11/29/09

Okay, November went by way too fast. Nearly ten days since I’ve posted? Eesh.

First things first: NaNo. Congratulations to all who made it! I didn’t reach 50K, but I did make a nice dent into Gemini City and I still hope to have the first draft finished by January.

With that said, I haven’t written as much as I’d like in the last week. I’ve been obsessed with learning digital painting. And since I refuse to push aside watercolor…well, my free time has basically been consumed by art. Still, I wrote enough to develop a new minor character, one that may end up stealing her scenes. I had to include her in today’s excerpt.

Halle had chosen her best suit for what may have been her last delivery. Shooting the messenger never changed the news, but those asshole alphas never understood that. Real big guys they were, bristling and snarling and showing their fangs. Yet did they ever get off their well-clad asses to tell the upstarts to fuck off? Hell no. They would send her or some other low ranking pack member. Well she may be dead meat walking, but she could still look good while bleeding on the ground.

I like her already.

Repetitive Scenes

I’ve been playing around with scene composition lately. The chapters for Gemini City alternate between the two plotlines in a steady pattern for the most part; this means there’s a greater danger in the story growing repetitive to the point of redundancy. I don’t worry about this with Gavin’s story as much; falling from a position as a top assassin to a demon-possessed bicycle courier guarantees a lot of change and growth. Meet new people, experience new symptoms, look for revenge in spare time, etc. Jyre and Felia’s story, though, with slower-paced conflict and many introductions of minor characters as they acclimate themselves to the city’s underworld… Yeah. Something to watch out for.

So, instead of avoiding repetition, I’ve been thinking about how to use it to best effect. One of the things I most enjoyed while reading Perfume by Patrick Suskind was how every character that took the MC under his wing/tried to exploit him ended up insane, in ruins, or dead soon after they parted ways. There was a common theme of the MC being a malevolent force that doomed people to sorry fates like some sort of spiritual plague.

My focus is more on composition than theme at this point, but I’m aiming for something similar in using repetition to sharpen the effect of the different experiences characters have as they meet and negotiate with Jyre and Felia. Ideally, I want readers to recognize the pattern and look forward to how it will deviate at the end.

And now I should get back to writing instead of merely thinking about it.

Catching those readers.

Today while discussing China Mieville with a friend, she pointed out that a lot of readers have trouble getting into his books because of the alien, complicated settings. She also noted that since my writing (or at least Gemini City) has a heavy Mieville influence, it’s something I should watch out for, too. It’s a good point, and one I hadn’t really considered. How do you provide a sense of familiarity to coax the reader into a bizarre world that only gradually reveals its rules and explanations?

Well, the most obvious answer to me is through the characters. They are the cause of reader empathy, who we root for or against. Even if you take the hard route, where there isn’t a character as naive as the reader being taught the ways of the world, they can still provide a light to follow. Or maybe a trap, luring them in with conflict to entrench them in the story. Depends on the type of character, I’d say.

I’m sure there are other tricks and techniques, but my mind is running a blank. Any thoughts?

Nose buried in a book…

I’ve been reading a lot lately. Much of it is YA fantasy, which I’ve grown sour of in recent years. What the Inheritance Cycle didn’t destroy, Twilight obliterated. Yet lately I’m regaining faith in the genre. Tender Morsels by Margo Lanagan, which I’ve just reread, is a tale of trauma and healing that I found devastating, thought-provoking, and hopeful in ways that so-called “adult” fiction like The Lovely Bones doesn’t come close to reaching. It certainly tears down the idiotic idea that a book for children or teenagers should be dumbed down and sterilized.

I’ve also picked up The Difference Engine, which was co-written by William Gibson. I think I’m slowly edging my way into reading Neuromancer. Possibly.

1738.

I fell behind with NaNo due to several factors, so I’m at 11,794 words total instead of the required 18,337. But no whining! Despite a busy day, I still wrote 1,738 words, and they flowed onto the paper. As a result, I’m extremely pleased and will post a longer excerpt than usual. I’m interested in how this bit comes across to readers, as it’s the first time a major character (the masked man) shows hints of what makes him tick. And that he’s generally a cruel bastard.

Ella flattened herself against the door as the man approached. “Do you really think that’s what I’m after? Getting a few bucks from tabloids?” His smile was gone, and as he leaned in close she saw how the curves of his mask resembled a snarling beast. “No, Ella, it’s much bigger than telling reporters how big your original nose was. Information on Fandele is controlled by the Fandelan government. Outsiders learn only what it wishes them to. Its money. Its power. Its singers,” he said, leaning closer until their faces were inches apart. “But I’m interested in its weaknesses. Its wounds. Its jugular.”

“And you think I’ll give them to you?” she said, feeling the cool grain of wood against her head, under her fingers.

“I doubt you can.” The man pulled back, and she remembered to breathe once more. “Yet perhaps something you’ve said will prove useful. Better to collect all the information we can before deciding its usefulness.”

“And so you took me?” she said, pushing herself from the door. “Me? There are thousands of immigrants in this godforsaken city! Take one of them!”

“We are,” said the man, calmly. “But the death of a Fandelan immigrant living in the slums wouldn’t be as nearly noticeable as the death of Ella Narsith, prima soprano of Fandele.”

The world spun then, and stopped at an odd angle. Ella found herself hanging limply in the air, legs folded under her in half-collapse. The man’s arms kept her from completely crumpling. His mask stared down at her dispassionately. “Tsk. I’m never swayed by fainting women,” he said. “Try something else.”

“Why?” she managed. “Why kill me?”

The man growled and let her fall. “You’re not Oroganza tiptoeing across a stage anymore. Theatrics can’t hide the patchwork creature you are. I look at you and see five different shifters writhing against the stitches that sew them together. Why kill you? To put them out of their misery.”

She curled up on the floor. “Money,” she whispered. “Property. Anything you want.”

The man grunted in disgust. “Blood. Bone. Life.” He knelt down before her and she scrambled away, choking on her words.

“It’s nothing personal, Ella,” said the man, pulling her up by her hair. She screamed then, and kicked and writhed. Ignoring her thrashing, he pulled her close, and she felt his lips at her ear, felt his breath stir the tendrils of hair under her jaw. “Sadly, it’ll take one tragedy to undo five more. I’ll be sure to send Guldas a nice card.”

His other hand tightened on her throat, crushing her windpipe, and the last thing Ella saw was another drop of water falling to the puddle on the floor.

2,559.

2,559 words today in my efforts to catch up from yesterday. I’m still writing. I attribute my stamina to repeatedly listening to the new single from one of my favorite musicians. The only downside is that I keep wanting to stop and listen every time the clean vocals come in. Great atmosphere.

928.

Another busy day filled with drama, treachery, and screaming at the computer to fucking install Windows 7 already. I’m still in the process of tweaking everything back to how I want it, so I doubt I’ll get any more writing done tonight. 928 words it is, then. Oh, and I ended up revising yesterday’s “finished” chapter, so the excerpt below still contains skinshifter doings.

Turning back to the line, Jyre extended his awareness around him like an expanding halo. The chill of the necroworker reached him first, then the dim glimmers of wounded humans. If he concentrated hard enough, he could sense the snarled tangle of their minds, fear sharpening their thoughts like loops of razor wire.

Things would be so much easier if he could actually read their minds. Thracian had once tried to show him, but he’d never been able to discern more than raw emotions and occasionally faint shadows of thoughts, dim and flickering like the forms of fish beneath a glassy pond.

1,335.

Mmph. A shitload of non-writing stuff needed to be done today, with the effect that I didn’t begin working on Gemini City until this evening. So, 1,335 words so far, and 3,350 words total. But! I finished the chapter. Tomorrow it’s back to Gavin. A quick excerpt below. It probably won’t make much sense.

They carried the body between them as if helping a drunk man, crossing the decorative gardens to avoid the crowds. Anything more than a glance would give a bystander pause, especially when blood began seeping into Kiri’s champagne-colored gown. “Sir,” she said suddenly. “Badges.”

“Shit. Follow my lead,” said Jyre. “With luck, they’ll see him as another victim.”

After a few more steps, a light flashed over them. “Injured?” barked an officer, one hand hovering over his nightstick.

“We were attacked. He’s badly hurt,” said Jyre. He smelled tears running down Kiri’s cheeks as the light flicked to her face. Oh, she was good.

“I’ll say.” The light hovered on Varik’s body, then switched back to Jyre’s face. “Did you see what did it?”

“No,” said Kiri, and hitched in a breath. “We just heard his screams.”

2,015.

I don’t think I’ll get any more done tonight, so I’ll go ahead and list 2,015 as the day’s word count. I’m enjoying writing this chapter so far; finally the skinshifters are getting some page time.

“They all reek of rot,” said Jyre’s sister, tucking her arm into his. Her other hand ran down her fur stole as if preening, but he recognized the nervous tic. She was merely making sure the bones of her dead lover hadn’t fallen from their pouch underneath the fur.

“Welcome to South Gemini,” he murmured. Another wave of the distinctive smell of spliced, tortured flesh rolled over them, sharp like formaldehyde. They strolled along the steps of the opera house, listening to the chatter from the socialites. Those who’d had necrowork done to their faces seemed oblivious to the subtle crawling of their skin, the twitching of skinshifter flesh on human skulls. When one tipped his hat to them, Felia turned her face to Jyre as if shy. “Disgusting,” she hissed under her breath, knowing the man wouldn’t hear. Jyre found he couldn’t look for long either.

“We’ll have our hands full,” he said, glancing around. He felt his bones hum as the wyrm inside him extended her awareness beyond his body. “Even the trees are consuming flexmer — ground bone in the soil as fertilizer, leaves polished with fat…”

Felia’s wyrm must have done the same, for after a moment she replied, “So are the humans — that boy selling newspapers and sausages that we passed down the street, everything he’s peddling began as a shifter.”

Ah, Yes.

Four cups of coffee and an aching back from being hunched over the computer. Yup, it’s Nov. 1st.

The story is flowing at a good clip so far — since I’m still bright-eyed and bushy-tailed at this point, I’m concentrating on quality over quantity. I’ll probably post an excerpt later today when I update my word count on NaNo’s site. Which is still working for me, by the way. I’m pleasantly surprised it hasn’t died from the massive influx of NaNoers like every other year.