“Look,” Jupiter Said

  • by Kentthe gentleman bowed
  • started to snake upwards
  • “Oh, my dear! Must we then all die of hunger?”
  • sitting there, all puckered up
  • key phrases to use on their children

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“Look,” Jupiter said, “it’s our brother.”

“Jason?” Jove asked, adjusting his monocle. The top hat and red tailcoat would be overkill on most people, but he really did look quite the fetishistic gentleman.

“Don’t be silly! Jason won’t set foot on this island.” The gentleman bowed knowingly, which sent his monocle to the floor. Jupiter munched on his marshmallow for a few seconds, his gaze intent on something just behind my ear. “And if he does…”

Jove laughed, still hunched over searching for his fallen eyewear in the dense carpet. Then his torso started to snake upwards. Soon he was standing to his full height of just over seven and a half feet. His laughter stopped.

“Our brother came without sandwiches,” he said. “Sans crudités. Bereft of biscuits.”

Jupiter affected a swoon, draping himself over his clown and onto the green shag. “Oh, my dear! Must we then all die of hunger?”

The pair of ringmasters erupted into shrill cackles. Tesla hid behind me.

“Hey!” I barked. Jupiter and Jove fell silent. They synchronously seated themselves on their prostrate clowns with prim precision, looking attentively at me. “You play innocent all you want, sitting there all puckered up, but I know you’re behind some of the troubles that have plagued me. You’re not even trying to hide it!”

“Oh no,” Jupiter said. “We needn’t. This goes right to the top.”

“The big top!” Jove said, giggling. He made a squinty face and his monocle popped out.

Tesla tapped my shoulder. “The circus is a dying form, isn’t it?”

I shook my head. “That’s the myth. It’s what they want the world to think. But it’s actually a prime location for operatives to learn key phrases to use on their children. Theirs, and everybody else’s.”

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I Wanted to Stop the Man in the Pink Bathrobe

  • by jenthey castrated people all the time
  • no choice but to watch him go
  • the only dollar he had
  • stepped purposefully out into the living room
  • the blue of an equatorial sky

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I wanted to stop the man in the pink bathrobe and ask him if my brothers still ruled this island, and if — as they did a decade ago — they castrated people all the time, but he moved so quickly that I had no choice but to watch him go through the door like he was chasing the only dollar he had left in the world.

Tesla and I looked at each other, then turned to flee and ran straight into the arms of our beefy mime escorts. The two of them were utterly silent as they twisted our arms behind our backs and marched us through the door into the shack. Inside was a sort of cloak room, with another door at the other end. The mimes blocked the exit and glared at us until we opened the inner door and stepped purposefully out into the living room of the shack.

The walls were painted the blue of an equatorial sky, and the ceiling was obscured by multitudes of tropical birds fashioned from colorful balloons. Across the green shag carpet from where Tesla and I stood, my brothers Jupiter and Jove sat regally side-by-side on the backs of prostrated clowns, casually toasting marshmallows with their fiery exhalations.

But what made my blood run cold was their matching ringmaster garb. Things were much more dire than I had ever imagined.

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Goosing The Descriptions

We talked recently about inadequate preparation leading to deficient descriptive language in the text. Today we examine how sometimes it’s good to avoid getting too detailed too early on.

In the universe of the Science Novels, there’s a thing we’ve nicknamed the Swap-O-Matic. There’s only one, but it turns up several times. And each time it appears, the description is different. Way different. Horrendously deviant. (There’s also another machine that’s similarly chameleonic, but in subtler ways.) You see, there are two of us writing, and we each think we have the “right” image in our heads. Furthermore, over months of writing, our respective mental images have shifted.

And, over the evolution of these manuscripts, the ways we need the machine to behave have also evolved. Now that the end is in sight on the first drafts, we are finally pretty confident that we fully understand this thing’s job. So, now we can reconcile all the comically inconsistent depictions. Essentially, we’ll reverse engineer the Swap-O-Matic.

A couple of weeks ago, we said the goose wrench is usually employed early, to tune up the outline. And for plot-level stuff, that’s true. If the plot has sections that flap in the breeze, we’re not ready to tell the story. It has to be more stable, at least for us. But on a small scale, as in the case of describing a particular apparatus, it can be better to leave things loosey-goosey until late in the game. Had we created an exquisite, authoritative picture of the Swap-O-Matic before we started writing prose — before we knew what all we’d be asking of it — we would have been designing the wrong machine.

Working with a partner creates more chances for inconsistencies, but in the first draft that’s not so bad. It just means more ideas from which you can cherry-pick the best details during revision when you make everything line up.

Jorgensen Put Two Fingers

  • by Kent“I don’t think so.”
  • reflection of its luminous rays
  • 7983 comparison tests
  • in a rapid and nervy voice
  • slipped inside

Tune in next time part 272                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

Jorgensen put two fingers in his mouth and emitted an ear-splitting whistle. William Sausage appeared at the hatch above us and said, “Yes, Captain?”

“Two uniforms for our new recruits.”

Tesla folded her arms, creating a shelf for her impressive bosom. “I don’t think so.”

Jorgensen just laughed and climbed the rope ladder. A minute later two gray bundles dropped through the hatch to land in the festive debris at our feet. Picking one up, I said, “At least it’s not black tights and a striped shirt.”

My uniform unfurled and I discovered that it was worse than mime garb. It was a gunny sack of rough, itchy cloth that would make the wearer sweat under the sun, and would give almost no reflection of its luminous rays. Donning it, I guessed that its designers must have done 7983 comparison tests to find something so demonically uncomfortable.

Tesla sullenly put on her own sack and we climbed the ladder. William Sausage awaited us, with two muscular mimes. “Take them ashore,” he said in his reedy voice.

We clambered topside and then into a rowboat. The beefy mimes made us work the oars while they stared in the kind of silence that only mimes know how to generate. I twisted my neck for a look at our destination. All I could really tell was that it was rocky.

At the dock, we were met by a skinny man wearing a pink bathrobe and white face paint. He waved for us to get out of the rowboat then led the way up the dock, stopping outside a shack. Leaning close, he said, “You’re the last ones to arrive, but there’s still time, if you hurry,” in a rapid and nervy voice. He spun on his heel, knocked elaborately on the door of the shack, and slipped inside.

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Jorgensen’s Mustache

  • by jenthe most fearful and astonishing grimaces
  • slithers with shadows
  • a silk ropeladder
  • confirmed the man was intoxicated
  • visiting me nightly

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Jorgensen’s mustache often framed the most fearful and astonishing grimaces, but his smile was somehow worse. It was the sort of smile that slithers with shadows and menace, and it belonged to the sort of man who carried a silk ropeladder with him at all times.

The mustache twitched, revealing even more teeth. The size of the grin, the balloon parrot on his shoulder, and the eye-watering fumes coming from his mouth confirmed the man was intoxicated. Or — a terrible thought occurred to me — perhaps he was using his Pirate-Ninja Alliance affiliation as cover for a membership in the Guild of Fire Eaters. I had heard murmurings about a mime/fire eater treaty. Given Jorgensen’s predilection for employing mimes…

I shuddered. Visions of that monstrous confederation will be visiting me nightly.

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Slow and Stubby Wins the Race

Jen writes most of the stubs. It’s not like there’s a union rule or anything, it just sorta feels like it. But it works out better that way for everybody most of the time, partly because Kent is prone to getting too wrapped up in the details. Stubs aren’t supposed to be all that detailed.

This week, there was a bit of a role reversal because Kent wrote some stubs. (And Jen wrote some epigraphs, which are usually in Kent’s wheelhouse.) He was supposed to just write a scene, but it’s an actiony scene and the stub Jen handed him said little beyond “they fight.” So, he decided to flesh out the stub first. Then he decided to make it into three stubs.

As he worked, he commented to Jen several times that he was reining himself in on the details. Which made her wonder why he didn’t just get into the flow and write the scene itself. He had his reasons. Basically, the same reason that it ended up being three stubs. They still came out a little too detailed for the Rune Skelley stub specification.

Jen wonders if we shouldn’t just call the stubs the scenes. This could be an elegant way of avoiding Kent’s tendency to overwrite action scenes, and save us the trouble of sanding off all the baroque curlicues during revision. But Kent is pretty sure he can punch them up a great deal and still hand in something relatively aerodynamic.

Having a writing partner means being able to rely on somebody to handle the tasks you’re less proficient at. And when you stray outside your comfort zone, it means there’s someone to coach you.

Jorgensen Appraised Tesla and Me

  • by Kentas long as you don’t drink a whole can
  • could have been a small Inuit woman
  • no one had heard from the governor’s secretary
  • Strange night!
  • scattered her clothes

Tune in next time part 270                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

Jorgensen appraised Tesla and me, standing before him wearing nothing but smeared body paint and random, colorful tatters of exploded balloon animals. He sighed through his mustache, and said to me, “I see she’s scattered her clothes all over you. Well, ‘clothes.’ Hmph.” He formed finger quotes by swiveling his wrists rather than flexing his digits, which just gave me one more reason to detest him.

“What are you doing on my sub?” Tesla asked him.

“This again? It’s not yours anymore, not since the final hand of the tournament, when you folded at dawn. Strange night! The top seeds all fell in the first round. It was unprecedented, so much so that no one cared that no one had heard from the governor’s secretary. It didn’t help that the governor was unable to provide a stable description of her, claiming she could have been a small Inuit woman or a gum-popping blonde in spike heels. Too bad for the governor no one explained to him that those energy drinks are fine as long as you don’t drink a whole can.”

“Fine,” Tesla said. “What are you doing on this sub?”

“Piracy. Ninjacy. Alliance business, but in this case it doesn’t concern you.”

Jorgensen looked me in the eye, his bushy mustache insufficient to conceal the nasty smile on his face.

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“Tell Me What You Know About Jupiter and Jove.”

  • by jenso it tastes like sugar
  • “Hiiiiiiii,” she simpered
  • between the hurrying feet
  • among the sartorially dyslexic
  • good-natured patience and gentle eye-rolling

Tune in next time part 269                           Click Here for Earlier Installments

“Tell me what you know about Jupiter and Jove,” I whispered urgently. As far as I knew, my brothers had never made it off the island.

Tesla kissed me, then said, “Think about lollipops and cotton candy then ask again, so it tastes like sugar.” Meanwhile she squirmed her way down into the sea of balloon animals, pressing herself against me.

Above us a series of sharp bangs signaled the popping of the floating rubber penguins. The shriveled remains fluttered down around us. Tesla ignored them and continued her gyrations.

“Tesla!” a voice from the hatch barked. It was Captain Jorgensen.

Tesla smiled at me and looked upwards. “Hiiiiiiii,” she simpered.

“What do you think you’re doing?” he demanded.

“I’m interrogating the prisoner.” She giggled and slithered down until her head was hidden under the inflatable menagerie.

I have been subjected to many forms of interrogation, and this was by far my favorite. But between the hurrying feet and the muffled shouting going on over our heads, I gathered that Jorgensen did not approve. The open hatchway filled with the white faces of many mimes, each with a blowgun. They rained darts down upon us, popping all of the balloon animals. Luckily for us their aim was poor and we had plenty of time to finish our interrogation session before we were fully exposed. Tesla’s painted-on clothing had smeared all over my body, leaving us looking like royalty among the sartorially dyslexic.

A rope ladder unfurled down into the chamber where we stood. While we waited for Jorgensen to descend, Tesla displayed much good-natured patience and gentle eye-rolling.

Soon enough the pirate captain stood before us, a balloon parrot on his shoulder.

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Fear of Details

Rune Skelley’s process is pretty intensive with the supporting materials, as regular readers here are well aware. It’s a system that has evolved as Jen and Kent have worked together on numerous novels over the years. We talk a lot here about the textual elements: rainbows, outlines, and stubs. What we don’t mention so often are the visual aids, but it turns out those can be just as important.

In addition to seeking inspiration on Pinterest and stock photo sites, and “casting” our main characters by including a pic in their bio, we like to create maps and diagrams. Cities, buildings, ships, underground complexes — you name it, we draw maps of it.

Usually.

It might be because we’re so eager to get the current WIP wrapped up, or maybe we’ve just become a little too comfortable with ourselves, but we neglected to draw any pictures of a key locale that figures in the finale. We talked about the place a lot, made good notes. But Kent noticed something about the first draft that he thinks is due to skipping the actual floor plan: he’s hesitant to enrich the scenes with sensory details.

This is a first draft, and of course we’ll address any such deficiencies during revisions. It’s not a disaster, although it might end up being more work than if we’d prepared the visuals up front. (We’re big on up-front preparation.)

Kent’s theory is that this “fear” of details arises from there being two of us working together without concrete documentation of the locale. We’re each making things up as we go, and we might not make them up exactly alike. Mentioning anything specific, like saying the door is on the right or the table is black, creates a potential continuity issue. The logical conclusion then? Don’t mention any details! That way we can’t contradict each other. We can literally keep our story straight. Straight, and devoid of texture or context.

It’s too vague, too loosey-goosey. If only we had a tool to fix that problem…

Wait a minute, we do! The Rune Skelley Writing Toolbox contains numerous strange implements, among them a pair of wrenches. There’s the familiar monkey wrench, meant to be thrown into the gears when everything feels like it’s running a smidge too neatly, and then there’s the goose wrench. That one’s more subtle, and its job is reduce chaos without making everything too rigid. It’s usually deployed during the outlining stage, keeping the plot from losing its shape, but it can also manifest as visual aids that keep the setting (and characters, and props, and so on) in focus.

Remember, Kent: righty-tighty, lefty-loosey.

The List of Things You Must Learn

  • by Kenta man that knows the secrets of a persimmon
  • “This is extreme right here.”
  • the sun, the surf, the primal fiery beauty
  • normal human body
  • I left my brothers there

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The list of things you must learn if you want to succeed in a life of espionage is very long, and many of them are various ways of passing information. The pianist’s code, for example. But even more important is the skill of distinguishing the true message from the ruse, which was what the pianist’s code turned out to be this time.

The tart undercurrent of Tesla’s kiss conveyed a hidden meaning, one I might have overlooked if I weren’t a man that knows the secrets of a persimmon. Tesla whispered, “This is extreme right here.” It was unmistakably a signal phrase, and she was waiting for the countersign. Taking the persimmon-tinged mime lipstick out of the equation, the obvious correct response would be, “Because of the sun, the surf, the primal fiery beauty of the volcanoes.” But Tesla didn’t want to hear that. She was listening for me to confirm that I caught that additional flavorful signal, so I had to apply the persimmon factor.

It had been years since I had to do that in the field, and it was taking me a long time. Seconds flew by as she stared into my eyes, waiting. At last I murmured, “To think it was once a normal human body.”

Her smile told me my answer, though tardy, was accurate. She whispered again, a short coded poem that signified a place name. I assumed it was where the sub was headed, and when I puzzled out the coordinates I felt a chill. I hadn’t been to that place in a very long time. Not since I left my brothers there.

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