Many Places Have Quaint Wedding Customs

  • by Kenther mouth so close to his ear
  • wonder just how many eye doctors
  • I just can’t convince myself
  • unique (though I’m hoping not as unique as I think, fingers crossed)
  • paints a pair of eyebrows

Tune in next time part 624      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Many places have quaint wedding customs. I knew Bumpengrynd’s would be weird and embarrassing, like everything about their culture, but I had little idea what I should expect. I certainly wouldn’t have predicted that the officiant paints a pair of eyebrows and a mustache on the bride and groom.

That indignity was mild compared to what I was wearing: an inversion of Hildegard’s tinsel dress consisting of cuffs around my ankles, multicolored strands, static cling, and sheer force of will. I wished for an air vent to stand on as my outfit drooped more and more throughout the ceremony. Finally, we reached the exchange of vows. Of course Hildegard had written both sets.

As she passed my notecards to me she muttered, “These are unique (though I’m hoping not as unique as I think, fingers crossed). I just can’t convince myself that in a few more seconds I’ll be Mrs Dr Chartreuse Pamplemousse! I wonder just how many eye doctors I’ll get to be married to…”

Finally, while I tried to pretend I wasn’t basically nude in front of all the guests, Hildegard spoke her vows in a whisper. Never has a bride whispered to a groom with her mouth so close to his ear, so though her whisper was exceedingly faint I caught every eldritch syllable.

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We Soon Arrived at Hildegard’s Father’s Home

  • by jenI feel like a ghost
  • preparing and circulating false documents
  • Flip out about this, won’t you?
  • phantom limb pain
  • I’m starting to FREAK out

Tune in next time part 623      Click Here for Earlier Installments

We soon arrived at Hildegard’s father’s home, a low-slung stone building that sprawled across several acres. “I feel like a ghost,” I said. “No matter what I say, you both ignore me.” They continued to ignore me as they bustled about, preparing and circulating false documents to arrange the proxy wedding.

Outside the snow was falling thickly again, making escape an unappealing option. I tried to contact Fleur telepathically in hopes she would deny their bizarre request. “I’m your husband,” I thought at her across the miles. “Flip out about this, won’t you?”

But Fleur did not flip out. Permission was granted, with the ceremony scheduled for that very evening. While Hildegard busied herself with last-minute arrangements, she locked me in the guest wing, a series of small, interconnected rooms with no windows and only one entrance. I walked around the whole space, rapping on the walls, searching for a way out. I felt even more like a ghost, haunting this wretched house, and I did so much rapping that I gave myself phantom limb pain in my knuckles.

A few hours later, Hildegard unlocked the door and handed me a garment bag. “Get dressed,” she ordered. “The ceremony is in five minutes and I’m starting to FREAK out! It’s going to be so awesome to be married to Dr Chartreuse Pamplemousse!” I was afraid to look at my outfit, as Hildegard’s gown seemed to consist entirely of long strands of red and silver tinsel that hung from a band around her neck and draped all the way to the floor, with arms and hips and nipples poking out here and there as she moved.

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Four Times the Fun

The thing about quadrilogies (or tetralogies if you prefer) is that they’re longer than trilogies. Like, an entire book longer. And in our case, that extra book is shaping up to be the longest of the series. That’s nothing unusual. You’ve probably noticed in other series you read that the books tend to get longer as their roman numeral suffixes get higher. We were expecting Book 4 to be a bit of a beast. Were, in fact, braced and ready to flip our new whiteboard over and continue our plot rainbow on the back. The damn thing could be 16 feet long if it needed to be! We were prepared. Or so we thought.

When you’re writing a ghost story, you can’t count on death to prune your cast the way you can with other genres. Characters have a way of piling up as we discovered when we tried to set up the rainbow for Book 4. We had nearly twice as many characters as places to put them. The snazzy grid on the whiteboard has room for 11 rows. We needed 18. Not all of these people will have Point of View, but we need to keep track of their comings and goings and dastardly deeds.

We tried looking for ways to lump characters together into a shared row, but there weren’t enough we could do that with to solve the problem. We tried arranging them in columns instead, but that gave us too few rows for the plot. We scratched our collective head and joked about buying a second board.

In the end we dusted off our paper cutter and chopped all our beautiful squares in half, allowing two people to share a row while maintaining their individuality. We have embraced the rectangle lifestyle. The main difference is that Jen has to write smaller to fit all the important info in half the space, but she’s up for the challenge. We just hope we have enough magnets. We bought 400 of the little suckers, and for most plots that would be more than sufficient. Depending on how dense this rainbow ends up being, we might need more, which is truly kind of terrifying.

A good writing partner is someone who isn’t afraid of all the neodymium.

Hildegard Didn’t Care

  • by KentNot like a sumo wrestler.
  • “Good god, man, are you insane?”
  • a wolf in girl’s clothing
  • most guys’ crotches are stank factories
  • merry, nearly nude traipse through life

Tune in next time part 622      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Hildegard didn’t care what risks our marriage would pose to me, but I did. I had no desire to find out how Fleur would react. Hildegard wasn’t going to listen to reason, while her father showed no capacity for it. But that might give me my way out.

I turned to the old man. “Your lovely daughter here wants to marry me, as you know.”

“Yes! A son of Zeus Pamplemousse! With a mind like a falcon and a heart like a sumo wrestler!”

“Well, my heart is… Not like a sumo wrestler. In fact, I’m not a son of Zeus Pamplemousse. And Hildegard knows it.”

The codger squinted up at me. “Good god, man, are you insane?” He lowered his voice. “Play along, if you know what’s good for you. My daughter is a wolf in girl’s clothing who’s looking for a mate. Since most guys’ crotches are stank factories she’s being picky. I don’t blame her. And you shouldn’t resist. Just smile, and nod, and in another few days you can set out on a merry, nearly nude traipse through life (if you don’t mind a little frostbite).”

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“Listen, Hildegard”

  • by jensoulmates and unicorns and all that jazz
  • Mars is like Manhattan
  • which fork to use
  • three waffle irons
  • send coded nasty messages to family members

Tune in next time part 621      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Listen, Hildegard,” I said. “I don’t believe in soulmates and unicorns and all that jazz, but I also don’t want two wives. The one I have is more than enough.”

“Pish posh,” Hildegard replied. “How can you say you only have one wife, when everyone knows you’re married to both Fleur and Isolde?”

“That was a proxy wedding. I was merely standing in for Harry.”

While we squabbled, Hildegard dragged me along the street, and I dragged her father who was still clinging to my elbow. We passed a hotel, the only two-story building I’d yet seen on the island, and Hildegard said, “We’ll have the reception there. It will be lovely. Provincial though it may be, in many ways Twerkistan is like Mars, and in many ways Mars is like Manhattan. At a fancy wedding reception you never know which fork to use, and by the time all the presents arrive you have at least three waffle irons and four toasters, and you use the Thank You notes to send coded nasty messages to family members who went rogue and bought gifts that weren’t on the registry.”

“Busy though she may be, Fleur would skin us both if we married without her permission.”

“Then I’ll get permission. Daddy will wire her and demand that you act as proxy for the son of Zeus Pamplemousse. Everyone will be happy.”

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Our Heads Are Haunted Now

The fancy new whiteboard now houses our Ghosts, Book 4 rainbow. Barely — it flows across both sides already and we have a lot left to add. (hooboy!)

Not only are we fleshing out the fourth and final volume, but we’re also creating a text synopsis of Book 2 simultaneously. Which puts some of Book 3 in the mix as well, because we have to keep in mind how events span that interval.

We’ve crammed at least three novels’ worth of ghosts into our brains, is what we’re saying. It’s really all four, although Book 1 hasn’t come up too much recently.

But, this is exactly why we wanted to handle all the outlining and storyboarding and other pre-writing for the entire series up front. It’s hard work, but it’ll spare us from getting halfway through the fourth book and wishing we’d done a bunch of things differently in the earlier ones. In other words, it will save us from needing to rewrite the whole tetralogy. Our revisions will be focused on how to sharpen up the telling, not trying to get the shape of the tale itself.

A writing partner is someone who’s willing to let their skull become a haunted house so you don’t have to face an army of spooks all by yourself.

I Muttered

  • by Kentor creating a movement language
  • six goddamn marshmallows
  • a very polite way of putting it
  • skin as smooth as a woman
  • Let. Me. Enjoy. My. Snack.

Tune in next time part 620      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I muttered at the woman out the corner of my mouth, “What’s to discuss? You know I’m married already.”

“This is Contrarian soil,” she responded airily. “What in other lands would be called bigamy here is as natural as sneezing or creating a movement language.” She tittered. “And anyway, the warlord’s daughter has had a lot on her mind of late. I doubt she’s spared a thought for her absent husband.”

“… but only six goddamn marshmallows,” her father growled on my other elbow. “Does no good to complain, certainly not worth thinking of a very polite way of putting it when you do. And they know they got ya. They know!”

I tuned him out and turned my attention back to the familiar woman. She wore opera gloves over skin as smooth as a woman who wore gloves all the time. A memory of tinsel, of a train, brought her identity along with it. And gave me an idea for another gambit to get myself out of this mess.

“What would Maurice think?” I asked her.

She merely shrugged, then tittered again.

The old man was still ranting. “After making me wait all that time, ignoring me, now they wouldn’t leave me alone. The nerve! I finally have enough marshmallows and now I can’t eat them for all the interruptions. Let. Me. Enjoy. My. Snack. That’s not so complicated!”

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I Glanced Over My Shoulder

  • by jenprizes to promote mingling
  • licentious, creative French culture
  • into a leather diaper
  • she will marry a son of Zeus
  • “Hello, Doctor.”

Tune in next time part 619      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I glanced over my shoulder, hoping to see someone else — anyone else — the old man could be talking about. I saw no one. And before I could make my escape, the two of them descended on me with so much back-slapping and hand-shaking it was as if they were attending a conference where the coordinator was awarding prizes to promote mingling.

I gathered from their excited exclamations that they had mistaken me for someone else, an expert in the licentious, creative French culture they loved so much. Something about my horny necromancer getup gave them that impression, although they kept trying to turn my cape into a leather diaper, despite my numerous protestations.

“Pleasure to meet you, gentlemen,” I said, “But I need to return to my hotel.” The sooner I got away from these randy geezers, the sooner I could track down John.

“Hotel!” cried the marginally older of the two. “I won’t hear of it! Any son of Zeus Pamplemousse who dares to chance our fair Isles of Bumpengrynd will sleep under my roof!”

The other one nudged me in the ribs and whispered loudly, “He wants you to meet his daughter. The prophecy says she will marry a son of Zeus Pamplemousse, and you’re the first to show up. As soon as you blow the lid off this whole thing, he’ll get the two of you in front of the shaman.”

I had, of course, heard of Zeus Pamplemousse. Who hadn’t? And given my current attire it was understandable that people would mistake me for one of his relatives. It was even sort of flattering. But what my life didn’t need was any more complications. I turned to dart away and ran right into a beautiful woman with a familiar face.

“Hello, Doctor,” she said. “Daddy told me you’d be arriving today.” She hooked one elbow with me and one with the oldest old guy. “Shall we head home and discuss the wedding?”

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Exposition Shouldn’t Be An Imposition

There’s a book that Jen read a while back, which now Kent is finally getting around to, which means we can finally talk about it. It’s… not perfect. It’s not awful, but there are many things about it that could be a lot better.

For instance, the way information about the story’s world gets delivered. The narrative just stops and waits while we’re treated to whatever facts and figures have taken on sudden importance. The interruptions are generally pretty small, but they still break up the flow of the story. It’s like the author had been warned against the dreaded info-dump, and thought the answer was to use smaller helpings.

So instead of one big dump, we get dozens of little info-turds.

Conveying information without pausing the action is tricky. Note, “action” here doesn’t need to mean a fight scene. It’s whatever is actually happening for the character(s) at a given moment. Keep the reader in that moment by keeping the characters in it. And don’t let your characters get away with just knowing stuff when they should be showing it.

To contrive an illustration: Sgt. Smiddlers gets nervous around balloons. It’s because he grew up in a faerie realm where balloons are carnivorous, and in fact was almost killed by one once. Write the scene where the balloon monster almost got him. Write it, and figure out where it goes. Show us this experience. And then, when Det. Doodles innocently walks by with a balloon, we’ll be able to empathize with the sergeant’s anxiety without needing an extra explanation.

World-building is not a matter of relaying enough facts. It’s about helping readers feel what it’s like to be a denizen of that world. Hopefully, what it’s like isn’t a herky-jerky sequence of by-the-way-here-is-a-thing-you-should-know.

A writing partner is someone with a good nose, who won’t let you get away with dumping info all over the place (even if it’s spread around in little pieces).