Pass the Spackle

We’re still making progress on these first drafts that have occupied us since, seemingly, time began. As we mentioned a few weeks ago, we reached the end but still had a few holes to fill in. Since then we’ve made progress toward that goal. Not blazing progress. It’s more of a shamble, which we’ll blame partially on project fatigue and partially on life getting in the way.

The latest deficit to grab our attention is emotional holes and placeholders. Places where we’ve written, “She was angry,” or “He was sad,” or even “What they saw was very interesting,” but there’s no detail, no followup. The moments aren’t expanded or lived in, they’re just inert. It’s the classic trap of telling rather than showing, and we’re working hard on shifting the balance the other way. That’s what’s been occupying Jen most recently.

We also noticed that we had two particular characters who never shared a scene, and it felt like they should. The challenge was making their meeting relevant to the plot. They couldn’t just get together for a drink and chat about sports. It had to mean something. So Kent tackled that and finished it up last night.

If we fuck around with these first drafts much longer they’ll no longer be first drafts, which means that we might need a couple of you guys to come over and take them away from us. New life goal = not letting it come to that.

“Easy, Pal”

  • by Kentshall find its way into the pockets
  • twenty people on the lawn. With guns.
  • lay upon his belly beside a limpid brook
  • pull at me with her little hands
  • spread by a bug sprayer

Tune in next time part 280                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Easy, pal,” I said. “Nobody needs to get kicked.”

“Untrue! A remark not in accordance with the facts (read: a fib). Much kicking is needed, which you know full well, ere a farthing of my wealth shall find its way into the pockets of your taskmasters.”

“Who do you think I am?” I looked at Tesla, who hadn’t stirred. I hoped she was okay, but hoped she remained unconscious long enough to be spared the vile atmosphere of the sewer.

“Oh I know just who you are. You’re chemtrails. You’re Project Bluebook. You’re twenty people on the lawn. With guns.” He thrust out his palms. “In Dallas? The motorcade? That’s you.”

“Ah, guess you’re on to me,” I mumbled, hoping that humoring him would work better than arguing. “But that was a long time ago. People change.”

But he turned away from me on the boat ramp, and then, as though he lay upon his belly beside a limpid brook in a sun-drenched meadow, he lay on his belly on the slimy boat ramp and reached out over the surface of the filth to give the swan boat a shove.

Before I knew I had moved, I was airborne en route from my boulder to the ramp. In another bound I overflew the prostrate figure in the cloak and landed in the boat. My arrival jostled Tesla severely and imparted a considerable speed boost to our elegant vessel. I sat down and started pedaling. The propeller agitated the thick fluid we sailed through, liberating and invigorating the sulfurous fumes.

Some combination of the jostling and the horrid smell woke Tesla. She looked around, wild-eyed, and began to pull at me with her little hands. “Where are you taking me?”

“Um, back to the ramp? To get us out of this shit river?”

“But you don’t understand,” Tesla wailed.

“No argument about that.” I looked ahead and saw the man in the cloak was standing, brandishing something that looked like a wand. “Now what is he doing?”

Tesla gripped my arm. “Turn us around. Stay back! There’s nothing more potent than a magic spell spread by a bug sprayer!”

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I Tried to Psych Myself Up

  • by jenthere will be bubbles
  • adjacent to the boat ramp
  • rubbed his hands with unspeakable glee
  • broadcasting their raw footage
  • (read: your crotch)

Tune in next time part 279                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

I tried to psych myself up for my upcoming swim in the sewage. “When you stir the shit there will be bubbles,” I muttered. “It’s inevitable.”

Before letting go of my leather strap, I clenched every orifice I had.

I counted to three and released my grip.

I fell about two feet before my heels jarred on a narrow metal catwalk that spanned the mineshaft. My breath gushed out and my feet stung from the impact. At least I wasn’t swimming in shit.

I looked to one end of the catwalk where it seemed to disappear into a tunnel in the wall. I looked the other way and saw a dark-cloaked figure hurrying away from me, Tesla over his shoulder.

I gave chase as quickly as my sore feet would allow. When I reached the wall I encountered steep metal stairs leading down toward the poop smell, and a few flights ahead of me I could make out Tesla’s abductor/rescuer. I followed.

We descended for several minutes, the stench growing with each step. At the bottom I stood on an algae-covered boulder adjacent to the boat ramp where the cloaked figure was lowering Tesla’s unconscious form into a fanciful, swan-shaped pedal boat. That task completed, he stood and rubbed his hands with unspeakable glee. He preened for the security cameras along the ceiling that were broadcasting their raw footage of the raw sewage to who knew where.

The cloaked figure spotted me and said, “Don’t come any closer or I’ll kick you in your tender giblets (read: your crotch).”

As if I didn’t know what tender giblets were.

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Critique Group Advice – Part 2

As our regular readers know, we believe strongly in not going it alone. For us that means writing together. But even if you don’t have a writing partner, you still need help sometimes, and that’s where your network of fellow writers comes in.

Okay, so you’re going to join a critique group, or maybe even start your own. Fantastic. Last time, we covered some very general ideas such as schedules and ground rules. Now let’s dive into some details.

Practical decisions such as how to distribute work can have a big impact on the effectiveness of the group. What we’ve found to work well is sending out the chapters ahead of time via email. Give your members enough time to read the pages twice if they want, and remember it takes longer when you’re adding notes as you go. In some groups, each author reads his or her own work aloud. There’s nothing wrong with doing that, if you have the time, but we’d caution that the author’s bias and familiarity can mask issues with the grammar. Places where a “real” reader might stumble, whereas the rehearsed recitation will smooth it out.

How many pages to send at one time is also an important question. Smaller chunks lead to more detailed critique, while larger sections let your group’s members get into the flow of the story. The more material you expect to cover in a meeting, the more disciplined you’ll have to be about staying on-topic. (This can be a serious problem at any gathering of writers. We’re creative types; we know lots of things; we love words.)

A final note about the work being brought to group: how complete should it be before you start? There’s no one right answer, of course. Some people like to get hot feedback on a work in progress, or use the meeting schedule as a way to impose deadlines and stay productive. That’s awesome if that’s what works for you. Our personal experience has taught us not to take our stuff in too early. It made us second-guess ourselves too much. The feedback has been consistently more useful to us when it was collected after we had the first draft done.

More of our thoughts on critique groups still to come. Have advice or experiences to share? Add a comment!

A Trapdoor In The Shag

  • by KentWhat passions, what greed, what crimes
  • nods of assent were exchanged
  • lowering myself to the end of my leather strap
  • (although it is not clear whose poop it was)
  • as though by magic

Tune in next time part 278                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

A trapdoor in the shag carpet popped open and a skinny man sprang up into the room. I almost didn’t recognize him without his bathrobe, for he now wore a zebra-striped body stocking.

“What passions, what greed, what crimes against decorum will you not stop at?” he exclaimed. “Human sacrifice I could have countenanced, as it’s for a noble cause, but such language! You’ve blasphemed in the temple! You don’t deserve to carry out the sacrifices!”

Clown faces were turned to face one another. Nods of assent were exchanged. Carla and her tragi-comic compatriot reared, throwing off their ringmasters and rising to their feet. They charged the zebra man and pinned him to the wall.

While the clowns were thus occupied, and before my brothers could recover, I seized Tesla’s wrist and dashed for the trapdoor. “You first,” I told her. She seemed more dazed than ever, making no moves of her own volition, so I guided her into the opening in the floor.

She dropped like a stone, vanishing silently into darkness.

“Shit!” I exclaimed, climbing down and holding onto the edges of the hole as Jupiter and Jove scrambled in my direction and the skinny man moaned disconcertingly. There was no ladder or stairs below the trapdoor, just something like a belt dangling there. I grabbed onto it and slammed the door, sealing out all light from above.

As I descended, my eyes accommodated to the dimness and I could see that if it was a belt I was hanging from it was for someone with at least a 50-foot waistline. Down I went, lowering myself to the end of my leather strap but still nowhere near the bottom. I held on, exerting all my senses for a clue about what to do next. I could see rough stone walls like a mineshaft. I heard dripping water that belonged to stalactites, and distant clicks that belonged to cave crickets. There was a pungent smell, definitely poop (although it is not clear whose poop it was).

There was no sign of Tesla. She had disappeared as though by magic, or as if down a shaft so deep that I hadn’t heard her hit the bottom.

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From My Many Prophetic Dreams

  • by jen(whoops, was that a spoiler?)
  • sold it for $500 in December
  • the Stanford Marshmallow Experiment
  • “Couldn’t do it but one time.”
  • our typography does not allow such a character

Tune in next time part 277                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

Fom my many prophetic dreams I knew that my death would not come from being sacrificed by, or to, clowns. My eventual death would not involve clowns at all (whoops, was that a spoiler?). Tesla’s death I was less sure of.

“I recognize your altar, Jupiter,” I said. “And I know that there should be another just like it. A twin, if you will, belonging to your twin.”

Jove gave his whip a lazy crack and Carla turned around so they were facing me. “I sold it for $500 in December so that I could buy tickets to see my favorite band, the Stanford Marshmallow Experiment at their farewell concert.” He looked wistful. “Couldn’t do it but one time.” With a glare at Jupiter he said, “Even though we had two altars.”

“As I explained at the time,” Jupiter sniffed, “they were only playing one concert. There was no reason to sell both altars. You got to see your ridiculous band and now we’re still able to carry out the necessary sacrifices.”

“I could have gotten better tickets, you $&!!@#”

I’m afraid that our typography does not allow such a character or group of characters to adequately capture the depth and breadth of the foulness of Jove’s language. My diversion was working quite well, unfortunately Tesla was so stunned by the barrage of filth flowing from my brother’s mouth that she did not make a break for it.

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It’s About Fucking Time

Last night we wrote the final scenes for Grandson of Science Novel! Yay! Go team!

Clearly Jen’s original vision of finishing by the end of 2017 was wildly optimistic. Some might even say delusional. No matter. It’s done now.

Or rather, the main composition is done. There are still a few comments we need to address in both this one and its predecessor, Son of Science Novel. And a few little holes in both to fill in with details. But! We reached the end!

We’ll take the weekend to celebrate, then dive back in next week and knock those last items off of our To Do list in short order. And it will feel so fucking good! We’ll get to put this story world down for a little while and turn our attention to other things. And when we come back we’ll be refreshed and ready edit and perfect it.

Now, where’s that champagne?

Carla Sank Into a Fetal Ball

  • by Kentlong legs and fierce eyes
  • “It’s very interesting.”
  • baby gorilla devours her first birthday cake
  • Boom.
  • and gloves without fingers

Tune in next time part 276                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

Carla sank into a fetal ball on the coffee table, with Jove still perched on her back. He plucked his monocle and fogged it with his breath.

“Ahem,” Jupiter said.

“Oh. Right.” Jove snapped his whip again, and Carla backed off the coffee table. Another snap, and she pressed a small button in the carpet. The table flipped over, disappearing under the floor as another piece of furniture rose to replace it. The new object was possibly a bizarre chair, or maybe just a sculpture. What it most resembled was a bat with long legs and fierce eyes.

“Do you like the altar?” Jupiter asked.

Tesla spoke calmly. “It’s very interesting.”

Jupiter scowled down at us. “I haven’t felt so unappreciated for my genius since Jove barely cracked a smile when I showed him ‘baby gorilla devours her first birthday cake.’ That was hysterically funny, but you’d never guess from his stoic reaction.”

“Stoic? You’re embroidering.” Jove snapped his whip twice, and Carla turned so he faced Jupiter. “And, the video clip of a baby gorilla is hysterically funny, but your dance interpretation of it is merely odd. Boom. There. I said it.”

“Why must we squabble? Especially at a time as important as this?” Jupiter bowed deeply from atop his clown.

“Don’t fret. Brothers without squabbles are like Martinis without olives and gloves without fingers.”

“Déclassé?”

“Exactly. And, now that the altar is prepared…”

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“Ladies and Gentlemen!”

  • by jengot to the edge of a very big wood
  • He and Carla never had sex
  • she found in the basement
  • on file with the DMV
  • she sank into my uncle’s arms

Tune in next time part 275                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Ladies and gentlemen!” Jupiter cried. “Direct your attention to the center ring!”

Of course, this being a shack, there was only the one ring. Jove cracked his whip and both of the clowns lifted their rainbow-bewigged heads from the carpet. With my brothers perched daintily on their backs, the clowns crawled on hands and knees until they got to the edge of a very big wooden coffee table.

A crack of Jove’s whip motivated his clown to climb atop the coffee table, and I saw for the first time that under the big red nose and oversized bowtie, this clown was a female. Seconds later I realized it was Jove’s wife Carla. From the letter that accompanied their Christmas card every year, I knew far more than I cared to about Jove and Carla’s marriage. He and Carla never had sex on the trapeze she found in the basement until they were both properly licensed and those licenses were on file with the DMV. That sort of thing.

Jupiter rose to his feet atop his clown. His shiny knee-high boots were obscured by colorful ruffles, and his black silk top hat brushed against the balloon animals along the ceiling. I wondered if he was married to his clown, too. Jupiter’s first wife, Juno, was out of the picture. Their marriage hadn’t even lasted through the reception. Uncle Jinx skipped the ceremony, and arrived at the reception looking quite debonaire in his tuxedo. Jupiter introduced the two, she sank into my uncle’s arms, and that was that. But perhaps he had remarried.

“Jove and Carla will prepare the altar for the sacrifice!” Jupiter announced, looking pointedly at Tesla and myself.

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Critique Group Advice – Part 1

Our critique group met last night, which is always a highlight of our writing life. Firstly because our fellow writer friends are awesome, and secondly because it’s fascinating to find out what your words do inside other people’s heads.

If you don’t have a group, get one.

There are lots of ways to run a critique group, and our way isn’t the only proper way. But we can offer a bit of advice based on our experiences.

Give it focus. For us this means we tell all prospective members up front that we only critique fiction. Not poetry, not self-help, not cookbooks, not screenplays, not… Just fiction. This isn’t our snobbery showing through (we keep it buttoned up a little better than that). We just realize that we, personally, couldn’t offer top-notch feedback to poets. It would come down to simply whether we liked or disliked each piece, and that’s not very valuable. You could get even more focused and limit your group to a single genre, or to novel-length works, or short stories, only. How restricted your focus is will depend somewhat on the size of your local writing community, and how many members you’d like your group to have. In our experience it works best to have about 5 or 6 members. More than that and it’s hard for everyone to have a chance to give in-depth feedback. Fewer than that and meetings tend to fall apart if even one person needs to miss a week.

Should you meet weekly? Bi-weekly? Monthly? That’s up to you and your group. The important thing is to have a schedule. Everyone can mark their calendars and arrange their lives around your meetings. Plus, a set schedule motivates you to keep working.

Set ground rules. For instance, treat each other’s work as confidential; critique the writing, not the author’s beliefs; keep things constructive and encouraging, but don’t pull your punches about problems you see in the text. Spell out these group expectations. It might feel a little formal, but trust us when we tell you that it’s important. (If you get awesome members, none of it will ever be an issue. But you still need to all be on the same page about how the group operates.)

We’ll talk in more depth about some of those guidelines, and other critique group lessons we’ve learned through the years next time. If you have advice to share, pop it in the comments!