.”

By the time I realized she was reciting a trigger phrase, it was too late.

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People Often Don’t Believe Me

  • by jensinister to the core
  • the monkey and the plywood violin
  • “What a fucking cliché,”
  • skittering across the ice
  • “Do you suffer from sea sickness?”

Tune in next time part 721      Click Here for Earlier Installments

People often don’t believe me when I say that my mother is sinister to the core. They mention my numerous siblings and how joyful a large family is, they remember my fifth birthday party, when she hired the man with the monkey and the plywood violin to entertain us, and how idyllic that meant my childhood must have been. They ignore the stories of marital strife with my father, of early childhood espionage training exercises, of her highly questionable acts as president. “What a fucking cliché,” they say. “Everyone has mommy issues.” Well, my mommy issues were skittering across the ice of an airborne hockey rink, intent on starting a war.

“Do you suffer from sea sickness?” she asked me with mock sympathy. “Your face is awfully green.”

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Ghostly Progress Update

We are back to actual writing again on Untitled Ghost Novel Number One. The new batch of stubs will take us up through some significant turns in the plot, with new characters arriving and a few new avenues of conflict opening up. Plus, of course, hauntings.

The first thing we did when they were ready is make Kent read them aloud. We discussed them to make sure there were no glaring holes that should be filled before moving on to the next step. (There weren’t.) Then we divvied up the first few of them. Sometimes we both have our eye on a particular scene, and sometimes we’re both hoping the other will pick up certain ones. This time, though, it was easy. We agreed right down the line and got a fairly even division of labor. As we check these off, we’ll have quick chats about who should do which ones next and keep rolling down the list.

One big advantage of our stub-based workflow is how it facilitates writing scenes out of order. Stubs contain enough info about each scene to protect continuity as we jump back and forth. Especially in a co-authoring situation, it’s essential to have that flexibility. With both of us writing, something’s always being done out of chronological order. Right now, for example, Kent’s in the middle of the scene that comes after the one Jen’s writing.

A writing partner is someone who helps keep your system running smoothly.

Our Fate Was In The Hands

  • by Kenthe becomes a buffoon
  • penguins wrapped in comically oversized scarves
  • King of the Skeptics
  • like a wild herd drumming up chaos
  • You think your great big husband will protect you?

Tune in next time part 720      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Our fate was in the hands of a man who was being pushed and pulled, tempted and hectored, from so many directions that he becomes a buffoon. I had seen it happen to field agents before, though none so seasoned as John. But I could see in his eyes that we were losing him. Soon he’d be as much use to us as a dozen penguins wrapped in comically oversized scarves.

Mr Carousel tried to sweeten his ludicrous offer further, but Fleur throat-punched him before he completed the first sentence. Normally I’m King of the Skeptics when it comes to such negotiation strategies, but this time I was grateful.

“John, the engines. Right now!” I said.

Just then Mother glided over the ice, bringing disaster as always. “Was this nice man saying something about wombats?” Something about her was like a wild herd drumming up chaos, in this case a wombat herd. John trembled, staring at his new bride. He seemed unable to find the proper patch of ice to use the magnet on.

“Mother,” I spat, “what do you think is going to happen if we keep drifting on our present course? How do you intend to deal with the rockets? You think your great big husband will protect you?”

She batted away my argument with a thoughtless backhanded gesture. “We are in no danger.”

“You’re wrong,” Fleur said.

“Well,” Mother muttered, “when I say ‘we’ I might be referring only to certain individuals.”

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John Got Down on His Knees

  • by jenJust smile and wave, guys.  Just smile and wave.
  • Wombat herds?
  • inevitably got molasses on their shoes
  • “Is your throat lined with copper?”
  • used the expression “off the chain”

Tune in next time part 719      Click Here for Earlier Installments

John got down on his knees and pulled a magnet out of his pajama pocket. As he ran it over the surface of the ice he explained that it was controlling switches frozen deep inside.

Suddenly Mr Carousel skidded up beside me. “I’m so glad you’ve reconsidered! We at the Royal Contrarian Icecapades can’t wait to have you as our featured performer!” He nodded at John. “You and your friend can skate together as a pairs act, and at the end during the rapturous applause, you know what you do?” He waggled his eyebrows impressively. “Just smile and wave, guys. Just smile and wave. The crowds will love you! Soon you’ll be swimming in cash, and sportszeppelins, and wombat herds!”

John looked up eagerly. “Wombat herds?” He’d always wanted a wombat. A whole herd of them might prove as irresistible as honeyed pancakes. I couldn’t let him be distracted now.

“You know what happened to all the Academy’s wombat herders, John,” I said. “They inevitably got molasses on their shoes. You don’t want that, do you?”

He got a dreamy look in his eye and completely forgot about his magnet-fiddling. “But… their little squishy faces! They’re so fuzzy!”

“Have you forgotten about the pancakes?” demanded Fleur. “Is your throat lined with copper?” Her ferocious tone pulled him back from his wombat stupor. “Restart this airship immediately. Later you can ice skate with marsupials. I have never used the expression “off the chain”, but it will be that.” She glared at him with her fiery blue eyes. “Restart. The. Engines.”

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Outline Like The Pros

Kent has run out of stubs to work from for Untitled Ghost Novel Number One. Jen is closing in on the next batch, but until they’re available Kent had to find something else to do with his writing time. So he’s writing the prose outline for Untitled Ghost Novel Number Two.

A prose outline is like a very detailed synopsis. But while a synopsis skips over subplots and secondary characters, the prose outline is comprehensive. The goal is to capture everything from our brainstorming notes and the plot rainbow, putting it all in order with a rudimentary narrative flow.  Ours typically come in at around twenty pages.

We’ve never met anyone who likes to write synopses. They hurt. If it’s a one-pager that’s intended for use in marketing, it’ll usually be written after the manuscript is completed, and it’s painful to squash everything down so much. But the prose outline comes beforehand, and it’s painful because you have to describe a story that you haven’t really written yet. It’s sort of like a first draft. Of course, we say that about the rainbow sometimes too. And each stub is a first draft of a particular scene. Maybe a term like prototype, or proof-of-concept, would be more apt for these pre-writing artifacts.

A writing partner is someone who writes the prose outline, when he’s done procrastinating by writing about writing the prose outline.

“I Can Tell You All About”

  • by Kentteeth chattering all the time
  • nice to see her happy again
  • the jittery shifts
  • massages my tongue
  • to allow for the octopus twirling to take place at the zamboni entrance

Tune in next time part 718      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“I can tell you all about the honey-topped pancakes,” Fleur said coyly. And, she did. She started describing them and just didn’t let up, emphasizing each wondrous facet of their sensory bounty: the subtle floral notes in the aroma when honey flows over the warm cakes, their golden color, pillowy texture, and of course the sweet, toasty flavor. John craned his neck to listen, his teeth chattering all the time in anticipation of chewing up the delicious flapjacks.

At last he blurted, “Alright! I’ll do it!” and hurried from the escape pod. Mother smiled and followed him. I wish I could have said it was nice to see her happy again.

We all accompanied John to the dance floor where he toe-tapped a code into the embedded control panel. I inferred from the jittery shifts in the flashing of the lights that his passcode had been accepted. But the alarms continued and the vessel’s course didn’t change.

“I can’t wait until that delectable pastry massages my tongue,” he said, dashing away. We chased him all the way to the hockey rink. “There’s one last step to restart those engines,” John explained as he glided gracefully over the ice. “There’s another set of controls. It’s the reason that there’s so much extra space at this end of the rink.”

I was dubious. The official explanation for the additional ice surface, from none other than the Contrarian High Zeppeliner, Marshal of the Skies, was to allow for the octopus twirling to take place at the zamboni entrance.

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“We Must be Entering Harmonian Airspace”

  • by jenthis made him laugh softly to himself
  • paints a disturbing portrait
  • hot on my thigh
  • we’re gonna get some pancakes!
  • a tapestry of golden bees

Tune in next time part 717      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“We must be entering Harmonian airspace,” John said, and for some reason this made him laugh softly to himself. Such behavior in the face of imminent death paints a disturbing portrait of my one-time partner.

Fleur sauntered up and stood beside me. Her hand was hot on my thigh as she squeezed a coded message that we needed to hurry.

“Hey John,” I said. “After you restart the engines we’re gonna get some pancakes!” The man had a weakness for carbs.

“Pancakes?” he scoffed. “You think I’ll betray my orders for a mere plate of pancakes? Why, I wouldn’t restart the engines for anything, not even a tapestry of golden bees.”

“We have one of those, you know,” said Fleur. “Every Contrarian airship has a bee tapestry. That’s where the chef gets the honey to drizzle on the pancakes.”

“Honey-topped pancakes?” John said, intrigued in spite of himself. “Tell me more.”

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