Writing

Hey guys! Remember this community?

I sort of do! But it's been quite some time since I (a) actually finished a project that (b) wasn't smut. You've probably at least peripherally heard me natter on about the short fiction I was composing for one of my games at AmberCon last year. I finally finished Young Bones Groan, just before the Game Book comes out for *this* year's AmberCon. Which was pretty much my hard goal.
Writing

Five hundred twenty-five thousand

It's been a year since Amanda and I left California, a convertible trailing, and set off across the country. I wrote a few... I guess if I were pretentious enough I could call them "mood pieces". Observations of the world I was passing through. I lost some--there was a short musing on town names in New Mexico (I remember Truth or Consequences of course, Shakespeare and Moriarty, and Nutt just down the road from Hatch), and I know there was one about the odd town we stayed in on the north side of Los Angeles before we got on Ten and headed east.
But I do still have two, lodged in with notes on a Deadlands game, and God Attack the Queen.
This is one of them. It's about a gas station.Collapse )
Writing

Hrmmmm.

I am not accustomed to writing prose from the third person where there is no indication as to what's going on inside anybody's head.

It looks like I'm going to get some practice, because this Number Six/Number Four story is going to hinge on nobody knowing what Number Two or Number Four are thinking. Go me.
Leapsheep

I am not a number.

Something awful happened today. We were wandering through Hollywood World, and there was a trailer playing in the background for "I Am Number Four", the awful alien magic tween romance. The line that caught my attention was some girl saying "I am Number Six". Of course, I immediately responded with "I am the new Number Two."

And now? I desperately want to write this story in the universe of the Prisoner. And then drop it in the middle of fanfic dot net. What does an alien with magical powers who protects his people from evil alien races do when he wants to retire? He is sent to The Planet, a place from which there is no escape, a place where everything *seems* normal, but clearly there's something wrong here. A place where you don't have a name--only a number.

"We want. Information."
"You won't get it!"

This so needs to happen. But... it would probably demand that I actually read the rest of the damned book, wouldn't it?
Leapsheep

In the Bleak MidWinter

So remember the note gathering I just did for Exodus? I'm going through the same process for the 1890s San Francisco story. So if I've talked to you about the story, or you remember where I might have left plot notes (I checked MVC and EverNote, currently making the rounds of other sources), let me know. Maybe I'll name a character after you--one that doesn't die in an embarrassing fashion. (Those roles are already reserved.)
Writing

Good News Bad News

Lost a bunch of notes on whatever Exodus is going to become, probably in the move.
Got a clever idea this weekend and started making new notes.
Spent an hour pawing through my piles of notebooks trying to find notes.
(Discovered that I'm catching up on Dame Agatha's notebook count.)
Found some of the notes. Transferred part of them to Evernote.
Found more notes in a few non-notebook places.
I can remember a little bit about the stuff that's missing.

All in all, lost a little but collected what's left and am organising it for next year when I start having official writing time.
Writing

Mysterious Ways

I found this, my sole entry over on DreamWidth, this evening. I'd completely forgotten about it, and I thought I'd drag it over here.



Since 1974, Leon had spoken with God repeatedly.

Of course, it wasn’t until 1978 that Leon knew he was God.

He was sitting near the back of the crowded diner, trying to finish a pastrami sandwich and lemonade before his lunch break was over, when a man who looked a lot like Wavy Gravy came over with an egg salad sandwich and asked to share the table. They got into a conversation about politics, and Leon lost track of time. He was fired from his job at Woolworth’s, which he honestly didn’t mind too much. He hated the job, but couldn’t bring himself to quit.

The next time they met, it was under the Bicentennial fireworks in the park. Leon recognized the man and was overjoyed to relate to him the consequences of their conversation eighteen months previously. God expressed concern, but Leon shrugged. “I’m working as a cook at the Empire Diner, down by the Chelsea. I like it—I think it suits me.” God smiled and allowed that fate moved in mysterious ways. They were engrossed in conversation when there was a particularly loud boom; God started, and accidentally knocked Leon over into a young lady standing next to them, spilling her Coke all over her jeans. Leon was mortified, and apologized profusely, offering to make things right somehow. Within an hour, they were both hip deep in Belvedere Lake, splashing each other and laughing. It wasn’t until the next morning that Leon remembered that he hadn’t seen God since he bumped into Rebecca.

He was still working at the Empire Diner a couple of years later, when Bill Wyman came by at 4 am for scrambled eggs and gave him a ticket to the Stones concert that night. Leon was fairly certain that, with his long hair and delicate features, and Wyman’s extreme intoxication, he thought Leon was actually a girl. But he was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth. His only stumbling block was telling Rebecca that he only had one ticket.

He ran into God at the concert, waiting on queue to buy beer after Peter Tosh’s set ended. He told God that he was engaged, and God smiled and nodded.

“You should marry Rebecca—she’s a good person.”

Leon’s eyebrows arched. “What, you know her?”

God shrugged. “I’m kind of an expert on good and bad.”

“And now you’re Santa Claus?”

God just shrugged again as he pushed his money across the counter and took his cup of beer. “Not quite, Leon. Baruch atah Adonai. Blessed am I. Enjoy the rest of the show.” And with that, God slipped into the crowd.

When Rebecca asked him how he liked the concert, he wasn’t sure how to reply.

He and God still ran into each other from time to time—their son Josh’s bar mitzvah, late one night on the ferry, that sort of thing—but it wasn’t the same. If it took that long for a friend to tell you something that important, then how could you really trust him?
Writing

So yeah, I'm writing again.

I've got a story on my hands that involves bringing down a prominent businessman. And what I'd like to do, since my manager-in-crime is a byzantine sneaky genius, is actually come up wiht a genius plan. But I'm not genius enough. What I'm trying to manage is two or three capers that do not seem to be related, but which all lead up to our big finale where our villain goes down in flames (figurative or literal) as suddenly the pieces fall into place.

If you have advice or want to get into a planning session, I could use the help.
Writing

Good news bad news

So I was throwing myself around the internet trying to find out who Sutro was running against in the mayoral election in 1894 when I remembered "Oh hey. Isn't this supposed to be steampunk?"
I have an alternate reality, and it's not important that I get every detail right.

However.

I've now traded all that research time in for world building. Plus I still need to know enough about the actual history so that I have rockbed to grow the world up from.

It's complicated.