Draft 1 punched up.
/feels accomplishment.
Now for the painful and hopefully constructive beta process.
Friday, January 29, 2010
Thursday, January 28, 2010
Disturbingly Positive
I'm nearly finished the process I previously termed 'the punch up' and with the exception of a few changes in scenery descriptions and a complete rewrite of the start of the book I'm finding surprisingly few things that I'm not happy with.
This in itself is scary.
Aren't I supposed to be looking at what I did six months ago and thinking 'God that was awful, wtf was I doing? Damned amateur.'
But I'm not, I'm getting involved in my own storytelling, laughing at my own jokes and having cool little scifi moments when I come across a possible future easter egg throw away line I'd forgotten I put in there.
It's been easy, too easy.
I'm waiting for the other penny to drop. So far no-one I've showed anything to has done much aside from praise it.
If one of my beta readers shreds it in this round, I'm actually going to be relieved I think.
This in itself is scary.
Aren't I supposed to be looking at what I did six months ago and thinking 'God that was awful, wtf was I doing? Damned amateur.'
But I'm not, I'm getting involved in my own storytelling, laughing at my own jokes and having cool little scifi moments when I come across a possible future easter egg throw away line I'd forgotten I put in there.
It's been easy, too easy.
I'm waiting for the other penny to drop. So far no-one I've showed anything to has done much aside from praise it.
If one of my beta readers shreds it in this round, I'm actually going to be relieved I think.
Sunday, January 24, 2010
Distractatron 9000
There's nothing quite like distractions for a writer, particularly us unpublished (possibly unwashed) writers who haven't yet developed a heavy writing discipline born of a need to publish or fail to eat.
Distractions come in many forms and I'm going to jam on here about a few. Yes a lot of this is very basic and straight forward, even a no brainer. However, often things need to be said, or read, to remind us of certain very basic truths or principles, because if there is one thing people are good at, it's fooling ourselves.
External:
That damn squawking crow outside my window right now, the fact that this PC is connected to the internet, the phone etc. While many external distractions can be out of your control, most aren't. Nothing stops you closing the windows, putting in earplugs, taking the phone off the hook, refusing to answer the door etc. Dealing with internet access is a toughy, but if you have a real problem with your email addiction etc, you either have to make an ironclad deal with yourself that you can only use it between 12 and 12:30 during your writing day or something similar, only for research etc. Or if you can't stick to that, unplug the damn modem. Go yank it out of the wall.
Do it now, see how easy it is?
Now plug it back in and read on.
External distractions are usually a simple matter of cutting yourself off from the source, making them nice and easy to deal with if you have the will to do so.
Internal:
Internal distractions are the most insidious, unsurprisingly. Maybe you're stressed about work, can't get a song out of your head or are sitting there questioning your ability to even write at all. Thing's such as self talk, obsession etc. Creating your own distractions where none actually exist.
Writers can be particularly guilty of this when it comes to agonising over choices they made, constant re-reading, questioning themselves etc.
Now don't mistake, questioning yourself and your process is the only way you will improve anything and should be done.
However, there is a time to question and there is a time to STFU and just write chapter 13 already.
There is only one way to counter constant excuse making or procrastination, that is to know you do it, pay attention to yourself, realise when you are and then just fking well stop.
Self discipline is the only option.
Now if you aren't naturally extremely bloody-minded and stubborn like yours truly, you probably can't "just shut up and do it". No-one can all the time.
To deal with something like this you need to be able to put to rest the shite in your mind that is rattling around and bouncing off other more creative thoughts, shattering them into useless chunks that scatter to the 4 corners of your brain never to be found again.
Usually, this comes down to planning and self management, notably time management.
If you have a finite amount of time each day, or week, or whatever, in which to write, that time is precious and you need to make the most of it. If you simply leap into that time face first your very likely to waste great swathes of it. You need to plan how you are going to use it.
Large and complex time management plans are in my not so humble opinion, a damn waste of time. You need something simple.
All these random elements bouncing around in your head need to be dealt with, simplest is just jot the damn things down, simply as possible in something for the purpose. A note book or text file, whatever, just get them out of your brain, file them and get back to the task. You need to go into each of your precious writing times with an attitude of "today I do this" and do it. Anything that would distract you goes in the notes and then gets shoved out of the way.
Stay on target. At the end of the session, spend maybe 15 minutes, perhaps more or less depending on how long your sessions are, reviewing that mess of side notes you just made and planning out exactly what you will do in the next one. Then the next time you come to write, pick up your time management book, file, whatever; read the notes you left yourself on what you are going to do, spend 5 minutes or so deciding exactly how, and then spend the rest of your time doing just that.
And if something distracts you, note it down in your memory slush pile for review at the end of the session and possibly being added to next session.
Overall, I feel this is a pretty straight forward and effective way of dealing with it. When I was writing RPGs, which are massive sprawling multi hundred thousand word text and mathematic monstrosities, this method was the only way to stave off the galloping crazies.
I hope this helps someone out, rambling and ranting as it is.
Distractions come in many forms and I'm going to jam on here about a few. Yes a lot of this is very basic and straight forward, even a no brainer. However, often things need to be said, or read, to remind us of certain very basic truths or principles, because if there is one thing people are good at, it's fooling ourselves.
External:
That damn squawking crow outside my window right now, the fact that this PC is connected to the internet, the phone etc. While many external distractions can be out of your control, most aren't. Nothing stops you closing the windows, putting in earplugs, taking the phone off the hook, refusing to answer the door etc. Dealing with internet access is a toughy, but if you have a real problem with your email addiction etc, you either have to make an ironclad deal with yourself that you can only use it between 12 and 12:30 during your writing day or something similar, only for research etc. Or if you can't stick to that, unplug the damn modem. Go yank it out of the wall.
Do it now, see how easy it is?
Now plug it back in and read on.
External distractions are usually a simple matter of cutting yourself off from the source, making them nice and easy to deal with if you have the will to do so.
Internal:
Internal distractions are the most insidious, unsurprisingly. Maybe you're stressed about work, can't get a song out of your head or are sitting there questioning your ability to even write at all. Thing's such as self talk, obsession etc. Creating your own distractions where none actually exist.
Writers can be particularly guilty of this when it comes to agonising over choices they made, constant re-reading, questioning themselves etc.
Now don't mistake, questioning yourself and your process is the only way you will improve anything and should be done.
However, there is a time to question and there is a time to STFU and just write chapter 13 already.
There is only one way to counter constant excuse making or procrastination, that is to know you do it, pay attention to yourself, realise when you are and then just fking well stop.
Self discipline is the only option.
Now if you aren't naturally extremely bloody-minded and stubborn like yours truly, you probably can't "just shut up and do it". No-one can all the time.
To deal with something like this you need to be able to put to rest the shite in your mind that is rattling around and bouncing off other more creative thoughts, shattering them into useless chunks that scatter to the 4 corners of your brain never to be found again.
Usually, this comes down to planning and self management, notably time management.
If you have a finite amount of time each day, or week, or whatever, in which to write, that time is precious and you need to make the most of it. If you simply leap into that time face first your very likely to waste great swathes of it. You need to plan how you are going to use it.
Large and complex time management plans are in my not so humble opinion, a damn waste of time. You need something simple.
All these random elements bouncing around in your head need to be dealt with, simplest is just jot the damn things down, simply as possible in something for the purpose. A note book or text file, whatever, just get them out of your brain, file them and get back to the task. You need to go into each of your precious writing times with an attitude of "today I do this" and do it. Anything that would distract you goes in the notes and then gets shoved out of the way.
Stay on target. At the end of the session, spend maybe 15 minutes, perhaps more or less depending on how long your sessions are, reviewing that mess of side notes you just made and planning out exactly what you will do in the next one. Then the next time you come to write, pick up your time management book, file, whatever; read the notes you left yourself on what you are going to do, spend 5 minutes or so deciding exactly how, and then spend the rest of your time doing just that.
And if something distracts you, note it down in your memory slush pile for review at the end of the session and possibly being added to next session.
Overall, I feel this is a pretty straight forward and effective way of dealing with it. When I was writing RPGs, which are massive sprawling multi hundred thousand word text and mathematic monstrosities, this method was the only way to stave off the galloping crazies.
I hope this helps someone out, rambling and ranting as it is.
Monday, January 18, 2010
Punch up
Now begins the lengthy process of going through my first 'completed' work and deciding everything I hate about it and everything I like. Then deciding if that view is justified before I fall into the overediting trap.
Then I simultaneously copyedit and generally style and consistency proof my work.
After that I have a real copy of draft 1.
From what I've been seeing this is a step a lot of would be writers miss. Heinlein's 5th (I think) rule tells you not to edit, that if you wrote something a certain way, theres probably a reason. He was right, but he's also Heinlein.
You are not Heinlein. Nor am I.
So be your own first beta reader, be honest and realistic with yourself about what you've written, don't over think or agonise. Just read it and ask, "Did that make sense, and did I enjoy reading it."
After all, if you can't proof your own work, how can you expect anyone else to?
Then I simultaneously copyedit and generally style and consistency proof my work.
After that I have a real copy of draft 1.
From what I've been seeing this is a step a lot of would be writers miss. Heinlein's 5th (I think) rule tells you not to edit, that if you wrote something a certain way, theres probably a reason. He was right, but he's also Heinlein.
You are not Heinlein. Nor am I.
So be your own first beta reader, be honest and realistic with yourself about what you've written, don't over think or agonise. Just read it and ask, "Did that make sense, and did I enjoy reading it."
After all, if you can't proof your own work, how can you expect anyone else to?
Thursday, January 14, 2010
The end is more than Nigh
Just finished putting down the final chapter and epilogue of project A. It feels really weird to be honest, to have reached the end of something that was so much effort, sweat tears and pain.
Of course, this is really just the beginning, as I now have to go through the whole thing myself and punch it up and then give it to my beta readers for the first round. But still, it's quite a milestone and the first time I've done it.
I think I owe myself a beer.
Of course, this is really just the beginning, as I now have to go through the whole thing myself and punch it up and then give it to my beta readers for the first round. But still, it's quite a milestone and the first time I've done it.
I think I owe myself a beer.
Wednesday, January 13, 2010
Project A:
The following is the first 5 pages of my current WIP which I thought I would post on the chance that someone will read it and one of you might be moved to comment.
***
Bleh, it’s Wednesday, 6:14 Sauer city standard time and I’ve woken up exactly thirty seconds before my alarm again, fucking thing. I’d turn it off but the first time I do it’s guaranteed I will sleep in. Tardiness doesn’t fly in today’s job market, not one bit, plus I’m a designed human, I only get two sick days a year.
Sitting up I survey the guest room of the apartment the money from my long lost highlife bought my sister as a wedding present. It’s a big fucking room, which is something, but there’s lurid shit all over the walls, apparently they’re calming arcs and mood patterns or some bullshit like that, done in old style oil paints, Debbie’s bloody husband’s work. Myself I’ve never really bothered moving in, all my crap is clustered around the bed or neatly put away in the walk in robe, not that I have much at all, my collection of movies, books and music is all digital, doesn’t take up any space.
Debbie and Frank Pinscher, my sister and her art fag other half. Gave her so much shit about that name in the lead up to the wedding, said it made her sound like a dog, the Doberman, started calling her “Doebie”. She stopped talking to me for about two years, took me till I was in the work camp to learn the lesson, IQ of 175 and I was still a dumb shit, family can put up with a lot but not having their dreams shat on. Debbie’s husband is an “artist”, not a corporate artist, a fucking “new revisionist” or some garbage. She loves him, but he’s useless, he thinks he’s back in the fucking 1970’s in France or something, part of the cultural revolution, bitching about the status quo in cafes and never doing a damn thing. She makes more money than he does, as a shift nurse. If I wasn’t here, they wouldn’t be able to pay the rates to keep this place. That was the only reason he let me move in, he hates me, I hate him. Simple.
I lever myself up out of bed and all the automatic shit kicks in, ambient lights snap on and the windows deglaze to reveal the city in all its sky clawing money grubbing glory. The far wall snaps on to a sports channel highlight reel, Boeing Freefall won in the Iron League last night, I didn’t get time to watch it because of work, again, closed the case though. They’re playing replays of Eddie Redda smashing another player into the ground in an offensive pre-tackle that apparently took their Aceman out of the game, hospital, might not live. Fucking figures that four years into my sentence they decide that bodily harm and risk of death is an acceptable part of the game that the audience wants. So now it’s legal, everyone signs waivers, teams are insured, contracts have a posthumous clause. Fuckers didn’t commute my sentence, still served the last two years. I deserved it for killing that guy, don’t feel good about it, but fuck me, that work camp was hell, natural born humans don’t live two years in it let alone six.
I amble across to my bathroom and step into the shower, this is the bit about this place that made every penny worthwhile, real showers. Most of the population has to deal with scrub units, a stand up sanitiser based on the same technology for the airlocks in clean rooms, gets you clean sure, convenient and quick maybe. But it’s just not the same as high pressure jets of hot water, particularly if you fell down a five flight fire escape last night, which I did. Half an hour in the shower is fucking awesome, wastes a bit of time sure, but I’ll grab something to eat on the way.
Come out of the shower and I can hear it echoing under the door, a screaming match again, fucking asshole. He’s going on about my time of arrival this morning interfering with his sleep and his work. Sure I could have been quiet, but fuck him, try chasing some little sprinter through the middle of peoples fucking homes in a D class district fifteen meters off the ground and see what state he rolls home in. Dead, that’s what state.
She’s countering about how I’m her brother blah blah blah, he doesn’t care and she knows it. Argument will end in a few minutes when she hits him in the balls with her trump card, they can’t afford this place without me because his art won’t sell. Heh. A fucker that really, you can own a place like this outright, free and clear, the corps will charge you rates and maintenance that amounts to so much it may as well be rent. Fucking free market.
I stare at my mug in the mirror, there’s a momentary flash and slight sting as the shaving laser system defoliates my face. Heavy, solid face, still youthfully handsome despite me being thirty seven, frankly I look twenty five, but I’m such a bad tempered bastard women won’t come near me most times. Probably a good thing really.
Heading into the walk in robe I shrug my way into my gear, black cargo pants, old fashion but suits my purposes, T-shirt over an impact vest, then attach the rig. Into the rig I slide my .72 Magnum Mossberg high impact pistol, slightly old tech but more reliable than a lot of modern shit and frankly, will go through the armour I’m wearing and the wall behind me. Most people can’t handle the kick on a .60, let alone this damn thing. Spare clips, Taser, Nauseator and stun tabs in their other various spots on the rig. Haul on the resistance fabric bomber jacket and I’m done bar boots.
Out of the robe and back into the guestroom, I walk over to my chair and stare out the windows as I haul on the Prada-Colorado combat boots. Blue sky. I don’t think I will ever get over seeing a blue sky every time I look up. It’s a bright clear morning in Sauer City, so named for the arms company that bought the rights to the place back in the late twenty first, just like naming a fucking building. Sauer city occupies the north end of Virgin Island, an eighty kilometre stretch of man-made island off the coast of Angola, our sister city New Johannesburg occupies the southern end. Angola is basically one big farming and resource state, pretty much everything is run from here, which of course means the only vaguely nice place to live is here.
For the first ten years of my life the sky was brown, smog ridden, orange, yellow, looks like pictures I’ve seen of the atmosphere of Venus. We fucked it up so badly, but as the slack jawed faithful had hoped, science came through. Ten years after I was born BACs was introduced to the atmosphere, a pollution, carbon and CFC eating bacteria that latched specifically to the molecular makeup of the top eighty percent of airborne pollutants. Six months and the bacteria had cleaned up all our shit, a modern miracle, everyone cheers, seven of the ten scientists from the team achieve sainthood from what’s left of the church, the other three are murdered by freaked out extremists.
BACs though, with nothing left to eat was supposed to recede to a sustainable level, just eat what we kept putting in the atmosphere, apparently it still does that. Problem is, a strain evolved, to well, eat us. The new Ebola the news called it. Most people were resistant to it, it was apparently a fluke, attacked ten percent of the population worldwide regardless of socioeconomic factors or geography. It sickens, makes them weak, listless, useless. Doesn’t set in till the very early twenties and there’s no way to test for it, so you won’t know you’re susceptible until you’re screwed. Some people have family to support them, but society with all its other problems couldn’t deal with a tenth of the planets population spontaneously infirmed over three years as it took hold, so they ignored the problem, shunned it. The infirmed are this centuries lepers, they live like them and are treated like them. You see them everywhere in the poorest areas, down at street level and below, shuffling around unable to do much to anyone and ignored or preyed on by everyone else. Poor fuckers, it’s the one uniting malady of humanity, anyone can get it, it can’t be cured and you never know until your coughing up blood, then you take twenty years to die of it.
So yeah, blue sky, modern day miracle. Hah.
I stand up and stomp my feet, settling everything into place, bruises across the back are fading. The shower did a lot of good but it’s mostly the built in quick healing, my father truly spared no expense on me, I think it was a loan equivalent to twenty years of his excessive wages. Debbie by contrast was a natural birth, the child my mother always really wanted. Mum is in North Korea these days, ironically it’s one of the few places you can own your own property free and clear and the government doesn’t shit all over you, she bought it with the last of dad’s fortune after he died. Compensation money never came through, we were taking a holiday on one of the shitty hotels on the moon that some year 2000 billionaire idiot thought would be a brilliant idea. Airlock failure killed my father and 12 other people right in front of us when he sent us through the cycle before him, went back for a bag we forgot. He said he was gonna catch up to us, never did.
Space travel is a croc if you ask me. The moon is a second rate tourist attraction, Venus has a single monitoring station and mars is a science experiment. Apparently mining in the asteroid belt pays astronomically well, but seriously, fuck that, thirty percent mortality rate amongst the miners.
The door to the guestroom swishes open automatically before I get to it, a luxury I could do without, auto doors are no good for slamming. Debbie is standing in the kitchen looking worn, she’s just back from shift, still in her scrubs. Evidently she just pulled out the finance card, I can hear Frank throwing a tantrum in his studio. I go and stare at the coffee maker, detecting my RCP in range it pumps out a large cup of boring black coffee, fucking hot, how I like it.
“Well?” She says
I just look sidelong at her.
“Why were you in so late and loud last night? Frank needs to work.”
I continue to look at her, poor woman, got to remind myself not to treat her like I do everyone else, she doesn’t deserve it. I take the coffee and drink it.
“Sorry, though he could tell me himself.” She tenses to launch a tirade. “Again,” I sigh, taking another gulp of the scalding liquid. “Sorry, was a case last night, at about half eleven I was chasing a boosted crim through peoples domes on the 6th story the Manhattan Park complex on BHP point. He ran straight off a roof while I tried to apprehend. I fell off it.”
“Jesus,” She says, turning to the fridge “Good thing you’re...” She stops and glances back at me.
“I know,” I say, “A test tube baby, and a fucking expensive one, least playing god paid off eh?”
“Look, I know you feel bad,” She blurts, I know where this is going. “You’re still as human as anyone, I know you hate the designed and I know you hate being one, but mum and dad still loved you...”
“Whoa, whoa!” I nearly drop the coffee, damn she’s feeling emotional today, wonder what happened at work, the argument with Frank isn’t enough to start this trip. “You know I don’t give a shit Deb, it’s my bottom line, it doesn’t matter how you grew, it’s what you’re made out of.”
I stare at her a while longer, she looks like she’s going to cry.
“Look, I have to fuck off to work or I’ll be late, but when I come home, we’ll talk, k?”
“Nah we won’t,” she says, clearly I’ve forgotten something, she sighs, apparently she’s fought off the tears, just looks tired and resigned. “I’m flying out to mum’s in five hours remember, you’re stuck here alone with Frank for a week.”
Ah Christ.
“Try to just stay away from him will you?” she asks me.
“I should have bought the fucking penthouse.” I snort, setting down the empty mug and heading out the door. Least it’s a secure door. Turns translucent to me know there’s no-one on the other side instead of just whizzing open.
I turn back to Debbie. “Say Hi to mum for me.”
***
Bleh, it’s Wednesday, 6:14 Sauer city standard time and I’ve woken up exactly thirty seconds before my alarm again, fucking thing. I’d turn it off but the first time I do it’s guaranteed I will sleep in. Tardiness doesn’t fly in today’s job market, not one bit, plus I’m a designed human, I only get two sick days a year.
Sitting up I survey the guest room of the apartment the money from my long lost highlife bought my sister as a wedding present. It’s a big fucking room, which is something, but there’s lurid shit all over the walls, apparently they’re calming arcs and mood patterns or some bullshit like that, done in old style oil paints, Debbie’s bloody husband’s work. Myself I’ve never really bothered moving in, all my crap is clustered around the bed or neatly put away in the walk in robe, not that I have much at all, my collection of movies, books and music is all digital, doesn’t take up any space.
Debbie and Frank Pinscher, my sister and her art fag other half. Gave her so much shit about that name in the lead up to the wedding, said it made her sound like a dog, the Doberman, started calling her “Doebie”. She stopped talking to me for about two years, took me till I was in the work camp to learn the lesson, IQ of 175 and I was still a dumb shit, family can put up with a lot but not having their dreams shat on. Debbie’s husband is an “artist”, not a corporate artist, a fucking “new revisionist” or some garbage. She loves him, but he’s useless, he thinks he’s back in the fucking 1970’s in France or something, part of the cultural revolution, bitching about the status quo in cafes and never doing a damn thing. She makes more money than he does, as a shift nurse. If I wasn’t here, they wouldn’t be able to pay the rates to keep this place. That was the only reason he let me move in, he hates me, I hate him. Simple.
I lever myself up out of bed and all the automatic shit kicks in, ambient lights snap on and the windows deglaze to reveal the city in all its sky clawing money grubbing glory. The far wall snaps on to a sports channel highlight reel, Boeing Freefall won in the Iron League last night, I didn’t get time to watch it because of work, again, closed the case though. They’re playing replays of Eddie Redda smashing another player into the ground in an offensive pre-tackle that apparently took their Aceman out of the game, hospital, might not live. Fucking figures that four years into my sentence they decide that bodily harm and risk of death is an acceptable part of the game that the audience wants. So now it’s legal, everyone signs waivers, teams are insured, contracts have a posthumous clause. Fuckers didn’t commute my sentence, still served the last two years. I deserved it for killing that guy, don’t feel good about it, but fuck me, that work camp was hell, natural born humans don’t live two years in it let alone six.
I amble across to my bathroom and step into the shower, this is the bit about this place that made every penny worthwhile, real showers. Most of the population has to deal with scrub units, a stand up sanitiser based on the same technology for the airlocks in clean rooms, gets you clean sure, convenient and quick maybe. But it’s just not the same as high pressure jets of hot water, particularly if you fell down a five flight fire escape last night, which I did. Half an hour in the shower is fucking awesome, wastes a bit of time sure, but I’ll grab something to eat on the way.
Come out of the shower and I can hear it echoing under the door, a screaming match again, fucking asshole. He’s going on about my time of arrival this morning interfering with his sleep and his work. Sure I could have been quiet, but fuck him, try chasing some little sprinter through the middle of peoples fucking homes in a D class district fifteen meters off the ground and see what state he rolls home in. Dead, that’s what state.
She’s countering about how I’m her brother blah blah blah, he doesn’t care and she knows it. Argument will end in a few minutes when she hits him in the balls with her trump card, they can’t afford this place without me because his art won’t sell. Heh. A fucker that really, you can own a place like this outright, free and clear, the corps will charge you rates and maintenance that amounts to so much it may as well be rent. Fucking free market.
I stare at my mug in the mirror, there’s a momentary flash and slight sting as the shaving laser system defoliates my face. Heavy, solid face, still youthfully handsome despite me being thirty seven, frankly I look twenty five, but I’m such a bad tempered bastard women won’t come near me most times. Probably a good thing really.
Heading into the walk in robe I shrug my way into my gear, black cargo pants, old fashion but suits my purposes, T-shirt over an impact vest, then attach the rig. Into the rig I slide my .72 Magnum Mossberg high impact pistol, slightly old tech but more reliable than a lot of modern shit and frankly, will go through the armour I’m wearing and the wall behind me. Most people can’t handle the kick on a .60, let alone this damn thing. Spare clips, Taser, Nauseator and stun tabs in their other various spots on the rig. Haul on the resistance fabric bomber jacket and I’m done bar boots.
Out of the robe and back into the guestroom, I walk over to my chair and stare out the windows as I haul on the Prada-Colorado combat boots. Blue sky. I don’t think I will ever get over seeing a blue sky every time I look up. It’s a bright clear morning in Sauer City, so named for the arms company that bought the rights to the place back in the late twenty first, just like naming a fucking building. Sauer city occupies the north end of Virgin Island, an eighty kilometre stretch of man-made island off the coast of Angola, our sister city New Johannesburg occupies the southern end. Angola is basically one big farming and resource state, pretty much everything is run from here, which of course means the only vaguely nice place to live is here.
For the first ten years of my life the sky was brown, smog ridden, orange, yellow, looks like pictures I’ve seen of the atmosphere of Venus. We fucked it up so badly, but as the slack jawed faithful had hoped, science came through. Ten years after I was born BACs was introduced to the atmosphere, a pollution, carbon and CFC eating bacteria that latched specifically to the molecular makeup of the top eighty percent of airborne pollutants. Six months and the bacteria had cleaned up all our shit, a modern miracle, everyone cheers, seven of the ten scientists from the team achieve sainthood from what’s left of the church, the other three are murdered by freaked out extremists.
BACs though, with nothing left to eat was supposed to recede to a sustainable level, just eat what we kept putting in the atmosphere, apparently it still does that. Problem is, a strain evolved, to well, eat us. The new Ebola the news called it. Most people were resistant to it, it was apparently a fluke, attacked ten percent of the population worldwide regardless of socioeconomic factors or geography. It sickens, makes them weak, listless, useless. Doesn’t set in till the very early twenties and there’s no way to test for it, so you won’t know you’re susceptible until you’re screwed. Some people have family to support them, but society with all its other problems couldn’t deal with a tenth of the planets population spontaneously infirmed over three years as it took hold, so they ignored the problem, shunned it. The infirmed are this centuries lepers, they live like them and are treated like them. You see them everywhere in the poorest areas, down at street level and below, shuffling around unable to do much to anyone and ignored or preyed on by everyone else. Poor fuckers, it’s the one uniting malady of humanity, anyone can get it, it can’t be cured and you never know until your coughing up blood, then you take twenty years to die of it.
So yeah, blue sky, modern day miracle. Hah.
I stand up and stomp my feet, settling everything into place, bruises across the back are fading. The shower did a lot of good but it’s mostly the built in quick healing, my father truly spared no expense on me, I think it was a loan equivalent to twenty years of his excessive wages. Debbie by contrast was a natural birth, the child my mother always really wanted. Mum is in North Korea these days, ironically it’s one of the few places you can own your own property free and clear and the government doesn’t shit all over you, she bought it with the last of dad’s fortune after he died. Compensation money never came through, we were taking a holiday on one of the shitty hotels on the moon that some year 2000 billionaire idiot thought would be a brilliant idea. Airlock failure killed my father and 12 other people right in front of us when he sent us through the cycle before him, went back for a bag we forgot. He said he was gonna catch up to us, never did.
Space travel is a croc if you ask me. The moon is a second rate tourist attraction, Venus has a single monitoring station and mars is a science experiment. Apparently mining in the asteroid belt pays astronomically well, but seriously, fuck that, thirty percent mortality rate amongst the miners.
The door to the guestroom swishes open automatically before I get to it, a luxury I could do without, auto doors are no good for slamming. Debbie is standing in the kitchen looking worn, she’s just back from shift, still in her scrubs. Evidently she just pulled out the finance card, I can hear Frank throwing a tantrum in his studio. I go and stare at the coffee maker, detecting my RCP in range it pumps out a large cup of boring black coffee, fucking hot, how I like it.
“Well?” She says
I just look sidelong at her.
“Why were you in so late and loud last night? Frank needs to work.”
I continue to look at her, poor woman, got to remind myself not to treat her like I do everyone else, she doesn’t deserve it. I take the coffee and drink it.
“Sorry, though he could tell me himself.” She tenses to launch a tirade. “Again,” I sigh, taking another gulp of the scalding liquid. “Sorry, was a case last night, at about half eleven I was chasing a boosted crim through peoples domes on the 6th story the Manhattan Park complex on BHP point. He ran straight off a roof while I tried to apprehend. I fell off it.”
“Jesus,” She says, turning to the fridge “Good thing you’re...” She stops and glances back at me.
“I know,” I say, “A test tube baby, and a fucking expensive one, least playing god paid off eh?”
“Look, I know you feel bad,” She blurts, I know where this is going. “You’re still as human as anyone, I know you hate the designed and I know you hate being one, but mum and dad still loved you...”
“Whoa, whoa!” I nearly drop the coffee, damn she’s feeling emotional today, wonder what happened at work, the argument with Frank isn’t enough to start this trip. “You know I don’t give a shit Deb, it’s my bottom line, it doesn’t matter how you grew, it’s what you’re made out of.”
I stare at her a while longer, she looks like she’s going to cry.
“Look, I have to fuck off to work or I’ll be late, but when I come home, we’ll talk, k?”
“Nah we won’t,” she says, clearly I’ve forgotten something, she sighs, apparently she’s fought off the tears, just looks tired and resigned. “I’m flying out to mum’s in five hours remember, you’re stuck here alone with Frank for a week.”
Ah Christ.
“Try to just stay away from him will you?” she asks me.
“I should have bought the fucking penthouse.” I snort, setting down the empty mug and heading out the door. Least it’s a secure door. Turns translucent to me know there’s no-one on the other side instead of just whizzing open.
I turn back to Debbie. “Say Hi to mum for me.”
Tuesday, January 12, 2010
Cyberpunk is Nigh
I've been seeing amazing things recently in the field of artificial replacements for the human body, working bionic eyes, bionic arms that hook directly into nerves and actually give a sense of touch, these things have all been seen in development over the last few years.
But it is this which truly makes me think that cyberpunk writer's accuracy is disturbing. I take this as proof of the concept of addiction to virtual reality, better than life chips or whatever you want to call them. If people can react this strongly about not being able to go to live in a fake world from a 2.5 hour movie, these people will never resurface should someone give them access to a totally convincing VR of some fake utopia.
We don't need a race of machines to make the matrix and enslave us, we will have people lining up to do it to themselves the moment apple makes the iMatrix.
In other news Project A is in it's last chapter. Huzzah!
But it is this which truly makes me think that cyberpunk writer's accuracy is disturbing. I take this as proof of the concept of addiction to virtual reality, better than life chips or whatever you want to call them. If people can react this strongly about not being able to go to live in a fake world from a 2.5 hour movie, these people will never resurface should someone give them access to a totally convincing VR of some fake utopia.
We don't need a race of machines to make the matrix and enslave us, we will have people lining up to do it to themselves the moment apple makes the iMatrix.
In other news Project A is in it's last chapter. Huzzah!
Friday, January 8, 2010
Starting point
Well, the first thing to say is that the starting point of this blog is a hell of a long way from my starting point generally.
Of course, this shouldn's surprise anyone.
I've been writing all sorts of crazy unpublishable rubbish of various sorts for years, this is simply when I've decided to progress from hobby to serious.
The serious steps began with a third person fantasy noir (I'm a big fan of all things dark and dystopian) which I decided I simply couldn't progress with after the first chapter. I liked what I had written, I think the prose was nice etc but it just wasn't working for me, largely because the protagonist (a seriously evil bastard) was just too mary sue. I will revisit this one day as I've recently completely restructured the skeleton of the idea and powered him down to something interesting.
For now however, Project A (not a working title, simply how I will refer to it online) is a cyber punkish future noir (a term I've taken from Richard Morgan and personally love.) it's currently not actually even complete in draft 1. I have 120k pages and it's not yet finished.
Writing has been a gradual process, while I know now exactly how I'm going to finish it, when I first started all I really had was an idea of a world and a foul mouthed extremely elemental main character that I loved.
This of course leads to a point for any starting point of any project, but particularly a novel. You must believe in it and believe it. Well duh I hear you say, but it amazes me currently how often I hear such pessimist crap from unpublished authors commenting all over the shop.
Writing is hard, writing a book is harder, writing a book anyone wants to read is harder still and then there is the whole process of getting the industry and then readers to pay attention. It's hard.
If you keep slamming your head against the form rejection wall it's because you haven't found your voice, your characters or your story yet. Keep trying, I sure as hell will.
Of course, this shouldn's surprise anyone.
I've been writing all sorts of crazy unpublishable rubbish of various sorts for years, this is simply when I've decided to progress from hobby to serious.
The serious steps began with a third person fantasy noir (I'm a big fan of all things dark and dystopian) which I decided I simply couldn't progress with after the first chapter. I liked what I had written, I think the prose was nice etc but it just wasn't working for me, largely because the protagonist (a seriously evil bastard) was just too mary sue. I will revisit this one day as I've recently completely restructured the skeleton of the idea and powered him down to something interesting.
For now however, Project A (not a working title, simply how I will refer to it online) is a cyber punkish future noir (a term I've taken from Richard Morgan and personally love.) it's currently not actually even complete in draft 1. I have 120k pages and it's not yet finished.
Writing has been a gradual process, while I know now exactly how I'm going to finish it, when I first started all I really had was an idea of a world and a foul mouthed extremely elemental main character that I loved.
This of course leads to a point for any starting point of any project, but particularly a novel. You must believe in it and believe it. Well duh I hear you say, but it amazes me currently how often I hear such pessimist crap from unpublished authors commenting all over the shop.
Writing is hard, writing a book is harder, writing a book anyone wants to read is harder still and then there is the whole process of getting the industry and then readers to pay attention. It's hard.
If you keep slamming your head against the form rejection wall it's because you haven't found your voice, your characters or your story yet. Keep trying, I sure as hell will.
Thursday, January 7, 2010
Snap
Everyone needs a break, never underestimate the value of taking a little brain time no matter what it is you do. Even if your job is also your hobby, take a fucking break occasionally or burn out.
Just had a lovely little break myself up in the hills of south east Queensland watching birds and befriending a particularly bold kookaburra that simply would not get out of the farmhouse even when we would pick it up and gently toss it out an open window.
Kids, don't feed the wildlife.
So now I'm back home and forcing myself not to write anything until at least tomorrow... Though I must confess I did go through project A with red text and earmark several scenes for the trashpile and suggest much better replacements to myself.
Onwards and sidewards.
Just had a lovely little break myself up in the hills of south east Queensland watching birds and befriending a particularly bold kookaburra that simply would not get out of the farmhouse even when we would pick it up and gently toss it out an open window.
Kids, don't feed the wildlife.
So now I'm back home and forcing myself not to write anything until at least tomorrow... Though I must confess I did go through project A with red text and earmark several scenes for the trashpile and suggest much better replacements to myself.
Onwards and sidewards.
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