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Archive for December, 2011

Progress Report, in which I miraculously avoid brick walls

More holiday-related shucking and jiving allows me to report another 4K on Apocalypse Pictures Presents.  Magic Meter stands thus:

Missed my weekly goal again–been doing a lot of that lately–but I did catch a glimpse of the ending last week.  Which is good, considering that I’m better than halfway through this novel now.  And wouldn’t you know it?  Once again, it was one of those things that was right in front of me the whole time.  Sometimes I think it’s a miracle that I don’t walk headlong into brick walls on a daily basis.

While I have a better handle on the ending now, I’m still awfully murky on how to get there.  This is at least one of the reasons why my progress has been slower than I would like (the other major reason being, you know, bone-deep laziness).

Well.  I have another week left in 2011.  Maybe on the other side of this week, things will seem more clear.

And there’s that famous optimism of mine shining through again.

A holiday season snippet:

“[T]hey’ve been tracking her for months.  They even put out a bounty on her.  Sounds like she was nearly caught in a little town called Delano a few days ago, but she and her friends blasted their way out.  Killed a number of the locals, including the mayor.  As I said, very dangerous.  And they have reason to believe she’s heading here.”

“To Hollywood?”

“To the Hills.”  Ross picked up his glass and took a long drink, eyeing her as he did so, as if checking for a reaction.

None of it made any sense to Catherine.  “What makes them think that?”

Ross set down his glass again.  “They tracked her to Bakersfield.  They questioned a ham radio operator there–some rather strange old man who goes by the name of–“

“Granddaddy Tesla.”  She understood then, and went cold in spite of the stuffy room.

Had Ross not been there, she might have smacked herself in the forehead for not putting it together sooner.  But she’d only met the woman once.

Catherine set her glass down before her shaking hands could give her away.

No updates for Write Club.

Time to close out the year . . .

Holiday Cheer, 2011 Version

Happy holidays to all!

And though I’m sure you’ve heard it a million times, this:


Because it still rocks.

All best for the coming year.



Progress Report, in which I contemplate the reality of Christmas

They say Christmas is an enchanted, magical time.  But for something so freighted with fantasy, it sure is real enough, as is evidenced by the mere 2600 words I managed on Apocalypse Pictures Presents.  Still, even that paltry amount moves the needle on Magic Meter, so here you go:

OK, I can’t blame it all on Christmas.  The Real World played merry hell with my schedule, too.  Been a stressful time.  I could make it more stressful by berating myself for my subpar production, but you know, I’d rather not.  And hey, I topped 50K, so that’s something.

A snippet:

Santiago flicked on his flashlight and shone it around.  The space inside was open, cavernous, the ceiling a good thirty feet high.  The floor was cracked concrete.

They found the truck about twenty feet in–a dump truck, the body scarred and dented, its faded orange paint spattered with ancient mud, its windshield cracked across its length.  It was the only thing inside the building.  A heaping pile of earth lay in its bed.  And something else–some bulging white bags that had been tied shut with twine.  Susan took out her own flashlight and climbed up, standing on one of the rear wheels for a closer look.  One of the bags near her had a split in the side, and a small amount of chalky white substance had spilled out.  She dipped a finger into it and touched the finger to her tongue.


She climbed back down, looked around for Santiago.  She found him on the other side of the truck, standing at the edge of a large pit in the floor–some forty feet across, maybe thirty feet long, at least six feet deep.  Her first thought was that the dirt in the dump truck had been excavated from here–but that was impossible.  The pit was far too regular, and lined with concrete, just like the rest of the floor.

“Who puts a hole in the middle of a sound stage?” she said.

“A lot of these stages have pits,” Santiago said.  “Filmmakers could fill them with water, or dirt, or whatever else they needed.  What’s in those bags?”

“Lime.”  Susan brought the flashlight up so she could see his face.  “Think somebody’s planning to shoot a scene in here?”

His grim expression was answer enough.

No updates for Write Club.

I’m out.