The Galley Door Opened Yet Again

by KentIn the past we’ve pulled the holiday week prompt phrases from various carols and Twas the Night Before Christmas. This year we mined two of our favorite seasonally appropriate movies, Die Hard and Elf. They make for entertaining yet uneasy bedfellows. Please to enjoy.

  • with feet smaller than my sister
  • except it smells like mushrooms
  • now I have a machine gun
  • The police have themselves an RV!
  • You sit on a throne of lies.

Tune in next time part 348      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The galley door opened yet again. Jim sauntered in and asked, “What’re you hens all cluckin’ ’bout in here?”

“None of your business,” Fleur replied coolly. She squeezed our babies tighter, her eyes glued to Jim’s lack of shirt. “Is your sweaty torso supposed to make me forget I’m talking to someone with feet smaller than my sister‘s earrings?”

“Ya got t’admit,” Jim said, leering at Isolde, “they’re impressive earrings.”

“And you should admit,” Fleur retorted, “there’s nothing all that special about your glistening abdomen except it smells like mushrooms.”

“Oh, I like mushrooms,” Isolde sighed.

“Who’s flying the ship?” I demanded.

“Autopilot,” my brother said without even looking at me.

“Can we talk about Operation Yippee-ki-yay in front of Jim?” Isolde asked.

“No!” Fleur yelled. The twins started crying, and Fleur didn’t even try to soothe them. She handed the boy to Jim and the girl to Isolde. “Go supervise the autopilot. Take them with you. Leave us.”

Jim was a natural. He positioned my son along his forearm, face-down, and the baby quieted in a few seconds. And a few seconds later, the child produced a staccato eruption of flatulence. Jim aimed the diaper at Isolde. “Now I have a machine gun. Better do as I say.”

My daughter continued to wail. Fleur pinched the bridge of her nose, waiting for them to leave the galley. When the door finally shut out most of the noise, she drew a deep breath to speak.

But a different voice preempted her. And her eyes grew wide.

“Attention airship! Reverse course immediately!”

I spun to see what she was looking at. It was another zeppelin, but it appeared to be armored and its nose bore a long, sharp lance. Red and blue lights flashed on its black-and-white hide.

“That looks like a ramming vehicle,” I said.

Fleur’s shocked expression changed to delight. “The police have themselves an RV! I didn’t think the budget appropriation was going to pass this year!”

The needle proboscis of the RV swung toward us.

“Maybe tell them who you are?” I suggested.

“Oh, they know perfectly well whose ship this is.”

The RV advanced. I implored Fleur with my eyes. She rolled hers and picked up the mic.

“Okay, boys. Ha, ha. All in good fun. Now, turn aside and make way for your future queen.”

With a blare of feedback, the amplified reply shot back. “You sit on a throne of lies.

The RV accelerated.

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“So It’s All a Game to You?”

by jenHappy belated Solstice!

In the past we’ve pulled the holiday week prompt phrases from various carols, and Twas the Night Before Christmas. This year we mined two of our favorite seasonally appropriate movies, Die Hard and Elf. They make for entertaining yet uneasy bedfellows. Please to enjoy.

  • candy, candy canes, candy corns, and syrup
  • cotton-headed ninny muggins
  • I’d rather be in Philadelphia
  • Smiling’s my favorite
  • Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!

Tune in next time part 347      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“So it’s all just a game to you?” I said. “That actually explains a lot.”

While Fleur and I glared at each other, Isolde ignored us and began searching through the galley’s cupboards. “I’m having pregnancy cravings,” she declared. “I must have candy, candy canes, candy corns, and syrup, all in a bowl.”

“Just remember not to use that spoon,” I said, pointing to the one I had befouled earlier.

“No worries,” she said. “I’m pregnant, not a cotton-headed ninny muggins.”

“If you two are quite through flirting,” Fleur huffed, “we need to do our own plotting before we reach our destination.”

“I’d rather be in Pittburghistan with Harry than on that wretched island you’re taking us to. Hell, I’d rather be in Philadelphiastan with Daddy,” Isolde whined. She spooned up a huge gooey helping of diabetes and shoved it into her mouth.

Smiling’s my favorite way to disarm my wife. She just doesn’t know what to make of it. I did it now, my most innocent, guileless grin.

Fleur’s blue eyes narrowed with suspicion. “I know you’re up to something, but whatever it is will not thwart Operation Yippee-ki-yay, motherfucker!

I had heard of Operation Yippee-ki-yay back in my Academy days. It was a sort of urban legend, something so outlandish no one thought it could actually be real. But now I had confirmation that it was, straight from my own wife’s lips.

Unless she was lying.

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Exciting News! We Have an Agent!

* For Immediate Release *

Rune Skelley is thrilled to announce having inked a deal with Prentis Literary. Woo hoo! (Can you say “woo hoo” in a press release?)

Our writing journey is now officially leading toward hybrid publishing, after independently publishing three novels. We’re looking forward to learning many new things. We’re very fortunate for the opportunity to work with Trodayne Northern, who has been patient and helpful with us at each turn as we figure out how to be a client. As a bonus, he really gets our stuff.

What this means for our release schedule is not clear yet. Trodayne has taken on the Music Novels, and meanwhile we are thisclose to releasing the first of the Science Novels. Or, are we? The landscape has shifted, and we’ll need to figure out what path now makes the most sense. It’s a good problem to have!

Being coauthors has (hopefully) prepared us well for the collaborative relationship between author and agent.

The Glowing Line On The GPS Map

  • by Kentyou should wash that spoon
  • and properly ventilated
  • What a soft voice!
  • with crablike precision
  • this burning desire to do whatever

Tune in next time part 346      Click Here for Earlier Installments

The glowing line on the GPS map led toward an empty region of the ocean. But I knew it was not as uninhabited as it appeared. Our destination coordinates reminded me of a dossier I’d once had a chance to skim, about a secret island chain under Contrarian rulership.

Did Jim know about the Inimical Archipelago?

I sulked off to the zeppelin’s galley to contemplate. By now my nosebleed seemed to be under control, but I found the duct tape very difficult to remove. A utensil in one of the long drawers provided me the necessary leverage, and Isolde entered the small galley just as I got my nostrils unstuck.

Laying it aside, I said, “You should wash that spoon.”

“Wash it yourself,” she snapped. “But later, somewhere better equipped and properly ventilated. Why are you hiding back here?”

“Just need a quiet spot to think.”

What a soft voice!” Isolde exclaimed. I winced.

The galley door opened, and Fleur passed sideways through it, carrying the infant twins with crablike precision.

“I thought I might find you schemers here,” she said. “That’s always how it’s been with you, ever since Daddy made us marry. You’re forever lurking and plotting, driven by this burning desire to do whatever. But meanwhile, you haven’t the foggiest idea of what the game really means.”

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I Marveled at My Wife’s Sense of Entitlement

  • by jensense of entitlement and lack of shame
  • my nose was bleeding
  • without saying another word, walked slowly away
  • bizarre wedding photo
  • Two scoops.

Tune in next time part 345      Click Here for Earlier Installments

I marveled at my wife’s sense of entitlement and lack of shame over it. She was every inch the warlord’s daughter. Of course everyone would do her bidding.

I’m allergic to seagull feathers, and after being coated in them for a quarter hour, my nose was bleeding. I used the strip of duct tape to close up my nostrils and stem the flow.

Fleur tapped another button on the GPS, which brought up a flight plan. “Follow that,” she told Jim. She scooped the babies out of his arms and without saying another word, walked slowly away, swaying gently.

Jim watched her appreciatively for a minute before turning back to the controls.

Isolde bounded over and held out her phone to show me a bizarre wedding photo on the screen. It was from our wedding. Or rather hers and Harry’s. But since I was Harry’s proxy, the picture showed me standing there in my morning suit beside Isolde. She had applied a filter that overlaid an odd frog mouth to my head in an effort to make me somewhat resemble her toadlike non-proxy husband.

“Doesn’t Harry look handsome?” she crooned.

“So handsome.”

“I’m so glad I’m going to have his baby!”

I left her mooning over the photo and went to look at the flight plan. I wanted to know where the hell we were going, and how long it would take us to get there. If I was trapped on a zeppelin with these people for much longer I was going to need drugs. A lot of drugs. Two scoops. Of drugs.

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How Do These Pedals Work?

It ought to be just like riding a bike. We’ve successfully outlined eight novels, so it really ought to be second nature by now. And yet.

The final edits of Science Novel are in the rearview mirror. Its accompanying short story is resting comfortably and awaiting its own turn under the scalpel. With our to-do list pretty much exhausted, it’s time to close the door on that story universe for a little while and turn our attention to the Music Novels. Specifically Sibling of Music Novel, the middle novel of that series.

Before setting it aside a while back, we’d hammered out most of an outline. The only thing we’d left undefined were the actions of the final, let’s say, quarter of the plot. The part where tension is building and the action is all rising to a rousing finale. So, you know, only the most important part of the novel. No bigs.

This is a busy time of year, as we’re sure you know, and it’s a little busier for us this year due to some family obligations. We’ve been away from the Writing Cave more than usual. But one of the great things about brainstorming is that you don’t need to be sitting at a computer to do it. We’ve managed to have a few relevant conversations in the car, and in various restaurants and hotels. Those have even led to a few notions we’ve liked enough to add to the official Steno o’ Notes. But man oh man we are grinding the gears a bit. The transition from composition and editing to this other part of the writing process is not going as smoothly as we hoped.

Last night Jen dug up the 12-page single-spaced prose outline/synopsis and Kent made himself hoarse reading it aloud. It was a reassuring reminder of how much story we already have, and a very useful refresher. Obviously we should have started with that. Anyway, after story time we moved from the Writing Cave to the Writing Annex, where we jumped back into the brainstorming while Jen wrapped holiday gifts. We expected it to work better than it did. Jen is a million times better at gift-wrapping than Kent is, but it still requires a certain amount of brainpower. And Kent was fighting off a headache while simultaneously trying to take notes on our conversation and tamp down his envy/amazement at Jen’s mad wrapping paper origami skillz (She got the pattern to line up across the seam! More than once!).

It’s important that we keep up a regular work schedule even when things are so higgledy piggledy. Especially then. We’ve accepted that we’re not going to be as productive as we like while we figure out how to ride this particular bicycle again, through this particular obstacle course. But if we keep trying a little bit every day, imagine how easy it will seem when the distractions all clear up!

 

You’re An Unsanitary Disgrace

  • by Kentfor a spa-like experience
  • maybe they didn’t have enough windows open
  • “Not exactly.”
  • Whatever his parentage,
  • visions of putting on my mountain boots

Tune in next time part 344      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“You’re an unsanitary disgrace,” Jim drawled. The twin babies on his knees stared at me.

Employing a loop of duct tape to remove seagull feathers — and worse — from my clothes, I said, “My trip upstairs did not make for a spa-like experience. You’re welcome.”

Jim gently guided my infant son’s hand in a salute. My daughter frowned at him.

The noisy argument between Fleur and Isolde abruptly ceased. They were looking out the window at something below us. I moved to the nearest window and saw that one of the barges had resurfaced.

“Do you think maybe they didn’t have enough windows open? So they couldn’t stay sunk?” Isolde looked embarrassed that she’d asked that out loud.

“Not exactly.” Fleur pointed down. “It’s the film festival people. They’re hijackers, and they’re still trying to get to Hawaii.”

“Then we should follow them,” I said.

“I’m not going to tag along after some trashy, film-snob sonofabitch,” Fleur declared.

Whatever his parentage,” I said, “if he knows which way to go then we should take advantage of that.”

“We’ll just turn on the GPS,” Fleur said, stomping forward to the control panel and jabbing a button. A map lit up in front of Jim’s seat, showing our position very clearly.

“That’s been there all along?” I asked my wife through clenched teeth, my head filled with visions of putting on my mountain boots and kicking her in the shins.

But I had no mountain boots, here in the zeppelin. I peeled off a strip of duct tape.

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In the Zeppelin’s Toolbox

  • by jenpopular amongst the citizens
  • those fearless travelers and explorers
  • Oh, here’s a winner
  • visionary, fantasist, poet, and painter
  • still in the buckled position

Tune in next time part 343      Click Here for Earlier Installments

In the zeppelin’s toolbox I found an enormous roll of duct tape in the silvery color most popular amongst the citizens of the world. I took it and exited the gondola through the service door at the rear that let me into a mechanical room. The gauges on the auxiliary gas supply showed that I didn’t have a lot of time to fuck around.

I climbed a ladder through a hatch in the ceiling, into the envelope. There were actually three seagulls in there with me, roosting contentedly on the roof of the gondola. I studied the zeppelin’s hide until I located all three of their entry points, ragged holes where daylight streamed in.

I tucked the flapping gulls into the jacket of my morning suit and began to climb the zeppelin’s framework. When I reached the first hole, I slapped several layers of duct tape over it. I repeated the process at the second hole. I had to traverse the entire inside of the envelope to reach the last hole, swinging from truss to truss like a contestant on Ninja Warrior. Finally I reached the last hole, the largest of the three. I reached into my jacket and shoved each struggling bird one by one out through the hole, then tore off yards of duct tape to close them out and keep the buoyant gasses in.

I felt like those fearless travelers and explorers you read about in the history books. I had saved the day! As I made my way back to the mechanical room I could picture the looks of adoration I would receive from my wife and her sister, the admiration I would get from Jim. I could imagine Fleur saying, “Oh, here’s a winner! A hero, a visionary, fantasist, poet, and painter!”

When I reentered the gondola, I was quite sweaty and covered with feathers. Fleur and Isolde were still bickering, and Jim was at the controls, still in the buckled position in the copilot’s seat, bouncing the infants in his arms. My heroics went unheralded.

I still did not entirely trust Jim. Nor the warlord’s daughters, when it came right down to it. I eyed the roll of duct tape in my hands, wondering if I should seize the moment to finally get some answers.

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Is This Thing On?

One of the most informative sessions we attended at the Independent Authors Conference was the one on audiobooks. Among the things we learned:

  1. they’re expensive
  2. producing them costs a lot of money
  3. they ain’t cheap

Audio is the fastest-growing publishing segment [citation needed], and it’s not just a “millennial thing.” More than one of Kent’s coworkers where he dayjobs has asked when the works of Rune Skelley will become available in audio format, because they utilize their lengthy commute times to consume books. (These are people whose kids are millennials. But yeah, the younger crowd likes to consume content that way, too.)

The duration guestimate is around 9500 words an hour, so if your book is 95,000 words then it will be roughly ten hours. While there are different ways the billing can be structured, professional audiobook production basically runs several hundred dollars per finished hour. Given the scale of our novels, we experienced major sticker shock. The question that logically occurred to us was, “What about doing it ourselves?” We do everything ourselves. How hard can it be? Kent reads all the manuscripts aloud multiple times anyway in the course of our standard process, and we often say we ought to be recording.

Well. Short answer: yes, you can DIY your audiobooks. But it’s a lot of work, and requires adequate setup and preparation.

  • Needless to say, the manuscript needs to be final. So, our scheme to capture the audio on-the-fly during our writing process isn’t really sound. (Drat!)
  • If you flub anything, you need to do it again. Even if you said all the correct words in the correct order, you might not be pleased with your cadence or inflection. You’ll end up needing to record much of the text twice, or more, to get a top-notch end product.
  • All those takes need to be edited together. This is time-consuming, probably double or triple the finished hours of the audiobook. (And that’s assuming you already know how to drive the editing software.)
  • The narrator’s delivery must be even and distinct. This requires considerable concentration and holding a consisten posture, which can become exhausting over periods of hours. And, across multiple sessions. If you catch a cold, you might not be able to record until your congestion clears up.
  • Good narration is a form of acting. The book’s tone needs to come through, and each character’s voice should be distinguishable. Can you do the accents? Male and female roles? Remember, the listener is counting on you to bring the story to life.
  • The recording environment has be free of background noise, reverb, and interruptions. You need a space where you can’t hear traffic or opening and closing of doors, and so on. If there are other people or pets in the house, and you don’t have a soundproofed room, they’ll have to be unreasonably still or they’ll spoil your takes.
  • It’s critical to have someone do QA (quality assurance) on your output. This is a big job, and doing it well requires a good ear and the ability to deliver honest criticism. It might be hard to find someone willing to donate the hours whose relationship to you doesn’t interfere with their objectivity.

We’re still flirting with the idea of trying it, despite all these obstacles. It’s not impossible, but there’s a reason that the pros charge serious money to do it. Perhaps we’ll have an update in the future, whether it’s a sample recording or, “Yikes, that didn’t go well.”

 

“We’re Losin’ Altitude”

  • by Kent“I’m calling your father,” she snapped.
  • stands awkwardly outside the door while she pees
  • not a crease in my coat
  • where I will inflate my balloon
  • in lurid detail

Tune in next time part 342      Click Here for Earlier Installments

“We’re losin’ altitude,” Jim drawled. “Looks like a gull got through the hull.”

“A zeppelin does not have a hull,” Fleur said. “It’s an envelope.”

Jim smiled crookedly. “But those birds don’t rhyme with envelope. Anyway, there’s a puncture and the gas is escaping.”

Fleur handed him the babies, then stormed over to the cargo door nearest the piano and hauled it open. In seconds she’d unlocked the baby grand’s casters and shoved it overboard, silvery dove lamp and all.

“How could you!” screeched Isolde as our descent leveled off. Isolde and Fleur stood glaring at each other, their hair whipped by the wind coming through the open door. I wondered which one of them would be tumbling out after the piano.

Isolde shut the cargo door. “I’m calling your father,” she snapped.

“Isn’t he your father too?” I blurted.

“We’re half-sisters,” Fleur explained. “To me, he’s daddy. To Isolde, he’s just the man who stands awkwardly outside the door while she pees.”

“That was one time at the mall, when I was five!”

I let their argument distract the women and turned to my brother. “What’s our situation now, Jim?”

He was rocking the infant twins, steering the ship with his knees. “There is not a red light on the control panel, and not a crease in my coat.”

“You’re not wearing a coat.” Or a shirt.

“And this panel hasn’t got any lights, red or otherwise. But we do appear to be stable at the moment. The auxiliary gas supply is keeping up with the leakage. At least for now.”

We each glanced upwards, knowing what this was leading up to. One of us was going to have to go up there and make repairs.

Jim cracked the crooked smile again and sang, “Fly me to the green lagoon, for that is where I will inflate my balloon.”

While I gritted my teeth, Jim sang another twelve verses. The lagoon and the balloon were metaphors, and not subtle ones, as the even-numbered verses portrayed in lurid detail.

“Okay!” I finally shouted. “I’ll fix the envelope.”

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