The Spy Spoke at Length

  • by jenthat medicine cannot cure
  • wrasslin’ around with a wet individual
  • meticulously mapped out
  • by all means, fuck who you want to fuck
  • laser danger!

Tune in next time part 381      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The spy spoke at length in his outrageous accent about how he and his mysterious female contact shared the kind of love that medicine cannot cure. After half an hour I was tired of hearing about it, so I left him alone with Fleur and went up one floor to the basement. I had seen a coffee machine there on the way down.

My brother Jim was there, still in his blue panda costume. He’d been following behind us on the stairs, but having six infants strapped to his torso really slowed him down. At the moment he was changing the diaper of one of my quadruplet sons.

“How’s it going, Jim?” I asked.

In a surprisingly upbeat voice he said, “At the moment, brother, I’m wrasslin’ around with a wet individual. Things could be better. But all things considered,” he shrugged his shoulders to indicate the other five babies, “they could also be much worse.”

“Coffee?” I asked, hefting the pot.

He nodded, his big blue panda head wobbling. “You know, I always thought that you had your future meticulously mapped out, you and Jason both. I expected him to end up with Kelly and you to end up with Tessa. But now, you’ve got so damn many kids by so many women. And more on the way!”

“Hey, that Isolde thing wasn’t my idea,” I said.

“I’m not judging,” Jim drawled. “By all means, fuck who you want to fuck. That’s between you and your wife, and she seems to be cool with it. At least so far. But man, I wouldn’t want to cross her if I were you.” He strapped the newly diapered baby into its harness and sat down beside me to cradle a mug of coffee between his panda paws. “Those blue eyes of hers pose a real laser danger!”

“Fleur and I have an understanding,” I said. I heard her footsteps coming up the stairs, and hoped that that continued to be true.

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The Areas of Our Expertise

One of the fun things about being a writer is all the research. Wait! Come back! We’re serious. The classic advice is to write what you know, but even if you knew some really cool and exciting things, you’d have to reuse them over and over and they would cease to seem so cool and exciting.

Kent and Jen want their characters to be well-rounded people with varied interests, and they want them to be distinct from one another. While we do draw some from our own lives, neither of us is a villain, and we’ve found that our novels work better when there’s some conflict. We’re also not scientists, or rock stars, or psychically gifted. When our characters are, it requires some reading on our parts to make it all feel real.

We also don’t want to set all of our novels in our boring little home town. Even when we invent a new setting, it still draws heavily on the real world. We like to visit sites we’re writing about, but that’s not always possible. So again, we hit the books. And the internet.

To give you a taste of Sibling of Music Novel, here are a few of the things we’ve been researching lately:

  • the ingredients list of Brown Sugar Cinnamon Pop-Tarts
  • the immersive sensory details of eating said Pop-Tarts
  • the Burmese alphabet
  • old Agfa cameras
  • sesame allergy symptoms
  • how quickly a pot seed can reach maturity
  • postmodernist painters
  • home computers of the 1980s
  • the lunar cycle in 2008
  • the original floor numbering of the Empire State Building
  • old dentist chairs
  • the salinity of the Hudson river
  • audition monologs

Now that we’ve spilled so many details, you have to promise that you’re not going to write the novel faster than we do!

Transporting the Spy

  • by Kenttook his inspiration from a potato
  • trickles from its point
  • unzipped the outside pocket
  • usual “fun with yarn”
  • she told me she loved me, and that was it

Tune in next time part 380      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Transporting the spy to the Contrarian prison meant another zeppelin journey, but only to the terminal isle of the Inimical Archipelago. The prison’s architect seemingly took his inspiration from a potato, complete with foil jacket. Atop the lumpy aluminum-clad structure was the airship docking spire.

“It’s a solid piece of zinc,” Fleur told me, “which extends all the way into the sub-basement, into the interrogation chamber. The lower end is very sharp, and when it rains, saltwater trickles from its point.” I suspected she was saying these things for the prisoner’s benefit, but since he wore a blindfold he wouldn’t have any idea what she was talking about.

She dragged a backpack out from under the pilot’s seat and unzipped the outside pocket. From there she drew a pack of cards, and then she hailed the prison. “I’m holding two pair, over.”

The response came immediately. “I fold. You are cleared to commence docking maneuvers.”

“So much easier,” she muttered as she stowed the cards and the backpack. “I really don’t miss the old security protocol, all the usual ‘fun with yarn’ and whatnot.”

I decided to wait until a later time to ask what the usual “fun with yarn” and whatnot had entailed.

We disembarked, and then had to travel down a spiral staircase winding around the zinc shaft all the way down into the sub-basement. Finally, we shoved the sullen spy-clown into a chair and Fleur yanked off his blindfold.

“Who sent you?” she demanded.

“I do not know her name,” he said wistfully, “but she told me she loved me, and that was it. For her, I would do anything.”

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The Frenchman Wasn’t Done Hurling Insults

  • by jenleave his victim with a peck on the cheek
  • well isn’t he resplendent
  • manacled together in front of him
  • before I take your blindfold off
  • Namaste, shitheads

Tune in next time part 379      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The Frenchman wasn’t done hurling insults. “How is a Contrarian warlord like a chicken? He will leave his victim with a peck on the cheek!”

I rolled off the table, squashing numerous grapes and sending many of the observer birds squawking and flapping. The joke was an old one, and quite inaccurate. In my experience you didn’t want to fuck with a Contrarian.

Fleur leapt from the table onto the retreating clown’s back. She had a curved Contrarian fruit knife between her teeth. I scrambled into the pants of my new general’s uniform and charged to help her subdue him. Harry took one look at me and halted his own advance. He sneered, “Well isn’t he resplendent in half a uniform.”

Isolde laid a placating hand on his arm.

He went on, “In my day, a general wouldn’t dream of appearing for battle shirtless.”

In short order, Fleur and I had subdued the clown-spy. He laid on the floor in his sequined jumpsuit, blindfolded, with his hands and feet all manacled together in front of him with the tasseled sashes from the curtains.

Fleur languidly dressed herself as she spoke to the prisoner. “You will be safely ensconced in a prison cell before I take your blindfold off, so that you will have no way of knowing where exactly you are.” She turned to her brother-in-law. “And Harry, you will be joining him if you don’t get your pettiness under control.”

“I will not stay here and be abused like this.” Harry roared, his froggy face bloating. “Come on Isolde, we’re leaving. Namaste, shitheads!”

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Progress! To! Report!

We’ve cracked the 40 kiloword barrier on the current work in progress. That works out to about 150 pages.

It’s taken some late nights, but we’re continuing to make headway despite weeks like this one when there seems to be some time-consuming obligation to tend to every evening. Evenings and weekends are our writing time, so when they get yanked out from under us it can have a big impact. Jen would like us to be farther along, of course, but even she is pleased with both the quantity and the quality of our recent output.

The part of the book we’re currently writing doesn’t lend itself to being prosed in parallel, so we’re tag-teaming it. Kent writes a scene, then hands things off to Jen for the next one, and then back to Kent. Whoever’s turn it isn’t, meanwhile, doesn’t get to slack off. Nay, time in the Writing Cave is too precious, so that partner revisits the already completed scenes and takes care of comments that we left for ourselves. Or, does research, or writes a blog post. Or keeps the stub stockpile built up.

There’s so much going on! Even the Bandit Lord is tired.

Fleur and I Were Fluent in Some of the Same Codes

  • by Kenthe likely plunged in deeper
  • “It’s like, lady, have you really never been called a whore before?”
  • I’m not a big fan
  • I was very vulnerable
  • Oh, crikey.

Tune in next time part 378      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fleur and I were fluent in some of the same codes, despite her not having gone to the Academy. I could only speculate what forms of covert communication the spy knew, so keeping him from intercepting the message ruled out anything audible or easily observed from across the room. So, no whistling or yodeling, and no barehanded semaphore.

I tried regulating my thrusts to a dot-dash-dot pattern, but she didn’t alter her own rhythm or otherwise show any sign she was listening. The last option I could think of under the circumstances was toespelling, and as we were both barefoot it seemed it might work. I contorted and clenched my toes, pressing each shape against the sole of her foot to impart the message: what is your plan?

She replied via Kegel/Morse — which meant she must have been listening after all — saying merely: wait and see.

As she conveyed those words, her eyes fluttered and her mouth hung fetchingly slack.

“What is happening to her face?” I heard Harry ask.

Isolde tittered. “He likely plunged in deeper. That’s how I recall our wedding night.”

Harry growled.

The Frenchman in the leotard sniffed haughtily. “I have witnessed sufficiently your barbaric comportment, and will take my leave of this place.”

“Barbaric?” Fleur’s eyes flashed and she stopped moving. I tried to send her more coded messages but she definitely wasn’t paying any attention to me now. “Barbaric!” she repeated, “You dare…”

The man shrugged, and spoke again in his ridiculous accent. “It’s like, lady, have you really never been called a whore before?” Another shrug. “I’m not a big fan of ill-behaved royalty, you know? Next what will you tell me? That I should eat cake?”

Now Fleur and everyone else around our table were rising to confront this rude stranger. I was very vulnerable, lying on my back in the middle of the incipient battle.

Oh, crikey.

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“Harry,” Isolde Said Warningly

  • by jenwait for it to burn itself out
  • undoubtedly he had been
  • I have and it’s not fun.
  • his loins captivated by her sheer roundness
  • with an hour or so to kill

Tune in next time part 377      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Harry,” Isolde said warningly, “ignore the jealousy that enflames your heart and wait for it to burn itself out. The General has always performed his duties well and faithfully, even before he achieved his rank.”

Her husband spluttered. “I’m certain he had been biding his time, waiting for his chance with you.”

“Undoubtedly he had been.” Isolde laid her hand on his froggy cheek. “And if you hadn’t been so seasick you would have been present for our wedding. It’s certainly not the General’s fault he was called upon to act as your proxy. If it’s anyone’s fault, it’s yours.”

Harry’s broad face turned bright red. He snorted through his nose. “Have you ever vomited during a marriage ceremony, Isolde? I have and it’s not fun. Not fun at all!”

Isolde gasped. “You’ve been married before?”

“It didn’t count,” Harry said, paling. “Because of the vomiting. I’m sure I don’t have to tell you how strict Contrarian law is about such things. If the groom vomits, the marriage is annulled, and due to double jeopardy it can never be redone. The groom’s brother or uncle must step in and wed the bride, and the vomiting groom may never bed her, even if his loins, captivated by her sheer roundness, are on the point of bursting.”

While this minor soap opera played out mere feet from us, Fleur began to move atop me again, at the stately pace of someone with an hour or so to kill. The Frenchman had not reacted as she had anticipated, most likely due to the distraction Isolde and Harry provided. Was that part of her plan? I tried to ask her, without using words.

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Singing For Our Supper

Something we enjoy here in the writing cave is looking for recurring patterns in what we write. There’s some stuff that we do on purpose to give our story worlds and plots a consistent flavor, and then there’s stuff we’ve noticed recurring in subtle ways even though we never had a meeting and decided it should be in there. We’re fascinated by this, because our stories are all very different yet contain these common threads.

Among the recurring elements in our work is original song lyrics. Not every book has them, but they’re not limited to just the Music Series. The trend began with our very first novel, Miss Brandymoon’s Device.

Writing lyrics is very different from writing prose. It can take as long to come up with a few stanzas as it does to write a couple of pages, for us at least. But it’s fun to shift gears, and it’s good exercise. Both of us have taken our turns as songsmith with great results. What we hadn’t done until this week? Collaborate directly on lyrics.

Crazy, right? We’ve been at this for nine books now, lots of which contain song lyrics, and our whole deal is collaboration. Yet all those lyrics had been written by Jen or by Kent. The new ones were the first time we teamed up to craft the words to a song.

What was different about this case was that we had more constraints to deal with. The words had to come from a certain album, and we’d already nailed down its themes and mood in considerable detail. These lyrics also had to catalyze some specific actions, almost instructing the characters to do a certain thing. Note, this perceived instruction is not at all the meaning intended by the singer. Jen tackled this job, but the phrases she found that fit the desired meanings all felt trite to her. So, over dinner out, she and Kent analyzed the situation, brainstormed imagery, and jotted down a few snippets. And when we got home, Jen cranked out exactly the lyrics we needed.

A writing partner is someone you can still find new ways to collaborate with.

Fleur’s Scheme

  • by Kentin true carny fashion
  • allegations of a conspiracy
  • some little sinful thing I’ve done
  • wear dead cats on their heads
  • don’t want to continue the alliterations

Tune in next time part 376      Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fleur’s scheme for dealing with the francophone aerialist intelligencer was predicated on her surmise that he was not a circus clown, but a carnival clown, and thus relied on him behaving in true carny fashion when presented with allegations of a conspiracy. But not accusations directed at him. No, my wife was about to declare that she knew some little sinful thing I’ve done, and by “sinful” she’d mean “treasonous.” By his accent I judged him to be from the Lorraine region, and a rural part of it at that, probably a backwater where they wear dead cats on their heads. I hoped Fleur was taking that into consideration when calculating what crimes to charge me with.

Meanwhile, she had lowered herself into a crouch over my supine form on the table. She had, after all, just watched me eat a whole platter of grapes. The table’s uneven legs played a stately heartbeat in time to her motions.

“You’re a dog,” she growled. “A dirty delinquent, a deserter devoid of devotion!” The table’s thump-thump, thump-thump filled a lull, then she went on. “Desperation drove your despicable deeds. Don’t doubt my determination, just because I don’t want to continue the alliterations.” Her voice was climbing, the thump-thump accelerating.

“Could you be, perhaps, more specific?” asked the leotarded interloper. “What has this man done?”

Fleur arched her back, holding up one index finger to tell the clown spy to wait. The table fell silent as she poised motionless at the brink, and then her face lit with transcendent pleasure.

“I’ll tell you what he’s done,” said Harry. “He’s a traitorous dog, all right.”

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I Scraped the Green Frosting Off a Grape

  • by jentake a long shower
  • It’s funny!
  • I wonder if all the chickens and pigeons
  • I fantasize about the hospital
  • married 11 times to 9 different men

Tune in next time part 375      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I scraped the green frosting off a grape and looked at my wife. “Don’t you want me to at least take a long shower first?”

“You Americans are so hung up on hygiene,” she laughed. “It’s funny!” She guided my hand to my mouth and inserted the grape. Her lips parted and her breath grew heavy as she watched me pop the fruit with my teeth to release the wine inside. “More!” she cried, and shoved another grape in, this one still encased in sickly sweet icing.

For the next ten minutes Fleur fed me Inimical grapes, until I was quite drunk and she was quite breathless. My wife is lovely, and seeing her so aroused sparked my own desire. Despite my earlier protestations I found myself ready, willing, and able to do as she commanded.

“We must, of course, observe tradition,” she said. “I’ve been reading the ancient texts concerning the first sexual congress following the birth of twins, and it’s quite specific.” She stripped me of my new uniform and shoved me down onto a platter of grapes. The tiny fruits burst under me and soon I was laying in a puddle of their cold juice.

“I wonder if all the chickens and pigeons we need as witnesses will fit on the table,” Fleur said. “Or if we’ll need to pull another one over.” She doffed her gown while a string of chefs appeared, each carrying a live bird which he nestled onto the table around me. Contrarian rituals are often surreal, but this was beyond anything I’d seen before.

I tried to tune out the poultry, the glowering Harry and the rest of our audience, but it was difficult when Isolde was so nearby. She kept her eyes glued on my nakedness as she leaned her head toward Harry and said, hand on her stomach, “I fantasize about the hospital where I will give birth to our child, darling Harry. Don’t you?”

Harry growled.

Fleur climbed onto the table and stood over me as a crowd formed around us. The alleged clown spy said, in a heavy French accent, “I always thought the women of Contrarian royalty had to be married 11 times to 9 different men. Where are the other 8?”

Fleur’s toes tapped against my hips, imparting a coded message about her plan to thwart the clown.

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