July 12, 2006
A VAGUELY DIFFERENT LOOK
I've decided to give WordPress the boot. I just don't like it. For the near future -- like while I'm on vacation -- this classy, pre-made design will have to suffice. I have an entire new layout already designed, but not enought time to implement it before I leave Friday.
When I do return next week, no longer will I be transferring JBdN and the 'Logue over to TypePad . . .
Because Movable Type 3.3 was just released today, and till the end of August is allowing personal accounts to have unlimited blogs and users. So when I come back I'll upgrade, and make everything fine once more.
JAB
P.S. - If any of you would like to receive an update whenever I update the Novelogue, fire off an email to josh-joshbales-dot-net with "THE 'LOGUE IS MY GOD" in the subject header, and I'll add you.
Posted by Josh at 8:06 PM | Comments (0)
July 6, 2006
KILL YOUR DARLINGS or CHAPTER ONE BETA
The interesting, odd, and occasionally aggravating thing about writing is that your story is ever-changing. You think you know exactly how everything is going to turn out, and then BAM! -- the characters start running the show and then they're carrying the plot in new, unforeseen ways. Or you write a chapter, realize that while it's not bad, certainly not great, but it it doesn't do a goddamn thing to move the story along. And then you have to get rid of it, because if something doesn't move the story along, even if it's a really funny character developing scene, it should go. Hence the title of this post.
I'm chucking most of chapter one. It's rough and boring in spots (I usually add most of my funny and clever dialogue and stuff in the rewrite portion), but it's got a number of things I like: the prologue, the Jesus clock, and the entire end section where the protagonist is driving to the party. As I outlined to Nate earlier, I came up with a much better idea for a chapter one this morning; one that features the parts I liked from the original, more engaging dialogue involving other characters (fanboys at a convention), and is a little shorter. There's more opportunity for humor here, and I can avoid writing a lot of the wife's dialogue, which -- aside from not liking -- came off as boring and wooden in my opinion. (My own damn fault -- I made her sound too much like the other protagonist.)
I debated whether I should mention this, even considered killing the blog, since upon realization that chapter one had to go, I went through a little spell of self-doubt and self-loathing in regards to the whole writing thing. Now a little while later, and much more calmness, I'm still determined to write this thing, and more importantly I think I can pull it off. And if this is a whole recounting of a novel-in-progress like I say it is, there has to be some failure. That's why I present for you here the entirety of the failed chapter one that never will be. I like to call it Chapter One Beta.
Though before you read on, I suggest you go read the Prologue first, as the whole thing will make a bit more sense.
CHAPTER ONE (BETA)
NOW
MEMORIAL DAY, 2025
Two major things happened to me this Memorial Day. My first novel was optioned by a big Hollywood producer. The second event -- and the more notable of the two, at least to me -- was my death.
I'd started the day knowing neither of these would happen, of course. I suppose one's death almost always seems like a surprise, as no one usually expects that he or she is going to die today. Someone else, sure, that's possible -- but never us. Certainly when I climbed into the car that night to head to an impromptu celebratory dinner, I'd had every intention of getting back out of it. Being thrown through the windshield doesn't count, either.
After I awoke that morning, I began my regular routine. "Regular" insofar as I was still getting used to it. Up until seven months ago, I would wake up in the morning, do the usual bathroom/breakfast stuff, and then drive to the university. There I would do my best to engage the minds of two classes full of ancient mythology students. A difficult proposition, yes, but I like to think I succeeded more often than not. My classes generally scored well on exams, and in the student evaluations at the end of the semester I always ranked high, higher than many of my peers. I'm not sure if this had more to do with my exceptional skills as a teacher, or because I've been known to let class out early if it's a nice day. I never dwelled too much on what was the correct answer.
My routine, and my life to a larger extent, changed just over a half-a-year-ago when my first book, Atlantean Twilight, landed on the New York Times Best Seller List. I was ecstatic. For a first time writer, this was huge. As a matter of fact, for any writer this would be huge. (Except for guys like Stephen King and John Grisham. King sees that he's made a best seller list, he yawns and flips to the next section.) Over the next three weeks, I watched in detached amazement as my book steadily climbed the Times' list, until it reached the number one spot.
And stayed there. For nearly six months.
Life got a little crazy during that time. I was getting all sorts of offers to appear on talk shows. I did Larry King and Oprah (and no, not in that way). Students would come up to me after lectures and -- in an annoying trend that I quickly squashed -- during lectures. To my excitement, my publisher signed me to a three-book deal and gave me an advance in the high six figures -- much to my agent's excitement.
Things had begun to settle back down lately. I'd given up my professorship the month before, after my summer teaching obligations had ended, and was now focusing on being a full-time writer. Don't get me wrong: I enjoyed bantering back-and-forth with my students on various topics of debate, and I loved rambling at length on various ancient myths. Hell, an intense interest in the stuff is what drove me to write my book in the first place. But earning a living as a writer -- that had been my dream for as long as I can remember.
Now after waking up, instead of going to the university I go to the gym. I work out for a bit, something I never had much time to do before, then come home and have breakfast with my wife. She's a creative sort, too: An artistic consultant for a number of marketing firms. Since she does a lot of design work, she's able to work from home most of the time. Having the both of us at home during the day meant we saw a lot more of each other . . . to an extent. We both spent a large chunk of time holed up in our respective offices, but we generally had breakfast and lunch together, plus our evenings. It was a comfortable arrangement.
Parking my Lexus in the garage after coming back from the gym, I was overcome with the oddest sense that today was going to be a good day. Everything was going certainly well so far. The spring weather was expected to get into the seventies by the afternoon, and the morning air was crisp and smelled of promise. No, I realized, that was just the stuff the lawn care people had sprayed on the grass. But this did nothing to diminish the fact that I knew today was going to be exceptional.
I made a quick detour outside to see if the mail had come, curious to see if this month's Asimov's had arrived yet. Our mail courier usually stopped by before ten, but she hadn't come yet. The slightly raised lid of the mailbox indicated that the mail waiting for departure was still there. Slightly disappointed, I headed back into the house. Upon entering I smelled rather than saw that breakfast was already in the works. A bowl of pancake batter was setting on the counter and sausage was slowly simmering on the griddle. I chuckled. That wife of mine -- always on the ball.
"Michael?" a woman's voice called out from the family room. "That you?"
"No," I replied, emptying my keys and wallet in a little basket. "Just a burglar."
"Burglars are only burglars if no one is home," she shot back. "Since I'm here that technically makes you a robber." Her voice grew louder as she moved into the kitchen. She entered and took up position next to the stove. "But regardless, take what you like. My geek of a husband has a large and apparently valuable Star Wars toy collection you might be interested in." Her hazel eyes sparkled with merriment.
"Nah," I said, looking her squarely in the eye. "I definitely see something I'm more interested in."
She cocked an eyebrow. "Really? And what might that be?"
"This." I reached past her and snatched up a sausage link.
"Ha. Ha. She mock-pompously tossed her shoulder-length hair back. "I'll have you know that there are many robbers out there who would gladly violate me."
"Of course there are, dear. But none as much as I."
"Pretty words," she said, crossing her arms. "Prove it."
"'Kay." I swallowed the link and pulled her towards me, wrapping my arms around in an embrace. She resisted for a moment, then grudgingly relented and allowed herself to be hugged. Her freshly-washed blond hair, the scent of mango, was one of my favorite smells. We kissed, which lasted for a long moment. When I pulled away a slight flush was on her freckled face.
"Better?" I asked.
"A little. You still have some convincing to do." She wrinkled her nose. "But later. When you don't smell like a gym."
"And here I thought I smelled like a Michael."
"What you are is a jackass," she said, as she moved towards the stove. "I'm putting the pancakes on, so you better hurry."
"Ha! Michael Wells hurries for no man," I declared, hurrying for the stairs. "Or woman."
At that moment the phone started to ring, right as I was passing through the family room. I went over to the coffee table and picked up the cordless. "Hello? How you doing, Sharon? I'm great. Hold on, let me go get her." I covered the receiver with my hand.
"Julie, your sister's on the phone."
My wife stepped into the room and took the phone from me with a smile.
#
After breakfast, I retired to the Cave. It's really just my office, but Julie took to calling it the Cave years ago since I keep all the blinds closed and the lights dimmed. Helps me focus; at the beginning of my career I could never write well amidst distraction -- anything like light, music, the Internet, people, or pretty much anything else that would allow me to do something else other than sit down at the computer and write. After months of practice, I can now focus and start writing with relative ease, but at this point transforming the Cave into the Sunroom or the back porch would just be weird.
Once the computer had booted up, I opened my email program and sighed. 112 new messages were awaiting reading. Not for the first time, I thought to myself: Email is simultaneously the greatest and worst method of communication ever. I mean, think about it. We can fire off messages back and forth with relative ease and speed . . . and we can fire off messages back and forth with relative ease. Want to send a picture of the kid playing baseball to the grandparents? Done. Pissed at a friend? Email him. I guess like any new technology, it's a double-edged sword.
Scrolling through the inbox, I noticed something peculiar. Along with the spam and the fan mail and miscellaneous business stuff, there were a large portion of messages with Congratulations! and Way to go and other variations in the subject header. It probably wasn't some new spam campaign, since the congratulatory messages were from people I knew. A virus maybe, taking advantage of your address book? Half-wondering if I was dealing a deathblow to my computer, I opened a message from Suzanne, the copyeditor on Atlantis Twilight.
Michael,
Heard the news and just wanted to offer my congratulations. Here's hoping it doesn't bomb! :)
Suzanne
What the hell? She hopes what doesn't bomb? The book? It had clearly done phenomenally well, as she already knew. My confusion grew a little more.
I opened up other messages and received more heartfelt congratulations, but maddeningly, none of their authors would mention what the fuck I should be glad about. Then I came upon the seventh message, the one that finally clued me in.
Dude, I heard Bolton is really gunning for the Weaving role. Wouldn't that be great?
Gabriel Weaving is the main character of my book, a professor of ancient mythology, like me. (Hey, write what you know, right?) And Kelsey Bolton is one of the bigger stars in Hollywood right now. So why did everyone think that Atlantis is being turned into a movie? If so, that'd be pretty goddamn interesting, especially since I hadn't heard one word about it from my agent, Brad.
I reached for the cell phone I use for all my work stuff. Maybe Brad could tell me where this rumor had started, and if there was any bit of truth to it. I flipped it open and -- saw that the battery was dead.
"Shit."
Guess I had left it on for too long. I opened a desk drawer and pulled out the wall charger. Once the cell phone was charging, I powered it on and accessed my voicemail. I doubted I'd have many messages, maybe two or three at the most.
"Oh shit," I said again, this time somewhat dazed. The hair on my arms rose like a cat's hackles.
There were twenty-four new voicemails. Four of them from my agent.
#
Still in somewhat of a daze, I wandered into the family room. Julie was sitting on the beige couch, legs crossed at the ankles, staring at the laptop setting on, surprise-surprise, her lap. Her forehead was creased in what could either be concentration or annoyance, or both. Berlioz's Les Troyens was quietly playing on our new Apple stereo.
She didn't look up as I sat down in the recliner across from the couch. "Whoever thought up Merlinox's old AIDS vaccine marking campaign should be drawn and quartered," she said matter-of-factly. "‘Never worry about safety again -- just go with it?' Right. Because even more capricious sex is what the American people really need." She sighed in disgust. "You have any good ideas for a new ad campaign, writer-boy?" She looked up at me, and her teasing smirk immediately disappeared.
The laptop was closed, and she was by my side in the space of a second. "What's wrong, Michael? Has something happened?"
I shook my head in the negative. "Actually, yes. But nothing bad."
"Then what?"
"I just got off the phone with Brad. He left some messages on my cell phone last night, but the battery had died, so I didn't realize he'd called till just now. I called him back and --"
"Damn it," Julie said, annoyance in her voice, "just spit it out already."
"Some Hollywood producer made an offer to option Atlantis. And Kelsey Bolton is interested in playing the part of Weaving. He apparently loves the book."
"Wow." Julie paused for a moment, thinking. "Yeah, he'd be perfect as Weaving. So what did you say?"
I looked at her, incredulous. "What do you think I said? Brad said he'll transmit the contracts to me tomorrow. All I have to do is sign them and send them back."
"This is . . . wow, this is awesome." She looked at me, a grin on her face. "Atlantis Twilight on the big screen. I hope they don't screw it up."
"Me too," I said. "With the money they're throwing around, nabbing an A-list director should be easy."
"I dunno. It's not like anyone's ever heard of the book," Julie said sarcastically. "Might be hard generating . . . wait." She looked at me sharply.
"They're throwing around a lot of money?" I nodded. "So how much are they paying us?"
A wide grin slowly grew on my face. I told her.
"Wheee!" she shrieked, sounding for the world like the little girl who finally got a pony for Christmas. Laughing, she threw her arms around me, hugging me hard.
I stood up and grabbed her by the waist, swinging her around me. "Maybe now we can buy that house in the Caribbean we've always wanted. I've always wanted," I amended. "What do you --"
I didn't finish posing my question because Julie's mouth went to mine in a hard kiss. She gently pushed me back to the floor, practically jumping on top of me.
"Time for you to do that convincing you mentioned earlier," she said, a mixture of love and lust in her eyes.
Ever the gentleman, I obliged her.
#
The orange sun was just beginning to dip below the horizon, but it was still bright enough to cast a glare on the mirror in the bathroom. Squinting, I took a few steps to the right, then to the left, and back to the right. I sighed, and continued shaving.
Julie stepped into the bathroom, dressed in a black skirt and tanktop. Her attire was in stark contrast to my white undershirt and boxers. Fortunately, she was leaving the house an hour before me, so I didn't have to put up with any "witty" comments about not being ready.
"I'm getting ready to leave, hon," she said, giving me a chaste kiss on the cheek.
"I'll count the minutes till I see you again," I replied.
"As you should." She left the bathroom, her voice becoming distant. "I'll tolerate nothing less."
We were both still in exceptionally good moods, having had earlier the best sex in four years -- the time at the drive-in notwithstanding. We banter back and forth all the time, but when we're especially happy with one another, like now . . . well, I've had more than one irritated friend say, "Would you guys stop fucking picking on each other already?"
Tonight our friends Todd and Ashley were having their annual Memorial Day Fiesta. (Todd is part Mexican.) News of my movie deal and Kelsey Bolton's probable involvement had quickly spread, including a number of our more geeky friends who check the entertainment web sites daily. Now the Memorial Day Fiesta had slightly morphed into a Memorial Day / Mike and Julie Are Rich Fiesta. Julie had already been planning on going to the party early to help set Ashley set up.
Ordinarily I would have gone with her so Todd and I could get a jumpstart on getting hammered, but I had to wait for Brad to send the contracts to me so I could sign them. The producer wants to get all the paperwork out of the way right now, even though it's a holiday. I don't really mind; if getting a huge sum of money means I have to sit around for an hour or so on Memorial Day, then I'll suffer.
Julie poked her head back in the bathroom. "Oh, speaking of counting minutes, the Jesus clock is acting weird. The batteries died, and when I replaced them it stopped working. Can you look at it some time?"
"Of course I can. Whenever I choose to, in fact." It drives Julie crazy whenever I respond literally to something she says. Since being an ass wouldn't be conducive to my continued good health, though, and with her already being in a good mood, I quickly added, "Sorry. I'll see what's wrong with it while I wait for Brad."
Julie flashed a quick smile. "Gracias. Love you." She disappeared once more.
"Y tu," I replied, unaware of the fact that the last words I'd ever say to my wife were spoken in a foreign language.
#
Julie's office was a bright and airy little room, full of pictures of family and friends, with models of antique cars nearly a century old situated tastefully throughout; in other words, her office was the exact opposite of the Cave.
Next to her computer was the Jesus clock, only slightly battered and sun-faded by the passing years. I'd given the clock to Julie after we were married, because she thought it was crudely hilarious. (Like me, Julie is more agnostic than not.) Now it occupied a permanent place in her office.
The analog clock in the Savior's mouth was indeed not working properly, for the hands had stopped at twelve and nine and it was now going seven-thirty. I picked up the solidly-built object and felt for the knob on the back. I found it, twisted it, but nothing happened. The hands remained where they were. This gave me pause for a second, wondering what the hell had happened to my clock. Then a thought occurred.
Occam's Razor: The simplest answer is usually the correct answer.
It's remarkable for how many situations this principle holds true.
I undid the battery latch on the bottom of the clock and checked the direction of the batteries as they were compared to how they should be on the diagram. As I'd guessed, the positive and negative ends were reversed.
Women, I sighed.
Once the batteries were properly oriented, the Jesus clock began ticking away. I set it to the correct time and put it back on the desk.
I sat back in Julie's chair, staring absently at Jesus's milky white eyes, and thought of Suela for the first time in months.
Once upon a time, the clock's eyes had looked like real enough. But after Suela and I had moved in together, she'd painted Jesus's blue eyes completely white, remarking, "If we're going to have him in our bedroom, no way is he going to be staring at us. Plus he's even scarier looking now."
Suela. I didn't think of her too often anymore, tried not to, actually. It'd been nearly fifteen years since we'd gone our separate ways, but part of me was still bitter and angry about how it'd gone down. I generally preferred not to dwell on it.
Fifteen years. That's a hell of a long time to not speak to someone who'd been your best friend for ten years, and your girlfriend for four more after that. Fortunately, Suela and I are both stubborn people, so we were able to make it happen.
I heard from a mutual acquaintance of ours that she'd gone on to get her PhD in Greek literature, and was a researcher in New York. I occasionally thought about getting in touch with her, but always decided against it in the end. I mean . . . what the hell would I say to her?
Hi, how you been since you declined my marriage proposal and abruptly stopped talking to me?
Yeah. That'd go over well.
Realizing I was getting annoyed, and really not wanting to on such a perfect day, I stood up and forced myself to not think about her.
You're married to a beautiful, perfect woman, who loves you dearly, and you've got the fantastic career you've always dreamed of, I told myself. Life is good.
My cell phone chose at that moment to ring. It was a message from Brad informing me that the contracts had been transmitted to my tablePC and were awaiting my signature. He also wanted to reemphasize that very soon, I -- and in turn him -- would be a rich man.
His message ended with the words, Isn't life fucking grand?
Yeah Brad, it is, I said to myself.
I headed to my office, a serendipitous smile on my face and thoughts of Suela completely gone from my mind, just another unpleasant memory.
#
The Shangrilas were blaring through the Lexus's speakers as I drove down the two-lane highway toward Todd and Ashley's. Clouds were starting to gather overhead, and the sky looked especially dark to the east. I hadn't looked at the weather report, but it seemed there was a fair chance that a thunderstorm might pay a visit to the party like some unwanted guest.
I didn't give a shit. I was in a fantastic mood, an exhilaration flowing through me that I hadn't felt since finishing the Atlantis manuscript nearly two years before. That had been why I really started writing in the first place, why I wanted to make a career out of it: for the creative high I felt during and after a project was finished. It was better than any drug out there, and I'm not ashamed to admit I'd experimented when I was younger. (Hello, college?)
I was now a significantly richer man, and my baby was going to be turned into a movie by a competent producer with a pretty good track record, and a star who was box office gold (that crappy 9/11 flick notwithstanding). Thunderstorms could bite me.
We live in southwest Ohio, near Dayton. Suburbs dominate much of the area, but a fair bit of the land is still farmed. Todd and Ashley's house is in a newer edition of houses situated amidst tracts of farmland. So whenever Julie and I would go to visit them, we'd have to leave the tranquility of Suburbia behind and venture into the empty realms of corn land. It's not a bad drive, about thirty minutes, but the road is flat and straight and it's pretty easy to sink into a sort of daze if you get too relaxed. Fortunately I was still pretty damn excited, so growing distracted by the drive didn't seem like a huge problem.
I still couldn't believe that they'd given me as much money as they had. The last offer I'd entertained had been barely half the amount I just signed for. Now the fun part was figuring out what to do with my newfound wealth. When I told Julie earlier we could buy a beach house somewhere in the Caribbean, I hadn't been kidding. I didn't necessarily want to live there all the time, but going there November through March and escaping Ohio's awful winters held a large amount of appeal. We could also move to a slightly bigger house, maybe closer to Julie's family. My parents were both dead, and I had a brother living in California that I don't talk to but once a year on Christmas.
The possibilities were really rather endless. And all this from just my first book, too. I'd recently begun my second book, another "scientific romance" featuring Weaving, the protagonist from Atlantis. It probably wouldn't do as well as the first one, but I was excited about it, and if I could --
"Huh," I muttered, glancing out the window to my left. There were a bunch of cattle up the road, grazing much closer to the road than I was comfortable with. It looked like they'd escaped their corral through an open gate. I slowed down, keeping a careful eye on the placid animals. It'd really ruin my night if I nailed a 400 pound roadblock. A few seconds later and the fugitive cattle were behind me.
A really crappy Beatles song came on over the radio. I wasn't sure which one, but since I dislike the Beatles immensely it was sort of irrelevant. I started flipping through the ten satellite channels I have programmed into my favorites, hoping to find something less offensive to my ears.
The experience with the cattle cast doubts for me on moving into the country. Did I really want to have to deal with stuff like that all the time? Sure, the suburbs seemed kind of packed together, but would the slight isolation of living in the country be any better? At least on my bland little street I didn't have to worry about running into a cow. Only the neighborhood kids, but who cares about them?
"That's a little better." I settled on a pop song from the Tens that I liked. There wasn't much from that decade that I was fond of, but it beat the hell out of what was popular to . . . .
A tractor had appeared directly in front of me, maybe five hundred feet ahead. A farmer, probably crossing the road from his fields to his house. As I dumbly stared at him, everything seemed to slow into bullet-time. With eidetic clarity, the details of the scene embedded themselves in my memory: the faded green of the tractor, the yellow JOHN DEERE logo missing the "N," the open-mouthed look of horror on the farmer -- an old man in his sixties, red-faced and squinty-eyed behind his glasses -- as his head turned and he saw me coming.
Abruptly time resumed its natural pace.
My first instinct was to slam on the brakes, but a part of my mind still capable of rational thought informed me that this action wouldn't be enough. I was going too fast to stop in time. So I was faced with a seemingly simple decision: swerve left, or swerve right. I didn't have enough time to check both ways, so I went with what seemed the logical choice. To the right, the direction the farmer was moving away from.
I jerked the wheel to the right, while mashing my foot down on the brake so hard that I felt a sharp pain lance up my leg.
The Lexus rocketed towards the very edge of the tractor at a speed in excess of fifty-five miles per hours . . . and cleared the corner of it by a scant few inches. I let out a deep breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding in and looked forward.
"Fuug!" The curse left my mouth distorted, as it was slurred by gross panic.
A fucking cow was in front of me now, calmly regarding me as it chewed on grass.
I jerked the wheel even more sharply to the right, missing the cow. The car had slowed to about thirty now. I probably would have been okay if there hadn't been a large tree stump in the way, extending about two feet up above the ground. Beyond the stump, twenty feet away, was an ancient looking barn missing the wall closest to me. Inside was a bunch of equally ancient looking and rusted out farm machinery, most of which was probably full of sharp ends and other unpleasant surfaces.
"This isn't good," I muttered to myself, feeling surprisingly calm given the circumstances.
The stump caught the Lexus just behind the car's front wheel well, and served as a sort of primitive ramp. The car's momentum carried it into the air much higher than I would have thought possible, about eight feet. My dear Lexus and I hurtled towards the awaiting barn at sharp angle, arcing across the short distance in the blink of the eye.
With an odd and entirely inappropriate sense of detachment, I watched as an old combine came rushing up towards me.
And then blackness.
~fin~
Posted by Josh at 11:23 PM | Comments (1)
June 30, 2006
CHAPTER ONE ES FINITO
A little more than an hour's work tonight, and Chapter One is now in the bag. I think -- and this may be wrong, because I'm not the most impartial person in the world -- this scene is some of my best writing yet. The pacing is solid, you don't see what's coming directly (literally!), and it's pretty entertaining. Exactly what a book should be, in my opinion. The whole shebang, Prologue and Chapter One, is about 6,700 words. The goal, length-wise, that I set for myself is 75,000 words -- about 330 pages.
I'll go over it all in the next few days, then send it out to some Bringers of Death (note -- see last entry). While they look it over, I'll be starting Chapter Two. And so on, hopefully, throughout the course of the book.
JAB
Posted by Josh at 10:59 PM | Comments (2)
June 29, 2006
LONG AND WINDING ROAD
It's been a couple of weeks since the last post, but I have been writing in the meanwhile. Nearly done Chapter One. One scene left, where the main character dies . . . and then the story starts moving. Trust me: it's not as odd as it sounds, and it's most certainly not lame.
So where's the story stuff I've been promising since the beginning of the Novelogue? Well . . . here's the thing. I could post the stuff in its roughest form and then bear your comments. But like I said, it's rough, and not at its most . . . polished. Henceforth I've decided that before I post stuff, I'll send the finished chapter to a couple of my readers, whom I have decided to lovingly call my Bringers of Death. These bringers can help me get the chapters at least in decent shape, and then I'll post 'em here. So it might take longer for you the reader to get your hands on some Thirty Well Spent, but I think you'll enjoy it better in the long run.
JAB
Posted by Josh at 8:31 PM | Comments (2)
June 16, 2006
I GOT DEM SCENE-WRITING BLUES
Like the accumulation of shit in a cow pasture, work on Thirty Well Spent slowly but surely progresses.
Maybe that's not the most sterling metaphor I could have used, but it works, damn it.
I spent the earlier part of the week going over some short stories and researching several publications to send them to, publications that can and will cheerfully reject them. But regardless I'll cheerfully send them back out again.
Wednesday I finally finished a tough scene in chapter one. It was one of those that I didn't really want to write, not because it's a shitty scene, but because it's a bridge to a scene that I really want to write. What's written might not be the greatest thing I've ever crafted, but at least it's down on paper . . . er, the computer. I can always go back and rewrite it if I feel like it. Then on Thursday I polished the prologue, making it flow a lot better, and adding in a description of one of the main characters. That's one of those stupid things I can't believe I forgot to put in. I was so focused on getting the two characters' dialogue and interaction down that I left it out. Speaking of the prologue, I think I might just rename it Chapter One. It's sort of gotten away from what a prologue usually is thought of. You'll see what I'm talking about when I post it, probably sometime next week, the same time that the new layout will (hopefully) debut.
JAB
Posted by Josh at 8:57 PM | Comments (0)
June 12, 2006
SUBMITTED
One "The Last Echo of Humanity" to the fine folks at Strange Horizons. Here's hoping someone actually buys something I've written . . . though I doubt it.
Even though I spent the last hour revising and formatting "LEoH," I still was able to produce 1200 words in Thirty Well Spent earlier. (Thank God for nice weather.) At this pace, I should have chapter one finished in a few days.
Now it's time to eat some pie.
JAB
Posted by Josh at 10:39 PM | Comments (0)
June 11, 2006
GOINGS ONS
Been busy the last few days. After rereading the prologue yesterday, I decided that it didn't work written in third person. The rest of the book is in first person, and it's jarring going from third to first, especially so early in the book. My original intent was to have the prologue and epilogue bookend the story, and not just because they're at the beginning and the end. They were both going to be written in the third person, and be set 20 Years Ago and 20 Years Later, respectively. What makes it more interesting is the fact that nearly 1,000 years passes from page 1 to the very last. But as it stands now, I think the entire thing should be in the same tense. Since we had a spot of nice weather today, I took lappy out back and rewrote the prologue in short order. Rereading it again, the transition from prologue to chapter 1 is much better.
I also spent the last day or two tinkering with a layout for the Novelogue. I want something spartan and kinda catchy to the eye. This is what I have so far. Whadja think?
The weatherman predicts sunny and upper-seventies for the rest of the week. Even though my aunt's coming out to sat for the week, I hope to get a fair bit of writing accomplished. I'll probably be posting the prologue by the end of the week. I should also probably tell some people that this little sideblog exists, too.
JAB
Posted by Josh at 7:00 PM | Comments (3)
June 10, 2006
NOTHING WRONG WITH A LITTLE EXPERIMENTATION
Hello, all. Welcome to Joshua Bales's Novelogue!
"What the hell is a novelogue?" might be your first question.
"Why the hell should I care?" is probably your second.
Both are excellent questions. I'll begin with the first. The Novelogue serves two purpose, in my mind. One is for me to get my feet wet in regards to using WordPress. That's right -- I'm one of those Movable Type refugees. I'll be honest: I like MT. Been using it for going on four years now. I'd still be using it with great enthusiasm if it weren't for the fact that my other blog gets, on average, about four hundred pieces of spam a day. I could upgrade to MT 3.2, which supposedly possesses much-improved spam-fighting plug-ins . . . but that would cost money. I can easily afford it; I just don't want to spend the money. Instead, I've been hearing good things about WordPress: It's free, easy to install, fights spam quite well. I didn't want to completely jump ship with my other blog -- yet -- so using WP to create the Novelogue seemed liked a good idea.
The other purpose of le Novelogue is for me to document the creation of a novel. I began, like a billion other schlubs in the world, working on a book two weeks ago. It's a science fiction tale called Thirty Well Spent, a sort of light-hearted time travel story. I intend for it to be somewhere in the range of 70 to 80,000 words when finished. I'm not a terribly fast writer. I mostly work in fits and starts, so it'll probably take me a while to finish it. Once finished chapters reach a point where I don't necessarily hate them, I'll post them here for your reading pleasure and feedback. I've read a number of accounts where sci-fi first-time novelists posted their novels on their web sites, which were then bought my editors and published for realsie (John Scalzi and Cory Doctorow come to mind). That's not my main purpose for doing this, but hey, if it were to happen -- I wouldn't complain.
As for the second question, the one about you, the reader, giving a shit . . . well, if you'd like to read about the travails of a first-time novelist churning out his bilge like so many monkeys, then stick around. Feel free to also stay if you're only interested in giving me shit. Be aware, though, I respond in kind. If you're an asshole to me, I'll be an asshole right back.
That's about it. Most posts won't usually be this long. I also have no idea how frequent they'll be, either. Guess we'll all just have to wait and see.
JAB
Posted by Josh at 11:20 AM | Comments (3)