First drafts are never really suitable for public display.
Seriously, man. Get some help, OK? Take a class or join a group or do something for God's sake...
Awash
Helen of Gyrewend stood silently at the edge of the Great Hall, restless. It had been eight days since the beheading, but she couldn’t clean up the remaining blood until the formalities were finished. The archdeacon was praying to Our Lord for the safety and health of Queen Elizabeth and for the soul of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, whose head and body were to be sealed in the same casket today. Praying, and taking a damned long time about it, to Helen’s way of thinking. She was itching to do away with the last traces of that hateful woman. For three nights running, her dreams had been filled with blood and flames.
As a housemaid, Helen had naturally not been present at the beheading itself; such affairs of state were not a public event like a regular hanging. Her part had been limited to laying the sawdust and arranging the dried timothy and sweet william underneath the block. Afterwards, all of those stuffs, with their load of royal blood, had been gathered up and burned in an oak fire supervised by the Earl and his family. The Earl had read a proclamation afterwards about how every drop of Mary Stuart’s blood had been returned to God. As his lordship said the words, they became the fact that the histories would record.
Or course, it was not really true, as they all could see. When the workmen had removed the scaffold, they’d discovered a double handspan of dried spatter right where the block had been. Helen had gotten a black look and a hard word from Thomas Butler for that. “Shoulda piled the sawdust higher, Helen Slopjob,” he’d muttered to her. It didn’t matter that she’d piled it as high as she’d dared, high enough that Mary Stuart’s sharp nose had practically been in the herbs as she waited for the axe. Who knew the dried up old biddy had so much blood in her? Moreover, how could it possibly have soaked through the stuffs and the wood so completely?
As a punishment for letting some of the royal blood spill, Thomas had ordered her to sweep and mop the entire Hall by herself. Behind the expressionless face she always put on when someone was praying, she was impatient for the archdeacon to finish up. Mary was burning in hell, prayers or no, and that was that. You can’t try to have the rightful Queen assassinated and be a Papist besides and not expect to burn. No purpose in wasting anymore breath on her as far as Helen could see. In her mind, she could see the dead traitor kneeling, her white hair lifted by surrounding flames in a close circle of stones. When Helen closed her eyes, she could almost hear Mary’s suffering. It surprised her that the sound wasn’t what she might expect of someone being tortured, but more like a chant, something half-way between a cough and a hiss. As it echoed, it became more terrifying and horrible than screams or cries, the sounds a human could make. Over and over, it filled the vision … yog-sothoth, yog-sothoth, yog-sothoth…
Helen opened her eyes. Fotheringhay Castle was certainly well rid of Mary and her coven of hangers-on. They were a bad lot from head to heel, to be sure. They spoke French among themselves, mostly, though they spoke proper when with the Earl and his family at meals and such. Had spoken, Helen reminded herself. All gone now. Mary straight to Hell, the rest of them soon to follow. With Mary gone, the rest of them had been packed off to London for their own trials, to start as soon as the dead Queen of Scotland was in the ground. They’d be hung for their parts in the treason; no fancy beheadings for such as them.
All their belongings had been packed up as well. She’d lent a hand with the packing, and had seen some of their ornaments. Some strange and troubling things among them. Oddly carved candlesticks and jeweled talismans, velvet bags filled with smooth stones, ancient looking books filled with nonsense words. None was in a proper reliquary, so no one knew what to make of them. Folks said they were stuff from Spain and France, where the Papists held sway. Helen had seen Papist things before, from some of the old churches hereabouts. Mary’s things hadn’t looked like anything she was familiar with, except for the rosaries, crucifixes and breviaries. If Mary had been practicing some form of worship that was strange even to other Papists, then she was doubly damned, to be sure.
Out of the corner of her eye, she looked at the dried blood. She’d been unable to think of anything else since the execution. Three swipes with a mop would clear it away, but there it had been for days on end, a stain on the pavers on her reputation. The execution wasn’t officially over until the burial, so she’d had to endure the sly looks and dull japes from the backstairs maids through two Sundays. Bad enough that it hadn’t been her fault, but the delay made it all worse.
Finally, the archdeacon finished up and all were blessed and dismissed. Helen left with everyone else. She turned right in the outer hallway to fetch the broom, mop and bucket she’d had at the ready since daybreak, then went right back into the Hall. As Helen swept, she thought about what a botched job that beheading had been. The cooks could take off the head of a live and struggling goose with one swipe, but the executioner had to take three strokes at Mary’s neck, still though she lay on the block. Helen had heard all about it. She had always assumed that royalty and the peerage would get the best. The axeman had certainly seemed like he’d known what he was doing when he’d been practicing in the days before. She thought of how, aftertimes, in the servant’s hall, he’d made comments like he’d felt some kind of pull on his axe to make him miss his stroke. Thomas Butler waggled his eyebrows at such excuse-making, but now Helen wasn’t sure what to think.
She swept the whole floor, but worked around the stain. She did a proper job of it, but swept as quickly as she could. Alone in the Hall, she was filled with the memories of her dreams. Her old twig broom whisked across the floor, and the rhythmic, hissing sound made her skin crawl. Finished with the sweeping, she brought the mop and bucket out from the corner and approached the middle of the room. She dipped her rags in the water, lifted and let them drain back a bit, then moved to make use of the sodden mass.
Her arms pause and she stopped as a thought struck her. Why had there been no flies?
She slowly set the dripping mophead down and looked at the blood on the floor. The chopping blocks at the butcher’s and in the kitchen always attracted a cloud of the little devils, even now in February and even after the wood had been scrubbed. She thought about the days since Mary’d been executed, trying to recall if she’d seen any flies over the blood stain when it had been fresh. A beheading was so unusual that everything about it had seemed strange, but as she considered, she could not recall any such vermin. Surely Mary’s blood should attract them, royal blood though it was.
Helen closed her eyes and shook her head to rid herself of the sudden idea that Mary had somehow not been human when she’d died. No, that was madness. Papist and traitor, but still human for all of that. She opened her eyes and firmly shoved the mass of wet rags over the blood. She pressed hard and scrubbed back and forth a half dozen times before lifting her mop away.
From the glistening pool of rewetted blood, the face of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, looked out at Helen, her wild, pleading eyes filled with tears. Helen’s knuckles cracked and whitened as she gripped the mop handle. Mary’s lips formed a spill of words that the maid could not clearly understand. Mary cried out regret and sorrow, fear and pain. There was something about stones and a book, and a terrible mistake she had made with them. From the depths of flames and blood, Mary desperately wanted Helen to do something, to open a door or gate of some kind. Helen could neither hear nor understand. All was darkness around the blood, the fires within its wetness the only light in the Hall that reached Helen’s eyes. She saw Mary suddenly jerked downwards, away from the surface. The dream-sounds from Helen’s visions of hell came up from the blood and filled her ears … yog-hothoth… yog-hothoth… yog-hothoth…
Helen stared into the bloody pool as it expanded in front of her to fill her vision entirely.
********
Almost an hour later, Thomas Butler passed by the Great Hall. He saw the bloodstain gone and saw Helen standing staring at the spot where it had been. He walked up and cuffed her aside the head for standing idly. Her dead body fell forward, eyes fixed wide open. Her head struck the lip of the bucket, spilling its contents to splash and spread across the stones.
As a housemaid, Helen had naturally not been present at the beheading itself; such affairs of state were not a public event like a regular hanging. Her part had been limited to laying the sawdust and arranging the dried timothy and sweet william underneath the block. Afterwards, all of those stuffs, with their load of royal blood, had been gathered up and burned in an oak fire supervised by the Earl and his family. The Earl had read a proclamation afterwards about how every drop of Mary Stuart’s blood had been returned to God. As his lordship said the words, they became the fact that the histories would record.
Or course, it was not really true, as they all could see. When the workmen had removed the scaffold, they’d discovered a double handspan of dried spatter right where the block had been. Helen had gotten a black look and a hard word from Thomas Butler for that. “Shoulda piled the sawdust higher, Helen Slopjob,” he’d muttered to her. It didn’t matter that she’d piled it as high as she’d dared, high enough that Mary Stuart’s sharp nose had practically been in the herbs as she waited for the axe. Who knew the dried up old biddy had so much blood in her? Moreover, how could it possibly have soaked through the stuffs and the wood so completely?
As a punishment for letting some of the royal blood spill, Thomas had ordered her to sweep and mop the entire Hall by herself. Behind the expressionless face she always put on when someone was praying, she was impatient for the archdeacon to finish up. Mary was burning in hell, prayers or no, and that was that. You can’t try to have the rightful Queen assassinated and be a Papist besides and not expect to burn. No purpose in wasting anymore breath on her as far as Helen could see. In her mind, she could see the dead traitor kneeling, her white hair lifted by surrounding flames in a close circle of stones. When Helen closed her eyes, she could almost hear Mary’s suffering. It surprised her that the sound wasn’t what she might expect of someone being tortured, but more like a chant, something half-way between a cough and a hiss. As it echoed, it became more terrifying and horrible than screams or cries, the sounds a human could make. Over and over, it filled the vision … yog-sothoth, yog-sothoth, yog-sothoth…
Helen opened her eyes. Fotheringhay Castle was certainly well rid of Mary and her coven of hangers-on. They were a bad lot from head to heel, to be sure. They spoke French among themselves, mostly, though they spoke proper when with the Earl and his family at meals and such. Had spoken, Helen reminded herself. All gone now. Mary straight to Hell, the rest of them soon to follow. With Mary gone, the rest of them had been packed off to London for their own trials, to start as soon as the dead Queen of Scotland was in the ground. They’d be hung for their parts in the treason; no fancy beheadings for such as them.
All their belongings had been packed up as well. She’d lent a hand with the packing, and had seen some of their ornaments. Some strange and troubling things among them. Oddly carved candlesticks and jeweled talismans, velvet bags filled with smooth stones, ancient looking books filled with nonsense words. None was in a proper reliquary, so no one knew what to make of them. Folks said they were stuff from Spain and France, where the Papists held sway. Helen had seen Papist things before, from some of the old churches hereabouts. Mary’s things hadn’t looked like anything she was familiar with, except for the rosaries, crucifixes and breviaries. If Mary had been practicing some form of worship that was strange even to other Papists, then she was doubly damned, to be sure.
Out of the corner of her eye, she looked at the dried blood. She’d been unable to think of anything else since the execution. Three swipes with a mop would clear it away, but there it had been for days on end, a stain on the pavers on her reputation. The execution wasn’t officially over until the burial, so she’d had to endure the sly looks and dull japes from the backstairs maids through two Sundays. Bad enough that it hadn’t been her fault, but the delay made it all worse.
Finally, the archdeacon finished up and all were blessed and dismissed. Helen left with everyone else. She turned right in the outer hallway to fetch the broom, mop and bucket she’d had at the ready since daybreak, then went right back into the Hall. As Helen swept, she thought about what a botched job that beheading had been. The cooks could take off the head of a live and struggling goose with one swipe, but the executioner had to take three strokes at Mary’s neck, still though she lay on the block. Helen had heard all about it. She had always assumed that royalty and the peerage would get the best. The axeman had certainly seemed like he’d known what he was doing when he’d been practicing in the days before. She thought of how, aftertimes, in the servant’s hall, he’d made comments like he’d felt some kind of pull on his axe to make him miss his stroke. Thomas Butler waggled his eyebrows at such excuse-making, but now Helen wasn’t sure what to think.
She swept the whole floor, but worked around the stain. She did a proper job of it, but swept as quickly as she could. Alone in the Hall, she was filled with the memories of her dreams. Her old twig broom whisked across the floor, and the rhythmic, hissing sound made her skin crawl. Finished with the sweeping, she brought the mop and bucket out from the corner and approached the middle of the room. She dipped her rags in the water, lifted and let them drain back a bit, then moved to make use of the sodden mass.
Her arms pause and she stopped as a thought struck her. Why had there been no flies?
She slowly set the dripping mophead down and looked at the blood on the floor. The chopping blocks at the butcher’s and in the kitchen always attracted a cloud of the little devils, even now in February and even after the wood had been scrubbed. She thought about the days since Mary’d been executed, trying to recall if she’d seen any flies over the blood stain when it had been fresh. A beheading was so unusual that everything about it had seemed strange, but as she considered, she could not recall any such vermin. Surely Mary’s blood should attract them, royal blood though it was.
Helen closed her eyes and shook her head to rid herself of the sudden idea that Mary had somehow not been human when she’d died. No, that was madness. Papist and traitor, but still human for all of that. She opened her eyes and firmly shoved the mass of wet rags over the blood. She pressed hard and scrubbed back and forth a half dozen times before lifting her mop away.
From the glistening pool of rewetted blood, the face of Mary Stuart, Queen of Scotland, looked out at Helen, her wild, pleading eyes filled with tears. Helen’s knuckles cracked and whitened as she gripped the mop handle. Mary’s lips formed a spill of words that the maid could not clearly understand. Mary cried out regret and sorrow, fear and pain. There was something about stones and a book, and a terrible mistake she had made with them. From the depths of flames and blood, Mary desperately wanted Helen to do something, to open a door or gate of some kind. Helen could neither hear nor understand. All was darkness around the blood, the fires within its wetness the only light in the Hall that reached Helen’s eyes. She saw Mary suddenly jerked downwards, away from the surface. The dream-sounds from Helen’s visions of hell came up from the blood and filled her ears … yog-hothoth… yog-hothoth… yog-hothoth…
Helen stared into the bloody pool as it expanded in front of her to fill her vision entirely.
********
Almost an hour later, Thomas Butler passed by the Great Hall. He saw the bloodstain gone and saw Helen standing staring at the spot where it had been. He walked up and cuffed her aside the head for standing idly. Her dead body fell forward, eyes fixed wide open. Her head struck the lip of the bucket, spilling its contents to splash and spread across the stones.
Too long for Twitter
A little ode to Grapevine, Texas:
Flew into Dallas, got lost in Grapevine.
Made an acquaintance, and made his date mine.
Hello Bowie knife, he wasted no time.
Yellow tape flutters, “Do Not Cross This Line”.
Silly little doggerel, isn't it?
Flew into Dallas, got lost in Grapevine.
Made an acquaintance, and made his date mine.
Hello Bowie knife, he wasted no time.
Yellow tape flutters, “Do Not Cross This Line”.
Silly little doggerel, isn't it?
Revisions
I got a lot of good feedback on my zombie story. Different people liked different parts. I don't want to turn this into something bland and universally acceptable, written by committee, but one of the universal comments was, "needs more plot, man".
How to get that? Suggestions went from one end of the spectrum to the other. I think I have an idea of how to make it work. I don't have any idea of where I would send it, though, so I'll just have to cross that bridge when I get there.
I could always just post it here, but I think that would prompt me to keep fiddling with it. Once it's in print somewhere, it's frozen.
How to get that? Suggestions went from one end of the spectrum to the other. I think I have an idea of how to make it work. I don't have any idea of where I would send it, though, so I'll just have to cross that bridge when I get there.
I could always just post it here, but I think that would prompt me to keep fiddling with it. Once it's in print somewhere, it's frozen.
How many ways can you say zero?
Installed Google Analytics for this blog.
Because I'm a glutton for ego punishment, that's why.
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Because I'm a glutton for ego punishment, that's why.
===== Feel free to comment on this or any other post.
Like it? Tweet it! Tweet
Words of wisdom
From Anthony Pacheco, Hack writer:
"A lack of self-esteem will hork (and hork is a technical term) writing. It is an automatic fail. If a writer sits around thinking of perceptions of what people think of her, how she is or was treated, or other such deviations from the core of her center (and they are deviations), she is wasting time putting words to paper and wasting time showing them to other people."
and more words of wisdom:
"If you fail to get an agent, forget about how that makes you feel. Do you want to finish the book you are writing on, indeed, must finish it because it is a burning need? Yes? Congratulations. You are a writer. Your passion for writing is boundless. You are an artist comfortable with her craft. Writing is what you do for fun. It is enjoyable. Someday you may see your book in print, but then again not.
If there is no passion at this fork in the road to continue, simply take an objective look—do you feel like you are wasting your time? Is something more interesting to you? If so, writing is probably not your thing. Go find your thing.
But if you simply don’t want to go on because you are afraid that you’ll get rejected yet again—but the passion to write is still there—you have problems. Your problem could be your writing sucks. And well, we can all learn to be better writers. That problem is fixable and by the continuation of writing, you can improve."
OK, pretty lame of me to quote someone else's blog post so extensively, but what the heck. Thanks, Anthony.
"A lack of self-esteem will hork (and hork is a technical term) writing. It is an automatic fail. If a writer sits around thinking of perceptions of what people think of her, how she is or was treated, or other such deviations from the core of her center (and they are deviations), she is wasting time putting words to paper and wasting time showing them to other people."
and more words of wisdom:
"If you fail to get an agent, forget about how that makes you feel. Do you want to finish the book you are writing on, indeed, must finish it because it is a burning need? Yes? Congratulations. You are a writer. Your passion for writing is boundless. You are an artist comfortable with her craft. Writing is what you do for fun. It is enjoyable. Someday you may see your book in print, but then again not.
If there is no passion at this fork in the road to continue, simply take an objective look—do you feel like you are wasting your time? Is something more interesting to you? If so, writing is probably not your thing. Go find your thing.
But if you simply don’t want to go on because you are afraid that you’ll get rejected yet again—but the passion to write is still there—you have problems. Your problem could be your writing sucks. And well, we can all learn to be better writers. That problem is fixable and by the continuation of writing, you can improve."
OK, pretty lame of me to quote someone else's blog post so extensively, but what the heck. Thanks, Anthony.
A pebble thrown into another universe
Twitter seems to have deleted this tweet from the timeline, since it doesn't come up anywhere. Somebody call Harry Turtledove! In the meantime, here is the text of this no-longer-extant tweet:
Contract bending, deadlines pending.
Coffee vending, garments rending.
Concepts blending, emails sending.
Homeward wending, Tweeting ending.
It was all about how I really, really need to stop tweeting and get back to work, since I have three deadlines looming. Ironic that I took the time to make up a whole blog post about this lack of focus, isn't it?
Contract bending, deadlines pending.
Coffee vending, garments rending.
Concepts blending, emails sending.
Homeward wending, Tweeting ending.
It was all about how I really, really need to stop tweeting and get back to work, since I have three deadlines looming. Ironic that I took the time to make up a whole blog post about this lack of focus, isn't it?
How to do a critique
Doing a critique for a writer is much like being a beta-tester for software, which is why the term "beta-reader" is commonly used. Once the author has finished rough draft, first draft, then final draft, it's time either screw in a fresh set of eyes and re-read it again (which many authors can do), or to let someone else read it.
A critique is more than just a response e.mail saying, "It was great! Keep up the good work!" Your work could be lousy, and a polite friend would congratulate you on your efforts. If it truly stinks, they may just remain silent. If you persist in asking your beta-readers to read really crappy stuff, they will start to refuse sooner rather than later.
So what is a good critique? It's feedback that lets you know what worked and what didn't. You might have great characters, but a lousy plot. A good critique will give you that information. If you CONSISTENTLY have good characters but lousy plots, then that gives you a clear indication of your strengths. (It also gives you something to weep in terror about about late at night as you contemplate yet another rejection from yet another editor who probably demands good plotting above all else, but that's another issue.)
Writer's workshops offer critiques as a selling point. The people in the workshop/writing group/class/etc. are not your friends, and so have no social capital invested in their relationship with you. They will be honest. The truth hurts, but if you don't know what's wrong, you'll never be able to fix it.
Theoretically, a friend will be honest too, but don't push it.
Experienced critics will know what to look for. This is a set of general critique questions developed by MarFisk, posted on the Forward Motion website. A variation appears here. This is not necessarily a checklist-type activity, but these are the things to look for.
Initial Reaction:
Plot:
Plot elements (in each chapter, things to be developed which are central to the plot and/or subplots):
Characters:
Action:
Conflict:
Suspense:
Dialog:
Background:
Plausibility:
Overall story:
Theme:
What I liked in the story:
What I didn't like in the story:
Technical part:
Problems:
Nit Picks:
Final comments:
A link to the story of mine I would like comments on: (if applicable)
Notice that last item. Critiques are like anything else... if you want it, you should only ask for it if you are willing to return the favor.
A critique is more than just a response e.mail saying, "It was great! Keep up the good work!" Your work could be lousy, and a polite friend would congratulate you on your efforts. If it truly stinks, they may just remain silent. If you persist in asking your beta-readers to read really crappy stuff, they will start to refuse sooner rather than later.
So what is a good critique? It's feedback that lets you know what worked and what didn't. You might have great characters, but a lousy plot. A good critique will give you that information. If you CONSISTENTLY have good characters but lousy plots, then that gives you a clear indication of your strengths. (It also gives you something to weep in terror about about late at night as you contemplate yet another rejection from yet another editor who probably demands good plotting above all else, but that's another issue.)
Writer's workshops offer critiques as a selling point. The people in the workshop/writing group/class/etc. are not your friends, and so have no social capital invested in their relationship with you. They will be honest. The truth hurts, but if you don't know what's wrong, you'll never be able to fix it.
Theoretically, a friend will be honest too, but don't push it.
Experienced critics will know what to look for. This is a set of general critique questions developed by MarFisk, posted on the Forward Motion website. A variation appears here. This is not necessarily a checklist-type activity, but these are the things to look for.
Initial Reaction:
Plot:
Plot elements (in each chapter, things to be developed which are central to the plot and/or subplots):
Characters:
Action:
Conflict:
Suspense:
Dialog:
Background:
Plausibility:
Overall story:
Theme:
What I liked in the story:
What I didn't like in the story:
Technical part:
Problems:
Nit Picks:
Final comments:
A link to the story of mine I would like comments on: (if applicable)
Notice that last item. Critiques are like anything else... if you want it, you should only ask for it if you are willing to return the favor.
Not now, not ever
If I ever did find my "voice" as a writer, I'm pretty sure that I wouldn't like what I would find.
I can't write happy and fulfilling stories because I'm not happy and fulfilled. The best I ever get is to have my frustration and dissatisfaction temporarily smothered in busy work.
I can't write exciting stories because I am so damned ponderous and full of admiration for my own damned prose. Everything comes out reading like a stump speech by the seventh-place candidate.
I don't want to write autobiographically-based fiction because I find myself a subject not worthy of close examination, except as an example of how NOT to be a happy, fulfilled person. Any character I write who is clearly not me suffers from that fact that I am practically sociopathic in my inability to understand and connect with other human beings. I feel as thought the only things I understand are the negative emotions of life, and writing characters with such a relentlessly flawed perception and experience would just give readers a headache. I get a headache just living my own life... why would anyone else want to see anything through my eyes? What is it like to be faithful? To be happy? To be secure? To be truly and completely in love, with no doubts or hesitancy? To know what you are doing, where you're going? To know what you want?
I have plenty of things started, from back when I had bursts of enthusiasm and energy. Now, I have no enthusiasm for anything. These false starts, which ground down into page after page of long, boring crap, do not represent the first fingerpaints of a neonatal artist. They are, in fact, the short-lived half-sparks that are the only possible product of muddy flint.
This is a waste of time and energy. I will never be a competent writer of fiction, let alone a successful one.
I feel every failure a thousand times over, whether anyone else sees them or not. At this point, I don't want to write anymore. I just wish I could stop needing to.
I can't write happy and fulfilling stories because I'm not happy and fulfilled. The best I ever get is to have my frustration and dissatisfaction temporarily smothered in busy work.
I can't write exciting stories because I am so damned ponderous and full of admiration for my own damned prose. Everything comes out reading like a stump speech by the seventh-place candidate.
I don't want to write autobiographically-based fiction because I find myself a subject not worthy of close examination, except as an example of how NOT to be a happy, fulfilled person. Any character I write who is clearly not me suffers from that fact that I am practically sociopathic in my inability to understand and connect with other human beings. I feel as thought the only things I understand are the negative emotions of life, and writing characters with such a relentlessly flawed perception and experience would just give readers a headache. I get a headache just living my own life... why would anyone else want to see anything through my eyes? What is it like to be faithful? To be happy? To be secure? To be truly and completely in love, with no doubts or hesitancy? To know what you are doing, where you're going? To know what you want?
I have plenty of things started, from back when I had bursts of enthusiasm and energy. Now, I have no enthusiasm for anything. These false starts, which ground down into page after page of long, boring crap, do not represent the first fingerpaints of a neonatal artist. They are, in fact, the short-lived half-sparks that are the only possible product of muddy flint.
This is a waste of time and energy. I will never be a competent writer of fiction, let alone a successful one.
I feel every failure a thousand times over, whether anyone else sees them or not. At this point, I don't want to write anymore. I just wish I could stop needing to.
Trying not to think
The hardest part about delusions of grandeur is that they seem so darn reasonable when you are in the thick of them. Why wouldn't someone say that this is the best thing they've ever read? Of course someone would ask in a beseeching tone if I had any more material they could please look at, purely for the joy of experiencing my prose. Why not?
So foolish.
So foolish.
Looking for readers of a zombie story
My zombie story is finished. Or at least I think it is. It's ~3500 words.
I'd like to get a couple of opinions on it. Comments on the pacing, the action, the language, etc. would be welcome. Something like this.
As with everything I write, I'm concerned that the story's merits are outweighed by its flaws. That is to say, I'm afraid it stinks. If it does, I'd like to have a clearer understanding of why it stinks, so I can do better next time.
If I thought that anyone reads this blog, this would be the point at which I would ask for volunteers, offer a critique in return, etc. Since this is an isolated backyard, facing the old freight tracks adjacent to a depopulated cul-de-sac, I'm going to have to find readers somewhere else.
I'd like to get a couple of opinions on it. Comments on the pacing, the action, the language, etc. would be welcome. Something like this.
As with everything I write, I'm concerned that the story's merits are outweighed by its flaws. That is to say, I'm afraid it stinks. If it does, I'd like to have a clearer understanding of why it stinks, so I can do better next time.
If I thought that anyone reads this blog, this would be the point at which I would ask for volunteers, offer a critique in return, etc. Since this is an isolated backyard, facing the old freight tracks adjacent to a depopulated cul-de-sac, I'm going to have to find readers somewhere else.
Nobody likes a boring zombie
I had one of my favorite beta readers take a look at the zombie story. Verdict: reads more like an exercise, or an informational appendix to a larger novel about zombies.
Interesting observation, since this piece was spurred by a chain of thought I had with respect to another novel I'm working on. The novel has people's souls being stolen as one of the things the hero has to address & correct. It got me thinking, though. While my hero is off fighting the bad guys(s) and winning the day, what will these poor people be doing in his absence? Sitting and staring at the walls? Obviously, as the author, I can make them do whatever I want - go berserk, shuffle gracelessly, gamble compulsively, whatever. However, what would really happen? What would I do if I were suddenly bereft of intellect and socialization?
In short, what motivates zombies? What do they want?
This is the kind of thing that separates hard sci-fi from soft. In hard sci-fi, you try to obey as many of the laws of physics as you can. In soft sci-fi, pretty much anything is possible, and you just sort of hope that the author is consistent.
The better fantasy books follow the same precept. Just because there is magic in this world doesn't mean you can do whatever the hell you want and explain it all away afterwards with, "Oh, I just used some Powder of Perpetual Wakefulness. Here, have some."
Anyway, I'm going to have to rethink my approach here. This piece is an exploration of some of that. I still want to put it up, but it needs a clearer plot and purpose, more action and it need to be more engaging.
Interesting observation, since this piece was spurred by a chain of thought I had with respect to another novel I'm working on. The novel has people's souls being stolen as one of the things the hero has to address & correct. It got me thinking, though. While my hero is off fighting the bad guys(s) and winning the day, what will these poor people be doing in his absence? Sitting and staring at the walls? Obviously, as the author, I can make them do whatever I want - go berserk, shuffle gracelessly, gamble compulsively, whatever. However, what would really happen? What would I do if I were suddenly bereft of intellect and socialization?
In short, what motivates zombies? What do they want?
This is the kind of thing that separates hard sci-fi from soft. In hard sci-fi, you try to obey as many of the laws of physics as you can. In soft sci-fi, pretty much anything is possible, and you just sort of hope that the author is consistent.
The better fantasy books follow the same precept. Just because there is magic in this world doesn't mean you can do whatever the hell you want and explain it all away afterwards with, "Oh, I just used some Powder of Perpetual Wakefulness. Here, have some."
Anyway, I'm going to have to rethink my approach here. This piece is an exploration of some of that. I still want to put it up, but it needs a clearer plot and purpose, more action and it need to be more engaging.
First draft of a zombie story completed
First draft is done. Need to sleep on it, whittle it down from 1400 to maybe 1200 or less. I hate to throw away text, but theoretically its the dross I'm skimming off and throwing away.
Mood in life, mood in writing
In the remake of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, the candies that Willy Wonka makes have a flavor that reflects his mood.
This little bit of magic is perfectly implemented in the literary efforts in the real world. I don't think I could write something authentically cheerful if I tried.
If I do manage to get any of these pieces completed, they will all come out so bleakly depressing that they won't even make for good horror.
This little bit of magic is perfectly implemented in the literary efforts in the real world. I don't think I could write something authentically cheerful if I tried.
If I do manage to get any of these pieces completed, they will all come out so bleakly depressing that they won't even make for good horror.
Writing 45 words
You wouldn't think it would be so hard to write, but the constant interruptions at home make it about impossible.
I need my own space. Quiet, warm and clean, with a lock so people won't mess around with my files and stuff.
Yeah, right.
I need my own space. Quiet, warm and clean, with a lock so people won't mess around with my files and stuff.
Yeah, right.
Fiction Playlist
A sampler of Tony Noland's creative writing pieces
NOTE: If you like anything you read here, feel free to comment on it and tell people about it. Every post has a permalink, or you could just link to this page.
If you really like something you read here, you could also send me (noland.tony@gmail.com) $1.98 via PayPal. It's not obligatory, but money is like love... even a little bit is greatly appreciated.
If you really, really like something you read here, I'm available for freelance work...
#FridayFlash fiction ~1000 words, posted on Fridays (F=Fantasy; H=Horror; L=Literary; S=Science Fiction)
Permalink
NOTE: If you like anything you read here, feel free to comment on it and tell people about it. Every post has a permalink, or you could just link to this page.
If you really like something you read here, you could also send me (noland.tony@gmail.com) $1.98 via PayPal. It's not obligatory, but money is like love... even a little bit is greatly appreciated.
If you really, really like something you read here, I'm available for freelance work...
#FridayFlash fiction ~1000 words, posted on Fridays (F=Fantasy; H=Horror; L=Literary; S=Science Fiction)
- 4:45 - An erotic after-school interlude (L)
- A Level-Headed Man - He never lost his cool, and he never failed. (L)
- Back of the Class - Not every little boy is lovable. (L)
- Comes the Witching Hour - Do you... smoke? (F)
- Cutting - If she were your daughter, you'd do something. Wouldn't you? (L)
- The Death of Lee Harvey Oswald - For me to win, he has to die. (S)
- Five Hundred Francs - The classics never die. (F)
- Intervention - A dialogue about what really happened on Valentine's Day. (L)
- I Weep Not For Thee - The road home is cold and silent, but not uncaring. (L)
- Nearer Comes the Moon - Flight, sacrifice and love in Ashland, OH. (F)
- Not My Intention - A guy, a gal and a basket of laundry. (L)
- Phil's Christmas Present - One man, alone with his cigarettes. (L)
- Philly's in the House - Are you gonna let New York show us up? (L)
- Pot of Gold - Humanity's greatest moment comes in five... four... three... (S)
- Racist Bastard - How could anyone NOT hate this guy? (L)
- Reconciliation - Forgiveness? For a mug like you? Fuggedaboutit... (L)
- Ridi, Pagliaccio - Laugh and the world laughs with you. Cry, and you cry alone. (F)
- Third Shift at McSweeny's - Wanna see a magic trick? (F)
- Time's Arrow - How do you kill what is too fast to touch? (F)
- Truly, Deeply, Endlessly - Love, hope and pain in Chicago. (H)
- Two Lutheran Pastors - Not quite what you'd expect. (L)
- The Way of All Flesh - Compulsion by moonlight. (H)
- @TweetTheMeat: Arabesque; Babe in Toyland;WASP LEG; Penance;
- @Outshine: Electric shoes; Older, But Not Yet Old; Gasoline?;
- @Thaumatrope: Blood lust; My Father's Eyes; Rule of Three; Leafblower; Eyes of the Pumpkin; Regifting; Song of the Blue Ant; Spawn and Respawn;
- #OIA: Orbital Insertion and Assault A serialized piece of collaborative Twitter fiction. Experimental.
- Burnpoint Serialized Twitter fiction. Somewhat less experimental.
- Twit Fic for Edinburgh Pieces in honor of the West Port Book Festival
- Eight Maids A'Milking Science fiction/horror.
- Awash Tudor horror.
- Home Cure Death, horror, filth, rat stew and a nice cup of tea.
- Sunlight on the Plaza Below Rage, pain and revenge gone wrong.
- Ode to the Semicolon Grammarians, to the barricades!
- Twelve, a really bad poem and an analysis of Twelve Poets, enter at your own risk.
- Introduction to Magic An excerpt from a novel in progress, "One Thousand Candles" (YA fantasy).
- Needlework An excerpt from an novel in progress, "The Blood of Yesterday's Heroes" (sci-fi/action)
- Rosetta An opening for a novella (scifi, gov't conspiracy)
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Twitter Fiction: Orbital Insertion and Assault
This is a collaborative Twitfic piece written by myself (@TonyNoland) and fellow twitterer @Shadow_Wrought, at his suggestion. It was mostly spontaneous, with each of us responding to what the other had tweeted. We did very little in the way of discussion in sidebar about what direction to take the story. In that sense, it was rather like improv. FWIW, here it is in it's entirety.
TN #OIA Drop from orbit went well. Lost one guy, and a gap in my armor meant a nasty burn on my right thigh. Still, we set up the beachhead OK.
S_W #OIA No rest for us tonight. Scouts report enemy movement so we're expanding the beachhead another 10 klicks to get the 82nd inserted early.
TN #OIA Why the hell the 82nd Sustainment Brigade is dropping ahead of the Combat Brigades is beyond me. It's still pretty lively down here.
S_W #OIA Gen Noland ordered us to "help" the 82nd by "advancing their supplies to a forward position." Looks like we're going to need them, too.
S_W #OIA We've advanced to a lave field that's like wrinkled obsidian for miles. No one's sneaking up on us, but you have to blast it to dig in.
TN #OIA It'd make things easier if the recon sats were functional. Or if the locals showed up on infrared. A cold beer would be nice, too.
TN #OIA Word just came down. The new ambassador wants to come down sooner rather than later, to "send a message of strength". What an idiot.
S_W #OIA The Ambassador's grandiose arrival certainly got their attention. We can hear the damned things skittering all over the lava field now.
TN #OIA Recon says some kind of delegation is coming out from the village/hive 35 clicks north. ETA is 90 minutes after first sunrise.
S_W #OIA The talks were a ruse. The firefight's over now, but they burrowed between us and the 82nd. Our losses were light but the 61st is gone.
S_W #OIA The Ambassador thinks it was a "misunderstanding." Even though the 9th was lost too and the sappers are still destroying their tunnels!
TN #OIA Bad guys look just like friendlies, except for the swirl pattern on their beaks. Trouble is, you only see that pattern under UV light.
TN #OIA The colonel made a speech tonight. Sarge translated it: "Rumor all you like, but don't write anything down." I wonder who's in trouble.
S_W #OIA The colonel's speech makes sense now. Reinfocement's arrived, but they're local! Sarge ordered us to check each one with UV to be safe.
S_W #OIA Some enemies snuck in with the locals but they took care of it themselves. No guns, but their beaks and talons make up for it up close.
TN #OIA How will the local theocracy regard our arrival? As an indication of divine will? Sounds naive, but faith is a hard thing to parse.
TN #OIA It's hard to watch our "allies" in action. Firefights are one thing - removing the right foreleg of every prisoner seems excessive.
TN #OIA KkrAlk's convinced the CIC to flatten the loyalist village. The bugbirds can't wait for the assault. Ours is not to reason why...
TN #OIA Up close, their blood smells almost sweet, like boiled treacle. All of us humans were puking after the first house to house sweep.
S_W #OIA The village is secured but found tunnels underneath. Heading down now hoping it'll lead to more loyalist forces. It smells just putrid.
TN #OIA Radios don't work for crap down here! I hate tunnels - I've got a healthy respect for having my 6 covered, which it presently ain't.
TN #OIA Standby - did you hear that? What was
S_W #OIA They burst through the walls all around us, but the plasma throwers were ready. Their exoskeletons loudly pop before becoming charcoal.
S_W #OIA The plasma throwers are empty and our ammo's almost gone. Even if we find their nest I don't know what we're going to fight them with.
TN #OIA Cut off from the surface. At least now we know why KkrAlk wanted the orbital insertion to secure a village in the middle of nowhere.
TN #OIA The village was only a front porch for this place. There must be millions of them just in this first cavern.
S_W #OIA The tunnel ended at a deep caldera hundreds of meters straight down. We can't see them down there, but we can hear them. And behind us.
TN #OIA the bugs treatd us like theire own prisonrs. fickrs hav a lpt to learn asbout droptroops. taks more thanm losing an armn. kill for this
TN #OIA The end.
I felt that the final "The End" was necessary, since this was completely tweeted. It was an interesting experiment. More thoughts later.
TN #OIA Drop from orbit went well. Lost one guy, and a gap in my armor meant a nasty burn on my right thigh. Still, we set up the beachhead OK.
S_W #OIA No rest for us tonight. Scouts report enemy movement so we're expanding the beachhead another 10 klicks to get the 82nd inserted early.
TN #OIA Why the hell the 82nd Sustainment Brigade is dropping ahead of the Combat Brigades is beyond me. It's still pretty lively down here.
S_W #OIA Gen Noland ordered us to "help" the 82nd by "advancing their supplies to a forward position." Looks like we're going to need them, too.
S_W #OIA We've advanced to a lave field that's like wrinkled obsidian for miles. No one's sneaking up on us, but you have to blast it to dig in.
TN #OIA It'd make things easier if the recon sats were functional. Or if the locals showed up on infrared. A cold beer would be nice, too.
TN #OIA Word just came down. The new ambassador wants to come down sooner rather than later, to "send a message of strength". What an idiot.
S_W #OIA The Ambassador's grandiose arrival certainly got their attention. We can hear the damned things skittering all over the lava field now.
TN #OIA Recon says some kind of delegation is coming out from the village/hive 35 clicks north. ETA is 90 minutes after first sunrise.
S_W #OIA The talks were a ruse. The firefight's over now, but they burrowed between us and the 82nd. Our losses were light but the 61st is gone.
S_W #OIA The Ambassador thinks it was a "misunderstanding." Even though the 9th was lost too and the sappers are still destroying their tunnels!
TN #OIA Bad guys look just like friendlies, except for the swirl pattern on their beaks. Trouble is, you only see that pattern under UV light.
TN #OIA The colonel made a speech tonight. Sarge translated it: "Rumor all you like, but don't write anything down." I wonder who's in trouble.
S_W #OIA The colonel's speech makes sense now. Reinfocement's arrived, but they're local! Sarge ordered us to check each one with UV to be safe.
S_W #OIA Some enemies snuck in with the locals but they took care of it themselves. No guns, but their beaks and talons make up for it up close.
TN #OIA How will the local theocracy regard our arrival? As an indication of divine will? Sounds naive, but faith is a hard thing to parse.
TN #OIA It's hard to watch our "allies" in action. Firefights are one thing - removing the right foreleg of every prisoner seems excessive.
TN #OIA KkrAlk's convinced the CIC to flatten the loyalist village. The bugbirds can't wait for the assault. Ours is not to reason why...
TN #OIA Up close, their blood smells almost sweet, like boiled treacle. All of us humans were puking after the first house to house sweep.
S_W #OIA The village is secured but found tunnels underneath. Heading down now hoping it'll lead to more loyalist forces. It smells just putrid.
TN #OIA Radios don't work for crap down here! I hate tunnels - I've got a healthy respect for having my 6 covered, which it presently ain't.
TN #OIA Standby - did you hear that? What was
S_W #OIA They burst through the walls all around us, but the plasma throwers were ready. Their exoskeletons loudly pop before becoming charcoal.
S_W #OIA The plasma throwers are empty and our ammo's almost gone. Even if we find their nest I don't know what we're going to fight them with.
TN #OIA Cut off from the surface. At least now we know why KkrAlk wanted the orbital insertion to secure a village in the middle of nowhere.
TN #OIA The village was only a front porch for this place. There must be millions of them just in this first cavern.
S_W #OIA The tunnel ended at a deep caldera hundreds of meters straight down. We can't see them down there, but we can hear them. And behind us.
TN #OIA the bugs treatd us like theire own prisonrs. fickrs hav a lpt to learn asbout droptroops. taks more thanm losing an armn. kill for this
TN #OIA The end.
I felt that the final "The End" was necessary, since this was completely tweeted. It was an interesting experiment. More thoughts later.
I should really be writing
A span of an hour... do I read or write?
Revising is also an option, isn't it?
Revising is also an option, isn't it?
Where is my book deal?
Mary Robinette Kowal wrote a book for NaNo'06, then revised it. Today, she announces that it's been sold to Tor in a two book deal.
You know, I wrote a book for NaNo'06, too. The difference between us is that she kept working on hers, whereas I have a thick sheaf of notes on how to fix my novel, but I haven't actually done it.
As I look inside, I find no resentment, just a bit of envy. The plain fact is that I'm going to need to take this more serious than I have been doing if I want to get these things off the ground.
You know, I wrote a book for NaNo'06, too. The difference between us is that she kept working on hers, whereas I have a thick sheaf of notes on how to fix my novel, but I haven't actually done it.
As I look inside, I find no resentment, just a bit of envy. The plain fact is that I'm going to need to take this more serious than I have been doing if I want to get these things off the ground.
Repost, Kindle review
Since Amazon introduced the Kindle 2 today, I thought I'd repost a review I wrote of the Kindle. The curse of the early adopter strikes again.
The Kindle isn't so much awesome as it is incredibly, amazingly unobtrusive. It's kind of like air, or the strong nuclear force. You marvel at it when you are actively contemplating it, but mostly, you don't pay any attention to it at all. I just finished reading one of the books I got from Tor in their big book giveaway. For the first chapter or so, I was very conscious of turning the device on and off, reading text on a screen, pushing a button to turn the page, etc.
Quickly, though, surprisingly quickly, I came to feel like I wasn't reading a book on a Kindle. I was just... reading a book. The device disappeared, and it didn't mean much more than the peripheral difference between reading a hardback vs. a paperback. Different size object requires different grip, different heft, etc., but that was it.
The screen was very legible, the nifty features like changing font size, annotating, etc. were irrelevant once I'd gotten it set up. Outside, inside, daylight by windows, incandescent bulbs, fluorescent lights, the screen had good contrast and was very legible in all contexts.
I've gone several days, reading for hours each day, without the battery indicator changing much. If I'd left the wireless on, it would no doubt drain quicker. Charging it is about as much hassle as charging the cell phone, just something you do every now and again.
I loaded it up via USB with a bunch of the instructional books and training manuals that were the primary purpose of getting it, and then tossed on all of the Tor books that were given away earlier this year, as well as all 5 HHGTTG books, the Hobbit + LOTR, a number of the classics (Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, Tale of Two Cities, Anna Karenina, etc.) and a dozen P.G. Wodehouse books from Gutenberg. There's enough material here for weeks, if not months of reading, none of which cost me a dime. I could have downloaded the .txt files from Gutenberg over the wireless connection, if I were ever stuck someplace with nothing to read. I also put on some of my own files (MS Word saved as .txt), and they read just like normal.
It comes with ~180MB of available memory, and an empty SD slot. I stuck in an 8GB SD card, and now have a superabundance of storage space. A typical book takes 1MB or less. File formats are txt, mobi, the Kindle native format. Converting PDFs is no big deal, either by saving-as-text or by other means.
One thing that I had to learn, though. The jacket (a leather-type sleeve with an elastic strap) looked like it would be cumbersome, so I didn't use it. After carrying my Kindle in my briefcase for a few days, though, I noticed a slight scratch on the screen. I started using the jacket, and found that its ergonomics are as good as the Kindle's. It didn't interfere with reading, carrying, using or charging the device. Now, I just leave it on for the protection and peace of mind.
The Kindle is very cool, but it is not cheap. The price tag is ~$360, a nontrivial outlay of cash. If you read a lot of new items straight off the bestseller list, or read a lot of e.books already, this may make sense to get. On-line magazines, newspapers, websites are updated and sent to the Kindle automatically with a subscription. Similarly, if you have a need to carry with you a ton of reference information - sales documents, technical references, etc., this would be a good way to do so, much better than a laptop for showing info to a few people informally.
It includes a keyboard, browser and audio capabilities for media files and audiobooks, but this is primarily a device for reading text, not websurfing, texting or e.mails. If you do a lot of reading, this is worth considering.
The Kindle isn't so much awesome as it is incredibly, amazingly unobtrusive. It's kind of like air, or the strong nuclear force. You marvel at it when you are actively contemplating it, but mostly, you don't pay any attention to it at all. I just finished reading one of the books I got from Tor in their big book giveaway. For the first chapter or so, I was very conscious of turning the device on and off, reading text on a screen, pushing a button to turn the page, etc.
Quickly, though, surprisingly quickly, I came to feel like I wasn't reading a book on a Kindle. I was just... reading a book. The device disappeared, and it didn't mean much more than the peripheral difference between reading a hardback vs. a paperback. Different size object requires different grip, different heft, etc., but that was it.
The screen was very legible, the nifty features like changing font size, annotating, etc. were irrelevant once I'd gotten it set up. Outside, inside, daylight by windows, incandescent bulbs, fluorescent lights, the screen had good contrast and was very legible in all contexts.
I've gone several days, reading for hours each day, without the battery indicator changing much. If I'd left the wireless on, it would no doubt drain quicker. Charging it is about as much hassle as charging the cell phone, just something you do every now and again.
I loaded it up via USB with a bunch of the instructional books and training manuals that were the primary purpose of getting it, and then tossed on all of the Tor books that were given away earlier this year, as well as all 5 HHGTTG books, the Hobbit + LOTR, a number of the classics (Jane Eyre, Pride and Prejudice, Tale of Two Cities, Anna Karenina, etc.) and a dozen P.G. Wodehouse books from Gutenberg. There's enough material here for weeks, if not months of reading, none of which cost me a dime. I could have downloaded the .txt files from Gutenberg over the wireless connection, if I were ever stuck someplace with nothing to read. I also put on some of my own files (MS Word saved as .txt), and they read just like normal.
It comes with ~180MB of available memory, and an empty SD slot. I stuck in an 8GB SD card, and now have a superabundance of storage space. A typical book takes 1MB or less. File formats are txt, mobi, the Kindle native format. Converting PDFs is no big deal, either by saving-as-text or by other means.
One thing that I had to learn, though. The jacket (a leather-type sleeve with an elastic strap) looked like it would be cumbersome, so I didn't use it. After carrying my Kindle in my briefcase for a few days, though, I noticed a slight scratch on the screen. I started using the jacket, and found that its ergonomics are as good as the Kindle's. It didn't interfere with reading, carrying, using or charging the device. Now, I just leave it on for the protection and peace of mind.
The Kindle is very cool, but it is not cheap. The price tag is ~$360, a nontrivial outlay of cash. If you read a lot of new items straight off the bestseller list, or read a lot of e.books already, this may make sense to get. On-line magazines, newspapers, websites are updated and sent to the Kindle automatically with a subscription. Similarly, if you have a need to carry with you a ton of reference information - sales documents, technical references, etc., this would be a good way to do so, much better than a laptop for showing info to a few people informally.
It includes a keyboard, browser and audio capabilities for media files and audiobooks, but this is primarily a device for reading text, not websurfing, texting or e.mails. If you do a lot of reading, this is worth considering.
An ambiguous review
I asked someone who read Hurricane what they thought of it. "Hmmm... I'm trying to decide if it's a good story or not."
That's the problem with allegory. Would it help if I said that:
hurricane = Obama
continent = Washington D.C.
earth = electorate
heron = Clinton
older hurricane = whoever will be elected in 2012
Or, fill in your own interpretation.
Ah, well.
That's the problem with allegory. Would it help if I said that:
hurricane = Obama
continent = Washington D.C.
earth = electorate
heron = Clinton
older hurricane = whoever will be elected in 2012
Or, fill in your own interpretation.
Ah, well.
Story: The Hurricane
The Hurricane
Know, my child, that in a far distant sea there was once a hurricane. Its energy and strength was immense, yet was still growing, for this was a young storm only recently attained of full hurricane estate. Compact and powerful, the hurricane drew sustenance from the sea and sun to expand its reach and influence.
The earth, seeing the young hurricane’s strength and speed, spoke to it, saying, “Hurricane, I see that thou hast the power of full estate, though thou art but recently attained of it. There is ought that I would have you do for me. The warring nations on yon shore are an abomination to me, as their constant bloodshed poisons the land on which they stand. It is a most foul society. They have prayed to me for relief, and have told me that they yearn for freedom and peace, for an end to violence. Go, hurricane, and use thy power to stop their warring. Let thy rain cleanse the land and let thy winds level their cities, that a better people may rise up in their place. This task is within thy power. Go, and know that I will be with thee always.”
The hurricane knew of the warring nations, and knew somewhat also of the structures that their generations of conflict had built. He knew of it more closely than did the earth itself, for this bitter land was but a fingernail of the earth’s domain, and the attention of the earth was much divided. Had the hurricane sought first to assay its strength against the task laid before it, the tale would be a happier one in the telling. Alas, what mere hurricane can resist the power of the turning earth and the force of its equatorial winds? The hurricane bent itself to the task and threw itself fully upon the blood-stained continent, trusting in the judgment of the earth and in its own strength.
From the first, the hurricane spent its energy as gently as the art of a hurricane will allow. Its rain stopped armies in their marches. Its winds blew arrows and spears from their courses. Its floods stove in the galleons and slave-ships. Amid the press of the hurricane’s might, warring ceased. The hurricane spoke to the people, saying, “See, I have stopped your conflict and brought the chance of peace to you. Spill no longer the blood of thy neighbors. Let this be a new beginning for you all, and I will cause your fields to flower and your rivers to run clean and fast forevermore.”
But the warring leaders of the land cried out, each of them in turn, “Leave us, thou cursed hurricane! Thou knowest not what thou hast done! We prayed to the earth that we might have victory over our enemies, not simply that the war be at an unfinished end. Our cause is just, and thou hast aided our enemies by thy interference. Can we withdraw our swords when we have them at our enemy’s throats? Thou art made an enemy to us also by thy foolish actions. Nay, go hence from this land, thou strange and alien devil. Return to the sea and let us fight, as we have always fought. We will water our fields with blood, and with nought else.” Saying this, the people renewed their strength and fought on, wading through sucking mud and blinding wind to lay the lash on each other’s backs.
The hurricane was saddened that war and pain was the delight of these twisted and broken people. It looked to the earth for guidance, but the earth had turned its face upon another land and another sea, leaving in its place a heron to council the hurricane. The heron spoke of a distant land, clean and pure, where powerful winds and rain kept the people low and quiet. In that land, warring was unknown; the heron counseled the hurricane to exert itself more fully in its task, that it might also see an end to warring hereupon. Seeing that the heron was the favorite of the earth, and trusting in the heron’s experience and wisdom, the hurricane redoubled its force and expended upon the warring people at a prodigious rate.
Alas for the hurricane! Though the people were forced to lay down their arms, still they spouted venom at each other, and promised vengeance and suffering to each other. Worse still, the shamans and priests, held close to their altars by the hurricane’s force, convinced themselves that prayers to the earth were of no avail. They lit hidden candles and instead whispered dark prayers to the gods of the underworld. They cursed the hurricane to these ancient powers, laying every manner of evil action and wicked intent upon it. The force and repetition of these false entreaties were shameful, and matched the maddened urge of the treacled tongues that uttered them. In the depths of underworld, far removed from the earth, the sea and the sky and with nought to hear but the lies that dripped in their ears, the first gods bethought themselves that the hurricane was bent on chaos and destruction. They stirred, so as to confront the earth.
All unaware of the actions of the old ones, the hurricane was beset by grief that it was failing in its task. With each passing day, its strength waned, and the people's hatred grew. The people despised it for having stopped their fighting, for they loved above all else to suffer and cause suffering. Such were the wormwood lessons of their fathers and their forefathers. This too, the hurricane saw, and though it knew that such madness was alien and hurtful to all living things, the people would not see their dread folly. Rather, they cried to the earth to banish the hurricane from their land, that they might return to their wars in full vigor.
The earth chose not to hear the people, but sent the heron to speak on its behalf. The heron and the hurricane had many councils to decide on how best to convince the people. Supported by the calm winds of the hurricane’s eye, the great white bird had flown in the fullness of its splendor across the land. It proclaimed that the earth found favor with the hurricane. In a great cawing voice, the heron echoed the hurricane’s calls to lay down arms and embrace peace and forgiveness. This, the people would not do. They turned inward, raving to each other that the heron was as much an enemy as the hurricane. In the darkness, their shamans and priests began to speak evil also of the heron in their low mutterings.
Urged by the heron, which it saw often, and by the earth, from which it heard seldom, the hurricane sought the cause of the people’s corruption. Each generation had built cities of power, to dominate and enslave the surrounding people. If I can but remove these, thought the hurricane, the people may yet be able to know freedom. The hurricane moved over the land, past castles and citadels that were ever more densely sited. On and on it pushed, seeking the center of the corruption. Farms and open land were entirely gone, covered over by roads and cities. The buildings grew massive and towering, and so close that they touched, extended ramparts abutting against each other as interlocking death-grips.
Still the hurricane pushed, now climbing upwards among the cemented canyons of the great cancerous city at the heart of that land. Age upon age of brutal venality was layered into these mortared stones, and they climbed to a height that was terrible to behold. With what effort had this been built? How much health and happiness had been sacrificed to construct such a monument to despotism and hatred? Far behind was the realm of field and flower. Far below was the realm of soil and life. Upwards and upwards the hurricane climbed, trying to find the height of it, seeking some crack or crevice to begin the work of clearing away the old to make way for the new.
Finally, though the mountainous pile of crudely cut stones rose higher still, littered on every level with the dried bones of old enmities, the insanity of the quest could no longer be denied. The hurricane saw at last that there was no hope, and no possibility of hope. In that killing vacuum, beyond the reach of water and warmth, the hurricane admitted defeat. All of its energy and substance had been poured out in this last attempt. With a final dying gust, the hurricane ceased to be.
Quickly, far more quickly than it had climbed, the scrap of wind that had once been a hurricane slid down the unconquered slope. The last of its lifeblood fell unregarded, and served only to feed the glaciers that guarded the gates of that man-made mountain. The scrap of wind moved down and away, back across the city’s towers, back across the fields.
The scrap of wind heard the people cry out that the hurricane was no more. It saw their celebrations in the bright clear day turn instantly to renewed violence and murder. The scrap of wind had no strength to intervene. It called to the heron for aid, but the heron had none to give. In the hurricane's absence, the great bird had seen that the cause was lost. He knew that the people were utterly venal and corrupt, beyond redemption. Calmer lands to the west called to the heron, and it sought to govern over people might allow themselves to be governed. It turned its face toward them, away from the scrap of wind moving across the plain.
The earth called out to the scrap of wind as it moved, “Stay, do not go! While thou were in the heights of the city, I was approached by the gods of the underworld. I had occasion to speak of thee with the old ones who are the power beyond all powers. I have told them of the mendacity and calumny of the people of this land, for the old ones were unaware. I have told them of thy efforts to free these people from themselves, and of the price thou hast paid in working it, for of this too were they unaware. They have agreed not to interfere in my work, for the present. The task I set upon thee is not yet complete. Stay, O hurricane, and try again to bring peace to this land.”
The scrap of wind cried, “I am a hurricane no longer, O earth! I am destroyed by this land and by these people. I have given all, and it was not enough. I am ruined, and have accomplished nothing.” The earth shook, and replied in anger, “Is this thy full answer? To refuse me? There is more that thou might yet give, though thou hast given much. Know, O scrap of wind, that I am the earth. I do not ask lightly. I have determined to change these people, and changed they will be.”
So saying, the earth turned its face to the sea and to an older, infinitely wiser hurricane. The scrap of wind heard little as it flew beyond the shore, but it saw the vast and powerful hurricane try to resist the task laid upon it. In thunder and lightning did the hurricane seek to remain at sea, bellowing to the earth that the scrap of wind should have been sacrifice enough for such a hopeless cause. Alas, what mere hurricane, no matter how vast and wise, can resist the power of the turning earth and the force of its equatorial winds? The hurricane was flung upon the shore, and the rains fell again on the blood soaked earth.
O, my child, would that I could say that the people learned and became righteous, but they did not. Season upon season, hurricanes are sacrificed by the earth in the attempt, but the people of that land are as they ever were. I tell you this that you may learn from the hurricane, from the heron, and even from the earth.
"The Hurricane" by Tony Noland is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Know, my child, that in a far distant sea there was once a hurricane. Its energy and strength was immense, yet was still growing, for this was a young storm only recently attained of full hurricane estate. Compact and powerful, the hurricane drew sustenance from the sea and sun to expand its reach and influence.
The earth, seeing the young hurricane’s strength and speed, spoke to it, saying, “Hurricane, I see that thou hast the power of full estate, though thou art but recently attained of it. There is ought that I would have you do for me. The warring nations on yon shore are an abomination to me, as their constant bloodshed poisons the land on which they stand. It is a most foul society. They have prayed to me for relief, and have told me that they yearn for freedom and peace, for an end to violence. Go, hurricane, and use thy power to stop their warring. Let thy rain cleanse the land and let thy winds level their cities, that a better people may rise up in their place. This task is within thy power. Go, and know that I will be with thee always.”
The hurricane knew of the warring nations, and knew somewhat also of the structures that their generations of conflict had built. He knew of it more closely than did the earth itself, for this bitter land was but a fingernail of the earth’s domain, and the attention of the earth was much divided. Had the hurricane sought first to assay its strength against the task laid before it, the tale would be a happier one in the telling. Alas, what mere hurricane can resist the power of the turning earth and the force of its equatorial winds? The hurricane bent itself to the task and threw itself fully upon the blood-stained continent, trusting in the judgment of the earth and in its own strength.
From the first, the hurricane spent its energy as gently as the art of a hurricane will allow. Its rain stopped armies in their marches. Its winds blew arrows and spears from their courses. Its floods stove in the galleons and slave-ships. Amid the press of the hurricane’s might, warring ceased. The hurricane spoke to the people, saying, “See, I have stopped your conflict and brought the chance of peace to you. Spill no longer the blood of thy neighbors. Let this be a new beginning for you all, and I will cause your fields to flower and your rivers to run clean and fast forevermore.”
But the warring leaders of the land cried out, each of them in turn, “Leave us, thou cursed hurricane! Thou knowest not what thou hast done! We prayed to the earth that we might have victory over our enemies, not simply that the war be at an unfinished end. Our cause is just, and thou hast aided our enemies by thy interference. Can we withdraw our swords when we have them at our enemy’s throats? Thou art made an enemy to us also by thy foolish actions. Nay, go hence from this land, thou strange and alien devil. Return to the sea and let us fight, as we have always fought. We will water our fields with blood, and with nought else.” Saying this, the people renewed their strength and fought on, wading through sucking mud and blinding wind to lay the lash on each other’s backs.
The hurricane was saddened that war and pain was the delight of these twisted and broken people. It looked to the earth for guidance, but the earth had turned its face upon another land and another sea, leaving in its place a heron to council the hurricane. The heron spoke of a distant land, clean and pure, where powerful winds and rain kept the people low and quiet. In that land, warring was unknown; the heron counseled the hurricane to exert itself more fully in its task, that it might also see an end to warring hereupon. Seeing that the heron was the favorite of the earth, and trusting in the heron’s experience and wisdom, the hurricane redoubled its force and expended upon the warring people at a prodigious rate.
Alas for the hurricane! Though the people were forced to lay down their arms, still they spouted venom at each other, and promised vengeance and suffering to each other. Worse still, the shamans and priests, held close to their altars by the hurricane’s force, convinced themselves that prayers to the earth were of no avail. They lit hidden candles and instead whispered dark prayers to the gods of the underworld. They cursed the hurricane to these ancient powers, laying every manner of evil action and wicked intent upon it. The force and repetition of these false entreaties were shameful, and matched the maddened urge of the treacled tongues that uttered them. In the depths of underworld, far removed from the earth, the sea and the sky and with nought to hear but the lies that dripped in their ears, the first gods bethought themselves that the hurricane was bent on chaos and destruction. They stirred, so as to confront the earth.
All unaware of the actions of the old ones, the hurricane was beset by grief that it was failing in its task. With each passing day, its strength waned, and the people's hatred grew. The people despised it for having stopped their fighting, for they loved above all else to suffer and cause suffering. Such were the wormwood lessons of their fathers and their forefathers. This too, the hurricane saw, and though it knew that such madness was alien and hurtful to all living things, the people would not see their dread folly. Rather, they cried to the earth to banish the hurricane from their land, that they might return to their wars in full vigor.
The earth chose not to hear the people, but sent the heron to speak on its behalf. The heron and the hurricane had many councils to decide on how best to convince the people. Supported by the calm winds of the hurricane’s eye, the great white bird had flown in the fullness of its splendor across the land. It proclaimed that the earth found favor with the hurricane. In a great cawing voice, the heron echoed the hurricane’s calls to lay down arms and embrace peace and forgiveness. This, the people would not do. They turned inward, raving to each other that the heron was as much an enemy as the hurricane. In the darkness, their shamans and priests began to speak evil also of the heron in their low mutterings.
Urged by the heron, which it saw often, and by the earth, from which it heard seldom, the hurricane sought the cause of the people’s corruption. Each generation had built cities of power, to dominate and enslave the surrounding people. If I can but remove these, thought the hurricane, the people may yet be able to know freedom. The hurricane moved over the land, past castles and citadels that were ever more densely sited. On and on it pushed, seeking the center of the corruption. Farms and open land were entirely gone, covered over by roads and cities. The buildings grew massive and towering, and so close that they touched, extended ramparts abutting against each other as interlocking death-grips.
Still the hurricane pushed, now climbing upwards among the cemented canyons of the great cancerous city at the heart of that land. Age upon age of brutal venality was layered into these mortared stones, and they climbed to a height that was terrible to behold. With what effort had this been built? How much health and happiness had been sacrificed to construct such a monument to despotism and hatred? Far behind was the realm of field and flower. Far below was the realm of soil and life. Upwards and upwards the hurricane climbed, trying to find the height of it, seeking some crack or crevice to begin the work of clearing away the old to make way for the new.
Finally, though the mountainous pile of crudely cut stones rose higher still, littered on every level with the dried bones of old enmities, the insanity of the quest could no longer be denied. The hurricane saw at last that there was no hope, and no possibility of hope. In that killing vacuum, beyond the reach of water and warmth, the hurricane admitted defeat. All of its energy and substance had been poured out in this last attempt. With a final dying gust, the hurricane ceased to be.
Quickly, far more quickly than it had climbed, the scrap of wind that had once been a hurricane slid down the unconquered slope. The last of its lifeblood fell unregarded, and served only to feed the glaciers that guarded the gates of that man-made mountain. The scrap of wind moved down and away, back across the city’s towers, back across the fields.
The scrap of wind heard the people cry out that the hurricane was no more. It saw their celebrations in the bright clear day turn instantly to renewed violence and murder. The scrap of wind had no strength to intervene. It called to the heron for aid, but the heron had none to give. In the hurricane's absence, the great bird had seen that the cause was lost. He knew that the people were utterly venal and corrupt, beyond redemption. Calmer lands to the west called to the heron, and it sought to govern over people might allow themselves to be governed. It turned its face toward them, away from the scrap of wind moving across the plain.
The earth called out to the scrap of wind as it moved, “Stay, do not go! While thou were in the heights of the city, I was approached by the gods of the underworld. I had occasion to speak of thee with the old ones who are the power beyond all powers. I have told them of the mendacity and calumny of the people of this land, for the old ones were unaware. I have told them of thy efforts to free these people from themselves, and of the price thou hast paid in working it, for of this too were they unaware. They have agreed not to interfere in my work, for the present. The task I set upon thee is not yet complete. Stay, O hurricane, and try again to bring peace to this land.”
The scrap of wind cried, “I am a hurricane no longer, O earth! I am destroyed by this land and by these people. I have given all, and it was not enough. I am ruined, and have accomplished nothing.” The earth shook, and replied in anger, “Is this thy full answer? To refuse me? There is more that thou might yet give, though thou hast given much. Know, O scrap of wind, that I am the earth. I do not ask lightly. I have determined to change these people, and changed they will be.”
So saying, the earth turned its face to the sea and to an older, infinitely wiser hurricane. The scrap of wind heard little as it flew beyond the shore, but it saw the vast and powerful hurricane try to resist the task laid upon it. In thunder and lightning did the hurricane seek to remain at sea, bellowing to the earth that the scrap of wind should have been sacrifice enough for such a hopeless cause. Alas, what mere hurricane, no matter how vast and wise, can resist the power of the turning earth and the force of its equatorial winds? The hurricane was flung upon the shore, and the rains fell again on the blood soaked earth.
O, my child, would that I could say that the people learned and became righteous, but they did not. Season upon season, hurricanes are sacrificed by the earth in the attempt, but the people of that land are as they ever were. I tell you this that you may learn from the hurricane, from the heron, and even from the earth.
"The Hurricane" by Tony Noland is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.
Test of the expanded comment process...
Making this little nugget work took a LOT longer than I thought it would.
Here's an idea... just write the story without prejudging it
I was musing aloud (OK, moaning) to my wife about writing within a particular genre. "What if I don't want to write a science fiction novel, or a fantasy novel? I feel as though I've outgrown a lot of the genre stuff. Shouldn't I try to write something more literary? Try to strip out the SciFi or fantasy elements, and make the plots work without the clones, the zombies and the magic talking books? Aren't they just crutches or shortcuts to achieve something that a better writer would do with real people doing real things in the real world?"
"I think you should just write the story, and take it where it wants to go. You certainly shouldn't force in some extra laser blasters or evil wizards to make it fit a particular genre, but if the story feels like it needs clones and zombies, then it would be lacking something without them."
"Wow... that's really good advice."
"Thanks. Now stop worrying so much about how to categorize the story and just focus on telling a good story."
All that wisdom and a really awesome apple pie recipe. I'm a lucky guy.
"I think you should just write the story, and take it where it wants to go. You certainly shouldn't force in some extra laser blasters or evil wizards to make it fit a particular genre, but if the story feels like it needs clones and zombies, then it would be lacking something without them."
"Wow... that's really good advice."
"Thanks. Now stop worrying so much about how to categorize the story and just focus on telling a good story."
All that wisdom and a really awesome apple pie recipe. I'm a lucky guy.
Why do I even bother?
I heard retrospective interviews with John Updike on the radio, on the occasion of his death.
Where such erudition ran, how the hell can I even pretend that I will ever write anything of substantial quality? My stuff is shlocky crap in comparison to real writing. Formulaic plots, wooden dialogue, one-dimensional characters... the only thing good about my writing is the nice, even margins.
I'm kidding myself.
Where such erudition ran, how the hell can I even pretend that I will ever write anything of substantial quality? My stuff is shlocky crap in comparison to real writing. Formulaic plots, wooden dialogue, one-dimensional characters... the only thing good about my writing is the nice, even margins.
I'm kidding myself.
Novel excerpt: Introduction to magic
"Most people don't really believe there is such a thing as magic."
How am I speaking to you? Use your eyes, foolish boy.
"Of course I believe - how could I not? A talking book is sufficient proof for me. Still, if magic was so common, why did magicians die out?"
Don't be ridiculous. Magic was never common. Only the finest minds could ever begin to comprehend the secrets of the ages. We were rare among the common half-wits of humanity. Even then, mere superior intelligence wasn't enough. Even a burning thirst for knowledge wasn't enough. Without exceptional courage and imagination, without the will to dare the truly unknown, the pathways of magic are too terrifying to even contemplate. Even when I was alive, not half a dozen men in a generation possessed the necessary combination of talents. In these sad and degraded times, fewer still could accomplish what we did.
"Yes, tell me about that. What did you accomplish? The stories about magic describe wooden golems who would work tirelessly at the forge or mill for weeks on end, hammers and axes that swing themselves, musical instruments that play themselves and such like. I always thought they were mere fantasies, marvels that tired working people thought up in a game of "wouldn't it be fine if only". There are only a few tangible examples of anything that hints of the magic of the old days."
Oh? And what are those?
"Knives that never grow dull, for one thing. A merchant tried to sell one to my father several years ago. The blade was beautiful, like a mixture of black and silvery threads frozen together in the metal. I'd never seen anything like it. The handle was some kind of black wood I'd never seen before, either. The blade was certainly very sharp, but father said it looked like it had been recently honed. He said it was an odd shape and size, too. In truth, it was slightly curved, and it was too big to use as a table knife but too small for a short sword. I think he was trying to get the merchant to lower his price."
Trust a farmer to haggle over such an item like it was a pig in the marketplace. And did it work? Did your father then buy it?
"No, he didn't. The merchant wanted far too much for it. He said it was an heirloom of a family of the peerage, very rare and valuable. Father said he wasn't willing to pay that much for a knife that probably wasn't magic anyway. The merchant got rather offended at that point and left. That's the only supposedly magical item I've seen. I've heard of goblets that sing when you stroke them and gems that glow in the dark like a candle flame. I've never actually seen either of those, since they're supposed to be even more rare than the knives. The stories people tell of them sound like the refer to real objects, though, so I think they might actually be real."
Might be real? Of course they're real, you young fool. Magic is as real as you are. I wish I had someone else to talk with. You have no imagination at all, and precious little intelligence.
"Look, I've already said I believe in magic. It's just that these magic items seem rather pointless to me. Why should strange knives and goblets and baubles be the only examples of magic? I always thought that if magic were real and powerful, then the more powerful forms of it would be around. The golems and tools and suchlike, I mean."
You don't mean the objects of true power, do you? You mean the more mundane forms, the kind that are useful to people like you? Farmers and shepherds and such?
"Well, yes. An ax that can chop wood by itself would be a far more impressive demonstration of magic than a sharp knife, no matter how beautiful it is."
And is it a conspiracy by the world's vanished wizards that the golems and tools and music boxes are gone? Tell me, my dull, backward student of magic, why do you suppose all of the mundane marvels made with magic are no more, when the simplest items remain?
"What? How should I know?"
Use your brain instead of merely your eyes. What is it about useless little decorative items that make them persist? What is it about useful, productive things that make them disappear? What is the essential difference between these two types of objects?
"You mean aside from the fact that some are decorative and some are useful?"
Ah, you great fool, there is no hope for you. You are as blind as a mole. So surrounded by your world of dirt you never lift your head to look at the sky.
"Wait - let me think. Decorative items don't do anything, they're just made to be pretty. You put them on the shelf and look at them. Useful items aren't made to be pretty, they're made to do things. You set them up in the field or forge and make them work. But if they're magic, it shouldn't matter how hard you use them. Unless... you didn't say these were magic items, you only said they were made *with* magic. Is that it?"
Is that what? You haven't told me anything.
"The stories are only half-right. These aren't magic items. They're not magical in and of themselves, they were just made in a magical fashion. As marvelous as they are, they can wear out. The decorative items never see any wear, so they last. The working items wear out and eventually break. Without a magician to fix them, they don't work anymore. If father was right, and that blade had been honed, then it would be like any other blade. Eventually, after enough sharpening, it would be worn away to nothing, and it would be lost, too. Is that it?"
Of course that's it. If I have to lead you by the nose to every insight, I shall go mad again before you're fit to have a conversation with.
"So anything that is useful is used and is eventually used up. Only the useless items persist."
And exactly the same thing happens with men. Those of us who can exert our will and talent to change the world wear ourselves out in the process, while you useless, helpless ornaments inherit all that we have created. Over time, the world becomes full of brightly colored trash and devoid of anything of true value. Skill and vision are replaced by plodding donkeywork.
"But why? Why must it be that way? Why couldn't magicians teach everyone how to make these marvels?"
Ha! Who would we teach? The dullards and fools of the villages? The pompous, self-important peerage? The soldiers? The priests? None of them could grasp a tenth, a thousandth of what a magician knows.
"Every profession has complexities and particular knowledge."
Do you dare to call magic a mere profession? Surely even you can't be that thickheaded! Magic isn't like a trade, you fool. Any idiot can learn to be a baker or tailor. That's why they can start out learning the trade as boys. Without the proper talents and abilities, a man would only kill himself attempting magic. Magicians can't take on young apprentices. Every day spent showing some witless boy how to keep from killing himself is a day that isn't spent exploring the mysteries. Boys rarely live up to their promise, anyway. You can't know who is truly capable and who isn't until they are fully grown. If a magician were to take on a as an apprentice, it would need to be boy of truly shining intelligence, or there'd be no point in even beginning his training.
"If magic is that complex, it's a wonder anyone ever figured out how to do it at all."
The practitioners of magic are the finest minds of this world, never forget that. Even the simplest little magics require an understanding of the universe beyond your imagination. More than that, they require more courage than you could ever hope to have.
"Why? Why must it be so? Is it really that terrifying and difficult? Is making a sharp knife such an ordeal?"
You are truly a fool. Be glad you aren't my apprentice, or I would have slapped you for such a statement. There is more magic in the making of a bloodknife than you could master in all your life.
"A bloodknife? Is that what the black and silver blades are called?"
Yes, and the fact that their true name is no longer known tells me that the secrets of their creation are gone as well.
"What is the secret? Why do they have such a menacing name? Were they used in duels?"
Oh, I'm sure the dagger and sword forms drew plenty of blood, but they got the name from the blood that was spilled in their making, not in their wielding. Those blades are an embodiment of pain, poison and the blackest of blasphemies, forged together in fire and earth, burned and beaten and burned again until the tortured metal screams with hate!
"Ah."
'Ah'? Is that all you have to say, is 'ah'?
"Well, it's just that your description reminds me of a lot of the ghost stories the bards tell in mid-winter. Spooky and scary and kind of sing-song, you know? Like a song or a poem."
Is that so? Well, this is no ghost story! Don't you doubt for a second that making a bloodknife is a horrible process! All of the spells and incantations sound that way because they are meant to imprint themselves on your mind. The bloodknife process is a complex and dangerous task that takes weeks to complete. At the very least, getting a single step wrong or even out of order means wasting all the poison and blood, neither of which is easy to obtain! Get it really wrong and you'll die a flaming death. Stick to the incantation in every single particular or don't attempt the magic. Even for magicians, as brilliant as we are, the rhythmic, chant-like nature of the incantations serve to aid the memory and thereby protect the spellcaster.
"But there weren't any steps or instructions in that part you were saying."
That was just the introduction. Many of the incantations follow a set pattern. They start with a description of what the spell will accomplish when it's completed successfully. After the introduction comes the warnings about the consequences of failure. Then comes the list of material components, followed by the spiritual components. The protective spells and the steps of assembly make up the largest section. The final section usually includes how to use what you've created and how to protect yourself from it as well.
"So the more complicated the spell, the longer the incantation?"
Naturally. That's part of why magic is so difficult, because of how much there is to learn before you can even attempt one of the simpler spells. Understanding what the incantations mean, to begin with. Then finding the components, and assembling them properly. Even for an experienced magician, getting a spell right takes many attempts.
"Did you make any bloodknives?"
I made several attempts. It's a more difficult form of magic than the rather mundane result might suggest. Eventually, I turned my attention to other forms of magic.
"So you were never successful."
As I said, I turned my attention to more important magical matters.
"Do you remember the whole spell?"
Of course I know it. I've been trapped in these pages for more than a hundred years with nothing else to do but go over my notes.
"Can you tell me about the steps involved in making a bloodknife?"
The spell was one of the most commonly known among magicians. However, old as it was, it was very difficult to cast successfully due to its arcane nature. I'll show it to you, even though you don't have the grounding of magical knowledge to understand it. Make of it what you will.
Jacob read on, and saw new words appear in a dense, formal script:
Powdered iron and powdered tin,
Powdered wasps with deadroot in.
Through the glass to watch it burn,
Cooled in ash with every turn.
Draw the silver from the steel,
To make the blade for woe or weal.
Jacob read the spell over and over again. He leaned close to the book and said, "I don't understand."
Ha! I told you magic was complex beyond your ken!
"No," he said, "I mean, I don't understand why you had to use such flowery and arcane language. I've seen blacksmiths at work. There's a lot that assumed here, but why be unnecessarily complicated to describe what looks like a straightforward process. Were all magicians as pompous and deliberately obscure in their writing as you are?"
POMPOUS?! How dare you! You, the half-witted son of a farmer! I deign to show you a glimpse, the merest fraction of a tiny little glimpse at the incredible power and mystery of magic, and you insult me beyond any man's ability to endure! Worse yet, you pretend to understand the bloodknife spell on first reading, as though you had any inkling of what this spell means or how to implement it! How dare you, you arrogant little fool! You liar! You simpleton liar! You understand nothing! You can't possibly know anything at all about it! Oh, God in heaven, if only I had hands to strangle you with! Or a voice to curse you with! It would be fire and lightning and I'd take your head right off your shoulders, you insolent little frog!
"Erikkan, please, I didn't mean it that way! I misspoke, its just that I was confused by the spell and how it was written! I didn't intend to insult you, I was just surprised, that's all. Please, don't be offended. I apologize for
... for my poor choice of words."
Ha! Go apologize to the hat rack and see if he'll forgive you!
"Please, Erikkan, you are absolutely right, the spell is obviously very complex, and I must clearly be wrong in thinking that I understood it. It's an amazing spell, really, and there's no way that I could possibly understand it unless you explain it to me."
The first intelligent thing you've said! Very perceptive of you, you liar! I'll not waste my time explaining something to someone who lies about what he does and does not understand.
"Please don't call me a liar, Erikkan, please? I was... overenthusiastic at seeing my first spell. I just thought I understood it. It must be obvious that this is really far over my head, that I'm beyond hope of making any headway in comprehending such a spell on my own."
Obvious is the right word!
"To a magician such as yourself, this must be like reading the menu board at a tavern, but to someone like me, not blessed with anything like the wisdom, the cleverness, the pure and shining intelligence of a magician... why, I'm amazed that I was able to even read it at all. Surely there must be a way for someone as intelligent as you to explain it to a simpleton like me? Can you not think of a way to make it simple enough for me to grasp?"
If only you knew what you ask, boy! A blind man can't see a sunrise, no matter how complete the explanation of it.
"Oh, that is a terrible disappointment to me. Oh, if only I were even marginally smarter, I'd have a chance to gain some small measure of insight. Ah, it seems that I must put you away until such time as I grow in wisdom, and then perhaps..."
Wait a minute, what do you mean, 'put me away'?
"Well, I'm clearly just annoying you with my stupidity. Maybe if I close the book and hide it away in the barn for a few months, I'll gain some perspective and enough wisdom and maturity to understand some of what you're telling me."
Hide me away for a few months! No, don't do that!
"Hmm, maybe you're right. A few months is hardly enough time for such a dullard as I am. I'd better make it a full year, and just hope for the best."
Wait! Perhaps I was ... hasty in saying that you are completely without any capacity for understanding.
"No, you were right. I'd better not even bother to continue discussing it. After I complete my education, or maybe a few years from now, when I inherit. Then maybe I'll be smart enough to dig you out and try to learn from you."
Wait, don't! I've been closed and alone in these pages for more than a century. I've gone mad from the boredom and recovered my wits three times over. I'll talk to anyone at this point, even someone like... that is, I find that I ... enjoy talking to you, Jacob. I don't, or rather didn't discuss magic with anyone when I was alive. I'm not used to having to explain things, or to tolerate... that is, to debate the mysteries.
"Are you sure, Erikkan? I don't want to annoy you with foolish questions."
No, no, Jacob, I'm sure. I... want to continue our discussion. I think that by approaching magic from the ... fresh perspective of a raw beginner, I may even gain new insights, myself.
"I appreciate you're willingness to show these things to me. I know that I can never be a true student of magic as you were, but perhaps, if I work at it very hard, I may be able to show you that I am able to comprehend at least some small shard. So, we can talk about the spell?"
Yes, the bloodknife spell. Let us return to the spell.
How am I speaking to you? Use your eyes, foolish boy.
"Of course I believe - how could I not? A talking book is sufficient proof for me. Still, if magic was so common, why did magicians die out?"
Don't be ridiculous. Magic was never common. Only the finest minds could ever begin to comprehend the secrets of the ages. We were rare among the common half-wits of humanity. Even then, mere superior intelligence wasn't enough. Even a burning thirst for knowledge wasn't enough. Without exceptional courage and imagination, without the will to dare the truly unknown, the pathways of magic are too terrifying to even contemplate. Even when I was alive, not half a dozen men in a generation possessed the necessary combination of talents. In these sad and degraded times, fewer still could accomplish what we did.
"Yes, tell me about that. What did you accomplish? The stories about magic describe wooden golems who would work tirelessly at the forge or mill for weeks on end, hammers and axes that swing themselves, musical instruments that play themselves and such like. I always thought they were mere fantasies, marvels that tired working people thought up in a game of "wouldn't it be fine if only". There are only a few tangible examples of anything that hints of the magic of the old days."
Oh? And what are those?
"Knives that never grow dull, for one thing. A merchant tried to sell one to my father several years ago. The blade was beautiful, like a mixture of black and silvery threads frozen together in the metal. I'd never seen anything like it. The handle was some kind of black wood I'd never seen before, either. The blade was certainly very sharp, but father said it looked like it had been recently honed. He said it was an odd shape and size, too. In truth, it was slightly curved, and it was too big to use as a table knife but too small for a short sword. I think he was trying to get the merchant to lower his price."
Trust a farmer to haggle over such an item like it was a pig in the marketplace. And did it work? Did your father then buy it?
"No, he didn't. The merchant wanted far too much for it. He said it was an heirloom of a family of the peerage, very rare and valuable. Father said he wasn't willing to pay that much for a knife that probably wasn't magic anyway. The merchant got rather offended at that point and left. That's the only supposedly magical item I've seen. I've heard of goblets that sing when you stroke them and gems that glow in the dark like a candle flame. I've never actually seen either of those, since they're supposed to be even more rare than the knives. The stories people tell of them sound like the refer to real objects, though, so I think they might actually be real."
Might be real? Of course they're real, you young fool. Magic is as real as you are. I wish I had someone else to talk with. You have no imagination at all, and precious little intelligence.
"Look, I've already said I believe in magic. It's just that these magic items seem rather pointless to me. Why should strange knives and goblets and baubles be the only examples of magic? I always thought that if magic were real and powerful, then the more powerful forms of it would be around. The golems and tools and suchlike, I mean."
You don't mean the objects of true power, do you? You mean the more mundane forms, the kind that are useful to people like you? Farmers and shepherds and such?
"Well, yes. An ax that can chop wood by itself would be a far more impressive demonstration of magic than a sharp knife, no matter how beautiful it is."
And is it a conspiracy by the world's vanished wizards that the golems and tools and music boxes are gone? Tell me, my dull, backward student of magic, why do you suppose all of the mundane marvels made with magic are no more, when the simplest items remain?
"What? How should I know?"
Use your brain instead of merely your eyes. What is it about useless little decorative items that make them persist? What is it about useful, productive things that make them disappear? What is the essential difference between these two types of objects?
"You mean aside from the fact that some are decorative and some are useful?"
Ah, you great fool, there is no hope for you. You are as blind as a mole. So surrounded by your world of dirt you never lift your head to look at the sky.
"Wait - let me think. Decorative items don't do anything, they're just made to be pretty. You put them on the shelf and look at them. Useful items aren't made to be pretty, they're made to do things. You set them up in the field or forge and make them work. But if they're magic, it shouldn't matter how hard you use them. Unless... you didn't say these were magic items, you only said they were made *with* magic. Is that it?"
Is that what? You haven't told me anything.
"The stories are only half-right. These aren't magic items. They're not magical in and of themselves, they were just made in a magical fashion. As marvelous as they are, they can wear out. The decorative items never see any wear, so they last. The working items wear out and eventually break. Without a magician to fix them, they don't work anymore. If father was right, and that blade had been honed, then it would be like any other blade. Eventually, after enough sharpening, it would be worn away to nothing, and it would be lost, too. Is that it?"
Of course that's it. If I have to lead you by the nose to every insight, I shall go mad again before you're fit to have a conversation with.
"So anything that is useful is used and is eventually used up. Only the useless items persist."
And exactly the same thing happens with men. Those of us who can exert our will and talent to change the world wear ourselves out in the process, while you useless, helpless ornaments inherit all that we have created. Over time, the world becomes full of brightly colored trash and devoid of anything of true value. Skill and vision are replaced by plodding donkeywork.
"But why? Why must it be that way? Why couldn't magicians teach everyone how to make these marvels?"
Ha! Who would we teach? The dullards and fools of the villages? The pompous, self-important peerage? The soldiers? The priests? None of them could grasp a tenth, a thousandth of what a magician knows.
"Every profession has complexities and particular knowledge."
Do you dare to call magic a mere profession? Surely even you can't be that thickheaded! Magic isn't like a trade, you fool. Any idiot can learn to be a baker or tailor. That's why they can start out learning the trade as boys. Without the proper talents and abilities, a man would only kill himself attempting magic. Magicians can't take on young apprentices. Every day spent showing some witless boy how to keep from killing himself is a day that isn't spent exploring the mysteries. Boys rarely live up to their promise, anyway. You can't know who is truly capable and who isn't until they are fully grown. If a magician were to take on a as an apprentice, it would need to be boy of truly shining intelligence, or there'd be no point in even beginning his training.
"If magic is that complex, it's a wonder anyone ever figured out how to do it at all."
The practitioners of magic are the finest minds of this world, never forget that. Even the simplest little magics require an understanding of the universe beyond your imagination. More than that, they require more courage than you could ever hope to have.
"Why? Why must it be so? Is it really that terrifying and difficult? Is making a sharp knife such an ordeal?"
You are truly a fool. Be glad you aren't my apprentice, or I would have slapped you for such a statement. There is more magic in the making of a bloodknife than you could master in all your life.
"A bloodknife? Is that what the black and silver blades are called?"
Yes, and the fact that their true name is no longer known tells me that the secrets of their creation are gone as well.
"What is the secret? Why do they have such a menacing name? Were they used in duels?"
Oh, I'm sure the dagger and sword forms drew plenty of blood, but they got the name from the blood that was spilled in their making, not in their wielding. Those blades are an embodiment of pain, poison and the blackest of blasphemies, forged together in fire and earth, burned and beaten and burned again until the tortured metal screams with hate!
"Ah."
'Ah'? Is that all you have to say, is 'ah'?
"Well, it's just that your description reminds me of a lot of the ghost stories the bards tell in mid-winter. Spooky and scary and kind of sing-song, you know? Like a song or a poem."
Is that so? Well, this is no ghost story! Don't you doubt for a second that making a bloodknife is a horrible process! All of the spells and incantations sound that way because they are meant to imprint themselves on your mind. The bloodknife process is a complex and dangerous task that takes weeks to complete. At the very least, getting a single step wrong or even out of order means wasting all the poison and blood, neither of which is easy to obtain! Get it really wrong and you'll die a flaming death. Stick to the incantation in every single particular or don't attempt the magic. Even for magicians, as brilliant as we are, the rhythmic, chant-like nature of the incantations serve to aid the memory and thereby protect the spellcaster.
"But there weren't any steps or instructions in that part you were saying."
That was just the introduction. Many of the incantations follow a set pattern. They start with a description of what the spell will accomplish when it's completed successfully. After the introduction comes the warnings about the consequences of failure. Then comes the list of material components, followed by the spiritual components. The protective spells and the steps of assembly make up the largest section. The final section usually includes how to use what you've created and how to protect yourself from it as well.
"So the more complicated the spell, the longer the incantation?"
Naturally. That's part of why magic is so difficult, because of how much there is to learn before you can even attempt one of the simpler spells. Understanding what the incantations mean, to begin with. Then finding the components, and assembling them properly. Even for an experienced magician, getting a spell right takes many attempts.
"Did you make any bloodknives?"
I made several attempts. It's a more difficult form of magic than the rather mundane result might suggest. Eventually, I turned my attention to other forms of magic.
"So you were never successful."
As I said, I turned my attention to more important magical matters.
"Do you remember the whole spell?"
Of course I know it. I've been trapped in these pages for more than a hundred years with nothing else to do but go over my notes.
"Can you tell me about the steps involved in making a bloodknife?"
The spell was one of the most commonly known among magicians. However, old as it was, it was very difficult to cast successfully due to its arcane nature. I'll show it to you, even though you don't have the grounding of magical knowledge to understand it. Make of it what you will.
Jacob read on, and saw new words appear in a dense, formal script:
Powdered iron and powdered tin,
Powdered wasps with deadroot in.
Through the glass to watch it burn,
Cooled in ash with every turn.
Draw the silver from the steel,
To make the blade for woe or weal.
Jacob read the spell over and over again. He leaned close to the book and said, "I don't understand."
Ha! I told you magic was complex beyond your ken!
"No," he said, "I mean, I don't understand why you had to use such flowery and arcane language. I've seen blacksmiths at work. There's a lot that assumed here, but why be unnecessarily complicated to describe what looks like a straightforward process. Were all magicians as pompous and deliberately obscure in their writing as you are?"
POMPOUS?! How dare you! You, the half-witted son of a farmer! I deign to show you a glimpse, the merest fraction of a tiny little glimpse at the incredible power and mystery of magic, and you insult me beyond any man's ability to endure! Worse yet, you pretend to understand the bloodknife spell on first reading, as though you had any inkling of what this spell means or how to implement it! How dare you, you arrogant little fool! You liar! You simpleton liar! You understand nothing! You can't possibly know anything at all about it! Oh, God in heaven, if only I had hands to strangle you with! Or a voice to curse you with! It would be fire and lightning and I'd take your head right off your shoulders, you insolent little frog!
"Erikkan, please, I didn't mean it that way! I misspoke, its just that I was confused by the spell and how it was written! I didn't intend to insult you, I was just surprised, that's all. Please, don't be offended. I apologize for
... for my poor choice of words."
Ha! Go apologize to the hat rack and see if he'll forgive you!
"Please, Erikkan, you are absolutely right, the spell is obviously very complex, and I must clearly be wrong in thinking that I understood it. It's an amazing spell, really, and there's no way that I could possibly understand it unless you explain it to me."
The first intelligent thing you've said! Very perceptive of you, you liar! I'll not waste my time explaining something to someone who lies about what he does and does not understand.
"Please don't call me a liar, Erikkan, please? I was... overenthusiastic at seeing my first spell. I just thought I understood it. It must be obvious that this is really far over my head, that I'm beyond hope of making any headway in comprehending such a spell on my own."
Obvious is the right word!
"To a magician such as yourself, this must be like reading the menu board at a tavern, but to someone like me, not blessed with anything like the wisdom, the cleverness, the pure and shining intelligence of a magician... why, I'm amazed that I was able to even read it at all. Surely there must be a way for someone as intelligent as you to explain it to a simpleton like me? Can you not think of a way to make it simple enough for me to grasp?"
If only you knew what you ask, boy! A blind man can't see a sunrise, no matter how complete the explanation of it.
"Oh, that is a terrible disappointment to me. Oh, if only I were even marginally smarter, I'd have a chance to gain some small measure of insight. Ah, it seems that I must put you away until such time as I grow in wisdom, and then perhaps..."
Wait a minute, what do you mean, 'put me away'?
"Well, I'm clearly just annoying you with my stupidity. Maybe if I close the book and hide it away in the barn for a few months, I'll gain some perspective and enough wisdom and maturity to understand some of what you're telling me."
Hide me away for a few months! No, don't do that!
"Hmm, maybe you're right. A few months is hardly enough time for such a dullard as I am. I'd better make it a full year, and just hope for the best."
Wait! Perhaps I was ... hasty in saying that you are completely without any capacity for understanding.
"No, you were right. I'd better not even bother to continue discussing it. After I complete my education, or maybe a few years from now, when I inherit. Then maybe I'll be smart enough to dig you out and try to learn from you."
Wait, don't! I've been closed and alone in these pages for more than a century. I've gone mad from the boredom and recovered my wits three times over. I'll talk to anyone at this point, even someone like... that is, I find that I ... enjoy talking to you, Jacob. I don't, or rather didn't discuss magic with anyone when I was alive. I'm not used to having to explain things, or to tolerate... that is, to debate the mysteries.
"Are you sure, Erikkan? I don't want to annoy you with foolish questions."
No, no, Jacob, I'm sure. I... want to continue our discussion. I think that by approaching magic from the ... fresh perspective of a raw beginner, I may even gain new insights, myself.
"I appreciate you're willingness to show these things to me. I know that I can never be a true student of magic as you were, but perhaps, if I work at it very hard, I may be able to show you that I am able to comprehend at least some small shard. So, we can talk about the spell?"
Yes, the bloodknife spell. Let us return to the spell.
Say something funny
An organization recently asked me for a bio. I gave them a paragraph about what I do, my positions on various issues relevant to this organization, what I think is important. This was a vetting process, and I was subsequently asked to take on a leadership role. I agreed.
In the announcement of my coming on board, only the barest facts of what I gave them was stated. The bulk of the bio they printed was taken up with describing how funny I am, how witty and creative. It made specific reference to a talk I gave 5 years ago (!) that still sticks in people's minds for its use of a Spider-Man gag to make a serious point about taking personal responsibility.
I'm a little uncomfortable at the thought that the primacy of my reputation is wrapped up in being funny. I'm a very serious and thoughtful person. I'd like to be known for the clarity of my insight and depth of my understanding.
Having said that, did you hear the one about the ballerina who walked into a barre?
In the announcement of my coming on board, only the barest facts of what I gave them was stated. The bulk of the bio they printed was taken up with describing how funny I am, how witty and creative. It made specific reference to a talk I gave 5 years ago (!) that still sticks in people's minds for its use of a Spider-Man gag to make a serious point about taking personal responsibility.
I'm a little uncomfortable at the thought that the primacy of my reputation is wrapped up in being funny. I'm a very serious and thoughtful person. I'd like to be known for the clarity of my insight and depth of my understanding.
Having said that, did you hear the one about the ballerina who walked into a barre?
What to write
In terms of big writing projects, I have one moderately science fiction-ish action/adventure novel written to the first draft stage. This is going to need a big rewrite to fill in the gaps, trim off the warts and clean it up. Further revision and polishing will come after that. I'm guessing all of that will take it from its current 50,000 words to up around 90,000.
I have a fantasy novel fully outlined and begun, probably ~10,000 words done.
I have another science fiction novel that I just dove into without any clear sense of where it was going. That's ~10,000 all told, scattered among various scenes and vignettes without a coherent plot.
I think I'm going to try to clear out the SciFi elements of the most complete work, make it more fully grounded as an action/adventure piece. I'll make one flat statement right at the outset that places the book firmly into an alternate history. The present day, with a fundamental twist. That should make it much more recognizable, believable, yet still different enough that I can do all the stuff I want to with the people and events.
I have a fantasy novel fully outlined and begun, probably ~10,000 words done.
I have another science fiction novel that I just dove into without any clear sense of where it was going. That's ~10,000 all told, scattered among various scenes and vignettes without a coherent plot.
I think I'm going to try to clear out the SciFi elements of the most complete work, make it more fully grounded as an action/adventure piece. I'll make one flat statement right at the outset that places the book firmly into an alternate history. The present day, with a fundamental twist. That should make it much more recognizable, believable, yet still different enough that I can do all the stuff I want to with the people and events.
Twitfic
Outshine is a new microzine for Twitfic (Twitter fiction), in the same genre as Thaumatrope. If Twitfic is a new term, then consider it coined. I almost called it "Twitter fiction literary magazine", but that would have been Twitficlitmag, a word which has an odd meaning depending on where you put the syllabic break.
Anyway, the point is that Outshine accepted a submission of mine, which will appear on January 24. I'm very pleased to be a part of the bleeding edge new wave of professional microfiction. Understanding how to consider and/or regard Twitfic is going to take some thought, however. For example, paid Twitfic is eligible for Hugo award nomination in the short story category. Kind of astounding, no?
Tweet, tweet!
Anyway, the point is that Outshine accepted a submission of mine, which will appear on January 24. I'm very pleased to be a part of the bleeding edge new wave of professional microfiction. Understanding how to consider and/or regard Twitfic is going to take some thought, however. For example, paid Twitfic is eligible for Hugo award nomination in the short story category. Kind of astounding, no?
Tweet, tweet!
Learn to be patient
I've got to learn to be patient. I have no idea what the turnaround time is for some stuff I've got out, so I keep checking my e.mail just in case.
Well, I need to get some stuff done, and I can't do that if I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Fire and forget. When it gets rejected or accepted, I'll pay attention again. Until then, get back to work.
Well, I need to get some stuff done, and I can't do that if I'm always waiting for the other shoe to drop.
Fire and forget. When it gets rejected or accepted, I'll pay attention again. Until then, get back to work.
Outlining
Wil Wheaton recently had an insight about writing:
"I made two huge mistakes with that," I said. "First, I didn't realize until I was almost ten thousand words into it that it can't be a first person narrative, because it's way too limiting for what the story needs. Second, I didn't outline it before hand, I just had a basic idea for where I wanted it to go, and tried to write it by the seat of my pants. It was really stupid to do it that way, but I learned a valuable lesson from the experience: I need to work from an outline, because when I do, I'm connecting the dots instead of assembling a jigsaw puzzle."
I work from an outline, so this seems really obvious to me. Put together the general structure, spot any obvious dead ends, then skip around writing scenes to fill in the gaps. I know other people just start at page 1 and go where the story takes them, but unless I have some kind of sense of the destination, I would find that very difficult. Sometimes I have a formal outline with chapter headings, other times just a couple of pages to tell the bare bones of the story.
After writing it, I go back and try to see what worked and (despite best intentions) what didn't. Changing some major facet after having written 10K or 50K (the POV, the setting, the fundamental relationships) would be work, and lots more work afterwards to make the work work, so to speak. Like converting a gasoline engine to propane. First, you work like hell to make it run at all. Then, you keep working to get it to run well. Daunting, but not impossible.
Blog posts can be seat-of-the-pants, because they are rarely more than a couple of thousand words, and rarely express more than one or two major themes. There's no story arc in a blog post.
"I made two huge mistakes with that," I said. "First, I didn't realize until I was almost ten thousand words into it that it can't be a first person narrative, because it's way too limiting for what the story needs. Second, I didn't outline it before hand, I just had a basic idea for where I wanted it to go, and tried to write it by the seat of my pants. It was really stupid to do it that way, but I learned a valuable lesson from the experience: I need to work from an outline, because when I do, I'm connecting the dots instead of assembling a jigsaw puzzle."
I work from an outline, so this seems really obvious to me. Put together the general structure, spot any obvious dead ends, then skip around writing scenes to fill in the gaps. I know other people just start at page 1 and go where the story takes them, but unless I have some kind of sense of the destination, I would find that very difficult. Sometimes I have a formal outline with chapter headings, other times just a couple of pages to tell the bare bones of the story.
After writing it, I go back and try to see what worked and (despite best intentions) what didn't. Changing some major facet after having written 10K or 50K (the POV, the setting, the fundamental relationships) would be work, and lots more work afterwards to make the work work, so to speak. Like converting a gasoline engine to propane. First, you work like hell to make it run at all. Then, you keep working to get it to run well. Daunting, but not impossible.
Blog posts can be seat-of-the-pants, because they are rarely more than a couple of thousand words, and rarely express more than one or two major themes. There's no story arc in a blog post.
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