Today, I finished my one page synopsis. Turning your book into such a small description is really hard. To do this, I wrote a paragraph about the beginning of the book and a paragraph about the end of the book. After that, I wrote about the characters, their wants and obstacles. I spent the left over paragraphs explaining key plot points.
It was brisk, to the point and packed with information. I'm afraid, if someone read it to fast, that they may not understand it.
Keep your fingers crossed that I did this right. I've read a thousand different ways to write a synopsis, none of them like the other. The basic principle seems to be: Sum up your story without getting over-descriptive.
I have beta readers reading my novel right now. Keep in touch!
Monday, November 29, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Time is Distance
When building a city, you have to look at it from a distance. You can't be close, because you will only see your house. But looking from above, we can see if the streets have been mapped out right or if the houses are too close. Only from above can we see if all the intricate, little patterns in each house, roof, street, business, park and so on fit together in the working machine of a city.
But we won't know if the city really is planned right unless it's lived in.
When writing, we can edit as soon as we finish, looking from above, but our stories haven't been 'lived in' yet. We still have the 'missing pieces' from our story in our minds. We fill in blanks without realizing it and pass over blatant errors, thinking we remember why we wrote that particular line. When you take at least a few months before you do your final edit, you won't remember everything. The writing becomes... fresher.
When you look at something with clean eyes, from a far distance, you can see glaring holes. It allows you to look close at a building and ask, "Why this color?" or pan back and pick apart the highway. In our writing, it lets us see how bad some of our work really is. We find what our weaknesses are, and we can become mindful of them--making our newer work much easier to read and edit.
After letting the story feel 'lived in,' we can see the missing errors or plotholes. We can make sure to show, not tell with some villainous monologue left for the ending.
Time, in editing, is distance. Give yourself distance, and you'll have the best chance of being published. The publishing world will still be there tomorrow. If we want to show how brilliant our writing is, we must first be wise beyond our years.
But we won't know if the city really is planned right unless it's lived in.
When writing, we can edit as soon as we finish, looking from above, but our stories haven't been 'lived in' yet. We still have the 'missing pieces' from our story in our minds. We fill in blanks without realizing it and pass over blatant errors, thinking we remember why we wrote that particular line. When you take at least a few months before you do your final edit, you won't remember everything. The writing becomes... fresher.
When you look at something with clean eyes, from a far distance, you can see glaring holes. It allows you to look close at a building and ask, "Why this color?" or pan back and pick apart the highway. In our writing, it lets us see how bad some of our work really is. We find what our weaknesses are, and we can become mindful of them--making our newer work much easier to read and edit.
After letting the story feel 'lived in,' we can see the missing errors or plotholes. We can make sure to show, not tell with some villainous monologue left for the ending.
Time, in editing, is distance. Give yourself distance, and you'll have the best chance of being published. The publishing world will still be there tomorrow. If we want to show how brilliant our writing is, we must first be wise beyond our years.
Wednesday, November 24, 2010
Happy Thanksgiving
Growing up on the richest block, in one of the fastest growing cities in America, our family considered themselves lucky to get a turkey on Thanksgiving Day. My mother once worked several jobs, and we lived in a two-bedroom flat that once housed only chickens. Believe me, I couldn't make that up if I tried. The house got burned down just recently, but it still stands to this day.
Only because of my newspaper route, started barely after I turned 11, was I able to offset most of what my mother could not provide. She provided the food and awesomeness, and we bought the soda, chips and entertainment.
One Thanksgiving, I distinctly remember having our family dinner at Sheri's. Looking back, my brother and I had no shame about the ordeal. We were busy admiring the height of my mother's salad, stacked with more food than we thought possible. Mom made special care to never let us know how poor we were, but it was 2$ a plate and she made it last, sharing with us all.
Thanksgiving became the time of year, along with Christmas and our Birthday, that we could count on having time with our mom. When we got older, however, double-overtime and a half became too tempting for my mother to pass up. But on the times that she got the day off, we spent the day eating and joking - watching movies or playing games.
During the holidays, my bother and I didn't have to deal with the bullies that spit on us. There were no girls to laugh at our Goodwill jeans or jocks to make fun of our upside-down swoosh. Even the rich, private school kids, with their house built for them and lawyer parents, couldn't check our tags for initials. We cherished this time off.
We hated school.
So on Thanksgiving, my wife and I will spend all our time with our kids. We have a big dinner at my brothers house, with the whole family, but that is very hard to schedule and a big ordeal - not to mention, rarely on the right day. This year, we will make lots of great food, picked by our kids. We'll play games, watch movies and read books together.
There are so many parents who leave the television to watch their kids. Jim Carey once said, "Somebodies got to kill the babysitter." The more people get 'plugged in,' the less they remember how detached they become. According to my son's friends, if they want their parent's attention, it's easier to text them.
So, these days, I find it important to 'unplug' myself and spend quality time with the family.
On Thanksgiving, there are a few things our kids cannot buy, make or earn - our time. Thinking back, our favorite holidays have become fond recollections. Tomorrow, maybe we can build our kids a new memory, too.
Sorry if there are grammar errors; I want to spend time with my kids now.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Only because of my newspaper route, started barely after I turned 11, was I able to offset most of what my mother could not provide. She provided the food and awesomeness, and we bought the soda, chips and entertainment.
One Thanksgiving, I distinctly remember having our family dinner at Sheri's. Looking back, my brother and I had no shame about the ordeal. We were busy admiring the height of my mother's salad, stacked with more food than we thought possible. Mom made special care to never let us know how poor we were, but it was 2$ a plate and she made it last, sharing with us all.
Thanksgiving became the time of year, along with Christmas and our Birthday, that we could count on having time with our mom. When we got older, however, double-overtime and a half became too tempting for my mother to pass up. But on the times that she got the day off, we spent the day eating and joking - watching movies or playing games.
During the holidays, my bother and I didn't have to deal with the bullies that spit on us. There were no girls to laugh at our Goodwill jeans or jocks to make fun of our upside-down swoosh. Even the rich, private school kids, with their house built for them and lawyer parents, couldn't check our tags for initials. We cherished this time off.
We hated school.
So on Thanksgiving, my wife and I will spend all our time with our kids. We have a big dinner at my brothers house, with the whole family, but that is very hard to schedule and a big ordeal - not to mention, rarely on the right day. This year, we will make lots of great food, picked by our kids. We'll play games, watch movies and read books together.
There are so many parents who leave the television to watch their kids. Jim Carey once said, "Somebodies got to kill the babysitter." The more people get 'plugged in,' the less they remember how detached they become. According to my son's friends, if they want their parent's attention, it's easier to text them.
So, these days, I find it important to 'unplug' myself and spend quality time with the family.
On Thanksgiving, there are a few things our kids cannot buy, make or earn - our time. Thinking back, our favorite holidays have become fond recollections. Tomorrow, maybe we can build our kids a new memory, too.
Sorry if there are grammar errors; I want to spend time with my kids now.
Happy Thanksgiving.
Tuesday, November 23, 2010
Snow Day
When we awoke to snowfall, my youngest son beamed from ear to ear with a headache inducing smile. Fearing the worst, I asked, "What's with the mischievous look, Captain Underpants."
"Two hour late start Dad! Boo-yeah!" he shouted, putting a fist into the air and headbanging.
So early in the morning, I found it hard to react. The winter air felt cold, stiffening my back and making movement undesirable. At last, I lifted my head from the drool-stained pillow to form a slight grin. "Then wake me up at nine," I said, ducking under the covers. After a moment of silence, I peeked out to see an empty room.
Sleep is impossible once woken, life decided to remind me. Giving up, I flexed my hands to improve the circulation in each tingling forearm. When the numbness subsided, I rolled onto my side and pushed myself up.
Taking in a deep breath, the mixture of peanut butter and coffee became a glorious affair to my senses. Air smelled as dry as my throat felt, so I turned the little space heater off and went downstairs.
"Good morning Baby," I said, seeing my wife making coffee. Now, I have never been a caffeine drinker, but I applaud its use. That little sixty dollar, Walmart special espresso machine could prevent World War III, if its affect on my wife's mood could be any indication.
"Uh," my wife grunted.
"I hope you have a good day at work," I said, wrapping my arms around her from behind and pecking her neck softly. She leaned her head lightly into mine, not saying a word. Careful not to scratch her with stubble, I buried my face in her hair and, intoxicated by hints of cocoa butter and lavender, whispered into her ear.
She shivered and giggled, turning around, "Stop, you'll get all..."
Just then, little man ran into the kitchen and said, "What do you think we should do, Dad? There's video games, cartoons, painting - oh, have you seen the new Naruto Shippuden? I love late starts!"
Before I could interject, he had his arms wrapped around our legs.
"You think he's happy?" my wife asked, taking a bite of peanut buttered toast with twinkling eyes.
"Tell you what," I said to my son, "go pick something out, and we'll do it."
Little man ran out cheering. With a peck on my wife's cheek, I said, "I'll miss you."
After an episode of Naruto, I spent the next hours helping my son finish up school work, getting his room clean and reading. I know, not the typical kid things, but he wanted to have his day half-way complete after school. When the bus picked him up, I found myself wishing today was a free day, just so I wouldn't be alone for the next six hours. Sadly, I watched my family disappear in the world again and wrote this blog.
Being a house spouse can make me dream of snow days.
"Two hour late start Dad! Boo-yeah!" he shouted, putting a fist into the air and headbanging.
So early in the morning, I found it hard to react. The winter air felt cold, stiffening my back and making movement undesirable. At last, I lifted my head from the drool-stained pillow to form a slight grin. "Then wake me up at nine," I said, ducking under the covers. After a moment of silence, I peeked out to see an empty room.
Sleep is impossible once woken, life decided to remind me. Giving up, I flexed my hands to improve the circulation in each tingling forearm. When the numbness subsided, I rolled onto my side and pushed myself up.
Taking in a deep breath, the mixture of peanut butter and coffee became a glorious affair to my senses. Air smelled as dry as my throat felt, so I turned the little space heater off and went downstairs.
"Good morning Baby," I said, seeing my wife making coffee. Now, I have never been a caffeine drinker, but I applaud its use. That little sixty dollar, Walmart special espresso machine could prevent World War III, if its affect on my wife's mood could be any indication.
"Uh," my wife grunted.
"I hope you have a good day at work," I said, wrapping my arms around her from behind and pecking her neck softly. She leaned her head lightly into mine, not saying a word. Careful not to scratch her with stubble, I buried my face in her hair and, intoxicated by hints of cocoa butter and lavender, whispered into her ear.
She shivered and giggled, turning around, "Stop, you'll get all..."
Just then, little man ran into the kitchen and said, "What do you think we should do, Dad? There's video games, cartoons, painting - oh, have you seen the new Naruto Shippuden? I love late starts!"
Before I could interject, he had his arms wrapped around our legs.
"You think he's happy?" my wife asked, taking a bite of peanut buttered toast with twinkling eyes.
"Tell you what," I said to my son, "go pick something out, and we'll do it."
Little man ran out cheering. With a peck on my wife's cheek, I said, "I'll miss you."
After an episode of Naruto, I spent the next hours helping my son finish up school work, getting his room clean and reading. I know, not the typical kid things, but he wanted to have his day half-way complete after school. When the bus picked him up, I found myself wishing today was a free day, just so I wouldn't be alone for the next six hours. Sadly, I watched my family disappear in the world again and wrote this blog.
Being a house spouse can make me dream of snow days.
Monday, November 22, 2010
Some Great Links
The whole blog has been revamped. There are now some great links to blogs I know you will find worth checking out, if you are a writer. You can't spend your time sending out query letters without reading a lot of these. There is a goldmine of information on my side panel; I really hope you use it.
I'll post more later, but putting this together took a long while. Hopefully, everyone finds it of use. Thank you to everyone who read my stories, Mutated Strain and In the Mirror.
Have a wonderful night,
Draven Ames
I'll post more later, but putting this together took a long while. Hopefully, everyone finds it of use. Thank you to everyone who read my stories, Mutated Strain and In the Mirror.
Have a wonderful night,
Draven Ames
Thursday, November 18, 2010
Mutated Strain
By Draven Ames
Blisters formed and tore at Joe’s feet, soles worn from walking while the world withered with sickness. A seat opened and he made sure his daughter could sit down. Though the eight year old girl normally burst with spunk and excitement, today she looked beat. Exhaustion became the common mask worn by the people in the depot, with each passing minute becoming longer than the last. Newspapers draped sleeping men and children, clumping together for warmth.
On the front page read, “MUTATED STRAIN BREAKS OUT!!!” The article detailed how a virus, labeled as ‘G2O2,’ broke out across America. Not long after, the sickness spread everywhere—no one was safe. The flu-like symptoms quickly became a pandemic, even with a few deaths. When scientists had an immunization made and ready within weeks, the world clapped with amazement.
Unfortunately, the paper joked, viruses mutate.
According to the paper, a couple weeks before now, the second strain showed up. Almost half of the nation began to drop like flies. When the President died, the trains were put to work, shuttling off those who were immune. Within days, the paper claimed that the healthy would be taken to a colony. There, safe from further mutations, a cure would be researched and found. The top minds in the world were being rounded up by all the nations.
But the paper’s outlook for the world did not sound hopeful.
It said computer generated simulations predicted seventy-five percent of the world would be dead within a week—ninety-five percent within a month. The human race would be lucky to survive. When Joe’s daughter started to follow his eyes, he looked elsewhere.
The enormity of the global sickness didn’t seem real until his wife died. He would have gladly taken her place, but he tried to focus on his daughter’s safety. Cassia cried so much that he spent most of his time comforting her; the time for mourning became a luxury few had.
Cassia didn’t talk much lately, which had Joe very worried. Today, when she started speaking again, his face lit up. He wondered if his daughter knew how lost he felt or how scared he would be if she died too.
Cassia looked ready to fall asleep, even if only for a moment while they waited in the crowded train depot. Being ushered from one place to another for the last day and a half took its toll. That, and the doctors poked and prodded them without warmth or compassion. The train station looked overcrowded, but the people saw it as a sign of hope. Tired faces all wore relief.
The air smelled stale in the depot; not unpleasant, just odd. He couldn’t be sure how many doctors scurried about in white lab coats between the trains and people, but they were everywhere. They weaved into the flood of humans in the gravel parking lot that surrounded the large brown and white building. It looked old and worn, like it belonged on the back of a 1950’s post card.
Long rows of metal benches stretched out across the grassy area in front, but little green could be seen in the sea of faces. Sweat hung in the air and refused to be swept away by the easy breeze. Some slept, others had their arms crossed and most looked tired—drained by emotions and fatigue. The depot would have been a claustrophobic’s nightmare.
Cassia looked up from her spot on the bench. She sat between an old frail lady and a young man in a gray business suit. “Daddy, I’m cold,” she said.
Joe leaned down, brushing hair out of his face, and put his coat over his daughter’s thin jacket. Somehow hers had gotten lost between hospitals and he ended up trading his father’s watch for a thin jean jacket, two sizes too small. They were there to be tested with the second wave of people at the hospital in Coal Beach, Washington.
“I know Cas. Here.” He gave her cheeks a light pinch, “Didn’t know we’d be gone this long. Guess we should’ve brought blankets. I’m not cold anyway,” he lied, zipping up the front while smiling at how silly she looked.
Putting his hands in his pockets, he scrunched up his shoulders and asked, “Better?”
Cassia returned the smile. Her eyes widened and her forehead wrinkled. “Much,” she replied. “Are we going on the train soon? I’m tired.”
“Soon, I think. You’ll be able to sleep all you want then, promise. It’s going to be a long trip so we’ll get plenty of sleep on the train,” he said. Since they had arrived, Joe watched nearly every train. He comforted his little girl by running his hand through her soft, wavy hair as he watched people board. When he gazed at his daughter, it looked as if he saw something that wasn’t there. She looked so much like her mother, it was uncanny.
“I miss Mommy,” Cassia said, as if on cue.
“Me too, baby. Me too.”
A train filled with passengers, their names being checked off of lists held by a swarm of white lab coats. He watched as people were led inside to lie down on the beds in their individual cabins. The train roared to life and suddenly lurched forward. Grating howls of metal slowed until it became a rhythmic beat driving off into the distance. Soon the train passed like a snake’s loud rattle and disappeared down the tracks to God knew where. Another train rolled into place and screeched to a furious halt.
“Are all these people going to the colony too, Daddy?” Cassia asked as she tugged his shirt.
Forcing another smile for his little girl, he said, “Of course, baby. We all are.” He wished his wife could be there. He moved close to his daughter’s side, knowing he couldn’t go with his daughter—sure his little secret would be found out. “Here, lean on me. Get some sleep, hun. Lot of trains still in cue before it’s our turn.”
The sickness started to hit Joe when they got off of the bus from the hospital. The busses came faster than the trains could fill and the depot swelled and spilled into the streets as far as the eye could see. Blending in was easy, but the flu-like symptoms would become terrifyingly worse for him very soon. How much time remained, he couldn’t know—twenty-four hours at most.
Soon the lab coat saviors couldn’t be fooled. Not knowing how he passed their tests, he didn’t dare to say a thing.
Gazing around he noticed the man he saw earlier, the one in the business suit. The man looked at Joe intently, making him feel nervous and watched. Beside the guy, some woman wouldn’t stop talking to him, spouting on and on despite his obvious lack of interest. The lady said, “This is all some big government conspiracy—you know that? The flu was just an opportunity. They capitalized on it! I mean, wouldn’t you? America’s going to hell in a hand basket. They’re going to ship everyone to camps where the government can control our lives.”
The man watching Joe turned once, looking entirely uninterested, and told the woman, “Yeah? More likely a camp to hide us, until the world dies. Or we do. I wouldn’t doubt either one.”
While the two talked, Writing a note onto the back of a small discarded piece of paper, he woke his daughter gently. Closing her hand around the piece of paper, he didn’t say a word.
His daughter looked at it and pushed it back; tears welled up in her eyes at the two words—I’m sick.
Joe placed a finger to his lips.
They held each other in a long, sweet embrace. “I won’t leave you, Cas. I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered with a failing voice. He riffled her hair again but Cassia didn’t react. An idea struck him and he leaned his forehead into his daughters—a lipless kiss—and said, “Be strong, Cassia. Don’t tell,” he placed his finger over her lips now, holding the note, “when you see me, pretend you don’t know me.”
Standing, he cracked his neck from side to side; the corner of his eyes looked for listeners—everyone and no one. He crumpled the paper up and, not trusting the trash, ate it. After giving his daughter’s hand one last squeeze, he moved through the crowd. The stale air swooshed past like a warm, foul breath as he bobbed and wove through the unassailable jungle of more fortunate people.
With a push, the huge wooden double-doored entrance opened. Sweat began beading under his shoulder length hair as he looked around the congested station. White coats were scurrying around like fish in a net that paid him no heed, when he made a b-line for the bathroom. Soft florescent lights flickered above; the building looked outdated and strained by the passage of time.
The walls shook and moaned in upheaval at the long forgotten struggle to stay intact through the coming and going of trains. The inside of the depot had been turned into a makeshift underground railroad for the salvation of humanity.
For a moment Joe questioned his plan, but he had a promise to keep.
The bathroom was caked in filth, rust and the aroma of moldy bread mixed with ammonia. Long white urinals with brownish stains streaking downward hung along the length of the far wall like horse troughs. Two stalls stood to his left. Darting into the furthest one, he waited.
He looked at the toilet seat with longing, his feet begging for mercy, but discolored piss that covered it would have frightened away the sturdiest of stomachs. Doctors or scientists, he couldn’t be sure, went in and out for at least fifteen minutes before a window of opportunity finally opened. He watched through the crack between the stall and door.
Finally, he found himself alone with one of the depot’s men. The sound of the faucet roared like a Jacuzzi and Joe’s chest pounded with anticipation. Unsure if he would have the chance again, he popped the front door open and walked toward a man in white. The man looked at Joe and nodded, trying to smile. When Joe forced one in return, the guy looked satisfied and reached for a paper towel.
Now was his chance.
Joe’s left hand shot over the guy’s mouth and his right reached around his neck, choking with one quick movement. The man tried to yell but only muffled mumbles came out. Grabbing at the sink, the man pulled until Joe kicked hard against the wall with both feet, knocking them backward into the bathroom stall and onto the urinal. He caught the man’s arm with his right just as a large hypodermic needle nearly took out his eye. A small gurgle came from the scientist’s mouth before he slumped forward.
Horror spread across Joe’s face; a thick needle waved back and forth, stuck in the man’s chest during the struggle.
Joe figured the needle had to be some kind of anesthesia. It was a little scary, though—he didn’t know if he injected the wrong spot or used too much. He wasn’t a doctor, so he could only guess. Frowning at the body, he tried to look away. “What the fuck now?”
He had to think quickly. Locking the door to the stall from inside, he pulled the scientist’s coat on and buttoned it. Before crawling out from underneath, he positioned the unconscious man on the toilet, pulling his pants around his ankles.
He looked at himself in the mirror as another white coat entered with red eyes and a worn face. Joe washed his hands quickly, slicked back his hair, and left.
He tried not to look around too much in the depot. If I just look down and move on, no one will notice me, he thought. The depot looked like a tangled mess of white coats.
Across the crowded room, near the front of the depot, stood a long counter where scientists came and went. Waiting, Joe watched the lady at the counter with a sideways glance. Soon, she busily began talking to a handsome fellow—giggling like a school girl.
Joe took his chance.
Approaching the counter, he kept stock of the lady’s name tag. He picked up a clipboard and marched with a livened pace to the double doors. The clipboard had doctor’s jargon and scientific slang littering the page, which he shook his head at and put at his side.
A mistimed beat slapped in Joe’s chest as he stopped dead in his tracks. Cassia talked to a man with a clipboard and cried. She stood at the front of a line to one of the trains many cabins. He didn’t wait to find out the problem before jumping in to the fray. He only wanted to make sure his daughter made it on the train and that he could stay with her.
“…without your father.” The man stated, turning his paper over and reading the back. “Where is he, darlin’?” the man’s tone sounded impatient at best.
“I told you, I don’t know.” Cassia returned. Her hands sat across her chest and she looked remarkably mature for her age. Her nose wrinkled and her mouth stood out like duck bill. Cassia’s face lit up when she saw her father and she pointed to him. “There’s…”
“There’s no time,” Joe said, squinting to read the man’s nametag, “Charon, right? I’ve got your post. Mrs. Hamilton wanted you. Inside,” he tilted his head toward the depot. He turned towards his daughter, “Where’s your father, young lady?”
Mr. Charon looked confused, “She said he went off somewhere and she hasn’t… Are you sure? Mrs. Hamilton?” the doctor asked. He looked at Joe as if half-hoping that he would say no.
“Yes, yes. Mrs. Hamilton.” Joe replied while looking through his notes, not knowing what he was looking at. He looked back up to Mr. Charon with impatience, “Go. Hurry back, I’ve got a lot to do.”
The man lifted one eyebrow, looked to the side and dropped his clipboard in defeat. “Fuck. I’ll be back,” he said, then walked off with his head down.
Going down on one knee, Joe put both hands on his daughter’s shoulders. “I told you. I won’t leave you. I’ll be here the whole time.” Looking around, he saw other lines closing their gates; the train neared capacity. “Now get inside before that guy gets back.”
Joe peeked inside; twelve people were in the closed chamber to the left but only seven to his right. He turned to the people in line and motioned for more to come forward. “Come on, come on, come on. Trains about to leave. Five more. I need…” He patted each person on the back and pushed lightly toward the open entry. “One, two…” he counted off five when a sixth pushed inside. Not wanting to cause a scene, he blocked off the entrance with a chain and closed the door.
The cabins were all outfitted with small, foldout green cots. A metal box with speaker holes stood next to the door with a large white button affixed to the bottom. He hesitated to gather his thoughts before pushing it. “I need you all to lay down on your cots please. If there’s not enough, please share. The train will be leaving soon,” Joe flashed a smile to his daughter and pressed the speak button once more, “You’re going to be fine. I’ll be here the whole way.”
Joe stole a wink from his daughter. Cassia looked calm as she found her bed, like most of the others in the cabin. Most laid back with their arms placed lightly over their chests, hands woven together. Next to Joe were two large red cylinders with hoses leading under the doors and a large metal valve connected between them.
Somewhere above him a booming, baritone voice spoke with a slow casual tone as the trains engines roared to life and its whistle screamed out their impending departure. “Ladies and Gentlemen. Please sit back and relax. You will all sleep now. Consider it a hood over your eyes, so that we might hide our salvation.”
The landscape started moving faster beside them as they approached a distant tunnel. Gray mist funneled through the cabins across from him as another doctor turned a valve’s small wheel. Joe began to turn his too, not wanting to be seen as a phony, when the doctor glared at him. Dark clouds fell from the ceiling in his daughter’s depot and drifted out like an uncontrollable mist.
“Please do not scream. Please remain calm. You are going to a better place. A place where you cannot bring what it is you carry. It’s the only way, I’m afraid,” the voice dragged on.
The train became dark, eclipsed by a hole dug deep into the mountainside. It lit only briefly to the tune of lights along the covered passageway. Joe wretched at the valve, trying to stop its flow as he heard screams and terrible cat like calls. It was a lightning storm of cruel malice.
His daughter’s face twisted in the violent throws of a seizure. Another passenger in a spasm hit the back of their head against the window with a loud thud before dropping. Joe pulled and pulled on the doors, but they just wouldn’t open. He saw people clawing and raking at one another, trying desperately to hold onto life in their cages of death.
Stopping, he helplessly stared at his daughter like she had already died. His lips trembled and spit hung like tinsel, seeing his daughter sitting in the corner of her cabin. Her hands wrapped around her legs, while she screamed. Veins stuck out as she contorted in some inhuman cry of torture. Cassia’s eyes were filled with sadness—like she had been betrayed. It might have been his imagination, but it felt that way.
Joe looked around for help.
The doctor on the other side, holding his arms up to each side of the cabin, smiled; his head bobbing with the train—his eyes peering forward from the depths of madness. Flashing brilliance sent still-framed moments in waves before retreating into darkness. Joe screamed, “I can’t turn it off! They’re dying!” He ran up to the man and shook him by the collar. “MY FUCKING DAUGHTER IS DYING! What’s happening in there? Answer me, GOD DAMN IT! I thought it we were going to a safe place!”
The man hung in his grip, shrugging. “The dead are safe, Mac. It’s you n’ me who have ta worry ‘bout the bodies.” A sad, nasal laugh escaped him as he swayed in an angry father’s grasp.
“But they’re immune!” Joe roared. His face lit like a Halloween lantern as he pointed at the people writhing on the floor of their cabin. “They’ve been tested!”
“You got it all backwards, Jack,” he said. Then the doctor suddenly seemed to have understood. The smile he held bled away from his bobble head. “Ah, your one of them, eh? You’re ‘sposed to think that. ‘Es sir... Dead don’t get sick.” He pulled out a needle from his jacket pocket, watching as Joe let go and fell back in disbelief. “Dead is safe. Dead’s safe for us who are immune. Can’t mutate with no host. Yep, dead’s real safe.”
Cringing from the man, he fled back in a crabwalk-like motion. His back bumped against a cabin window but the bodies no longer cried. Terror no longer rang out.
I led her here I promised to take her to safety, I promised—twisting, writhing, lifeless husks with sea-foam mouths quivered in the cabin behind Joe.
The doctor stood above him. The needle glinted with passing lights—ripples of radiance flew across the man’s glasses. “No use fightin it, Jack.” He sniffed and spat to the side. “Dead’s safe…” The laugh again, the desensitized laugh!
“Don’t cry. Not now, love,” he said as he shook his head, amused by his specimen. “There really is… no… use.”
Joe cried out between sobs but he didn’t try to stop the needle. He wanted to see his daughter.
“This won’t hurt a bit.”
He wanted to see his wife.
“You’ll feel a slight pinch.”
He wanted to be in that safe place.
Blisters formed and tore at Joe’s feet, soles worn from walking while the world withered with sickness. A seat opened and he made sure his daughter could sit down. Though the eight year old girl normally burst with spunk and excitement, today she looked beat. Exhaustion became the common mask worn by the people in the depot, with each passing minute becoming longer than the last. Newspapers draped sleeping men and children, clumping together for warmth.
On the front page read, “MUTATED STRAIN BREAKS OUT!!!” The article detailed how a virus, labeled as ‘G2O2,’ broke out across America. Not long after, the sickness spread everywhere—no one was safe. The flu-like symptoms quickly became a pandemic, even with a few deaths. When scientists had an immunization made and ready within weeks, the world clapped with amazement.
Unfortunately, the paper joked, viruses mutate.
According to the paper, a couple weeks before now, the second strain showed up. Almost half of the nation began to drop like flies. When the President died, the trains were put to work, shuttling off those who were immune. Within days, the paper claimed that the healthy would be taken to a colony. There, safe from further mutations, a cure would be researched and found. The top minds in the world were being rounded up by all the nations.
But the paper’s outlook for the world did not sound hopeful.
It said computer generated simulations predicted seventy-five percent of the world would be dead within a week—ninety-five percent within a month. The human race would be lucky to survive. When Joe’s daughter started to follow his eyes, he looked elsewhere.
The enormity of the global sickness didn’t seem real until his wife died. He would have gladly taken her place, but he tried to focus on his daughter’s safety. Cassia cried so much that he spent most of his time comforting her; the time for mourning became a luxury few had.
Cassia didn’t talk much lately, which had Joe very worried. Today, when she started speaking again, his face lit up. He wondered if his daughter knew how lost he felt or how scared he would be if she died too.
Cassia looked ready to fall asleep, even if only for a moment while they waited in the crowded train depot. Being ushered from one place to another for the last day and a half took its toll. That, and the doctors poked and prodded them without warmth or compassion. The train station looked overcrowded, but the people saw it as a sign of hope. Tired faces all wore relief.
The air smelled stale in the depot; not unpleasant, just odd. He couldn’t be sure how many doctors scurried about in white lab coats between the trains and people, but they were everywhere. They weaved into the flood of humans in the gravel parking lot that surrounded the large brown and white building. It looked old and worn, like it belonged on the back of a 1950’s post card.
Long rows of metal benches stretched out across the grassy area in front, but little green could be seen in the sea of faces. Sweat hung in the air and refused to be swept away by the easy breeze. Some slept, others had their arms crossed and most looked tired—drained by emotions and fatigue. The depot would have been a claustrophobic’s nightmare.
Cassia looked up from her spot on the bench. She sat between an old frail lady and a young man in a gray business suit. “Daddy, I’m cold,” she said.
Joe leaned down, brushing hair out of his face, and put his coat over his daughter’s thin jacket. Somehow hers had gotten lost between hospitals and he ended up trading his father’s watch for a thin jean jacket, two sizes too small. They were there to be tested with the second wave of people at the hospital in Coal Beach, Washington.
“I know Cas. Here.” He gave her cheeks a light pinch, “Didn’t know we’d be gone this long. Guess we should’ve brought blankets. I’m not cold anyway,” he lied, zipping up the front while smiling at how silly she looked.
Putting his hands in his pockets, he scrunched up his shoulders and asked, “Better?”
Cassia returned the smile. Her eyes widened and her forehead wrinkled. “Much,” she replied. “Are we going on the train soon? I’m tired.”
“Soon, I think. You’ll be able to sleep all you want then, promise. It’s going to be a long trip so we’ll get plenty of sleep on the train,” he said. Since they had arrived, Joe watched nearly every train. He comforted his little girl by running his hand through her soft, wavy hair as he watched people board. When he gazed at his daughter, it looked as if he saw something that wasn’t there. She looked so much like her mother, it was uncanny.
“I miss Mommy,” Cassia said, as if on cue.
“Me too, baby. Me too.”
A train filled with passengers, their names being checked off of lists held by a swarm of white lab coats. He watched as people were led inside to lie down on the beds in their individual cabins. The train roared to life and suddenly lurched forward. Grating howls of metal slowed until it became a rhythmic beat driving off into the distance. Soon the train passed like a snake’s loud rattle and disappeared down the tracks to God knew where. Another train rolled into place and screeched to a furious halt.
“Are all these people going to the colony too, Daddy?” Cassia asked as she tugged his shirt.
Forcing another smile for his little girl, he said, “Of course, baby. We all are.” He wished his wife could be there. He moved close to his daughter’s side, knowing he couldn’t go with his daughter—sure his little secret would be found out. “Here, lean on me. Get some sleep, hun. Lot of trains still in cue before it’s our turn.”
The sickness started to hit Joe when they got off of the bus from the hospital. The busses came faster than the trains could fill and the depot swelled and spilled into the streets as far as the eye could see. Blending in was easy, but the flu-like symptoms would become terrifyingly worse for him very soon. How much time remained, he couldn’t know—twenty-four hours at most.
Soon the lab coat saviors couldn’t be fooled. Not knowing how he passed their tests, he didn’t dare to say a thing.
Gazing around he noticed the man he saw earlier, the one in the business suit. The man looked at Joe intently, making him feel nervous and watched. Beside the guy, some woman wouldn’t stop talking to him, spouting on and on despite his obvious lack of interest. The lady said, “This is all some big government conspiracy—you know that? The flu was just an opportunity. They capitalized on it! I mean, wouldn’t you? America’s going to hell in a hand basket. They’re going to ship everyone to camps where the government can control our lives.”
The man watching Joe turned once, looking entirely uninterested, and told the woman, “Yeah? More likely a camp to hide us, until the world dies. Or we do. I wouldn’t doubt either one.”
While the two talked, Writing a note onto the back of a small discarded piece of paper, he woke his daughter gently. Closing her hand around the piece of paper, he didn’t say a word.
His daughter looked at it and pushed it back; tears welled up in her eyes at the two words—I’m sick.
Joe placed a finger to his lips.
They held each other in a long, sweet embrace. “I won’t leave you, Cas. I’ll keep you safe,” he whispered with a failing voice. He riffled her hair again but Cassia didn’t react. An idea struck him and he leaned his forehead into his daughters—a lipless kiss—and said, “Be strong, Cassia. Don’t tell,” he placed his finger over her lips now, holding the note, “when you see me, pretend you don’t know me.”
Standing, he cracked his neck from side to side; the corner of his eyes looked for listeners—everyone and no one. He crumpled the paper up and, not trusting the trash, ate it. After giving his daughter’s hand one last squeeze, he moved through the crowd. The stale air swooshed past like a warm, foul breath as he bobbed and wove through the unassailable jungle of more fortunate people.
With a push, the huge wooden double-doored entrance opened. Sweat began beading under his shoulder length hair as he looked around the congested station. White coats were scurrying around like fish in a net that paid him no heed, when he made a b-line for the bathroom. Soft florescent lights flickered above; the building looked outdated and strained by the passage of time.
The walls shook and moaned in upheaval at the long forgotten struggle to stay intact through the coming and going of trains. The inside of the depot had been turned into a makeshift underground railroad for the salvation of humanity.
For a moment Joe questioned his plan, but he had a promise to keep.
The bathroom was caked in filth, rust and the aroma of moldy bread mixed with ammonia. Long white urinals with brownish stains streaking downward hung along the length of the far wall like horse troughs. Two stalls stood to his left. Darting into the furthest one, he waited.
He looked at the toilet seat with longing, his feet begging for mercy, but discolored piss that covered it would have frightened away the sturdiest of stomachs. Doctors or scientists, he couldn’t be sure, went in and out for at least fifteen minutes before a window of opportunity finally opened. He watched through the crack between the stall and door.
Finally, he found himself alone with one of the depot’s men. The sound of the faucet roared like a Jacuzzi and Joe’s chest pounded with anticipation. Unsure if he would have the chance again, he popped the front door open and walked toward a man in white. The man looked at Joe and nodded, trying to smile. When Joe forced one in return, the guy looked satisfied and reached for a paper towel.
Now was his chance.
Joe’s left hand shot over the guy’s mouth and his right reached around his neck, choking with one quick movement. The man tried to yell but only muffled mumbles came out. Grabbing at the sink, the man pulled until Joe kicked hard against the wall with both feet, knocking them backward into the bathroom stall and onto the urinal. He caught the man’s arm with his right just as a large hypodermic needle nearly took out his eye. A small gurgle came from the scientist’s mouth before he slumped forward.
Horror spread across Joe’s face; a thick needle waved back and forth, stuck in the man’s chest during the struggle.
Joe figured the needle had to be some kind of anesthesia. It was a little scary, though—he didn’t know if he injected the wrong spot or used too much. He wasn’t a doctor, so he could only guess. Frowning at the body, he tried to look away. “What the fuck now?”
He had to think quickly. Locking the door to the stall from inside, he pulled the scientist’s coat on and buttoned it. Before crawling out from underneath, he positioned the unconscious man on the toilet, pulling his pants around his ankles.
He looked at himself in the mirror as another white coat entered with red eyes and a worn face. Joe washed his hands quickly, slicked back his hair, and left.
He tried not to look around too much in the depot. If I just look down and move on, no one will notice me, he thought. The depot looked like a tangled mess of white coats.
Across the crowded room, near the front of the depot, stood a long counter where scientists came and went. Waiting, Joe watched the lady at the counter with a sideways glance. Soon, she busily began talking to a handsome fellow—giggling like a school girl.
Joe took his chance.
Approaching the counter, he kept stock of the lady’s name tag. He picked up a clipboard and marched with a livened pace to the double doors. The clipboard had doctor’s jargon and scientific slang littering the page, which he shook his head at and put at his side.
A mistimed beat slapped in Joe’s chest as he stopped dead in his tracks. Cassia talked to a man with a clipboard and cried. She stood at the front of a line to one of the trains many cabins. He didn’t wait to find out the problem before jumping in to the fray. He only wanted to make sure his daughter made it on the train and that he could stay with her.
“…without your father.” The man stated, turning his paper over and reading the back. “Where is he, darlin’?” the man’s tone sounded impatient at best.
“I told you, I don’t know.” Cassia returned. Her hands sat across her chest and she looked remarkably mature for her age. Her nose wrinkled and her mouth stood out like duck bill. Cassia’s face lit up when she saw her father and she pointed to him. “There’s…”
“There’s no time,” Joe said, squinting to read the man’s nametag, “Charon, right? I’ve got your post. Mrs. Hamilton wanted you. Inside,” he tilted his head toward the depot. He turned towards his daughter, “Where’s your father, young lady?”
Mr. Charon looked confused, “She said he went off somewhere and she hasn’t… Are you sure? Mrs. Hamilton?” the doctor asked. He looked at Joe as if half-hoping that he would say no.
“Yes, yes. Mrs. Hamilton.” Joe replied while looking through his notes, not knowing what he was looking at. He looked back up to Mr. Charon with impatience, “Go. Hurry back, I’ve got a lot to do.”
The man lifted one eyebrow, looked to the side and dropped his clipboard in defeat. “Fuck. I’ll be back,” he said, then walked off with his head down.
Going down on one knee, Joe put both hands on his daughter’s shoulders. “I told you. I won’t leave you. I’ll be here the whole time.” Looking around, he saw other lines closing their gates; the train neared capacity. “Now get inside before that guy gets back.”
Joe peeked inside; twelve people were in the closed chamber to the left but only seven to his right. He turned to the people in line and motioned for more to come forward. “Come on, come on, come on. Trains about to leave. Five more. I need…” He patted each person on the back and pushed lightly toward the open entry. “One, two…” he counted off five when a sixth pushed inside. Not wanting to cause a scene, he blocked off the entrance with a chain and closed the door.
The cabins were all outfitted with small, foldout green cots. A metal box with speaker holes stood next to the door with a large white button affixed to the bottom. He hesitated to gather his thoughts before pushing it. “I need you all to lay down on your cots please. If there’s not enough, please share. The train will be leaving soon,” Joe flashed a smile to his daughter and pressed the speak button once more, “You’re going to be fine. I’ll be here the whole way.”
Joe stole a wink from his daughter. Cassia looked calm as she found her bed, like most of the others in the cabin. Most laid back with their arms placed lightly over their chests, hands woven together. Next to Joe were two large red cylinders with hoses leading under the doors and a large metal valve connected between them.
Somewhere above him a booming, baritone voice spoke with a slow casual tone as the trains engines roared to life and its whistle screamed out their impending departure. “Ladies and Gentlemen. Please sit back and relax. You will all sleep now. Consider it a hood over your eyes, so that we might hide our salvation.”
The landscape started moving faster beside them as they approached a distant tunnel. Gray mist funneled through the cabins across from him as another doctor turned a valve’s small wheel. Joe began to turn his too, not wanting to be seen as a phony, when the doctor glared at him. Dark clouds fell from the ceiling in his daughter’s depot and drifted out like an uncontrollable mist.
“Please do not scream. Please remain calm. You are going to a better place. A place where you cannot bring what it is you carry. It’s the only way, I’m afraid,” the voice dragged on.
The train became dark, eclipsed by a hole dug deep into the mountainside. It lit only briefly to the tune of lights along the covered passageway. Joe wretched at the valve, trying to stop its flow as he heard screams and terrible cat like calls. It was a lightning storm of cruel malice.
His daughter’s face twisted in the violent throws of a seizure. Another passenger in a spasm hit the back of their head against the window with a loud thud before dropping. Joe pulled and pulled on the doors, but they just wouldn’t open. He saw people clawing and raking at one another, trying desperately to hold onto life in their cages of death.
Stopping, he helplessly stared at his daughter like she had already died. His lips trembled and spit hung like tinsel, seeing his daughter sitting in the corner of her cabin. Her hands wrapped around her legs, while she screamed. Veins stuck out as she contorted in some inhuman cry of torture. Cassia’s eyes were filled with sadness—like she had been betrayed. It might have been his imagination, but it felt that way.
Joe looked around for help.
The doctor on the other side, holding his arms up to each side of the cabin, smiled; his head bobbing with the train—his eyes peering forward from the depths of madness. Flashing brilliance sent still-framed moments in waves before retreating into darkness. Joe screamed, “I can’t turn it off! They’re dying!” He ran up to the man and shook him by the collar. “MY FUCKING DAUGHTER IS DYING! What’s happening in there? Answer me, GOD DAMN IT! I thought it we were going to a safe place!”
The man hung in his grip, shrugging. “The dead are safe, Mac. It’s you n’ me who have ta worry ‘bout the bodies.” A sad, nasal laugh escaped him as he swayed in an angry father’s grasp.
“But they’re immune!” Joe roared. His face lit like a Halloween lantern as he pointed at the people writhing on the floor of their cabin. “They’ve been tested!”
“You got it all backwards, Jack,” he said. Then the doctor suddenly seemed to have understood. The smile he held bled away from his bobble head. “Ah, your one of them, eh? You’re ‘sposed to think that. ‘Es sir... Dead don’t get sick.” He pulled out a needle from his jacket pocket, watching as Joe let go and fell back in disbelief. “Dead is safe. Dead’s safe for us who are immune. Can’t mutate with no host. Yep, dead’s real safe.”
Cringing from the man, he fled back in a crabwalk-like motion. His back bumped against a cabin window but the bodies no longer cried. Terror no longer rang out.
I led her here I promised to take her to safety, I promised—twisting, writhing, lifeless husks with sea-foam mouths quivered in the cabin behind Joe.
The doctor stood above him. The needle glinted with passing lights—ripples of radiance flew across the man’s glasses. “No use fightin it, Jack.” He sniffed and spat to the side. “Dead’s safe…” The laugh again, the desensitized laugh!
“Don’t cry. Not now, love,” he said as he shook his head, amused by his specimen. “There really is… no… use.”
Joe cried out between sobs but he didn’t try to stop the needle. He wanted to see his daughter.
“This won’t hurt a bit.”
He wanted to see his wife.
“You’ll feel a slight pinch.”
He wanted to be in that safe place.
Wednesday, November 17, 2010
My First Date
Impressionable Youth
When I went on my very first date, I REALLY had to go to the bathroom. Believe it or not, my mother let me go on a date with a thirteen year old girl, despite her being four years my senior. The date was set. My dreams, and fears, began to grow.
Rumor School
By the end of school, everyone knew I was going to the movies with an older girl. I might have let it slip a little, not knowing the dating rules yet. Being an impressionable youth, every friend in school tried to fill me with information. They asked things like: "Are you going to kiss her? Are you going to, well, you know? Do you know how to do - that?"
"Oh, yeah. I do - that - all the time."
But in truth, I didn't know how to do 'it.' In fact, 'it' was the one thing that had eluded my childhood eyes up until that point; no matter how many fingers I peaked through, my mother always hit fast forward and held up a pillow. So in the spirit of my mother, I'll fast forward to the interesting part.
The Interesting Part.
After a whole lot of research, I figured when a man really liked a woman, they did 'it.' In my imagination, during that magically wondrous time doing whatever 'it' was, I won't get into the details, I thought if a man wanted to last really long with a woman... well, he had to drink a lot of soda. I hope I don't have to draw a map about the reasons why... Kids will believe the darnedest things and I had no other earthly idea what else I could use what the rumor around the playground said we used during 'it'.
Needless to say, all through the movie I danced and pranced in my seat. The young lady wore a necklace my mother told me to give her with a beaming smile, politely disregarding my oddly moving legs. Finally, I went for 'the kiss.'
In that moment I knew two things: A) I really had to go to the bathroom, so this better happen now. (Luckily, I never grew into thinking this way) and B) She would be the girl to spend the rest of my life with. (I was wrong, but who would've guessed that)
Now, nothing against Eddie Murphy and The Golden Child, but I remember one thing above everything else that day; a second can last forever when you dive into the unknown with fear, curiosity and bravery. What we find may not be what we sought, but we will be stained by the experience forever.
At the end of my long stretch toward the sun, my foot kicked out without warning, working hard to stem the tide of soda and nervousness. Jerking my head from the movement, my lips, which should have met her luscious, lipsticked mouth, instead dived into her coarse, dry hair. She laughed at me, making me go red. I tried to kiss her once more, but missed. Then, I ran to the bathroom.
I braved the rest of movie between breaks. Later, I did get a kiss from the young lady in question. But that is another story, entirely.
I hope I didn't bore everyone. Do you have a good first kiss story? That's the truth of mine, however embarrassing the moment felt. My kids are waiting to date until they are ready, which I hope is around 18.
When I went on my very first date, I REALLY had to go to the bathroom. Believe it or not, my mother let me go on a date with a thirteen year old girl, despite her being four years my senior. The date was set. My dreams, and fears, began to grow.
Rumor School
By the end of school, everyone knew I was going to the movies with an older girl. I might have let it slip a little, not knowing the dating rules yet. Being an impressionable youth, every friend in school tried to fill me with information. They asked things like: "Are you going to kiss her? Are you going to, well, you know? Do you know how to do - that?"
"Oh, yeah. I do - that - all the time."
But in truth, I didn't know how to do 'it.' In fact, 'it' was the one thing that had eluded my childhood eyes up until that point; no matter how many fingers I peaked through, my mother always hit fast forward and held up a pillow. So in the spirit of my mother, I'll fast forward to the interesting part.
The Interesting Part.
After a whole lot of research, I figured when a man really liked a woman, they did 'it.' In my imagination, during that magically wondrous time doing whatever 'it' was, I won't get into the details, I thought if a man wanted to last really long with a woman... well, he had to drink a lot of soda. I hope I don't have to draw a map about the reasons why... Kids will believe the darnedest things and I had no other earthly idea what else I could use what the rumor around the playground said we used during 'it'.
Needless to say, all through the movie I danced and pranced in my seat. The young lady wore a necklace my mother told me to give her with a beaming smile, politely disregarding my oddly moving legs. Finally, I went for 'the kiss.'
In that moment I knew two things: A) I really had to go to the bathroom, so this better happen now. (Luckily, I never grew into thinking this way) and B) She would be the girl to spend the rest of my life with. (I was wrong, but who would've guessed that)
Now, nothing against Eddie Murphy and The Golden Child, but I remember one thing above everything else that day; a second can last forever when you dive into the unknown with fear, curiosity and bravery. What we find may not be what we sought, but we will be stained by the experience forever.
At the end of my long stretch toward the sun, my foot kicked out without warning, working hard to stem the tide of soda and nervousness. Jerking my head from the movement, my lips, which should have met her luscious, lipsticked mouth, instead dived into her coarse, dry hair. She laughed at me, making me go red. I tried to kiss her once more, but missed. Then, I ran to the bathroom.
I braved the rest of movie between breaks. Later, I did get a kiss from the young lady in question. But that is another story, entirely.
I hope I didn't bore everyone. Do you have a good first kiss story? That's the truth of mine, however embarrassing the moment felt. My kids are waiting to date until they are ready, which I hope is around 18.
Tuesday, November 16, 2010
1 Million Dollars to the Community
My neck has been killing me, so I haven't gotten anything done today. I don't know how long I will be out of commission, but it is hard to sit here and write this. I wondered what would be an interesting blog today, and wanted to do something different than the norm.
What would you do if you had one million dollars to spend on your community?
Pondering a second. Well, I think jobs are very important right now. I would put together a non-profit website, comprised of students in law school. It would pay college students to dissect the new bills that are being voted on. They would evaluate every page of every bill, breaking it down to plain English for the rest of us.
Using students throughout the nation, it would offer a platform for reform and education to anyone who wanted it. Hopefully, it would also help the students with experience for their resume. The website would be free for viewing and passed out to a large mailing list.
To help offshoot the cost of these students and keep the program running, I would commission writers to investigate and write about the most shady bills. Selling those books and using donations, I would hope to keep the program afloat. A government grant would be worth investigating, too. Sponsorship by big law-firms would be considered, but those options would be weighed versus keeping the program biased.
All research notes and material would be logged. Working with programs ranging from The Daily Show to CNN, I could see an immediate use for this. People want information they can understand and truth.
That is off the top of my head, so there is most likely some way better ideas. Fill me in on yours.
What would you do if you had one million dollars to spend on your community?
Pondering a second. Well, I think jobs are very important right now. I would put together a non-profit website, comprised of students in law school. It would pay college students to dissect the new bills that are being voted on. They would evaluate every page of every bill, breaking it down to plain English for the rest of us.
Using students throughout the nation, it would offer a platform for reform and education to anyone who wanted it. Hopefully, it would also help the students with experience for their resume. The website would be free for viewing and passed out to a large mailing list.
To help offshoot the cost of these students and keep the program running, I would commission writers to investigate and write about the most shady bills. Selling those books and using donations, I would hope to keep the program afloat. A government grant would be worth investigating, too. Sponsorship by big law-firms would be considered, but those options would be weighed versus keeping the program biased.
All research notes and material would be logged. Working with programs ranging from The Daily Show to CNN, I could see an immediate use for this. People want information they can understand and truth.
That is off the top of my head, so there is most likely some way better ideas. Fill me in on yours.
Monday, November 15, 2010
Planning for the Holidays
It is never too early to plan for the holidays.
Before the turkeys and stuffing are even being thawed out, candy canes are being displayed in every store. So I figure, why not get ahead a few holidays?
What New Year's Resolutions do you have?
Have you ever taken the time to inventory your life, the same way you would a character in a book? Would the audience applaud your efforts? Do they think you're a good person, in love and in life?
No one is perfect, so I suspect the crowd would have their gripes. But it isn't too late to turn anything around. Remember, everyone loves a good redemption story.
But can you really change?
I believe so. There is nothing in the world that will alter you, other than you. Our perceptions of the obstacles we cross are usually the only real obstacles we ever cross. When we challenge the illusion, reach out to move the blockade, there's usually nothing in our path but a bump. Even the hardest and most arduous days only last 24 hours.
But it will be to hard to change.
The journey to our potential is blocked by excuses, as intangible as thought. Usually tremendously bad things have to happen to ordinary people, just to push them to make extraordinary leaps in character.
But you can do it now. Free.
If you change a bad habit, it might add a few years to your life. There are so many good reasons to take an honest inventory of ourselves, but only fear stops us. I know that sounds cliche, but it's true. When I finally stopped smoking, I realized that the anxiety of quitting was ten times harder than actually putting down the cigarette.
Another great thing about change: Old things are shown in a brand new light.
For those who have had a kid, you know what I am talking about. The world looks different after your life changes. As we mature, we often look back at our younger selves and shake our head in disbelief. But if we can truly look at ourselves, we can save ourselves a lot of heartache.
If you take an honest inventory of yourself, do you have the courage to fix your biggest vice or problem??
As a side note. I spent a few hours looking for a new blog template. I don't think the green is working. I would LOVE suggestions or help making a template.
Before the turkeys and stuffing are even being thawed out, candy canes are being displayed in every store. So I figure, why not get ahead a few holidays?
What New Year's Resolutions do you have?
Have you ever taken the time to inventory your life, the same way you would a character in a book? Would the audience applaud your efforts? Do they think you're a good person, in love and in life?
No one is perfect, so I suspect the crowd would have their gripes. But it isn't too late to turn anything around. Remember, everyone loves a good redemption story.
But can you really change?
I believe so. There is nothing in the world that will alter you, other than you. Our perceptions of the obstacles we cross are usually the only real obstacles we ever cross. When we challenge the illusion, reach out to move the blockade, there's usually nothing in our path but a bump. Even the hardest and most arduous days only last 24 hours.
But it will be to hard to change.
The journey to our potential is blocked by excuses, as intangible as thought. Usually tremendously bad things have to happen to ordinary people, just to push them to make extraordinary leaps in character.
But you can do it now. Free.
If you change a bad habit, it might add a few years to your life. There are so many good reasons to take an honest inventory of ourselves, but only fear stops us. I know that sounds cliche, but it's true. When I finally stopped smoking, I realized that the anxiety of quitting was ten times harder than actually putting down the cigarette.
Another great thing about change: Old things are shown in a brand new light.
For those who have had a kid, you know what I am talking about. The world looks different after your life changes. As we mature, we often look back at our younger selves and shake our head in disbelief. But if we can truly look at ourselves, we can save ourselves a lot of heartache.
If you take an honest inventory of yourself, do you have the courage to fix your biggest vice or problem??
As a side note. I spent a few hours looking for a new blog template. I don't think the green is working. I would LOVE suggestions or help making a template.
Friday, November 12, 2010
Interview Linda Watanabe McFerrin
Yesterday, I had the exciting opportunity to meet Linda Watanabe McFerrin, an author published through Stone Bridge Press. Meeting on Facebook, I loved the opportunity to talk in the flesh.
Her book, Dead Love, played wonderfully to the crowd at the reading and she had an amazing presence. We all got to hear some wonderful scenes. If you haven't had the chance to read it, and you like zombies, this book is for you. I've heard it compared to a Twilight for zombies. I haven't (shame on me) read Twilight, so I don't know for sure.
Her book, Dead Love, played wonderfully to the crowd at the reading and she had an amazing presence. We all got to hear some wonderful scenes. If you haven't had the chance to read it, and you like zombies, this book is for you. I've heard it compared to a Twilight for zombies. I haven't (shame on me) read Twilight, so I don't know for sure.
I can tell you a few things I do know. For example: The book has zombies, ghouls, Japanese mafia, falling elevators, dead bodies and ballet dancing. The story goes all around the world, from Japan to Malaysia, so it really tests your imagination while only giving us places Linda has been to and seen with her own eyes.
Often times, she will go outside of the normal realm of zombies, forcing you to adjust your thinking. There are real cases of zombification mixed in the story, bringing realism and the careful use of Google. We don't know if there will be a sequel, but stay tuned.
I normally read horror, but there was something about a skin changing ghoul that drew me in. Clement reminds me of a great Tim Burton bad guy.
Often times, she will go outside of the normal realm of zombies, forcing you to adjust your thinking. There are real cases of zombification mixed in the story, bringing realism and the careful use of Google. We don't know if there will be a sequel, but stay tuned.
I normally read horror, but there was something about a skin changing ghoul that drew me in. Clement reminds me of a great Tim Burton bad guy.
But maybe that is just me. Here is our interview. I hope you enjoy.
---------------------------------------------------
Q. Hello Linda, thank you for coming. I would like to start off the interview by asking what you did before you wrote?
A. I’ve written since I was six. The first book I ever wrote was created in my first grade class when I lived in England. It was a story called “Tom and the Weed” and I used paper and pencil to create it. I put it on the book table to see if the other kids would grab it. They did. I kept writing.
Q. What inspired you to write Dead Love?
A. I’ve always been fascinated by the supernatural. I’ve been reading E. A. Poe since I was seven. I was a huge fan of speculative fiction in high school and I studied the mythical and magical in literature as an undergraduate in Comp. Lit. At first I thought I’d write a vampire novel, but then I was swept away by zombies.
Q. Did you ever think, "This just won't happen?"
A. Absolutely. It’s taken so long. But a few years back, in Shanghai, a Chinese fortuneteller—Mr. Zhou—told me the book would be published and it would be a big success. He also predicted my sister’s marriage. She did marry that very year, so I knew the book would get published one day. You see, he was right.
Q. What difficulties did you have, writing a zombie girl.
A. It was hard making a zombie without will interesting. That’s why Clément is not totally successful in zombifying Erin. She needed to have a soul worth saving.
Q. The last half zoomed. Did you find yourself catching your stride as a writer, toward the end?
A. Once everything was set up and the character created there was no stopping them. The next book will move swiftly.
***This question along with one she answered at the reading, pointed to there being a sequel to this book. Very interesting, indeed! I wonder if that makes this an exclusive? Well, she didn't out and out say it. She only said something like she was "strongly considering making a sequel based on _____"
Q. Did you use anyone as a template for Clément?
A. Absolutely, someone near and dear to me, but I think what makes Clément fascinating is that he could be anyone who is a major screw-up. He’s brilliant, but he keeps looking for love and happiness in all the wrong places … like the morgue. Then again, what’s a ghoul to do?
Q. Do you ever find it hard to think because the characters continue to bother you?
A. Well, no, they actually provoke thought. I do find it hard to work because they insist on dark matters. I was supposed to do a lovely nature essay for the anniversary issue of a magazine that focuses on environmental issues and it turned into a meditation on death. It is an interesting meditation, but it is about the darker side of our dance with the natural world. Not what the magazine editor was expecting, but he says he likes it.
Q. Have you been everywhere in your book?
A. Just about. I have never been to Haiti, though I’ve had a couple of foster children there through an organization that provides assistance for children. I’d love to go. The other settings in the book are all based on places I’ve been. Many of the hotels and restaurants are versions of my favorite places—like Christian Orison’s apartment, Uguisi Ryokan, Hiroshi Nakamura’s penthouse, Alain’s houseboat in Amsterdam, and the canal house where the rave takes place. Even Saint Ali, is based on a real place, though it isn’t actually in Malaysia. Often the setting comes first for me, like the background in a painting. Then I set the characters up in it and let them go to town.
Q. What languages do you speak?
A. I’m pretty good with English. I guess I also speak a little French and Spanish, minimal Japanese and Italian. That’s it. My mother was a translator. She spoke six languages. Her first language was English, then Japanese, French, Chinese, Italian and a little Russian.
***At the reading, she did very good with the foreign languages used in her book. I thought she might be fluent in Japanese.
Q. How did your past influence the story and where you sent the main character?
A. I spent several years in Japan as a child; my first novel, Namako, is set in Japan. Of course I had to set Dead Love in Tokyo and other parts of Asia. I tried to place it in Switzerland, originally, which is where Erin’s mom is from, but that was just too buttoned down for my zombie girl. Erin, like me, has been all over the world, but I had my family with me. Erin was always alone.
Q. Why did Clément let her go to begin with, then get mad about who she got with while gone, only to want to take her again?
A. Clément is a mercurial character, very undisciplined and subject to moods. But he has a lot of power. He tries to be caring, responsible, but it simply isn’t in his ghoulish nature, so he doesn’t quite know how to go about it. Not a creature to rely on. He always fails. He survives, but the objects of his affection are definitely at risk.
I am looking forward to seeing another sequel to this book.
Thanks, is this a question?
****Why yes, yes it was. Good dodge!
Q. What did you like about the comic book process?
A. Everything. I have a background in graphic arts and design and used to merchandise and direct art for a boy’s T-shirt line for Levi Strauss & Co. This brought back a lot of memories because comics have to be really dynamic and understandable, just like the art for T-shirts. I also loved watching Peter, my publisher, storyboard, and I enjoyed creating thumbnails of the characters to send to Botan Yamada, our artist in Japan.
Q. How much input did you have on the cover?
A. Lots, and that was fun too, for the same reasons I liked the manga development. It was a joint process with my publisher. In most cases with the books I’ve written or edited, the publishers have let me in on the process. I guess there’s a respect for my professional experience in the arts. I also used to manage an art gallery. I do cherish and appreciate that respect and consideration.
Q. How big was the original novel?
A. Quite a bit bigger. Part of the process was editing it down to what was essential. It was a very Zen process. Anything extraneous has been taken out. It’s now a pretty fast read … and toward the end, almost a race.
Q. How has your life changed?
A. It’s become even busier. The tour has taken up a lot of time and I haven’t been able to teach as much. I miss that. I’m also focusing more on zombie matters and it’s spilling over into my other work, like the essay I mentioned earlier. But I’m not complaining by any means. This is stuff I love writing about. One extra-odd benefit is the addition of zombie walks to my favorite things to do. I love them. Erin, the Dead Love protagonist, blogs on various zombie walks, and I know she’ll continue to do so.
Q. Talk about your poetry.
A. I’ve always written poetry. My first publications were poems, and the creative project for my Masters in Creative Writing was a poetry collection, The Impossibility of Redemption is Something We Hadn’t Figured On … which was then published by Berkeley Poets Workshop and Press. But then I started making money writing travel articles, so I focused on that for years. These days I mix it up. I’ll basically write in whatever form seems appropriate, though I think the craft in each form, informs the next in new ways. That’s a lot of fun and very generative.
Q. Why zombies?
A. I was a zombie for a while. I think we all are at one time or another. For me, they have always been a very powerful symbol. They are, I think, the opposite of vampires, which are very charismatic, self-centered beings. Zombies are the mob. They are without will, or in the case of “real” zombies, possessed and controlled by another. When I read an article in the paper about a man convicted for the crime of zombification, I was intrigued. I started to dig … an oddly zombie-like activity … and I discovered that zombies could actually be made in the real world. I’ve always been fascinated by the blurry boundary between fiction and what we call truth, so I couldn’t help myself. The journey into zombieland had begun.
Q. Zombies in 2012? Really?
A. No question. Zombies have definitely gone viral. They will only grow in numbers. Do I think there is a zombie apocalypse in our future? That depends on how well governments manage the biological weapons we know they are developing. I think we’ve already seen some instances of people returning from wars as zombies, haven’t we?
Q. Will you continue writing about zombies and the undead?
A. Only if they insist.
--------------------------------------------------
Thank you again Linda. Have a wonderful day all. Keep tuned!
Draven Ames
Contact information for Linda Watanabe McFerrin
lwmcferrin.com
twitter.com/lwmcferrin
facebook.com/lindawatanabemcferrin
Thursday, November 11, 2010
Writing Dialog
Today I would like to discuss tips for writing Dialog (or Dialogue for those who prefer it to be typed as such. Feel free to pretend I spent the time appeasing you and add the UE in your mind). Writing speech on paper can be difficult, especially if you don't listen to people talk. So, how do you frame your dialog?
Here are a few things I try to do.
I like to use dialog to put a character's thoughts into the open. This gets rid of a lot of the filler in a story and allows the characters to really come alive. It also gets rid some of your most 'telling' writing. It's a nice moment when a husband thinks, I love her. But it's romantic and surprising when he brings her a paper flower, kissing her gently, even after ten years of marriage. Thoughts can be turned into dialog, and dialog into action. Rewriting is our friend.
And sometimes things should stay in their heads. Know when to let it out to make your character more realistic or to give more life to your story. But sometimes, I know it is rare, your characters should think before they act.
Dialog should also advance the plot or show us something about the characters. Writers are supposed to show the real world to the readers - just not the boring parts. You are not a video camera. No, you should be the director that decides what and when to shoot.
And try to use action instead of attribution, once in a while. They don't have to 'said, say, reply' all the time. Instead of using so many complex "She wondered, he vexed, she whined, he yelled," you can show something.
Also, remember that our characters don't always tell the truth. We must keep in mind that we don't have to tell the audience when the characters are lying or when they are being truthful. It is up to you.
If Bob's hiding someone in his basement, it may add to the suspense to let the readers know. However, it could be a greater mystery if you don't tell them. That's up to you, but Bob will certainly lie.
Now, think about how many times a person tells white lies in a day. Let your characters do that. It will reveal a bit about them, seeing what they choose to keep to themselves or embellish upon. It reveals our strengths, our weaknesses and our false misconceptions of the world.
Don't forget to 'cut to the pleasantries.' No, long winded dialog to introduce one another. We know they spend ten minutes asking questions like 'how are you' and 'how's the kids?' But why listen? Unless it reveals something about the characters or story, cut it.
Nothing can chop up a book more than a hugggggggeeeee speech. Some books pull it off, but for the most part... Skip the monologue. Who would be friends with captain monologue anyway? Monologue, monotonous.... do you see what I'm talking about?
Every speech pattern is different. When you go out somewhere, shut your pie eating device and listen to the world. There are so many characters around you; how could you run out of ways to let them express themselves? Try different speech patterns, rearranging sentences and letting your characters come alive.
You need a unique writing voice, right? Your characters must have a unique voice, too. Spend some time writing a character in the same scene, but in different ways. Give them new ways of speaking and how they say things. Sometimes, it can give you a fresh outlook. Most times, it will help you solidify who you already have pictured in the role. You might just find a whole new cast livens up your book. People forget, we are our own casting director.
Let your other characters disregard, ignore or get lost in their own world. Dialog said isn't always heard. Let things slip through the cracks. The readers get gems and comedy relief. It can also be suspenseful, when the crowd knows the combination but the character can't remember, he was busy thinking about the hot Brazilian girl in the bikini.
Some last advice: Don't be over-descriptive in dialog - no one calls the ground 'frosted over with tiny grains of icy-dew and moonbeams' or some stupid derivative. Don't over use titles and names. No one does that in real life. How often do you call your friend any name at all in speech? "Hey Jerry, I'll be over soon. You know you're crazy, Tom. You up for that, Bob?"
I hope I didn't go on too much of a rant. Hopefully this is helpful to everyone,
Draven Ames
Here are a few things I try to do.
I like to use dialog to put a character's thoughts into the open. This gets rid of a lot of the filler in a story and allows the characters to really come alive. It also gets rid some of your most 'telling' writing. It's a nice moment when a husband thinks, I love her. But it's romantic and surprising when he brings her a paper flower, kissing her gently, even after ten years of marriage. Thoughts can be turned into dialog, and dialog into action. Rewriting is our friend.
And sometimes things should stay in their heads. Know when to let it out to make your character more realistic or to give more life to your story. But sometimes, I know it is rare, your characters should think before they act.
Dialog should also advance the plot or show us something about the characters. Writers are supposed to show the real world to the readers - just not the boring parts. You are not a video camera. No, you should be the director that decides what and when to shoot.
And try to use action instead of attribution, once in a while. They don't have to 'said, say, reply' all the time. Instead of using so many complex "She wondered, he vexed, she whined, he yelled," you can show something.
Also, remember that our characters don't always tell the truth. We must keep in mind that we don't have to tell the audience when the characters are lying or when they are being truthful. It is up to you.
If Bob's hiding someone in his basement, it may add to the suspense to let the readers know. However, it could be a greater mystery if you don't tell them. That's up to you, but Bob will certainly lie.
Now, think about how many times a person tells white lies in a day. Let your characters do that. It will reveal a bit about them, seeing what they choose to keep to themselves or embellish upon. It reveals our strengths, our weaknesses and our false misconceptions of the world.
Don't forget to 'cut to the pleasantries.' No, long winded dialog to introduce one another. We know they spend ten minutes asking questions like 'how are you' and 'how's the kids?' But why listen? Unless it reveals something about the characters or story, cut it.
Nothing can chop up a book more than a hugggggggeeeee speech. Some books pull it off, but for the most part... Skip the monologue. Who would be friends with captain monologue anyway? Monologue, monotonous.... do you see what I'm talking about?
Every speech pattern is different. When you go out somewhere, shut your pie eating device and listen to the world. There are so many characters around you; how could you run out of ways to let them express themselves? Try different speech patterns, rearranging sentences and letting your characters come alive.
You need a unique writing voice, right? Your characters must have a unique voice, too. Spend some time writing a character in the same scene, but in different ways. Give them new ways of speaking and how they say things. Sometimes, it can give you a fresh outlook. Most times, it will help you solidify who you already have pictured in the role. You might just find a whole new cast livens up your book. People forget, we are our own casting director.
Let your other characters disregard, ignore or get lost in their own world. Dialog said isn't always heard. Let things slip through the cracks. The readers get gems and comedy relief. It can also be suspenseful, when the crowd knows the combination but the character can't remember, he was busy thinking about the hot Brazilian girl in the bikini.
Some last advice: Don't be over-descriptive in dialog - no one calls the ground 'frosted over with tiny grains of icy-dew and moonbeams' or some stupid derivative. Don't over use titles and names. No one does that in real life. How often do you call your friend any name at all in speech? "Hey Jerry, I'll be over soon. You know you're crazy, Tom. You up for that, Bob?"
I hope I didn't go on too much of a rant. Hopefully this is helpful to everyone,
Draven Ames
Wednesday, November 10, 2010
Quick Update
Okay, so I finished Linda McFerrin's book. The ending screamed sequel. She read the book very well and her Japanese is very crisp. Everyone loved the reading and she had a bit of a crowd.
She agreed to let me interview her. If anyone has a comment or suggestion, let me know. I'd love to hear any questions you think I should ask. I am going to ask about her book and the upcoming projects, as well as hit on what it is like to transition into the book reading and signing aspect of becoming a writer.
Thank you for reading this quick blurb. Please,give some questions.
Remember, we all make a difference to the other writers in our community. We should support one another. If you have a blog, please link it in your comment. I love to find new blogs.
Draven Ames
She agreed to let me interview her. If anyone has a comment or suggestion, let me know. I'd love to hear any questions you think I should ask. I am going to ask about her book and the upcoming projects, as well as hit on what it is like to transition into the book reading and signing aspect of becoming a writer.
Thank you for reading this quick blurb. Please,give some questions.
Remember, we all make a difference to the other writers in our community. We should support one another. If you have a blog, please link it in your comment. I love to find new blogs.
Draven Ames
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
Linda McFerrin Comes to Town
I met Linda McFerrin, author of Dead Love, through Facebook.By the time you are done reading the finely crafted prologue, she will have you wondering if Zombies could be real. That is a tall order.
I have enjoyed her work so far and cannot wait to finish it, I like to support authors, so here is some stuff she would like you to know about her. She will be reading at Powells Books, in Portland, tomorrow at 7. Be there or be square.
Check out her Amazon reviews. Her site describes the book as:
DEAD LOVE is a supernatural thriller in the tradition of Mary Shelley, E.A. Poe, Mikhail Bulgakov, and Anne Rice. The novel follows a cast of nefarious characters, both human and otherworldly, as they foil and foul one another’s plans and power plays in a conspiracy of global proportions. It begins when Clément, a lovesick ghoul, falls head over heels for a beautiful young woman. Unfortunately, the girl is marked for death by the Japanese mob (the Yakuza). What’s a ghoul to do? He’s got to create a means to save her. Using secrets learned from a Haitian witchdoctor he finds a way to rescue and possess her, but not in the manner he’s expected. Set in Central America, Europe, Scandinavia, Asia and Southeast Asia, the novel jets readers all over the planet on a diabolical joyride that is destined to end darkly.
So far, I'm 10 pages from done in two days. That is good, fast reading.
Draven Ames
Written by Linda McFerrin
At the International Spy Museum I have learned about bugs and drops and micro-devices and, most significantly, about creating what spies call “a cover.” The fabrication of a fictitious personality and a past that supports it—from sales slips for items never purchased to passports, entire families, and tickets to events never attended—strikes me as the essence of what writers must do when creating a character. I know that my characters often become so real that I have trouble confining them to the works for which they were generated. A really well drawn character will speak to me, maybe even start making demands. Erin, Christian’s daughter in the novel, who almost becomes a zombie, now has her own website where she blogs every day on The Daily Slice. She’s even been a guest blogger for other sites. Clément, the aforementioned ghoul and master at assuming identities—he changes bodies like humans change clothes—is demanding top billing in a book of his own. In other words, a well-invented character has an authenticity that it should be hard to question.
My website features a quote by Jessamyn West: “Fiction reveals truths that reality obscures.” Uncovering the truth that lies hidden seems to be at the root of the most alluring tales. Writers are experts at this, and it is a known fact that inventive writers make very good spies. One of my uncles was an American war correspondent and a spy. When he died at an advanced age; the real stories were buried with him.
When I think about it, a lot of my favorite authors were spies. Anthony Burgess, who wrote A Clockwork Orange and Tremor of Intent worked for British Army Intelligence in WWII. John le Carré (real name: David Cornwall); author of Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy; Smiley’s People; and more, worked for British Intelligence during the Cold War. Ian Fleming worked for British Naval Intelligence and our own André Le Gallo, Left Coast Writer and author of The Caliphate served as the National Intelligence Officer for Counterterrorism for the CIA.
There is one little problem for both spies and authors, particularly writers of fiction. When you are inventing people and worlds, the line between truth and fiction seems to blur. But haven’t we learned, post Einstein, that everything, including the truth, is relative? Well, that opens up a whole can of worms, many of which like playing with the characters in Dead Love. As for me, I’m recruiting for my own spy ring, the Z.I.A., or Zombie Intelligence Agency; their mission is to report to me on all matters zombie. How to join? It’s no secret. Just send Erin a note on Facebook.
©2010 by Linda Watanabe McFerrin
____________
Poet, travel writer and novelist Linda Watanabe McFerrin (www.lwmcferrin.com), is the founder of Left Coast Writers®. She has been traveling since she was two and writing about it since she was six. A contributor to numerous journals, newspapers, magazines, anthologies and online publications, she is the author of two poetry collections, an award-winning novel (Namako: Sea Cucumber) and short story collection (The Hand of Buddha), and the editor of a travel guidebook (Best Places Northern California, 4th ed.) and four literary anthologies.
A past winner of the Katherine Anne Porter Prize for Fiction she teaches and leads workshops in fiction and creative non-fiction. Her latest novel, Dead Love, is available now from Stone Bridge Press.
Monday, November 8, 2010
Synopsis Questions
At last, I am ready to write my query and synopsis. After months making sure everything is ready, and learning more than I ever imagined I didn’t know, I’ve got a novel to be proud of. A few select people read the story, helping to find errors, and came away asking about my next book. That made me smile.
After I had my manuscript read, each chapter received one last, by-hand edit. When I finished that, it got read out loud until nothing stumbled.
What now?
Well, after some research, I’ve narrowed it down to writing a query letter and a synopsis. I decided to try the later first, as it seemed the hardest. Looking them up, each site offers different advice. Nathan Bransford seems to say that a synopsis should be like the book’s blurb, only with an ending. That makes it sound like he wants to hear our voice.
Others believe you should tell, not show—saying that the editor or agent already likes your writing, given that they have requested your synopsis. They warn against using fancy descriptions. Mostly, the synopsis should be tight and grammatically correct, unlike this quickly written blog.
Beth Anderson’s article about the subject says we should write our synopsis as an outline, before our books. Oops.
Most agree that the synopsis should not be about clever lines, but express the whole story instead. It should be short descriptions of the actions, or stumbling blocks, which lead the character to overcome their main issue—and there must be a main issue.
So, how short is short?
Some blogs say to write a three page synopsis, while others vary. What have you found is needed? Also, I'd like to see a good sample from an editor. I've seen some samples, but they vary. Should we title it to the agent we are going to query? Does it need our information on the upper-left corner?
To move on, Beth Anderson once wrote, "But embellish it with action, not description.”
That means that agents and editors want the very bare amount of description possible in a synopsis, wanting to get the meat of our story quickly. For example:
Bob got mad at bill for stealing his job. Following Bill home, he slid inside his enemy’s house. When no one looked, Bob stole Bill’s cookies from his otherwise impenetrable refrigerator. Bill got upset when he got home, seeing Bob run.
He chased Bob for his cookies, but fell into traps all over Bob’s house. Every time Bob sat to eat the cookies, Bill almost gets them back with an amazingly harebrained invention. One such invention turns out unexpected, creating a stove that can cook food ten times as fast without burning anything. In the end, the two became friends.
Bob ate the cookies and became happy while Bill created a new cookie factory. They worked together and everyone loved the new store. The end.
Of course, editors and agents want nothing with a plot-line that bad. But I wonder: Is that really the type of description they want?
I’d like to go into this the right way, as I’m sure you would. So you have any good research or ideas to share? Do you know of a good sample?
Also, blogs say to describe what your story is about in one sentence. They say it should be the first sentence of your synopsis. Can it be a concept? For example, can I say my book is about a person coming to grips with the nature of man being evil?
Now, my novel isn’t about that; but it is about a deep philosophy that will leave readers wondering more than one question. 1984 may have told the story of a man who went to crazy lengths to get laid, but the underlining story, the essence of 1984, was so much more than that.
**Spoiler for 1984 alert—only next paragraph.
I guess, if someone had to sum 1984 up in one sentence, it could be: When a depressed man in dystopian world tries to fight what society gives him, he finds that love does not conquer all, and that big brother truly can take everything. Now, I’m no Orwell, but that sentence might get attention. It could be incorrect, as some would argue that it was not love, but desperate loneliness that led Winston to cling to the first thing that touched him.
We are warned against fancy writing. What would Orwell have written as his summary sentence? What other books would be hard to describe in one sentence? Give it a try.
So, what advice do you have? Write a blog about it and link it, if you can. Also, please post your link with your comments. I appreciate everyone taking the time to read this,
Draven Ames
After I had my manuscript read, each chapter received one last, by-hand edit. When I finished that, it got read out loud until nothing stumbled.
What now?
Well, after some research, I’ve narrowed it down to writing a query letter and a synopsis. I decided to try the later first, as it seemed the hardest. Looking them up, each site offers different advice. Nathan Bransford seems to say that a synopsis should be like the book’s blurb, only with an ending. That makes it sound like he wants to hear our voice.
Others believe you should tell, not show—saying that the editor or agent already likes your writing, given that they have requested your synopsis. They warn against using fancy descriptions. Mostly, the synopsis should be tight and grammatically correct, unlike this quickly written blog.
Beth Anderson’s article about the subject says we should write our synopsis as an outline, before our books. Oops.
Most agree that the synopsis should not be about clever lines, but express the whole story instead. It should be short descriptions of the actions, or stumbling blocks, which lead the character to overcome their main issue—and there must be a main issue.
So, how short is short?
Some blogs say to write a three page synopsis, while others vary. What have you found is needed? Also, I'd like to see a good sample from an editor. I've seen some samples, but they vary. Should we title it to the agent we are going to query? Does it need our information on the upper-left corner?
To move on, Beth Anderson once wrote, "But embellish it with action, not description.”
That means that agents and editors want the very bare amount of description possible in a synopsis, wanting to get the meat of our story quickly. For example:
Bob got mad at bill for stealing his job. Following Bill home, he slid inside his enemy’s house. When no one looked, Bob stole Bill’s cookies from his otherwise impenetrable refrigerator. Bill got upset when he got home, seeing Bob run.
He chased Bob for his cookies, but fell into traps all over Bob’s house. Every time Bob sat to eat the cookies, Bill almost gets them back with an amazingly harebrained invention. One such invention turns out unexpected, creating a stove that can cook food ten times as fast without burning anything. In the end, the two became friends.
Bob ate the cookies and became happy while Bill created a new cookie factory. They worked together and everyone loved the new store. The end.
Of course, editors and agents want nothing with a plot-line that bad. But I wonder: Is that really the type of description they want?
I’d like to go into this the right way, as I’m sure you would. So you have any good research or ideas to share? Do you know of a good sample?
Also, blogs say to describe what your story is about in one sentence. They say it should be the first sentence of your synopsis. Can it be a concept? For example, can I say my book is about a person coming to grips with the nature of man being evil?
Now, my novel isn’t about that; but it is about a deep philosophy that will leave readers wondering more than one question. 1984 may have told the story of a man who went to crazy lengths to get laid, but the underlining story, the essence of 1984, was so much more than that.
**Spoiler for 1984 alert—only next paragraph.
I guess, if someone had to sum 1984 up in one sentence, it could be: When a depressed man in dystopian world tries to fight what society gives him, he finds that love does not conquer all, and that big brother truly can take everything. Now, I’m no Orwell, but that sentence might get attention. It could be incorrect, as some would argue that it was not love, but desperate loneliness that led Winston to cling to the first thing that touched him.
We are warned against fancy writing. What would Orwell have written as his summary sentence? What other books would be hard to describe in one sentence? Give it a try.
So, what advice do you have? Write a blog about it and link it, if you can. Also, please post your link with your comments. I appreciate everyone taking the time to read this,
Draven Ames
Saturday, November 6, 2010
Be Real
Today, I would like to talk about being politically correct in writing. Mainly, I'm going to advise against it. Why? Because that isn't real life.
Mr. King said, "Anything that you can see in the street, at any time, should be in a book. If the situation comes up, you point the reader at it. That is to say, you shouldn't walk away." Summary: Let the world around you come out unfiltered.
You see, if we pretend and misrepresent the world around us, the world around us will misunderstand reality. In most books and movies, for instance, if someone is running from a villain and jumps off of a tall building, often times they don't get hurt. When the A-Team shot down helicopters, everyone walked away without a scratch. But when someone thinks they can really leap down to get away from a burglar, or they act bravely in the face of danger, they get injured or worse. There has to be some integrity in writing.
Secondly, being too unrealistic can pull you out of the story as quickly as a plot hole. Fighting against your character's true personality can do the same thing. We've all watched something, or read something, and stopped paying attention when we didn't believe the character would talk, act or think like that. Writers can't want their audience to visualize their book without being true to what's in their head, or readers will see the seams.
And to those that say that we are making the world worse with our writing... Well, they haven't looked around lately. The economy, job market, housing situation, cost of college, public schooling, food expenses, health care bills, cancer and on, and on... and on. The PC crowd butchers the written world as much as horror writers butcher the real one, so let's call it a draw.
If someone gets hit by a car, I want to hear the pop, see the blood and watch the pain. That doesn't mean I want someone to get hit. Most people slow their vehicle down to look. I don't think it's right, I'm not saying I won't cringe a little, but I think it should be real on the page. If you are going to kill something, kill it right. If you are going to show something, show it.
That isn't to say I want to write "The Hills Have Eyes."
But I'm not one of those people who think violent or gory books will make the world worse; Have you been watching the news? I'll take a horror story over the local news at six, 9 times out of 10. We aren't more violent, just more informed.
Anyone who wants to censor what they write shouldn't step outside, turn on a television or look in the history books. I've got news, the world has been violent for a very long time.
If a photographer takes a picture of a wartime situation, people don't ask why he didn't photoshop the armored tanks out of the shot. The world is how you view it, so show it the way it really is. Horror gives you a vantage point that makes yours look just a little bit better.If you take a look around, doesn't that sound like a good thing?
People are worried about the world right now. We see the way things are going, living in the aftershocks of 9/11 and watching our soldiers get sent to places that some people don't agree with. The price of oil goes up, the supply goes down and the ozone may, or may not, be falling on our heads. It's chicken Little all over again. Outside or our doors is scary place, and some people are bound to be depressed.
So, reading horror and watching scary movies can give people a chance to see the end, without having to step over the ledge. Some need escape outlets to function with a PC smile and attitude, being overworked and glad to have a job--even if they are stuck shouldering the load of so many unemployed. There are those who need to get close to death to change, and I'd much rather it happen on a page than in their bathtub.
Sometimes a cry really kills. It's sad.
And the internet only has helped fuel our need for truth. Think about it; our kids know more about the world than most of us did when we were 20. Reality is changing fast, and we have to keep up. It's important that we don't try to censor the reality. If our kids would notice when our characters aren't acting real, so will your audience.
There were too many times, when first writing, that I worried about what people thought about my characters. But when you write a novel, the vision becomes too strong, and the characters become close to real. If you portray them any other way would only, you'd only be a liar.
And lies kill more people than bombs, hurt more people than disease and lead more people than hope.
So be real.
Draven Ames
Mr. King said, "Anything that you can see in the street, at any time, should be in a book. If the situation comes up, you point the reader at it. That is to say, you shouldn't walk away." Summary: Let the world around you come out unfiltered.
You see, if we pretend and misrepresent the world around us, the world around us will misunderstand reality. In most books and movies, for instance, if someone is running from a villain and jumps off of a tall building, often times they don't get hurt. When the A-Team shot down helicopters, everyone walked away without a scratch. But when someone thinks they can really leap down to get away from a burglar, or they act bravely in the face of danger, they get injured or worse. There has to be some integrity in writing.
Secondly, being too unrealistic can pull you out of the story as quickly as a plot hole. Fighting against your character's true personality can do the same thing. We've all watched something, or read something, and stopped paying attention when we didn't believe the character would talk, act or think like that. Writers can't want their audience to visualize their book without being true to what's in their head, or readers will see the seams.
And to those that say that we are making the world worse with our writing... Well, they haven't looked around lately. The economy, job market, housing situation, cost of college, public schooling, food expenses, health care bills, cancer and on, and on... and on. The PC crowd butchers the written world as much as horror writers butcher the real one, so let's call it a draw.
If someone gets hit by a car, I want to hear the pop, see the blood and watch the pain. That doesn't mean I want someone to get hit. Most people slow their vehicle down to look. I don't think it's right, I'm not saying I won't cringe a little, but I think it should be real on the page. If you are going to kill something, kill it right. If you are going to show something, show it.
That isn't to say I want to write "The Hills Have Eyes."
But I'm not one of those people who think violent or gory books will make the world worse; Have you been watching the news? I'll take a horror story over the local news at six, 9 times out of 10. We aren't more violent, just more informed.
Anyone who wants to censor what they write shouldn't step outside, turn on a television or look in the history books. I've got news, the world has been violent for a very long time.
If a photographer takes a picture of a wartime situation, people don't ask why he didn't photoshop the armored tanks out of the shot. The world is how you view it, so show it the way it really is. Horror gives you a vantage point that makes yours look just a little bit better.If you take a look around, doesn't that sound like a good thing?
People are worried about the world right now. We see the way things are going, living in the aftershocks of 9/11 and watching our soldiers get sent to places that some people don't agree with. The price of oil goes up, the supply goes down and the ozone may, or may not, be falling on our heads. It's chicken Little all over again. Outside or our doors is scary place, and some people are bound to be depressed.
So, reading horror and watching scary movies can give people a chance to see the end, without having to step over the ledge. Some need escape outlets to function with a PC smile and attitude, being overworked and glad to have a job--even if they are stuck shouldering the load of so many unemployed. There are those who need to get close to death to change, and I'd much rather it happen on a page than in their bathtub.
Sometimes a cry really kills. It's sad.
And the internet only has helped fuel our need for truth. Think about it; our kids know more about the world than most of us did when we were 20. Reality is changing fast, and we have to keep up. It's important that we don't try to censor the reality. If our kids would notice when our characters aren't acting real, so will your audience.
There were too many times, when first writing, that I worried about what people thought about my characters. But when you write a novel, the vision becomes too strong, and the characters become close to real. If you portray them any other way would only, you'd only be a liar.
And lies kill more people than bombs, hurt more people than disease and lead more people than hope.
So be real.
Draven Ames
Thursday, November 4, 2010
MG Interview with a Teenager
Today, I did an interview with my oldest son. We covered a wide variety of subjects about books. When it comes to writing, I like to get a feel for the target audience. Giving a kid the microphone can often reveal some honest answers.
My oldest son has no school this morning, all because of parent teacher conferences. I couldn't let him be too bored, so I gave a little work. The following is an honest look inside one teenager's opinion on what books need, what he likes, and what matters on the shelf.
It gave me new insight into what I'd need to write if I wanted his money. He's not to bad at writing either. I'd like to say something rubbed off on him.
How old are you?
Almost 14.
What books are in your top 3?
Quantum Prophecies, Dahveed, Stoneheart - All are fun to read, have well written characters. They are all really
different styles.
What is your favorite series?
Dahveed. I've got the first two. I think there will be five in the series. The writer makes the characters seem real.
When looking for a book, how important is a cover?
About as important as the title. A bad cover won't be read by most kids I know, including me.
Be honest.
I was being honest >)
Do you read the back of a book? How important is it? More or less than the cover?
Yes. It is verry important to me. It tells what the book is about. It's more important than the cover, but if the cover and title are bad then I don't read the back. Sorry.
Who is your favorite bad guy? Why? How about from TV? Why?
Balak, from Dahveed. He always knows what to say. Syler, from Heroes. He is very powerfull, but its funny when people get the upper hand.
Who is your favorite good guy? Side kick?
Abner. He is a bad guy and a good guy in Dahveed.
What book do you want to see made?
I only want one book to be made. Read the next answer :D
What would your book be about?
If I were to write a book it would be called Channel Ten. It would be about 20 kids who get abducted and are given suits, giving each of them powers. I would want them to be trapped in the middle of nowhere. After about an hour, speakers would rise out of the ground, explaining that they are being filmed for a live show on
Channel Ten.
The outside world would think they were just actors. They would be provided everything they need to live, but be forced to fight each other. Their suits would prevent any harm to their body, but they'd shut down, immobilizing the person inside, if their suit gets too much damage. Much too late, they find out they can not remove the suits.
The Catch? The people who refuse to fight disappear for days, only to return unwilling to surrender ever again. The 'Steel Building' they are taken to, no one will talk about. Could that be where Channel Ten's mastermind resides?
Here are some of the kids' names, powers and suit designs.
#1=Nate, shoots cannonballs,camo. #2=Zak, super strength, yellow.
#3=Noah, nothing,light green. #4=Derek, always has a gun, silvery.
#5=Tyler, springs water up from the ground, and then freezes it,light blue.
#6=Isaac, super smart, yellow with white hands and blue stripes.
What do you plan to do with your life?
Umm. I would love to create video games. I'd love to write video games.
Last question: What are the six most important things a book needs, in your opinion.
A smart bad guy that can never dies or always finds a way back.
A comic relief character or two.
A hero who doesn't always win. He can't be the strongest, just overcomes the most.
More than three characters.
I HATE figuring out the ending.
Hidden details that affect the book. If I notice it, then I get to know a secret about the book that most people overlooked.
If we listen to kids, sometimes they have some pretty neat pearls. Other times, they are more honest than you would expect.
Draven Ames
My oldest son has no school this morning, all because of parent teacher conferences. I couldn't let him be too bored, so I gave a little work. The following is an honest look inside one teenager's opinion on what books need, what he likes, and what matters on the shelf.
It gave me new insight into what I'd need to write if I wanted his money. He's not to bad at writing either. I'd like to say something rubbed off on him.
How old are you?
Almost 14.
What books are in your top 3?
Quantum Prophecies, Dahveed, Stoneheart - All are fun to read, have well written characters. They are all really
different styles.
What is your favorite series?
Dahveed. I've got the first two. I think there will be five in the series. The writer makes the characters seem real.
When looking for a book, how important is a cover?
About as important as the title. A bad cover won't be read by most kids I know, including me.
Be honest.
I was being honest >)
Do you read the back of a book? How important is it? More or less than the cover?
Yes. It is verry important to me. It tells what the book is about. It's more important than the cover, but if the cover and title are bad then I don't read the back. Sorry.
Who is your favorite bad guy? Why? How about from TV? Why?
Balak, from Dahveed. He always knows what to say. Syler, from Heroes. He is very powerfull, but its funny when people get the upper hand.
Who is your favorite good guy? Side kick?
Abner. He is a bad guy and a good guy in Dahveed.
What book do you want to see made?
I only want one book to be made. Read the next answer :D
What would your book be about?
If I were to write a book it would be called Channel Ten. It would be about 20 kids who get abducted and are given suits, giving each of them powers. I would want them to be trapped in the middle of nowhere. After about an hour, speakers would rise out of the ground, explaining that they are being filmed for a live show on
Channel Ten.
The outside world would think they were just actors. They would be provided everything they need to live, but be forced to fight each other. Their suits would prevent any harm to their body, but they'd shut down, immobilizing the person inside, if their suit gets too much damage. Much too late, they find out they can not remove the suits.
The Catch? The people who refuse to fight disappear for days, only to return unwilling to surrender ever again. The 'Steel Building' they are taken to, no one will talk about. Could that be where Channel Ten's mastermind resides?
Here are some of the kids' names, powers and suit designs.
#1=Nate, shoots cannonballs,camo. #2=Zak, super strength, yellow.
#3=Noah, nothing,light green. #4=Derek, always has a gun, silvery.
#5=Tyler, springs water up from the ground, and then freezes it,light blue.
#6=Isaac, super smart, yellow with white hands and blue stripes.
What do you plan to do with your life?
Umm. I would love to create video games. I'd love to write video games.
Last question: What are the six most important things a book needs, in your opinion.
A smart bad guy that can never dies or always finds a way back.
A comic relief character or two.
A hero who doesn't always win. He can't be the strongest, just overcomes the most.
More than three characters.
I HATE figuring out the ending.
Hidden details that affect the book. If I notice it, then I get to know a secret about the book that most people overlooked.
If we listen to kids, sometimes they have some pretty neat pearls. Other times, they are more honest than you would expect.
Draven Ames
Wednesday, November 3, 2010
Local Authors
Today, I wanted to talk about networking. Communicating with and getting to know other authors can be very helpful. I like to network by getting to know my local authors. By that, I don't mean what you probably think.
Ask yourself where you are right now, in your writing career. If you are like me, you’re just starting in the writing world. Do big authors really have time to read our manuscripts?
If you said yes, think about how many books you have on your reading list. Picture how long it will take to get through that list. When you put it all together, adding the pressures of writing, networking, interviewing, family and friends to it... Well, it's a lot to handle.
They are hard at work, crafting the next book they hope you will love. We should give them the respect and time they deserve. If you read something you like, letting them know is perfectly okay. I just don't think you should write up Stephen King and ask him to check out your book.
So what am I getting at?
Most of us are not ready to submit yet. Looking at our manuscript, many don’t know why. Some wonder why something so easy to master in dialog form is so hard to capture in font?
To find out what we're missing, who can we ask? Friends aren't always honest, and spouses are supposed to support us. This is where I insert local authors.
Local authors are in the same area of their career as you. For me, that means writers that have just started and actually want help I can offer.
Asking strangers for the world is a good way to lose a finger. Why not offer a helping hand?
There are a lot of very nice authors out there, with very good books. They, like you, might be waiting for a big break. Find authors you like, read their blogs and support them. Write comments and give links to friends. If we take the time to give the local authors we like more support, they usually return the love.
Also, reading debut authors can give good source material. Which agents and publishers are picking up new writers? What do they look for? Read, find out and support them.
What are the new writers doing now to get people to keep reading? Pay special attention to the first ten pages; listen to their voices. Cliche, but reading is a time to learn.
After we finish their book, we can ask to write a review. If they have a book signing, show your support and go. When you find that author you like, offer help however they need it. I wouldn't mind putting up fliers and supporting an author coming to my town, and I freely let writers know that. Follow their blog, twitter and facebook. Let other people know what you think of the writer's work.
The more we do for others, the more good that happens in our lives. Someone, somewhere, will remember you. How easy is it to forget the few truly helpful people you’ve met?
If you help people, you just might find an author that will be honest and point out your weakness. The one thing your missing in your writing is probably small, easily overlooked and you just are too close to see it. Usually you don’t have to ask an author to read your work. It's amazing how many people are actually very nice. I love the writing community.
In the end, even if we don’t become famous writers or book signing studs, we still look at ourselves in the mirror. I like to smile.
What about you? Do you have good networking tips?
Draven Ames
Ask yourself where you are right now, in your writing career. If you are like me, you’re just starting in the writing world. Do big authors really have time to read our manuscripts?
If you said yes, think about how many books you have on your reading list. Picture how long it will take to get through that list. When you put it all together, adding the pressures of writing, networking, interviewing, family and friends to it... Well, it's a lot to handle.
They are hard at work, crafting the next book they hope you will love. We should give them the respect and time they deserve. If you read something you like, letting them know is perfectly okay. I just don't think you should write up Stephen King and ask him to check out your book.
So what am I getting at?
Most of us are not ready to submit yet. Looking at our manuscript, many don’t know why. Some wonder why something so easy to master in dialog form is so hard to capture in font?
To find out what we're missing, who can we ask? Friends aren't always honest, and spouses are supposed to support us. This is where I insert local authors.
Local authors are in the same area of their career as you. For me, that means writers that have just started and actually want help I can offer.
Asking strangers for the world is a good way to lose a finger. Why not offer a helping hand?
There are a lot of very nice authors out there, with very good books. They, like you, might be waiting for a big break. Find authors you like, read their blogs and support them. Write comments and give links to friends. If we take the time to give the local authors we like more support, they usually return the love.
Also, reading debut authors can give good source material. Which agents and publishers are picking up new writers? What do they look for? Read, find out and support them.
What are the new writers doing now to get people to keep reading? Pay special attention to the first ten pages; listen to their voices. Cliche, but reading is a time to learn.
After we finish their book, we can ask to write a review. If they have a book signing, show your support and go. When you find that author you like, offer help however they need it. I wouldn't mind putting up fliers and supporting an author coming to my town, and I freely let writers know that. Follow their blog, twitter and facebook. Let other people know what you think of the writer's work.
The more we do for others, the more good that happens in our lives. Someone, somewhere, will remember you. How easy is it to forget the few truly helpful people you’ve met?
If you help people, you just might find an author that will be honest and point out your weakness. The one thing your missing in your writing is probably small, easily overlooked and you just are too close to see it. Usually you don’t have to ask an author to read your work. It's amazing how many people are actually very nice. I love the writing community.
In the end, even if we don’t become famous writers or book signing studs, we still look at ourselves in the mirror. I like to smile.
What about you? Do you have good networking tips?
Draven Ames
Monday, November 1, 2010
In the Mirror - Dystopian Short Story
In the Mirror
By Draven Ames
After Mary tapped a spot in the air, the latest news headlines floated in front of her like small thought bubbles in a comic strip, suspended above her. Green lettering, in varied fonts and sizes, formed phrases that bounced around slowly, encircling her like a holographic tube of words. The young girl studied each title intently, wondering what horrors hid outside the high school’s doors. There were stories like “Six More Children Found in Breeding Cages” and “United Continents Court Rules Pregnancy Ban Humane, 497 to 3.” Reaching up from a book, the girl selected “High-School Activist Says.”
Each floating phrase blurred until the pixels dissipated into the air, replaced by a news article that spanned the surrounding virtual tube, the size of a suntan bed. Whenever Mary moved her eyes, the position of the story changed; with the wink of an eye she selected things or unselected, depending on the eye, much like a prehistoric ‘laser mouse.’
High-School Activist Says
Opinion Piece
Dear Prairieview High,
Victories have a price. I’m disappointed in all of you.
I agree that cloning has saved a lot of money and lives. But what has it done here? Before the new genetic mapping and cloning technologies, countries stood on the brink of war over birthrates, of all things. The world became overcrowded. It starved.
But now… the world is full baby-rapers.
When the government found their platform for reform, they changed, if not saved, the world. We all agree on that. Now, the average I.Q. has soared and our schools have more technology than ever.
But these “victories” have a price.
Tina Johnson, my My fiancee, disappeared last year. Police found her under a bridge somewhere downtown, when school started. The cops told me she died during child birth. After she was missing for almost a year, what should have come as a shock to the community got met by indifference. Are the murders that commonplace now?
No one from the school's staff even came to her funeral. What, vicarious eyes can't cry?
Students should know by now: A few cheerleaders show up missing every year. "Bio compatible non-clones under the legal age for mandated hysterectomies" are kidnapped, raped and bred like animals every year — more and more. They are taken by those unwilling to conform to the ‘clones-only’ future paved out for them.
When your girlfriend dies, your daughter is taken from you, or you, yourself, are kidnapped, I won’t shed a tear.
My Tina deserved more than just me to cry,
JB Holzer
Mary stared at it for a long while without blinking. A loud ring spilled out from the phone.
“Close InerNect,” she said, making the article disappear. The small, hand-sized box only doubled as a computer when not being used for calls. Someday she hoped to convince the principal to get real, 24th century technology.
“Hello, this is Mary at Prairieview Campus Outreach,” she answered in her nicest voice, wiping her eyes with tissue. With the day nearly complete, she could still rally sweetness. Absently, she doodled across her massive Suduko book, worn and frayed with use.
“My Dad…” a meek girl’s voice cut off. Maybe ten...twelve.
After a small pause, the volunteer said “Hello? You still there? This is Mary at the Campus Outreach. Can you hear me?” She stood and covered the receiver, checking the time; it neared lunch and the office was empty. Just like Suzy, Mrs. Sunshine and Roses, to leave Mary hanging with all the work again. “Shit.”
Oops, she covered her face. Sometimes things just sort of slipped out.
“Um, hello?” The girl checked, with a voice layered in sweetness and fragility.
“Hi honey, this is Mary at the Campus Outreach.” She slapped her face and her cheeks went red. “I said that. I swear; I’m all scatterbrained today. Can I help you?”
When the girl didn’t speak, Mary gave her space. Whatever she called about, there had to be so many things on her mind. Teenage pregnancy left a lot of wounded. Things got pretty bad — no one, except the lower class, got pregnant anymore. If someone wanted a bio-kid, a natural child, they’d do some pretty crazy things for them these days. That a breeding market existed at all scared Mary the most.
Poor Nomi cried on the other line. Her breathing could be heard, hard and ragged, but Mary tried to stay quiet. “Take your time, hun.”
The school counselor walked by and smiled with thumbs up. Thanks to her help, Mary and a bunch of girls in drama class got together and set up a phone line for people with nowhere else to go to. They hoped it would be a great senior project, researching all the options for teens and government facilities available. Sadly, they discovered there wasn’t much. The volunteers soon realized no one would call when new legislation passed, stating that all known pregnancies must be reported to local government agencies.
No exceptions.
Since the pregnancy ban, once a girls turned eighteen, they were forced to have hysterectomies. Cloning is safer, cheaper, or so doctors said. By stopping genetic defects and raising the immune systems productivity, every country’s medical costs became virtually non-existent.
Mary shook her head, trying to move the conversation along. “Whatever reason you called for, it’s okay. You can talk to me. I won’t judge you or talk down to you, or tell you what to do. I’ll just listen. Is that okay?” Speaking very slowly, she tried to keep sugar in her voice.
“Okay,” the girl whispered. Somewhere in the distance water ran; there were light clicks and the sound of a vacuum.
“Okay?” The word hung. “Okay good, so your name is…” Something banged through the receiver, somewhere in the distance, followed by the sound of rusty hinges grinding.
“I’m sorry, I’m Nomi,” she conceded with an intelligent and very proper voice. Judging by that, she sounded rich. Mary had a knack for noticing things—that’s why she led the student council.
“Nomi, I hope you don’t mind if I call you that, I’m…”
“Mary,” Nomi finished.
How does she know my…
“You said it a couple times now,” Nomi explained.
“Oh. Yeah, I’m sorry hun. So, Nomi, is there something you wanted to talk about? If not, you know, we don’t have to. I can be here… just in case you want me to speak to, or need someone to say a joke, or…anything, okay?” Poor girl, calling a place like this. Still, Mary knew they would be young.
“Okay…” Nomi’s voice faded.
“What about your dad Nomi,” Mary probed.
“Muh…My dad?” She sounded taken aback, afraid—backpedaling.
“You said something about your dad when I picked up. You kind of cut off. But it’s okay if you don’t want to talk.”
The school bell rang, sounding out over the phone. Mary covered the receiver, thinking the bell sounded layered. Sure enough, the bell rang in the background for her caller as well. Mary beamed—proud to have figured it out. “Nomi, if you can’t talk to me, do you have someone else?”
The girl didn’t respond, crying softly while her breath blew like a storm, so close to the mouthpiece.
“No one?”
“No.”
“What about your mom?” Mary asked, twirling her finger through her hair and carefully examining a pencil.
“She… died—when I was born.”
“No shit.” Her pencil dropped on the desk, sounding like a sharply tapped, and impatient fingernail.
Quickly, Mary bolted upright and looked around; no one heard her slip. “I mean, damn. I’d be… Well, I don’t know what I’d be. Are you okay?”
“It was a long time ago. I don’t even know... what she looked like.”
Mary’s eyebrows wrinkled up. “You must have a picture or, or something.”
“No… Only my dad’s side of the family. My dad can’t bear to be reminded of her,” Nomi explained slowly, digging through a traumatic memory. “He burnt them all after she died, before we moved here. I try, you know, not to… think about it.”
“Still, it must be hard.”
“I deal.”
Mary’s stomach rumbled but she didn’t care about lunch anymore. When she caught herself chewing her nails, she stopped and doodled some more. It seemed best to take this call slow, let Nomi tell it.
After some time, Nomi spoke again, “How, uh, how’d you...mmmm. You know. How long have you done—this?”
Not even thinking for a moment, she blurted “We started a few months ago after Tina Johnson was killed.” She covered her mouth too late to stop its escape. “It was so sad.”
“That was… nice to do. What happened to Tina?” Nomi asked.
Too late to turn back now, Mary thought. All the bio-girls were getting hurt, making her glad she wasn’t one. Her parents were rich enough to afford cloning when it first got mainstreamed. Mary’s father and mother opted for a mix of their two templates, making her an original imprint with handpicked potential. Lowering her voice, she turned away from anyone who might enter the office. “I guess you should know. You know about how the bio-kids have been...disappearing?”
“Yeah.”
“Well, someone kidnapped Tina when she was walking home from cheerleading practice with Tracy Milton, from Drama, and I guess Tracy got a ride from some boys and Tina stayed behind. I don’t really know why.”
“Last year,” Nomi recalled with a distant voice.
“Yup. Well they found her under a bridge, a couple months ago, back behind Platinum-Skate; you know—where everyone went on field trips in elementary?” She couldn’t remember the last time she went.
“Oh.”
“Yeah, crazy right? Turns out, ‘least I heard from Jenna Pitoski, that she had stretch-marks and cuts all across her belly. Poor girl,” she shook her head and felt queasy. “Didn’t she have that purple belly ring…it was really cute,” she added without thinking.
Mary didn’t mean to sound dismissive, but these things were part of life—like car wrecks. Tina’s fiancé was right, partially. They had to be indifferent, or it would be real. It would affect them.
“A few die each year…” Nomi said.
“Some bio-girls just start early, too. Sex is for marriage.”
“Yeah…”
Mary thought teal children, bio genetic kids, became the battleground for opposing viewpoints; the anti-cloners and everyone else. But it was a passing thought.
“Do you know much about it?” Nomi asked cautiously.
“About what? The deaths?”
“Pregnancy.”
The word hit Mary like a slap to the face—surprising and sobering. “Pregnancy?” she repeated. Clones couldn’t have kids; they came out looking like abominations. It had something to do with junk genes that far surpassed her ability to understand -- and Mary understood most things.
“Yeah. I hoped…” Nomi trailed off.
The call center got created for something like this. The students even got credit towards their senior project, along with nifty school phones—but after the new laws, no one expected a pregnant girl to actually call. No one wanted to see one get hauled away either.
But the new law said schools were required to report everything.
Mary gulped, “I’ve been studying everything about it. I know a little.”
A little was understating it. She had the highest grade in her health and physical science classes, along with all the other subjects she tried.
“Good.”
“Why? Nomi, are you… God, I don’t even want to ask,” Mary said. She wondered if Nomi knew what she would have to do if she found out the girl was pregnant.
“What if I knew someone who was pregnant?”
Weight seemed to roll right off of Mary’s shoulders. Slouching in her chair, she let out a sigh of relief. “Well, you’d have to tell someone. Have you told her parents or yours? That would make it easier, and then the parents would have to deal with it. I know it sucks for them, but you shouldn’t have this kind of thing looming over you all alone, Nomi.”
“What if I didn’t want t-to tell?” Her words were very careful, almost fearful.
“You have to, Nomi. Sooner or later they'll find out. I mean... it's a baby.”
“But what do they do if you don’t?”
“They won’t issue a lineage license when you get married, same as bio-girls who have premarital sex. I heard that happened to Mrs. Todd. She’s…lonely.” The English teacher had a reputation for being very strict, very mean and very single. Mrs. Todd looked very pretty, but no one wanted to marry someone with a lifetime ban from motherhood.
“No one talks to her…”
“Sad too, she’s so pretty.”
“That’s not all that matters,” Nomi retorted.
“True,” Mary confessed, “but you’d think someone would want her; a fat guy, a janitor — anyone.” Mary reflected for a moment.
“Then again, I remember a while back, this woman moved to our neighborhood with a banned license. The whole block posted signs with her picture on it like she was some kind of pedophile,” Mary shivered.
“Would you tell on someone?”
When the question dropped everything got quiet. It felt like a hot lamp on Mary’s back. She liked Nomi, but she didn’t want to be involved in a cover-up or something! Jesus, how could she ask? “Look, do you know of someone or not? I don’t mean to sound rude but maybe you should try talking to your dad instead…”
“No!” Nomi yelled with violence.
Mary almost hung up right there when a few people entered the office and photocopied some things. She felt like a traitor everyone knew about. Their eyes kept shifting her way, but it was all in her mind.
“It’s you, isn’t it?”
“Please,” Nomi cried with nearly mute words. “I can’t trust anyone…”
The sincerity of the statement paused her. Mary couldn’t help but feel for the girl. Taking the phone into the office bathroom, away from prying ears, she closed the door, trying carefully to be quiet. The urinal stunk like Pinesol and old bread, but not too much to bear.
Mary put the phone back to her ear. Nomi still cried on the other end. She spoke slowly. “Don’t cry, Nomi. It’s okay. Listen, you have people you can trust. I’ll be here… and I won’t tell. I won’t,” Mary accidently promised.
Nomi sniffed and sobbed, “You mean it?”
Looking out, the office still looked empty. “Yes.”
Crying so hard she almost couldn’t be understood, Nomi said, “Oh thank God. I didn’t know what to do when it started happening. I had no idea—"
"—what happened?” Mary tried, hearing the strain and worry in Nomi’s voice.
“—who to call. I snuck into the bathroom when I noticed it, before any of the teachers…”
“Nomi,” Mary asked louder.
“Sorry.”
“Nomi, what started? What did you notice?” Mary asked.
“I started bleeding, down there. At least, I thought it was blood but it wasn’t red. Is that weird? That’s weird, right? I’m not dying, am I? Oh God please tell me I’m not. It doesn’t hurt so bad now… I already lost the baby. Why did it come so early? I didn’t want ta-to lose my buh-baby. It wasn’t blood. It’s some weird bluish, orange color. And it’s sticky and smells—really gross. It hurt in waves and… That doesn’t look like a baby… It can’t be mine. I’m so scared,” the girl’s voice stumbled through the words in a search for how to describe it. “I’m just so scared.
“I’m so sorry, Nomi… Oh my God, are you all right?” Tears trickled along Mary’s cheek, tickling down her face. She knew exactly what happened to Nomi, but kept her voice calm. “Listen, because I need to ask you this. Be honest. Nomi, are you a clone?”
“No. Is that important?”
“Yeah, just a little.” Mary sounded exasperated now, unable to believe that Nomi didn’t know. Everyone knew if they were a clone. Either your parents told you or you’d look for your mark, a big black spot inside the left nostril. “Hold on just a moment, let me check one thing,” she said as she ran out of the bathroom and straight to student records, opening a cabinet to find Nomi’s name. Her heart took mistimed beats, knowing what she would find.
Luckily, her caller’s name wasn’t typical.
“…Okay, I’m back, Nomi.”
“What were you doing? What should I do? I can’t go home. Not like this.” Nomi plead on the other end.
“Just checking something...”
“I didn’t know who else to call,” Nomi confessed as Mary read over the papers in the folder, again and again. “I only called you because the support group’s flier is on every wall.”
Mary stood really straight. “I think you’ll want to see this, Nomi. Where are you?” Mary asked as she bumped the glass door of the office open with her butt, smiling all teeth at the principle. She held Nomi’s student record in a red folder, one normally used for teacher’s mail. All the way to the bathroom, her hands shook.
The restroom opened to a long row of stalls, where Mary found the girl lying in the last. A pool of orange and blue goo stuck to the inside of her thighs like thick maple syrup. She sat with her back to the wall, hiding hands tattooed by purple and orange. The odd tint looked almost like fingers stained by ink or pollen, and her cheeks puffed out in pink. Her long blond hair lay strewn like hay above bright green eyes.
The girl’s cell-phone blinked, discarded near a misshapen, stillborn fetus that got pushed to the side, roughly twice the size of a fist. There were smeared shoe-print streaks of oily, bluish-orange liquid leading to the pint-sized infant, bashed against the stall’s corner. One odd, pear-shaped eye of sable hung loosely from its socket.
The way the young, bloody girl scrunched her body against the toilet in such strange angles, she defined broken.
Running to her side, Mary pushed hair out of the girls face and cleaned her slowly. The small wads of toilet-paper made sponges that were soft, taken from the wall mounted rolls. She thought birth should smell sweet, salty and earthy. Instead, a humid smell, like rotten fish and semen, lingered in the air. Moisture oozed off Mary’s knees from the spreading amniotic fluid, unrecognizably twisted by science.
Eyes gained a translucent glaze; Mary held back all she could. “Oh, you poor thing, are you okay?” wanted to kick herself. What a stupid question; of course the girl wasn’t okay.
“It’s fine. I know you’re gonna say it. I’m a clone, aren’t I? Is that the big secret?” She shook teary eyes, and cry-smiles. “Is that why I lost the baby? Oh, my father will be so…”
“Yes, Nomi… You’re a clone.” Tingles ran down Mary’s back, vision blurring until the bridge of her nose tickled.
“So I’ll never have a baby?” the girl asked, ducking into her arms.
Mary hesitated, and then took out the folder, showing Nomi her Earth-Certificate. “I really didn’t know if I should say anything…but I thought you should know that—” Nomi broke out crying so loudly that Mary couldn’t finish.
Only one name took space where parents were written on Earth-Certificate’s, but the name was worn and lost.
“It only proves what you’ve suspected. At least you know you’re a clone. We can find a way to hide this—clean it. This doesn’t say who your real mother is, but…”
Shaking her head, Mary placed a hand on the girl’s knee. After a moment she asked, “But before I help you, I need you to be honest for one question.”
Doe-like eyes stared on, unmoving as the girl nodded.
Mary paused a moment. “Is your father the dad?”
Shaking her head no, the girl’s face contorted in noiseless cries. “I... I don’t want him in any trouble,” she sputtered. All of her features rolled up and her face turned to tears, staining her shirt.
“He is, isn’t he.”
Finally, the young girl nodded.
“Oh, you poor thing.” Mary held out the folder again. “I brought you this… It has a picture of your mom, in here. I found it in the records and, uh, I just thought you should see it.” Mary offered. When the girl wiped away sadness, Mary slowly turned the page with eyes wide like clocks.
There, in the black and white photograph, sat a woman the girl had seen many times throughout her life, only absent of color. “That can’t be her. That can’t be!” The girl claimed. Shrinking away, she slipped on miscarried afterbirth, blood and chunks of her torn placenta that littered the tiles.
“I’m sorry Nomi, it’s true. I understand what you might be going through. You see it…”
“No!” Nomi screamed, “I don’t believe you. You lie to me!”
She pushed Mary down and kicked the papers across the floor, turning at the bathroom door to state, “I’ve never seen that woman before in my life.”
Mary wondered where the girl would go, but she knew that somewhere, deep in the little girl’s heart, that she had to know. The poor girl saw her mother every morning, in the mirror.
And her father saw her too.
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