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2017

ConStellation 8
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April 28-30

MileHiCon 49
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October 27-29

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Archive for June, 2012

Progress Report, in which the race begins

Back into dream time, only with a difference:  I’m trying to develop two separate projects.  Branching out, doncha know.

Potential Novel Project #1 is the sequel to Wet Work.  I won’t actually start drafting this one unless I get some serious interest in the first novel, but it’s best to be prepared, should that happen.  Lo and behold, all kinds of ideas are bubbling up—too many for one book.  When I’d first conceived of Wet Work, I thought it had good series potential, assuming anyone’s still interested in urban fantasy.  It’s possible I may have underestimated this particular vein of ore.  There’s a whole mythology out there, just waiting to be mined.  Very promising stuff.

Potential Novel Project #2 would be a sequel of sorts, too—an expansion of a previously published novella.  I haven’t made any notes on this one yet, but I hope to get to it this week.

I’d really like to make a decision as to which one I’m going with by the end of the month.  So which will it be?  Project #1 or Project #2?  At this point, it’s a horse race.  Project #1 has the jump coming out of the gate, but Project #2 has yet to show what it can do.

Tune in next week for the standings as we head into the first turn.  Exciting!

No updates for Write Club.

And I’m out.

Current Music: "Crossfire"--Black Country Communion

Into the October Country

Ray Bradbury has died.

The sheer weight of those four words cannot be overstated.  This is the passing of a titan, and we are all diminished.

Better writers than I will eulogize him.  I will leave them to it.  All I can contribute is some small sense of what he meant to me.

In Danse Macabre, Stephen King tells a story from his youth, of the day he discovered a box of his father’s old paperbacks.  Among them was the H.P. Lovecraft collection The Lurking Fear and Other Stories. It was the day, as he put it, that “the compass needle swung emphatically toward some mental true north,” the day he fell in love with horror stories.  What struck him about the work was its seriousness:  “When Lovecraft wrote ‘The Rats in the Walls’ and ‘Pickman’s Model,’ he wasn’t simply kidding around or trying to pick up a few extra bucks; he meant it.”

As a kid, I was nuts about dinosaurs.  Name a dinosaur, and I could tell you what its name meant, whether it was a carnivore or herbivore, how big it grew, and whether it was a Triassic, Jurassic, or Cretaceous animal.  One of my favorites was elasmosaurus, a plesiosaur, a genuine sea monster.  I would often doodle elasmosaurs in my notebooks (badly).  Something about that creature just had hold of my imagination.

Then one day, while perusing a grade school reader, I came across a story about two guys manning a lighthouse on a dark and foggy night, and how the lighthouse’s fog horn summoned a monster from the depths:  “And then, from the surface of the cold sea, came a head, a large head, dark-colored, with immense eyes, and a long neck.  And then—not a body—but more neck and more!  The head rose a full forty feet above the water on a slender and beautiful dark neck.  Only then did the body, like a little island of black coral and shells and crayfish, drip up from the subterranean.  There was a flicker of tail.  In all, from head to tip of tail, I estimated the monster at ninety or a hundred feet.”

I recognized it immediately, of course.  It was an elasmosaurus.

That might not have been exactly what Ray Bradbury was going for when he wrote “The Fog Horn,” but it didn’t matter.  I knew this creature.  It was my elasmosaurus.  It was as if the story had been written especially for me.

That in itself would have been magical enough, but there was much more to it than that.  “The Fog Horn” is actually a very bleak tale.  It ends badly for the creature, and the two men are lucky to escape with their lives.  It is a story of heartbreaking, unendurable loss.  The last line evokes such despair:  “I sat there wishing there was something I could say.”

That sadness stayed with me, more memorable even than the appearance of my favorite dinosaur.

You don’t normally find such adult sentiments in children’s stories.  But of course, “The Fog Horn” wasn’t really written for children.  Ray Bradbury understood that there was nothing childish about a sense of wonder, and saw nothing ridiculous in a tale of a long-lost dinosaur searching in vain for another of its kind.  Ray Bradbury not only dug something out of my imagination I would never have found on my own, but he respected me enough not to condescend to me or sugarcoat what he was trying to express.

Like Lovecraft, he wasn’t kidding around.  He took it seriously.  And that, I think, more than anything else, cemented my love of speculative fiction.

You’ll find that mingled seriousness and sense of wonder in all his work.  “All Summer in a Day” breaks your heart.  Fahrenheit 451 infuriates and disturbs.  Something Wicked This Way Comes teaches you the meaning of the word creepy.

I consider myself fortunate to have met the man once, to shake his hand and tell him how much “The Fog Horn” meant to me.  “That’s a helluva story,” he said in reply.  I agreed that it was.  He then proceeded to inform me that it had been made into a movie called The Beast from 20,000 Fathoms—something I, as a movie fan, should have known, but somehow didn’t.  And while we were chatting, he signed my battered copy of R Is for Rocket, which contains, among other great work, “The Fog Horn.”

I’m not an autograph hound by any stretch of the imagination, but I will treasure that book until the end of my days.

As I will the rich legacy he left us.

Goodbye, Ray.  And thank you.

Progress Report, in which I write a second first draft

Another 2300 words on the “Just a Game” rewrite brings Magic Meter to here:

Aaand we’re done.  Pretty much.  The title needs to change, and I’d like to trim this by about 1000 words, if possible, and make a few other tweaks.  I’ll be saving those for another pass later in the month.

It’s official:  I rewrote this one from the ground up, keeping only the basic premise and main characters, and building an entirely different story around them.  Which makes this essentially another first draft.  I don’t know if it’s any good, but it’s certainly an improvement over the previous first draft.

Next up—getting into dream time for the next novel.  I actually have two possible projects in mind; certain unnamed circumstances will dictate which one I’ll go with.  (Ooo . . . cryptic much, Rotundo?)

Anyway, a snippet:

He knew the gates would be chained shut, the links too thick to sever, even with bolt cutters.  But the angle between the west and south stands was protected only by a tall chain link fence topped with coiled barbed wire.  The bolt cutters would work just fine there.  He promised himself he would send an anonymous donation to the university to cover the cost of the damage.

He hesitated before making the first snip, knowing he’d come to a point of no return.  He could still back away from this.  No one, not even Beth, knew he was out.  He’d literally sneaked out of the house after she’d gone to bed.  All during the drive to Whaley, he assuaged his fears by telling himself it was not too late, that he had done no real harm yet.  But now it was just after one in the morning, with the stark reality of the stadium looming in the cold darkness, and this fence stood between him and the completion of this mad quest.

He made three judicious cuts, each accompanied by a soft ting as the links snapped, and then he was inside.

No updates for Write Club.

Headin’ for the solstice . . .

Current Music: "Moby Dick"--Led Zeppelin