Down The Rabbit-Hole Again Some More

We’ve found ourselves doing more research than usual for the Ghost Novel(s). Wouldn’t want to allow any inaccuracies in our depiction of ghosts, which of course explains why we felt the need to take a deep look into:

  • lava tubes
  • sex magic
  • acorns, culinary uses thereof

…And many other topics besides. Like, it’s a long list. Whenever we spend any significant energy on looking something up, we make a note of it. We’re fascinated by the variety of stuff that winds up on the list. We’re fascinated by how hard it would be to predict what is going to show up on the list, especially considering that we really did have a solid idea of the story before we even started prose composition on it.

A writing partner is the only other person who wouldn’t think your research list was evidence of a diseased mind.

It Turned Out

  • by Kentsucker for trompe l’oiel
  • (I am not a billionaire)
  • with protuberant eyes glued to the bathers
  • tastes like raspberries and smells like rum
  • See how he dances and prances for you!

Tune in next time part 898      Click Here for Earlier Installments

It turned out that in Colloquillia a “summit meeting” actually takes place atop a mountain. By arriving in an airship we saved ourselves what was apparently a rather perilous climb. Fleur linked elbows with me so she could steer my course with suitably stately poise, as if I might get lost on our way across the gangway. In truth, my hangover still had my head a bit swimmy and I was grateful for someone to lean on.

“Don’t look down,” she said. Of course, I looked down immediately.

“How high is this mountain?” I blurted out. The chasm below us seemed to drop away forever. Then I remembered that Colloquillian agriculture is all carefully planned and managed in order to create images and optical illusions when viewed from above. Presumably the hope is that any would-be enemy pilot is a sucker for trompe l’oiel.

“What I mean is,” I stammered, “how high is my new military rank? I am not familiar with this getup I’m wearing.”

Fleur said, “It’s not really military per se. Daddy lets certain tycoons buy their way into the command structure. So, this ‘getup’ you’re wearing will let the Colloquillians know that you’re ultra-rich.”

I wasn’t sure how I should behave (I am not a billionaire) or how I should feel about this ploy. And I wasn’t going to get a chance to mull things over, because seconds later we entered the summit facility. The lobby was breathtakingly, confusingly grand. It had several large fountains containing nude statuary, but there were comical toy armadillos with protruberant eyes glued to the bathers in strategic locations to ensure their modesty. Fleur collected two glasses from a passing server’s tray, handing me one. I knew it was the local brew, a sparkly drink that tastes like raspberries and smells like rum, but I was unsure whether it would help my hangover or land me on the floor.

“Here comes the ambassador now,” Fleur muttered. “Introduce me.”

I stepped forward, intending to execute a formal bow. But as soon as I leaned forward, my outlandish hat threatened to topple. Trying to save it, I triggered at least half of the bells and whistles in my underwear. The harder I tried to rein it in, the more my uniform found ways to rebel, sending me into a swirling conniption of high kicks and arm swings. The ambassador bypassed me and greeted Fleur directly.

I couldn’t hear what she said to him, but I overheard him exclaim, “See how he dances and prances for you!”

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I Saluted My Wife

  • by jenhunger for learning
  • I kept a toothbrush there
  • in unison for four minutes
  • only kissed and snuggled
  • the chaotic shitshow that is my

Tune in next time part 897      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I saluted my wife in the customary yet complicated fashion called for in these circumstances. Thanks to my lifelong hunger for learning, I had memorized nearly half of the guidebooks in the Pittsburghistan Royal Library of Contrarian Customs and Diplomacy. The place was like a second home to me. I kept a toothbrush there, and a sleeping bag. All that research paid off now as I raised and lowered my eyebrows in unison for four minutes while holding my thumbs to my cheekbones and flexing and contorting alternating fingers. And I did it all flawlessly. Fleur was so impressed that I thought she might spare me the translation gig and take me to bed, but she only kissed and snuggled my elbow briefly before ushering me to the door and out into the chaotic shitshow that is my life story.

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Our Wide-Ranging Interests

Research is an important part of writing, even when you’re writing novels about ghosts. And it’s fun to absorb new knowledge. Beware, though: in this age of instant access, falling down a rabbit-hole and spending the whole day on “research” is a constant risk. That’s why it’s important that you develop the discipline to stay focused and only devote time to topics with legitimate relevance to your project.

It’s hard to imagine our list getting much zanier if we gave up all pretense of discipline. Believe it or not, legitimate research topics for the Ghost Series include all of the following:

  • blue roses
  • ice cream shops in Copenhagen
  • Jonestown

That’s not output from our prompt generator. That’s an actual sampling of what we’ve looked up so far.

A writing partner will be there for you, sometimes to pull you out of the rabbit-hole and sometimes to join you in taking the plunge.

“And If I Didn’t Know Better”

  • by Kentgonna really blow some minds, man
  • He doesn’t want your thanks. He wants your blood.
  • full of neon fish
  • kick to the shins from some little cretin
  • payback in the form of buying dozens of turtles

Tune in next time part 896      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“And if I didn’t know better,” I said, pausing to groan and rub my temples, “I’d think you wanted to be seduced.” The alluring grin I attempted at the end was probably spoiled by the way I squinted in pain from the dim light in Fleur’s quarters.

Her delighted little hoot of amusement made me flinch. “Just get dressed!” she said firmly but not angily. Where my wife is concerned, “but not angrily” is about the best you can hope for.

The uniform confounded me, and not just because of my hangover. The fabric must have had a convoluted backstory involving textile shortages, betrayal, and payback in the form of buying dozens of turtles then forcing someone to watch what was done with them. At least the trousers would serve me well if I took a kick to the shins from some little cretin, or even a fairly big one. The belt was heavy and transparent, containing water full of neon fish (another chapter in the sordid backstory?). But the most impressive and puzzling part was the hat. It was something to be worn by a very specific type of lunatic. The type who runs you off the road and then comes back to rescue you from the wreckage. The type who scares off the other lunatics, but you shouldn’t be grateful. He doesn’t want your thanks. He wants your blood. I hoped he didn’t want his hat back.

When I was at last fully attired, Fleur sized me up. “We’re gonna really blow some minds, man.”

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“Your New Uniform is in the Wardrobe”

  • by jenbrought into the kicking chamber
  • howling, drooling
  • “We’ve had our fun.”
  • not a cold day by Lapland standards
  • what a beautiful dance

Tune in next time part 895      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Your new uniform is in the wardrobe,” Fleur said. “Dress quickly.”

I groaned. “I’m too hungover to do anything quickly.”

“Then I shall have you brought into the kicking chamber where all the howling, drooling, tantrumming babies are kept.” Fleur gave an evil chuckle. “That should clear your hangover right up.”

With another groan I heaved myself to my feet. “We’ve had our fun.” I stood still until my head stopped spinning. “No need to bring the children into it.”

I showered quickly, shaved, and scraped the eggnog fuzz off my teeth. “What’s the weather like in Colloquillia today?”

“It doesn’t matter if it’s not a cold day by Lapland standards, or if it’s as hot as the Sahara, you’re wearing the same uniform in any case.”

Contrarian military uniforms are uniformly outlandish. The higher the rank, the more ridiculous the accessories. Judging by what awaited me in the wardrobe, I’d been promoted again.

I started with the underwear, complete with all the bells and whistles. As I shimmied and tugged everything into place, Fleur said, “What a beautiful dance. If I didn’t know better I’d think you were trying to seduce me.”

If it meant not having to put on the rest of this outrageous getup, it might be worth it, monster hangover and all.

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Even The Best Advice

It is vital for writers to seek feedback, from beta readers and also from our fellow authors. Finding out what works and what doesn’t is the only way to get better. But, you need to bear in mind that all this input is coming through a filter, and ultimately it’s up to you to decide which notes to apply and which ones to disregard.

When you get input from another writer, it’s usually them saying you should do it the way they would do it. It might not be phrased with quite such blunt honesty, but when anybody gives advice about anything, how else can it work? Your colleagues are trying to share the benefit of their experience. They mean well. But if you’re not careful, you might get steered toward someone else’s voice and vision.

When you collaborate with a partner, you have someone telling you to do it the way you do it, only better. Your partner has an intrinsic sense for how things are intended to come across, and thus won’t offer advice that leads you astray. Jen and Kent are co-authors, but a similar partner dynamic could exist between, say, a writer and an editor. The key is that you’re teammates with a shared vision, so when you advise each other you’re honing in more strongly on the desired end-product, not diluting or distorting it.

Working with a partner is not a substitute for seeking outside feedback, and you really should listen with an open mind to the comments and suggestions other people offer. That same remove from your work that imposes a filter also lends perspective. They’ll see things that you and your partner missed due to being too close to it. Gathering and processing outside feedback together with your partner helps in identifying which notes are important.

A writing partner is like a voice inside your head, but in a good way.

I Awoke With Bleary Vision

  • by Kentlook at all the hip movement
  • escaped through the tunnel system
  • (Chum, chum, chum)
  • a bonus grandma
  • no longer necessary to rely on insects for most outfits

Tune in next time part 894      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I awoke with bleary vision and a head filled with unclean dreams. My head was pounding too hard for me to shake away the dream-residue without my skull flying to pieces, so I was left to puzzle out which memories were real. Surely Fleur’s enormous velvet bed must have been a confabulation.

But, no. It loomed over the cramped husband-bed, where I found myself with numerous hens for companionship. They scratched at the sumptuous bedding and shot me beady, disapproving looks. As if it was my fault there were no worms or seeds tucked among the folds.

That meant we must be about to arrive in Colloquillia, unless we were already there. I sat up, straining for a view out the modern windows. Not that I’d recognize the country even if I did manage to get a look outside. I slumped back in disappointment, setting off a blizzard of chicken feathers.

“What are we doing in your quarters?” I bellowed. “You said we were bound for steerage, for a party.”

She came into view around the prow of the mammoth bed. “And it thrilled me to look at all the hip movements you performed as you eagerly staggered along. If I’d told you the truth, you might have broken away and escaped through the tunnel system that permeates my airship. Even I don’t have it all mapped out. There’s something in there making an ominous sound, like this:” She paused to demonstrate the noise (Chum, chum, chum) conveying its ominousness mainly via her eyebrows as her pleasing contralto voice couldn’t manage alone.

I sighed. “You said something about a summit?”

Fleur nodded as she adjusted an earring. “And I need you as an interpreter. Otherwise, I’ll just have to take it literally when the ambassador mentions having a bonus grandma or finding it no longer necessary to rely on insects for most outfits.”

I laughed, which made my headache worse. “You do realize that my Colloquillian is rustier than a beached trawler in the Salton Sea.”

“Sounds like you’ll do just fine,” she replied.

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“You’re Too Drunk”

  • by jenCleopatra’s 20-foot-long velvet barge
  • with its modern windows
  • recalled antediluvian monsters
  • an embarrassing experience for everyone involved.
  • Where are these live chickens coming from?

Tune in next time part 893      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“You’re too drunk to even be fun,” Fleur said. She dragged me through the airship to her suite. Her grand bed was modeled after Cleopatra’s 20-foot-long velvet barge. I was not permitted to sleep in it, though. Instead, my wife tucked me into the small husband-bed that sat by the footboard like a pet basket, and whispered about how this suite, with its modern windows and elaborate wallpaper, recalled antediluvian monsters and gothic horrors, and how the design meeting with the first decorator was an embarrassing experience for everyone involved.

“The second decorator really nailed my vision, don’t you agree?” She seemed genuinely pleased. “Get some sleep.” She tapped me on the forehead. “When you awaken you will be surrounded by live chickens, all ready to lay your breakfast.”

“Fleur,” I mumbled through sleepy lips. “Where are these live chickens coming from?”

“Colloquilia. We’ll be arriving exactly on time for the summit, assuming the winds cooperate.”

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Making Ourselves Believe the Make-Believe

A hallmark of well-crafted fiction is when readers effortlessly suspend their disbelief. Creating good fiction calls for writers to suspend their disbelief as well.

For instance, to write our ghost story we need to convincingly portray a world in which ghosts exist, so we have to embrace that alternate reality. In our Divided Man series, it was extra-terrestrials, nanotech, and psychic powers. In the Music series, it was something else (which you will not be able to guess, ever, we guarantee that), and in the Science series it was immortality. Each story we tell gives consensus reality its own unique twist, which on a certain level becomes “true” for us also. That immersion is crucial for us to bring richness to the setting, and to keep its physical laws consistent.

And that’s the easy part. Writing a novel calls for the author to see the world through potentially disturbing eyes. Could be a cult leader, a mad scientist, a serial killer, or a televangelist. If you’re a nice person — which we’re sure you are — the behavior of such characters seems unthinkable to you. Then again, you’d probably make a rather dull bad guy. Every villain is the hero of their story. They believe in what they’re doing. So the writer must be able to believe in it too, at least while they’re writing. This is still true even if the villain isn’t a POV character! Like an evil marionette, it’s relying on you to pull its strings.

A writing partner is someone who encourages delusional ideation, but only when you’re on the clock.