A Lot of Balls in the Air

It’s hard to remember, but there was a time when we were only working on one book. Back in the prehistory of the Skelleyverse, Miss Brandymoon’s Device was our only project and we devoted all of our time to it. And it took forever to write. We were still learning how to organize our process, how to mesh our styles, how to create a coherent story with two headstrong people both trying to steer.

Through the years we got much more efficient. We also broadened our fictional ambitions. We added a second story universe. And then a third. Three seems to be a comfortable number for us. Our books come in trilogies, and once we put the Divided Man Series to bed, we started really fleshing out the ghost series that will come next.

Currently we are writing in the Music series, getting feedback on the Science series, and working on preproduction for the Ghost series. Our stories tend to be big and complex, and they benefit from being able to simmer for a long time. Every time we circle back and have a brainstorming discussion, new details emerge. It makes the story world and characters rich and full-bodied. It gives us time to get to know these people we’ll be spending a lot of time with, and it helps us spot plot holes.

A writing partner is someone who will help you with your juggling act.

“Time’s A-Wasting, General”

  • by Kentpartially filled with wine
  • does not mean I can’t recognize a sad French clown when I see one
  • running towards us with a test-tube in his hand
  • “Who says I have intentions?”
  • over and done with before happy hour

Tune in next time part 374      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Time’s a-wasting, General,” my wife said. “Eat up. I want to have this over and done with before happy hour.”

I looked at the grapes, knowing it had been she who arranged them to spell that message. “Think of your station, Fleur. This is a public place. Perhaps not an ideal venue for me to comply with your intentions.”

“Who says I have intentions?”

“I do,” I replied wearily. I gestured to the plate in front of me. “And the grapes back me up on it.” I sighed. “And with the way my luck has been lately, we’ll no sooner get started than some zealot will come running towards us with a test-tube in his hand, trying to intercept my delivery.”

“You are no doubt correct,” Fleur surprised me by saying. “It will be him, the spy I pointed out to you. I haven’t been to Paris in many years, and of course he’s wiped away his face paint, but all of that does not mean I can’t recognize a sad French clown when I see one.”

The last clown I’d seen up close had been Titania, who was neither sad nor French, at least not when she left.

“Eat the grapes, husband. You’ll like them. Being grown in the Inimical vineyards, they are already partially filled with wine.”

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“About Those Mountain Garrisons”

  • by jenWhenever I eat grapes near her
  • the pantsless hug thing
  • ring of dried blood
  • decorated with blue, pink, yellow, and green frosting
  • wiggled my fingers at him

Tune in next time part 373      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“About those mountain garrisons,” I said, ready to embrace my new military responsibilities.

“They are in the Paradoxica region, on the three-way border between Contraria, Harmonia, and Melodia,” Fleur said. “Far, far away from here. Sit down, General. It’s time for the fruit course.”

As a general I had to obey the Warlord’s daughter, and as her husband doubly so. I sat in the empty chair between Fleur and Isolde, and moments later a parade of waiters carried out trays and trays laden with grapes of every size and color. Fleur’s blue eyes grew hooded. My wife has a very particular fetish. Whenever I eat grapes near her, she has the uncontrollable need to do the pantsless hug thing. You know — sex.

After my very recent assignations with Olga and the Crystal Clown, I wasn’t sure I was up for what she undoubtedly had in mind. Perhaps I could decline the grapes. Their mere proximity was probably not enough to get her fired up.

Isolde scooped up a handful of plump maroon Inimical grapes and began to feed them to Harry. He was not a neat eater, and their juice soon made it look like he had a ring of dried blood around his froggy mouth. I shuddered and chanced a look at my wife.

Fleur had arranged a platter of grapes in front of me. The luscious fruits were decorated with blue, pink, yellow, and green frosting, in the Inimical fashion, and arranged to spell out the words “Eat Me, General.”

“I’m quite exhausted Fleur,” I murmured to her. “And you’ve so recently given birth.”

“You see that man over there in the sequined bodysuit?” she replied in a low, breathy voice, pointing across the restaurant at a slim, silver-haired man who was indeed dressed for the circus. “He’s a spy.”

“A spy?” He certainly wasn’t dressed to blend in.

“I know it to be true because I wiggled my fingers at him in a way that most people would take to be a wave, but which was really the Acrobat’s Code, and his eyebrow twitched, so obviously he’s a spy.”

“Or he had a tic.”

“He’s a spy,” she said forcefully. “We must provide a distraction. Now eat your grapes. That’s an order.”

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Faster Than a Speeding Bullet

Events in the Writing Cave are progressing with blinding speed. At a smidge over 31,000 words we are running out of stubs, which in this case is a good problem to have. It means the first draft is zipping right along.

Jen wrapped up the scene she was in the middle of, then turned her attention to crafting more stubs. We timed it well. There are still 4 stubs from the previous batch waiting to be written, so that’s what Kent will do while Jen bakes the new ones. Stubs are much quicker to write than the fleshed-out scenes, so she ought to be able to crank out the next couple dozen before Kent runs off the end of the runway.

Things are getting really juicy, and we’re having a blast with this story. We can’t wait for you to read it!

The Alleged Beverage Harry Handed to Me

  • by Kentexcept for their own wives
  • and it caused… issues
  • First of all, go fuck yourself
  • mementos of that intimacy
  • I had stuff to do.

Tune in next time part 372      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The alleged beverage Harry handed to me had a strange, vaguely medicinal aroma. The froth made a snakelike hiss. The glass seemed to be growing colder in my hand.

“Tell me about this drink, Harry.”

“The world-renowned Inimical Gin and Tonic,” he proclaimed promptly, like he’d hoped I would ask. “The bartenders share the exact recipe with no one except for their own wives, who had to be let in on it by decree because the bartenders otherwise had to keep secrets from them and it caused… issues.”

“But the approximate recipe would be gin and tonic?” I pressed.

“First of all, go fuck yourself, sir. And second of all, that’s inimical gin and inimical tonic, in mysterious yet precise proportions. Each night, the bottles are stored together in a particular geometry according to ancient tradition, a secret stacking method that brings them nearer to one another. The richness of the flavors and the crispness of the effervescence are mementos of that intimacy.”

“Sounds very strong,” I said. Harry smiled thinly. “And I’d hate to start issuing commands with my judgment impaired.” I set the glass on the table. Harry seethed at me, but I couldn’t worry about that right now. I was a general, and I had stuff to do.

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“You Need a Hat”

  • by jenwith a turned-up nose, and rather turned-in legs
  • got to the edge of a very big wood
  • Oh God, Paul. Elevators!
  • a circular muddy mark
  • We can have the ceremony at once

Tune in next time part 371      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“You need a hat,” Fleur said. “Contrarian generals always have hats.” She deftly folded her white linen napkin into an origami hat that rather resembled a paper boat. “Perfect!” She held it aloft. “We can have the ceremony at once.”

“But a white hat,” said Harry. “Surely not.”

“Quiet, Harry,” Fleur said. “You’re just upset because my husband will outrank you.”

Harry pouted froggily under Isolde’s doting gaze.

Fleur directed me to kneel, plopped the napkin hat on my head, and used coffee grounds to make a circular muddy mark on my lapel. “This insignia shows your rank, General. Congratulations.”

I bowed my head to kiss her hand, careful not to let my hat slip off. I felt rather ridiculous in my new getup, like a country bumpkin arriving in the big city for the first time. The type of rube who would be amazed by the most mundane things. “Oh God, Paul. Elevators! Like in the movies!” That sort of thing.

“Ooo Harry!” Isolde cooed. “You should buy your commanding officer a drink!”

With a prodigious scowl, Harry stood from the table and marched across the restaurant until he got to the edge of a very big wooden bar that was on the opposite side of the fountain from where we were seated. He returned shortly with a turned-up nose, and rather turned-in legs that accentuated his toad-like qualities. With a curt salute he handed me a tall glass full of a frothy green substance. It didn’t smell like anything I’d ever encountered before. Could I trust that he wasn’t trying to poison me?

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Holy Ectoplasmic Residue!

Whilst chugging along on the final (which is to say, middle) installment planned for the Music Novels, we have also been making a lot of great progress developing the Ghost books.

We got to spend a bunch more hours in the Skelleymobile recently, which is not an environment conducive to typing but does lend itself nicely to brainstorming. There was also that time earlier this week when we had no choice but to dine out at Olive Garden (for, like, the third time ever), and while it’s a perfectly adequate restaurant in many ways, it too is a place that’s non-conducive to hammering out prose, yet works pretty well as a venue for a bizarre conversation about the roaming disembodied spirits of the no-longer alive. So we took advantage of that.

The last time we checked in about the Ghosts, everything was very preliminary. But now, the spectral apparition of a plot has begun to coalesce, plus a substantial portion of the cast actually have names! Really cool names, it must be said.

We work in trilogies, that’s just the rules, but this is the first time that we’re going to plot out the whole series before writing any of them. We’ve plotted two books in tandem before, but never three. It’s a little bit scary, even without considering the spooky subject matter.

A writing partner is someone to hold you when your novels go bump in the night.

I Told Fleur Everything

  • by Kentbecause nobody is willing to deal with it
  • I stole the shopping bag
  • you also have to get naked
  • a feature sorely missing in regular marriage
  • , so that’s ominous

Tune in next time part 370      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I told Fleur everything I knew about the situation, vis-a-vis my semen, and in the telling it was a tale that felt like a mere list of other women I’d had sex with recently. If any of this bothered my wife, she didn’t let it show.

“The ones who seem to almost know what they’re doing are Tessa’s sisters,” I concluded. “Titania, aka the Crystal Clown, in particular seemed very confident.”

“Ugh,” Fleur said, “this kind of conspiracy just spirals out of control because nobody is willing to deal with it. You don’t need to worry, Hubby dear. Your spunk won’t tip the balance of world power. It’s all a big misunderstanding.” She chewed her nail, staring into space. “This all began fifty years ago, when Rinaldo XI stole the shopping bag where Rinaldo X was keeping the ceremonial cufflinks. Who could have predicted that it would lead to you, and your baby batter.”

Isolde said, “The soothsayers should have known. But to survive as a soothsayer you need to know which visions to keep to yourself. And, you also have to get naked out in the snow all the time, so a hardy constitution helps, too. Come to think of it, are any of the soothsayers still surviving?”

No one seemed to know.

“So, you’re telling me there’s nothing to worry about with the mimes and the clowns and who knows who else all fighting over my… output?”

She took too long to answer. So, there was something to it. “The fact that they believe they can weaponize it is potentially destabilizing.”

“Weaponize it?”

“So they think. But it’s just a myth, something borne of rumor and innuendo that’s taken on a life of its own. I mean, your sperm count must be through the roof, it would seem, but otherwise it’s just normal stuff.”

The waiter returned with clothes for me. A red uniform much like the one he wore, only fancier. The jacket had gold epaulets.

“Perfect!” Fleur said. “I was about to make you a general, so now you’ll look the part.”

The ability to confer rank onto her spouse was one of the nicer aspects of our royal marriage, and a feature sorely missing in regular marriage.

“All of the mountain garrisons are now under your command,” she went on. “Well, as soon as you change your clothes. Come now, don’t be shy.”

Harry scowled around a mouthful of cheese while I stripped off the soggy morning suit. But Isolde barely glanced at me, so his jealousy seemed misplaced. The dry clothes felt nice, even if they did make me look more like a bellhop than a military commander.

“Incidentally,” Fleur mumbled, “no one has heard from anyone at the mountain garrisons for several months, so that’s ominous. Don’t worry over that, though. Just don’t let the vying factions form an alliance against Contraria.”

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The Blue Panda Swayed

  • by jenmud of an Alabama bayou
  • protective layers of bubble wrap
  • undergarments, sneakers
  • on the right thumb
  • discard his signature footwear

Tune in next time part 369      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The blue panda swayed from side to side, crooning “Hush Little Baby” in a southern accent thicker than the mud of an Alabama bayou. My twins, strapped to his chest, cooed and burbled. I had no idea my brother Jim had such a way with infants.

While Harry gathered up the cheese and shoved it into his toad-like mouth with a great deal of lip-smacking, Fleur snapped her fingers for the waiter. When he arrived at the table she said, “You will procure several protective layers of bubble wrap and use it to fashion carrying harnesses for these four babies.” She turned to me. “It was very foresighted of you to conceive these children. They will make splendid additions to my royal brood. Of course they are outside the line of succession, and must remain unnamed until after our twins get their names several months or years from now.”

“Of course,” I said. Having the quads raised in the Contrarian court meant they would be well-protected, which was an enormous relief to me.

Fleur finished feeding the second set of babies and handed them to a nearby busboy. She buttoned up her top and turned back to me. “Your morning suit is a disgrace.”

“It looks exactly like the one my husband wore at my wedding!” Isolde simpered, “Only dirtier and much, much damper.” Harry nearly choked on his cheese.

I thought of Isolde on her wedding night, when I’d acted as proxy husband. She’d danced for me wearing only undergarments, sneakers, and a ring on the right thumb, her left thumb as nude as the rest of her soon became.

Fleur snapped again and another waiter scurried over. “Get my husband something dry to wear,” she said. “And discard his signature footwear into the incinerator.” Once more she turned her attention to me. “Now what’s this you were bellowing about your ejaculate?”

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Like a Well-Oiled Machine

We had hoped to have Sibling of Music Novel up to 20,000 words by the time we made this update, but between dog birthday parties, driving our son to the airport. and a power outage, we only managed to hit 17,000. Not that we’re complaining. We’re actually quite pleased with our progress.

It had been a while since we were in composition mode, and it sometimes takes us a little fishing around to find the right gear when we switch things up. Apparently this time we were away for the Goldilocks amount, because all we had to do was adjust the mirrors a little bit and we were ready to go. This is even though we’ve only used one recurring character as a POV character so far, the rest being brand new to this outing. We found the new voices quite quickly, and are really enjoying the stuff we’re coming up with. We’re patting ourselves on the back over here.

A lot of writers say that you should never be happy with your works in progress, but that’s not a belief we subscribe to. We generally enjoy the writing process, and genuinely love sharing our work with each other at the end of every session. The immediate feedback is great! No worries: we’re not so in love with the work that we think the first draft is perfect. It will all need to be polished and finessed. But for a first draft, it’s pretty fucking great if we do say so ourselves.

Having a writing partner means hearing the laughter right away when a joke lands, hearing the suppressed sobs when the knife twists just so in a beloved character’s emotions, and just generally knowing if your prose is on the right track.