Next

First off, thanks to those of you who commented either here or on my Facebook page regarding the opening scene I posted. Most of you thought it was good so I'm keeping it (with a few more tweaks because writers never stop tweaking). The encouraging thing about that little exercise is that some of you actually wanted to know what happens next.

The answer to that is "A lot." While I haven't checked the page count lately, I can tell you this is the longest first draft I've ever written. Per my usual writing style the second draft came down quite a bit. I tend to write long. But I'm sure it's still longer than my other two completed books. So yeah, it's a wild ride and I'm excited about sharing it with my readers. Given that, what happens next is a loaded question, but bare with me and I'll post the next scene.

First let me tell you what I've learned working on this project. That's the important thing, because when it comes to developing a skill, you should always be learning something new. This project has shown me that not only are openings just as important as the swampy middle or the grand climax, they are hell to write. So much to accomplish in so few words. A writer has a tiny window in which to grab a reader's interest and if you don't take advantage of it then it doesn't matter how good the rest of the book is, no one will ever get that far.

This hasn't always been the case in literature. Books used to have endless prologues, introductions, and long opening scenes describing things like the color of autumn leaves or a gentle summer breeze. But these days, with fast food, high-speed internet, and On Demand TV, our attention spans are not much better than a tree squirrel's. And while I lament this age of constant stimulation, my firm belief in the natural progression of things and faith that all things are always as they are supposed to be, wins out over my urge to get on a soapbox and scream at people about their brains turning to oatmeal. This is the world we live in. I choose not to fight it, but to embrace it.

Now I realize some, if not all of you have probably skipped over the previous paragraphs in order to get to the following excerpt. That's okay. I don't blame you. I bore myself sometimes.

Here's scene two (If you haven't read scene one yet, please do so now):


A small window offered a rare glimpse of the world outside. Pierce stole glances through it while the monitors in the chapel displayed drones lowering his brother’s body into a cement box. Outside it didn’t matter where you looked, nothing had changed—white on white, like stink on shit, if both stink and shit were white. And while Pierce didn’t want to be here burying his brother, there was nowhere else he’d rather be.

“The mahogany casket’s a nice touch,” Remmy commented. “And that granite monument…top notch.”

“Yeah,” Pierce replied. “Just like everything else Bright Light makes; beautiful on the outside.”

As Paul’s interment progressed, he turned his attention back to the ceremony. Everyone seemed to be waiting for someone else to get up and say something. Pierce contemplated the relationship he and Paul had and thought of his mother’s voice issuing instructions before they went out to play. "Take care of your little brother, Paul. Make sure Pierce doesn’t wander off, Paul." Now, for the first time in his life, he was the one that needed to step up and ensure his older brother was being taken care of.

As the drones completed their task, Pierce broke the silence and said his final goodbye. “So long brother, maybe now you won’t be so cold.”

He looked around the room at the eleven others in attendance comprised entirely of Section D’s pit crew. Paul’s crew, all sitting with heads bowed showing respect to their fallen leader. Again he got caught up staring out the window, this time wondering what Paul would have said about the view. Just two days ago they’d talked about the weather and together they checked the forecast out of morbid curiosity. That seemed like an eternity ago; before Paul’s death changed everything. Yet outside the window nothing had changed. It all looked just like it had the last time he’d seen the surface; a frozen wasteland that could slice you up and rip your guts out quicker than any wild animal; that is if any wild animals had survived.

Now it didn’t seem to matter if he ever left the Pit. The plans he and Paul had made to provide wilderness tours to those who’d survived the damn ice age would never see the light of day. They’d even talked about the t-shirts they would sell to their customers. T-shirts that read, “I Survived the Damn Ice Age.” They’d had a lot of fun thinking about all the people clamoring to be outside after living in a pod for so many years. It had been a great way to pass the time. Now time could go take a hike.  

Does This Interest You?

If you're reading this it's because you have been kind enough to take an interest in something I love. That is I love to write and as a writer I mostly work in a vacuum. Occasionally I need to empty the bag and let others see what I've been doing. This, of course, opens me up to severe criticism, which in my heart I know is necessary, but it also blows up my fantasy that everything I write comes out like golden turds and readers will marvel over its beauty. Of course that's not the case. Not with me. Not with any writer. It's a long and difficult process to get just the right words down in exactly the right order. And in order to do this I need objective opinions from people who aren't in my head.

The following is the opening scene of my latest sci-fi novel. It's just under 800 words so it shouldn't take long to read. I'll say no more about it. It would be really neat if you all could comment on whether or not you're pulled in enough by this opening to want to read on. For me, the opening is the hardest part of writing a novel. I'll admit, I've struggled with this opening scene quite a bit and have rewritten it several times. Let me know what you think, and don't be afraid to be critical. Please note, nothing here (other than the first three lines because I'm convinced they're perfect) are set in stone.

Chapter 1

He took the red pill first. Sure, any fool could follow the company’s prescribed pill-taking sequence—green, blue, yellow, and then red. He may have been a fool, but he wasn’t their fool. Used correctly the pills were designed to keep him alive. Abused correctly they could drive one insane, which would be one way to get out of the monotonous twelve-hour shifts he endured day after endless day monitoring meters and gauges that never changed; meters and gauges millions of desperate people bet their lives on.

His brother’s voice came over the comm. “Pierce, it’s been a long night. Can you be here on time for a change?”

"Sure thing," he replied, wondering why the hell he hadn't turned his comm off the night before. As his superior in the Pits, Pierce hated the idea of disappointing his big brother, Paul. So for now Pierce would take the company’s pills in moderation, albeit not in the right order, and show up for his shifts like a good little soldier, which meant he needed to get his ass in gear and get ready for work.

He stripped down and walked through the quick-cleanse, effectively killing off whatever underground bacteria might be nesting on his body. When he got out, he settled in front of the mirror. The face that looked back gave him pause. Something about this morning was all wrong. He grabbed the lower half of his beard and gave it a tug, then grabbed a pair of scissors and began cutting. Then he went at it with a razor until there was nothing left but a short stubble. Still not satisfied he began shaving geometric patterns into the remains of the beard before moving on to the close cropped hair on his head.

His friend Remmy’s voice came over the comm just as he was putting the final touches on a swirly design above his left ear. “Hey Pierce, I got something big cooked up for this afternoon. Stop by my control room when you get a chance.”

“Shit. What time is it?” He looked at the clock on his comm device. Twenty minutes late and his face and scalp were a bloody mess. After a quick wipe with a wet towel he slapped tiny pieces of tissue over the bleeding nicks and pulled on his coveralls. Then he popped another red pill in his mouth, and ran out the door. Already his morning had gone to shit and the day had barely started. Dashing down the hall he jumped into the elevator and pushed the middle of three buttons several times before the door closed.

A sexy female voice came from speakers in the ceiling. Welcome crewman Pierce to the Big Sleep; the most extensive social networking event ever. You are now twenty six minutes and eighteen seconds late.

He mouthed along with the greeting stopping just short of the reminder of his tardiness. Pacing as the car made its ascent to the next level he almost wished it would keep going until it reached the planet’s surface; crazy thoughts that vanished as soon as the doors opened.

Thank you for your service crewman Pierce. Have a nice day.

He rolled his eyes and tried to act casual as he hurried out of the car. But as the doors closed behind him he heard something unexpected from the voice in the elevator.

No need to hurry. He’s already dead.

Shaking his head he raced down the hall to the security door of his control room where lifted his hand to the palm reader for access. He was shaking. Something was definitely off this morning. Maybe he shouldn’t have taken the red pill first because his thoughts kept getting crazier. If he didn’t get in the control room soon, Paul would ream his ass faster than he could flick a bugger. But first he had to fight through this sudden panic attack. From down the hall he heard the elevator’s voice again.

He’s dead. Don’t go in there.

He covered his ears and squeezed his eyes shut. Sure he’d been late before, but he’d really been meaning to turn things around. Taking a couple of deep breaths, he forced his hand onto the reader and opened the door.

As expected, his brother sat in the command chair. But there was no disappointed older brother glare. “Paul, are you asleep?” he choked out, knowing full well his brother would never be caught sleeping on the job. But looking at Paul sitting motionless with his unflinching eyes wide open, Pierce couldn't admit to himself what he knew deep inside to be true. And sooner or later he would have to accept the fact that he would never hear his brother’s voice again.

 

Hey Brother, can you spare 41 cents?

If you guessed this post is going to be about change, then I suppose you can give yourself credit for being a quick thinker - or at least as obscure a thinker as I am. So there are a few reasons I'm writing about change today. The most immediate is that when I woke up this morning, got my coffee, and settled into my morning, I opened up Facebook and saw that the layout of my page had changed. Okay, no big deal. I've dealt with far worse to start my day.

But it got me thinking. In fact, lately my days have pretty even keel. I so much as told this to an acquaintance of mine (okay, a close acquaintance) who seems to be struggling right now with things. Yesterday we were having a conversation (mostly a monologue on her part I admit I didn't have the energy to listen to) and in reply to her remark that she needs to talk herself down and not do anything rash I mentioned how lately I've had no desire to stir things up in my life. I'm okay with where I'm at and I've no reason to make any changes.

 She replied by saying change is inevitable.

 Of course it is I replied. Change happens whether you like it or not. And there certainly are times when it's appropriate to force a change in your life. If you're in an abusive relationship, or your habitual behavior is causing you to suffer you should definitely look into doing something about it. But in your quest for enlightenment don't you think that if you reach a plateau you should jump on the opportunity to take a breather? Should I feel guilty that I'm not trying to force myself to grow as a person right now? I'm just not interested. I mean don't I do that naturally anyway?

 One never knows when life has been setting you up with fastballs and is about to send a split-fingered slider your way. You're not looking for it, nor should you. It's too exhausting. But it doesn't hurt to keep the possibility in the back of your mind either. Then when it happens you'll at least have a shot at laying some wood into it. (Okay, I'm done with the baseball analogies. If I've lost you please understand it's summer and baseball is a symbol of the season. You have to at least appreciate that. Now keep reading and let's be adult about this.)

 Change hits you when you least expect it. Thirteen years ago I knew change was coming. I had a son on the way. I would soon have two children. Our family dynamic would never be the same. So I prepared myself for it. Did all the things expectant parents do, some of which I didn't do the first time around. One week after my son was born we found ourselves in Boston Children's hospital listening to doctors explain over and over what was wrong with our son's heart with me half-listening and understanding even less. It still tears at me to think of it. All I knew was that they were going to cut my infant son's chest open like a melon and rubber band something together. This would fix things for a while but as he grew they made it perfectly clear that we'd be back for more. This is the kind of change you can never prepare yourself for. Like the day I came home from work to learn my dad had massive heart attack and died on the way to the hospital. Nope. Didn't see that one coming either. You will never, never, never be able to avoid change, nor will you be able to anticipate it. OF COURSE I KNOW THAT.

So here's what I've learned in my 57 years of life. If it ain't broken...yeah, you know the rest and that sounds pretty trite. But it's true.

So about the title of today's post. The other day I was walking down the street and one of the growing number of homeless people stopped me and asked for exactly 41 cents.

I gave him fifty.
Hee Haw

The Seedy Underbelly

I have seen it. The seedy underbelly of rural America. And you know what? It's not as frightening as I thought. The thing of it is, I've come to realize that keeping an open mind about people, places, and things that normally would be outside your comfort zone is actually beneficial to your personal growth. In case you were wondering, I am unabashedly non-conformist. My hair is a bit on the long side. I don't wear suits. I'm most comfortable wearing thrift shop clothing. And I don't eat fast food. And while I don't talk politics or try to argue my views, I suspect I would baffle a lot of people when it comes to how my convictions are formed. Same thing with religion. My views come from within, are not altogether on one side or the other, and are not swayed by the opinions of those around me. Now about the company I keep, here's where my spiritual beliefs come into play. My associations astound me. Through no design of my own, I find myself collaborating on a close and personal basis with people I typically wouldn't give two shakes about. I chalk this up to finally allowing myself to be open to anything and everything in the vast world that surrounds me. I am not a redneck. I am not a religious fanatic. Hell, I'm not even a Hoosier. Yet here I am playing in a redneck band at night, and a praise band on Sunday mornings. All in the great state of Indiana. No way I could ever force these collaborations. Therefore I must chalk it up to intelligent design. What I do serves a purpose, even though I might not understand all of what that purpose entails or even how that purpose affects the grand scheme of things. We are by nature visual people. When most people think about God, they try to form some sort of picture in their head of what this God might look like. Over the course of history there must be thousands upon thousands of paintings, drawings, and sculptures of what man (or woman) believes to be a depiction of the almighty deity. Where does this vision come from? Well, in my belief system, all creativity comes from a higher power. Given that, maybe these depictions are accurate. Yet they are all so different. So in my view, the Almighty, creator of the universe, can take any form depending on the needs of the recipient. If you're comfortable envisioning God as an old man in a robe with white flowing hair and a long beard sitting on a cloud, then that's what he is. If you're vision is that of a young woman colorfully dressed with eight arms then...well, you get the picture. So back to my original point. I've spent much of my life being closed minded. Too much. Looking down your nose at people, places, and things has cut down on the number of experiences I might have had even though I determined early on in life that experience is really the pinnacle of our purpose. It's why I write. To take my experiences, regurgitate them into something entertaining, and send the results out into the cosmos. So in order to do that to the best of my ability, I need to be open and positive about allowing myself to fall into situations I previously might have backed out of. And lastly, although I'm no longer a youngster, I need to be mindful that I still have much to learn. And for that concept, I'm thankful I figured it out. Now if I could only figure out how to make the perfect mac n cheese. Hee Haw

Let's Argue Shall We?

First, I apologize. I'm a horrible blogger. That's probably why no one reads this thing and really, the only reason I'm writing something now is because I think it's a good exercise for my writer's brain.

Now that that's out of the way, here's my paltry contribution to the internet wisdom pool, which amounts to pissing in the ocean.

I'm sure there's more than one raging debate going on over at AW, the writer's forum. But one in particular sucked me in the other day and I had to get involved. Now I know it's a fool's errand to argue with people over the internet. One: People who post their opinions behind the shield of online forums quite often are there for one purpose; to be disagreeable. Certain internet posters will argue about anything. If you tell them the sky is blue and the grass is green they'll try to make some grand academic proclamation about how insensitive you're being toward people who are color blind. Granted, I've participated in some perfectly proper discussions with perfectly reasonable, logical, intelligent people on internet forums so I know it's possible. But like any club that has no criteria for membership, you're going to run into some attention depraved loons.

Which brings me to the "discussion" that reeled me in on traditional publishing vs. self publishing; one of those hot point topics among writers that many find devoid of middle ground. You're either in one camp or the other. Choose a side. Except that's absolutely ridiculous. This debate, like just about anything else concerning the craft of writing, has more shades of gray than a pickup truck in a trailer park. Immediately, some frustrated erotic novelist chick, who claims she's from Ireland, jumps in and makes it sound like self publishing is only for those who flunked out of seventh grade and that she would rather preform lewd acts with a donkey before even considering debasing herself by self publishing. Then she goes on about all the checques (regardless of the spelling I still suspect this person is holed up in some New Jersey Starbucks) her publisher is filling her mailbox with, like she's some hugely successful author, which makes her an authority on everything. Let me tell you, the first lesson I learned when I attempted to present a logical contribution to this discussion by making the point that the more avenues of getting one's writing into the hands of readers the better. But it's pointless to try and talk sense to idiots. Idiots will counter logic with illogical statements and never look back. They will always be convinced they are winning a debate even when the foundation of their position is made out of Dixie cups. So getting into an argument with these types is not only pointless, it only leads in one direction - Frustrationville. Lesson learned. Stay away. But for those of you who aren't entrenched in one side or the other of this topic, those who are curious about the revolution underway in the book publishing world, along with several other creative mediums like music, art, and theater, here's what we're looking at:

Self publishers, small presses, niche writers, and the like should be hopeful. The alternative road to publishing is in no way shape or form indicative of a writer's level of talent, and it's growing. The reality of today's traditional publishing industry is that regardless of a work's brilliance, it is still possible for it to be overlooked. This is due to a multitude of reasons. Maybe you're a great writer but aren't great at composing a compelling query letter. For those of you who don't know, writing a query letter is like sticking hot pokers in your eyes. Making your intricate, multidimensional, 300-page novel sound intriguing in 250 words or less is about as much fun as puking up spoiled macaroni salad. The process of snaring an agent or editor makes even less sense than American politics. (And don't even begin to tell me that our political system isn't broken.) Unfortunately it's the only process we've got and honestly, I'm not sure if a better way exists (the publishing process I mean, not American politics). Certainly it's not going away any time soon.

Then there are trends. Publishers need to make money. And with their profits shrinking, they're more skittish than ever to gamble on a new, innovative author. For over a decade now, the percentage of dollars spent on unknown commodities by publishers has shrunk down to practically nothing. I'm not saying this is wrong, it's the reality of the business. With so much competition for the shrinking entertainment dollar, the safe bets are on the proven best sellers - Koontz, King, Grisham, Evanovich, and the like. Couple that with the number of people writing books and the odds of getting traditionally published turns into a crap shoot similar to today's job market. Good isn't good enough. To take a cue from the Occupy movement, there's the one percent, then there's the rest of us.

But here's the good news. Technology is opening up a whole new world to writers just as it has already done for musicians. It used to be unimaginable for a band to produce a professional quality recording in their home studio unless the bass player had a rich father (which was usually the criteria for hiring a bass player in the first place). Now, for less than the price of a '95 Buick you can build a home studio and crank out quality recordings even though, following an afternoon of smoking weed in the park, you dropped out of high school and decided to become a rock star. In fact, for writers it's even easier and less expensive. Sure, this opens the doors to every hack that ever thought it sounded cool to be referred to as a novelist. And yes, there will always be steaming piles of poo to wade through in search of those self-published gems. But at least the option is there. And just because a book resides in those steaming piles of poo, don't automatically assume that it's not just as good as something published by say, Random House or Simon and Schuster. It's a simple case of supply and demand. Something any idiot can understand, right?

Like an onion...

I can't help but use writing as a metaphor for life. So it's understandable that in the process of creating a publishable manuscript, you find that the work you're doing on your draft is similar to what's going on inside you at that moment in time. To be more specific, I'm trimming the fat in my first draft as well as how I perceive the world around me. No more bloated, long-winded diatribes. Lean and mean is the catch-phrase of the day. It's so easy to get caught up in the gazillion distractions surrounding us, which makes it easy to get side-tracked from the task at hand. In fiction writing, all that bullshit I spew onto the page in the first draft clouds the actual story, making it oh so easy for the reader to set the book down and forget about it.

Same with this blog.

Hee Haw

Time for a Change

First change: new template for the blog. Yeah, it's still rather boring looking. No loud bells and whistles here. Just books. Because that's what this is supposed to be all about now isn't it?

Second change: Apparently I've got a new focus for my writing. This is actually work-related, and by work-related I mean having to do with the day job and not the work that I do for little to no pay in my spare time. But that's cool. Writing is writing and without the luxury of that solid reputation some writers have acquired, allowing the option to write about pretty much anything that strikes their fancy even if it's a detailed analysis of how many gold rings one might fit on a monkeys wiener, I will gladly take whatever opportunities float my way.

No, it's not writing sappy little notes for a greeting card company if that's what you're thinking. And even if it was, is there really anything wrong with that? In fact, that might be a pretty sweet gig.

In case you aren't aware, I'm a small player in a very well-respected, highly effective research center here at Indiana University, and research around major universities like IU, place high on the academic respect chart.

Strike one!

But the research that goes on around here - here being the office I cheerfully drag my ass to every day - while interesting and worthy of huge accolades, is barely within the grasp of my tiny little artist's brain. My good fortune to be part of the Workshop in Political Theory is only eclipsed by the miracle that six years into this gig I haven't been tossed out on my ear (or rear depending on how fast you read that last sentence). But that's the way this place is. Very understanding, encouraging, and forgiving, and thankfully that's probably that mindset that won the professor who started this gig a Nobel prize. Let me tell you, aside from having a winning football team, a Nobel prize attracts a lot of the right kind of attention in a college town.

At any rate, one of the Workshop's current projects of which we're seeking funding is to develop a "Consumer-driven Health Information Website Based on Hot-to-Cold Empathy Gaps." Huh? What the heck does that mean? you may ask. I'll let you know when I figure it out myself. But apparently the writing part of this needs to be dumbed-down to a non-academic level. In other words, it needs to be made simple enough for someone with minimal education. Now perhaps I should have felt a little put-off when they thought of me as a possible writer for this project. I don't know about that. In fact, who cares? I could lay claim to the argument that it takes a unique skill set to write in a manner that's understandable to those lacking the capacity or attention span needed to comprehend anything more taxing than one line sentences containing words bigger than cat. But if that's the case, I will embrace the role fully and I will own my reputation as a simple story teller.

Especially if it means mo money, mo money, mo money...

Hee Haw