Novels

Detained: Chapter 3

I’ll be posting one chapter of my novel Detained every week throughout 2021. Download links below!

3. Candace

She looked around and tried to process. One moment she’d been asking herself if she was really planning on her first-ever one night stand, the next moment there were soldiers everywhere, shouting. She’d noticed how Mike had stepped in front of her, protectively, and while it had annoyed her she also thought it was kind of cute, the sort of dopey chauvinistic thing guys did with good intentions.

And it was all kind of alarming. After the initial shock of the noise and the lights and the soldiers coming through the front door, though, her heart rate had lowered a little bit. The soldiers in their gray-and-green uniforms and black arm bands had taken up positions, the tall blonde officer had walked in, and then things had gone still for a bit, the jukebox still playing Journey like it was the most appropriate song in the world, the stupid old Dipping Bird still going up and down like it had been for as long as she could remember. Jimmy found the old thing in Jack’s office one night years ago, and ever since he’d been moving it around, putting it in unlikely places just to annoy Jack McCoy.

She paid attention. The soldiers were all shouting clear and secure as they moved through the place. A group of soldiers invaded the rear of the bar, and emerged a few moments later pushing a young guy ahead of them.

“In the bathroom,” one of the soldiers said, giving him a shove. “Wouldn’t come out.”

The young guy was wearing a pair of crisp new jeans and a sweater over a T-shirt, and looked to her to be college-aged, young. He was clean-shaven and super skinny. He shrugged, looking around.

“Can’t just cancel the operation,” he said. “I don’t know how your colon works, asshole, but once I commit, the mission’s gonna be completed, no matter who’s shouting at me through the door.”

Candace counted: Twelve soldiers, plus the officer. They each had rifles on their shoulders, and sidearms on their hips.

“Someone turn that off,” the officer said. Her voice was crisp and certain. Two soldiers moved over to the juke and yanked the plug out of the wall, silence clamping down, making Candace jump. The officer nodded and looked from face to face, lingering a moment on each one. When it was her turn, Candace straightened up in an automatic reaction she’d learned from the Nuns at school. Then the officer stepped aside, and a short man wearing a camouflage jacket over more casual civilian clothes entered behind her. He carried a briefcase in one hand that seemed heavy, pulling him down, and a tablet computer in the other. He came up to the officer’s chest, and when he set the briefcase down and straightened up he stood with a slouching posture, almost ape-like, looking out at them over the rims of his thick, black-framed glasses. She thought he might be thirty or sixty, his hair thin and slicked back.

The officer leaned down and whispered in his ear. He nodded, looking around, glanced at his tablet screen, then looked up at her, nodding firmly.

“All right,” the officer said. “With my apologies for the disturbance, let’s make two things clear: You are all in my custody, and nobody leaves.”

“Custody?” Glen asked, hands flat on his table. “By who’s authority?”

The officer directed her gaze at him. Candace had the sense that there was a certain amount of time allotted for questions, and that it went against her grain to indulge civilians. “Mine.”

In front of her, Mike stepped forward. “And you are?”

The flat, steady gaze fell on him. Candace thought it seemed like the officer was seeing right through him. “Colonel Willa Hammond.”

Mike waited a beat. “Of?”

Hammond’s eyes stayed on him, and Candace felt her heart rate ticking up. She could feel the tension in the air, and was acutely aware that half of that tension landed on people who were carrying automatic weapons.

She edged herself behind Mike and eased her phone out of her back pocket, cursing how tight her jeans were. She thumbed the volume way down and chanced a look at the screen. No signal. And she’d never once seen a WiFi signal show up out here. There was nothing.

“All right,” Hammond said, stepping forward and clasping her hands behind her. “I know this is alarming. Please, stay calm. There are a few rules we’re all going to have to live with for a little while.”

“How long?” Glen asked. Candace thought, Go Glen. Don’t take any shit.

Hammond ignored him. “One: Any commands my team give you, obey. We will not ask twice.” She held up her hand and extended two fingers. “Two, do not make any attempt to leave this building. We do not intend to harm anybody, but we will use force to prevent this if necessary, and my team has permission to use deadly force. If necessary.”

Candace froze, gawking. Deadly force? Had she heard that right?

“Listen here,” Glen said, standing up. He didn’t notice, but Candace did, as the soldiers all stiffened and seemed to twitch ever so slightly. “We’re American Citizens. There is due process. We have rights.”

Hammond nodded, lowering her arm and looking around. “The process has already occurred, Mr. —” She paused for the short man with the glasses to lean up on his tip toes and whisper in her ear, his eyes on his tablet. “—Eastman. Please sit down.”

Candace blinked. Shit, they know who we all are already. How long have they been planning this?

“Rule three,” Hammond said, putting her hands behind her back again. “Bathroom breaks by permission only, with an escort. Just ask any of my people to accompany you. Rule Four, I won’t deal with a committee. Choose one person among you and designate them your liaison. They can bring any questions or issues directly to me. Any questions?”

She looked around, then nodded. “Good.”

Candace looked around at everyone. Jack McCoy and Jimmy Haggen were still at the end of the bar; Jimmy’s mouth hung open slightly; Jack looked pissed off. Glen had resumed his seat and sat slumped over slightly, arms stretched out in front of him, palms down. It looked like surrender. The balding man with the glasses looked terrified, eyes flicking from soldier to soldier. The guy from the bathroom just stood in the middle of the room, self-conscious and stiff.

Mike turned and faced her. “You okay?”

She nodded. “You?”

“Fine. You get a signal?” he asked, pulling his own phone from his pocket.

“Nope.”

He shook his head. “Me either.”

“So what do we do?”

They both turned to find the guy from the bathroom standing near them. Mike stared at him. “We do what she says. Because they have the guns.”

Bathroom Guy put up his hands. “Hey, look, I’m freaked out too, okay?”

Candace stepped forward and put her hand on his arm. “Sure, we all are. It’s okay.”

He smiled at her, and turned and sat down at one of the tables, hunched over and tense. Mike looked at her, and she stepped down the bar a few chairs, and he followed. They looked around; none of the soldiers were close enough to hear them.

“Any idea what’s happening?” he asked.

She shook her head. “Hell no. My shift was supposed to be over in an hour!” She didn’t add that she’d planned on asking him if she should stick around to have a drink with him. Somehow, she thought the timing on that wasn’t quite right.

“What’s that installation down the road, about half a mile? Looks all industrial, barbed wire on the fence, no sign?”

She nodded. “I know what you mean. Been abandoned for years—decades. Used to be a chemical plant, employed half the town.” She paused. That had been before her time. “Town was bigger, then,” she finished lamely. “I have no idea what it is now—thought it was still empty. Maybe Jack or Glen knows more.”

He turned and leaned back against the bar next top her. “You trust them?”

“Jack and Glen?” she asked, surprised. But then she thought about it: He didn’t know them. Which made her think, she didn’t know him. And yet she felt like she did. “Jack: Of course. He’s as decent as they come. Glen … yes. I’ve known Mr. Eastman my whole life. He has some crazy ideas about being a Sovereign Citizen, about the government—but I trust him to do right.”

He nodded. “All right. Let’s have a town council. See if you can get their attention, catch their eye, without making a scene. Get them to join us here. Everyone calm and civil.”

She nodded. This was sensible. She could hear her father saying pretending you ain’t confused is just stupid. He’d taught her to never be ashamed of not understanding something, to always ask questions, that dummies pretended they understood when they didn’t.

She looked over at where Jack and Jimmy were conferring, Jimmy still drinking his shot and beer. She tried to catch Jack’s eye, but Jimmy noticed. Before she could play it off, he’d nudged Jack and they both nodded as Jimmy stood up. It couldn’t be helped, and she figured Jimmy Haggen would have inserted himself when he noticed them all meeting up anyway.

When she looked over at Glen, he was already looking at them, so all it took was a tick of her head and he nodded, standing up.

There was a round of hurried introduction when they were all gathered at the bar. Then Mike asked “Anyone have a cell signal?”

Everyone shook their heads. Candace scanned the room. The soldiers were all standing around, seemingly at ease. Hammond and the unidentified man remained at the front, three soldiers stood at the entrance to the back hall where the office and bathrooms were. The fat tourist with the glasses was still sitting at his table, seemingly frozen. The kid from the bathroom was sitting more at ease, glancing through the little bar menu booklet that sat on every table.

Yeah, good luck getting served in here tonight, she thought.

The silence was brittle and unnatural. She thought she could hear all the ticks and hisses of the place, the pipes, the heat, everything that was normally hidden by conversation and the business of business.

Mike nodded as if he hadn’t expected anything else. “Anyone have any facts about this? Not theories—we all have theories—but anything they might have actually seen or heard that suddenly seems relevant?”

There was a pause. Jimmy Haggen suddenly smiled. “And what, you electin’ yourself our little liaison, buddy?”

Candace wanted to hit him. Leave it to Jimmy to be an ass when it was the last thing anyone needed. Then Mike just rolled with it.

“Sure, unless someone wants to suggest someone else.”

Glen, Jack, and Jimmy looked at each other. “We don’t know this asshole,” Jimmy said.

Jack nodded. “He’s in our same boat though.”

Glen added. “I vote yes.” He looked at Mike and Candace got a flash of him in gym class when she’d been a kid, kindly and smart. “You sure you want the job, Mister Malloy?”

“Call me Mike. And no, I don’t want the job. But I’m willing to do it.”

Jack nodded again. “You’re it.”

Mike nodded back. “All right. So, anything? Anyone remember anything at all?”

Everyone shook their heads. Mike sighed.

“So, we know exactly one interesting thing.”

Glen smiled. “The uniforms.”

Mike nodded. “No insignia. No patches. No name tags, no ranks.”

“Just the black band. Like mourning.” McCoy added.

“Right. Which means someone doesn’t want us to know who they are.”

They all chewed on that for a moment. Candace suddenly sucked in a breath.

“Actually, we know two things.”

They all looked at her.

“That kid they pulled out of the bathroom?” she said, looking from face to face. “Wasn’t in there before they arrived. He’s one of them.”

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Detained: Chapter 2

I’ll be posting one chapter of my novel Detained every week throughout 2021. Download links below!

2. Mike

When he’d passed the prison-like office park a few miles back, he’d worried that he’d been steered wrong, but the place was perfect. It was exactly what he’d asked for: Hyper-local, off the beaten path. The faded sign outside read MAD ONE JACK’S: Food | Liquor | Live Music and the place looked like it had been carved out of the trees a million years ago. He steered the rented Land Rover into a spot and shut the engine off.

He could hear music from inside: He recognized the twangy guitar riff, but couldn’t place it. He felt tired. A Scotch, a burger, and some local color was exactly what the doctor ordered.

Entering, he felt awkward for a moment. The place was dead. Four, five people, including the bartender, who didn’t look friendly, and the waitress, who did. She smiled at him, and he felt better, walking up to the bar and dropping his bag into one seat as he climbed into the one next to it. You need this, he said to himself. Six months without human contact is too long. Have a conversation.

For a split second, guilt flooded him. He saw her, on the floor, surrounded by trash. Her posture: She’d been crawling.

He shook his head and covered his momentary confusion by reaching for his wallet. He pulled out the black card without thinking and tossed it on the bar, and instantly regretted it.

The waitress’ eyes flickered to the card, hovered for a moment, then came back to him. “What can I get you?”

He was relieved to see the hint of a smile. She was pretty, he thought. Maybe even beautiful if you scraped off the long shift and did something with her hair. And the smile was pure gold, a natural wonder. He felt like an asshole throwing around his unlimited card, but it hadn’t been intentional, and she didn’t look impressed.

“You have anything that could legally be called Scotch?” he said.

Her smiled expanded incrementally. “Ooh, top shelf. I’ll alert the media.”

She spun away. He watched her walk the length of the bar and circle around behind it, wave off the bartender, and pull out a small step ladder from an unseen nook next to the fridge filled with bottled beer.

Movement out of the corner of his eye made him turn his head. An old-fashioned Dipping Bird, the glass toys that dipped their beaks into a glass for hours and hours at a time sat on the bar. It had a pelt of dust on it, so it appeared to hold a place of honor, and it made Mike happy. If this was the sort of place, he thought, that had a silly little tradition like an old-school Dipping Bird that got reset whenever it stopped dipping, then it was run by people with a sense of humor.

The waitress unfolded the ladder and climbed up to reach the literal top shelf, where two dusty bottles sat. He smiled as she climbed down, spun pertly, and presented the bottle to him. When he looked down, his smile froze and he almost choked.

He looked back at her. “Is this a joke?”

Her grin finally took over her face, pushing her over the line into beautiful. “Is what a joke?”

He glanced at the bottle again. “That’s a 1955 Glenfarclas.”

“Yup.”

“That bottle’s worth ten grand.”

“Yup.”

He laughed. He couldn’t help it. He’d come in to force himself to socialize, and he’d seen himself making awkward conversation, being trapped by some blowhard local. Instead he had a nearly empty bar being blown away by a beautiful waitress who was mocking him.

He nodded. “Okay. A double. Neat.”

She nodded as if ordering $500 worth of whiskey was a normal, everyday occurrence for her in her local bar. She picked up his card. “Open a tab?”

She was still smiling at him, so he laughed again. “Yes!”

He watched her walk towards the work station with the bottle. Movement in his peripheral vision made him jump. He turned to find the bartender standing there, holding out a hand.

“Jack McCoy,” he said. “Owner. Nice to meet you, Mr. —?”

He shook the man’s hand, which was like a shovel enveloping his own, huge and calloused. McCoy wasn’t big—he was no taller than himself—but he was dense. He was muscular and powerful and his grip said he would be capable of tearing phone books in half, if anyone still used phone books.

“Malloy,” he said. “Call me Mike. Great place you have here.”

McCoy nodded. “Thanks. You doin’ some hunting?”

Mike shook his head. “Passing through. Gonna climb the mountain, but just take in the local color, mainly.”

McCoy nodded as if this was a common response he’d heard dozens of times. The Mountain was a local name for a glorified hill that offered decent-to-great views of the area. It was something to do.

Mike leaned in slightly. “So, how’d you come by a Scotch like that?”

Jack gestured at the bar in general. “It was here when I bought the place, if you can believe it. Old Henry Wallace used to run this joint. Found it in his office, in a drawer.” He grinned. “I don’t think old Hank knew what he had!”

The waitress returned and slid a tumbler towards Mike. “Bottoms up!”

“Nice to meet you,” Jack said, turning away. “Enjoy the ?local color’!”

Mike lifted the glass and toasted the owner. “Nice guy,” he said to the waitress. Setting his glass down, he held out his hand. “Mike Malloy.”

She blushed a little and shook his hand formally, with a little half-bow. “Candace Cuddyer, at your service.”

They both smiled, and then an awkward silence grew up between them. Mike grimaced inwardly. This is what you get for cutting yourself off from everyone. For being alone too long. Robbie warned you about this. The thought of his attorney, fat and always vaguely out of breath, took him out of the moment. He reminded himself that that had been the whole point, the whole reason he’d spent the last year on the road, going from place to place. To clear his head. To find his purpose. To find his way back to people. He looked at the waitress again. He liked her look, her smile. Her way of somehow seeming like she’d been part of his life forever instead someone he’d literally met five minutes before.

And he’d flashed the black card and ordered a $500 whiskey. In this place. He felt like a jerk. He was certain she thought he was a jerk, too.

“So,” she said. “What brings you out our way? Local color?”

It was his turn to blush. He looked down at the bar. “Sorry, that made it sound like an anthropological trip, huh?”

“Life among the natives. The mating rituals of the common people.”

He laughed. She laughed.

“I’ve been traveling,” he said when the moment passed. “I needed to … clear my head. Get right. Leave some stuff and some people behind.”

He saw Julia again, on the floor in her underwear, her head turned away from him. When he’d walked around to her side, feeling shaky and fuzzy, her eyes were open and dry, and he’d jumped back in shock, twisting an ankle and landing on the glass coffee table. He cleared his throat.

“Anyway, road trip, I guess. An extended road trip. You? Local?”

“As they come,” Candace said. “Not that I’m all that proud of it, mind you. People being proud of where they happened to be born is just plain weird, you ask me. Anyway, I’m thinking … actually, I just thought, literally tonight, of getting out of here. Leaving town.”

He raised an eyebrow. He liked this girl. “Oh yeah? Where to?”

She shrugged. “I haven’t gotten that far.”

He liked that too. “Wandering. I highly recommend it. I’ve been doing it for a year now.”

She glanced over his shoulder. Someone getting the waitress’s attention, he thought. “Yeah? Running or chasing?”

He kept his smile in place with care. “Running. Definitely running.”

She moved off to take an order, and he finally lifted his glass. She smelled a little like lemons, he thought. From slicing up garnishes, sure, but he liked it, that smell. He sniffed the whiskey and took a long sip. It was delicious: Some of the smoothest whiskey he’d ever tasted. Well worth the money, but then he had plenty of money to burn, even now, even after a lost decade.

He turned the stool and leaned with his back against the bar, holding the glass in one hand. Candace was taking an order from an older man in a fishing vest, looking at her over his glasses. The fisher said something and Candace laughed, her whole body getting into it. At another table, a round, balding man was sipping a drink and looking over at them, his eyes roaming Candace in a way Mike instantly didn’t like.

Whoa, boy, he thought. You just met her. Don’t go picking fights like you’re in High School.

He turned his head and caught the other guy at the bar staring at him, even as he was talking to the owner, McCoy. Their eyes met, and neither looked away. Mike thought he looked painfully like an image the term local brought to mind: A rangy, skinny guy about his own age, scraggly beard, baseball cap, dirty jeans, white T-shirt, boots. A hardpack of cigarettes was actually rolled into the sleeve of the shirt, which Mike almost found incredible. Who actually did that?

He was becoming aware of something … some noise or vibration.

“An ancient ex,” Candace said, appearing next to him and signaling to Jack. “And now professional drinker.”

He raised an eyebrow, liking the warm feel of her, inches away. She looked like one of those tall girls who was totally comfortable in her body. Whatever other problems she might have, he imagined she woke up every day feeling fine.

“How ancient?”

“Jealous?”

“Just wondering if I’ll have to fight him in the parking lot.”

She hip-checked him playfully. “If you play your cards—what the hell is that?”

He snapped out of his flirty fog. The vibration had been building for a while, he realized, and was resolving into a rhythmic, pulsing noise. Through the windows they could see bright lights bouncing around, filling the place.

Everyone had stopped to stare. The jukebox played on. Steve Perry was complaining about circus life.

Mike stood and almost unconsciously moved in front of her. He saw that the Ancient Ex had stood up, too, and the owner, Jack, somehow magically had one of the shortest sawed-off shotguns Mike had ever imagined in his hands. If he actually fired it, they would all take some of the shot, he thought.

Then the front door opened. He saw Jack raise the shotgun as two soldiers stepped into the bar, men dressed in camouflage, sidearms on their hips. They stepped to each side and stood at attention as a female officer, also wearing camou, stepped into the place, one hand on her sidearm.

The officer surveyed the place. Steve Perry kept singing about hating the road. She was very tall, and her eyes lanced out from a face that was almost, but not quite, traditionally pretty. Her uniform looked crisp and freshly laundered, down to the black armband on her right upper arm. A quick glance confirmed the other soldiers had similar armbands, like they were in mourning.

“All right,” the officer said in a voice that boomed clear and crisp through the music, a voice that was very used to making itself heard. “Check every room, get me a head count. I’m sorry folks, but no one leaves.”

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Detained: A Novel

HAPPY NEW YEAR, boys and girls! I hope y’all made it through 2020 without too many scars. As we slide into 2021’s DMs I’ve decided to try another little literary experiment: I’m going to post a novel chapter by chapter here on the wee blog this year. One chapter a week every Monday, starting next week.

It’s called Detained, a thriller with a dash (well, more than a dash) of sci-fi:

The employees and patrons of a remote rural bar get the shock of their lives when they’re unexpectedly and violently detained by a secretive military unit. The soldiers think this will be easy duty, but some of the people they’re detaining have unexpected skills … and when they fight back, things take a turn for the deadly — and the very, very weird.

I write a lot, and sometimes novels fall by the wayside because I either can’t figure out who would want to publish them or because they’re missing … something, usually quite mysterious. This is one of those novels.

I’ll be posting it here weekly, which will take us through to December. Each chapter will also include download links for PDF, MOBI, and EPUB files for that chapter. Then when the whole thing’s been posted I’ll make a complete novel version available as a complete PDF, MOBI, and EPUB download right here on the site for free. I hope you enjoy!

Black House: An Interactive Fiction

Black House is live.

So, er, what is it? Well, Black House is an interactive fiction, a text adventure. You read descriptions, then you type in simple instructions and see what happens, like this:

You wake up in a room rapidly filling with water. There is a jug of whiskey and a small sponge next to you.

> Eat sponge

You chew on the sponge for a while, then die of stupidity.

<YOU HAVE DIED>

Well, something like that. Here’s the story of the story.

ZORK

Back in the sands of time, I played a lot of these sorts of games — Zork and its many descendants. I was always instantly hooked by the idea that these little text universes might be infinite, that if I poked around long enough I would stumble onto an endless series of hidden rooms and tricks. They weren’t infinite, but there were enough hidden things to manage the illusion. I liked solving the puzzles, but I enjoyed just roaming around trying stuff just as much.

MAZE

Then, sometime later I discovered a book called Maze by Christopher Manson (which I’ve written about before because it is incredible) which had the same spirit, if a somewhat darker tone. Maze is a sort of choose-your-own-adventure book, but it’s very similar in some ways to a text adventure.

As is my Method, Maze inspired me to rip it off wholesale, so I created my own maze, creatively titled The Maze and so blatantly stealing from Manson’s superior creation I still feel the shame today. I originally created my maze in HTML, then later recreated it in Visual Basic and spat out a Windows EXE file. What can I say: I’m just that cool international man of mystery sort who coded shit in VB in the 1990s and early 2000s. You’re jealous. Let it drift.

Marks

The third piece of this puzzle is Philip K. Marks, a character I started writing about in the 1990s. Marks is a kind of shitheel private investigator who specializes in weird, paranormal, sci-fi mysteries. I’ve published five stories featuring Marks, and a few years ago I thought it was time to write a novel-length story with the character. When I thought about what story to put Marks in, I thought of my old maze, and got excited about turning the maze into a novel. The end result was Black House, which I loved but had its flaws.

Black House wasn’t really saleable, so I sat on it for a while, then a few years ago I tried an experiment: I published it online, one chapter a day for about a month, then one day after the last chapter went up I pulled it down. The site is still there, if you’re curious.

Which brings us to today: I stumbled on this Medium article by Julie Stevenson a few months ago. I’d worked in Inform back in 2010 when creating the site for The Eternal Prison, which featured a flawed and half-finished text adventure, so I was reminded that this was something I could actually do.

So I did.

I was intrigued by the idea of turning a novel-like thing into a text adventure, and Black House, having come from a text adventure of sorts to begin with, was the perfect source. That’s what Black House, the game, is: A novel in text-adventure form.

Go on: Play.

Avery Cates: ‘The Long Siege’ and Serial Novel Writin’

The third part of the new Avery Cates novel The Burning City, The Long Siege, is available for pre-order, kids.

How this works is, I’m writing a novel (The Burning City, coming 2020) in big novella-length sections, and publishing each section on its own for 99 cents, just like I did with The Shattered Gears. Thus, you can either buy and read each part as they come, or wait until they’re collected into the novel. Or both! These sections are

  1. The New World
  2. The Devil’s Bargain
  3. The Long Siege
  4. The Dark Hunt

There’s no tight schedule here; I’m planning to have both part four, The Dark Hunt, and the novel, The Burning City, out in 2020, but lord knows when. Just how organized/sober do you think I am?

Here’s the trailer for the novel:

Thanks to everyone who keeps buying all these Avery stories. I’m having a blast writing them, so it’s great to know people are enjoying them! You can pre-order The Long Siege at the following places:

AMAZON | B&N

Avery Cates: The New World

So, I can’t quit Avery Cates, and the last experiment in form — writing a novel as a series of novellas that linked together — was so much fun, and so successful, I’ve decided to do it again.

Like last time, the plan is to write this story in several big chunks which will then be collected into an omnibus like The Shattered Gears. Each separate novella will be released independently so you can either read them as I drop them, or wait for the collected novel, which will be titled The Burning City. The first part is The New World, and it’ll hit online stores on May 15th. This is a direct sequel to The Shattered Gears; there will be one more book after this, as well.

Beyond The New World, I don’t have a clear schedule. These will get written as time permits, so I can’t say when exactly the next part will come, or when the omnibus will turn up. Watch this space and I’ll keep y’all apprised.

In the mean time, you can pre-order The New World for 99 cents at Amazon, B&N, Kobo, and (soon) Google Play. Huzzah!

Salvaging a Fail

It happens. Every novel I start begins in a surge of excitement and a sense of infinite possibilities. Then, as I work, those possibilities start to shrink down with every choice I make. Certain plot twists become impossible, certain characters prove to be less than fascinating and are phased out, certain ideas get pushed aside.

Along with those dwindling options in your story you also start to get a sense of whether or not the story is working. As much as writers are often poor judges of their own material and rely on other people’s feedback, we generally do have a handle on whether the book is even working on a fundamental level. There might be some serious denial going on, of course, but deep down you know. And sometimes you get the ominous feeling that this book you’ve been working on for six months, this book that now has tens of thousands of words in it simply isn’t working. You have a thing that looks like a book but is really a shambolic mess.

Or maybe that’s just me. When a novel that I’ve invested time and energy into starts slipping through my fingers like a castle made of sand, I don’t just give up, because I like to finish things—because you publish exactly zero of the projects you don’t finish. Instead, I try to come up with a solution to save the day.

Finish Him

My choice of solution varies depending on how far along I am.

Almost a Novel. If I’m three-fourths through the plot and the work is already or close to book-length, I just push through. Just because a novel is terrible is no reason to just not finish it—as long as you’re close to the end. If I think I just need a few more weeks to polish this turd into a novel-shaped thing, I go on and put that work in, because at least I’ll have a book at the end of it.

Halfway to a Novel. On the other hand, sometimes you realize that you’re writing something awful much earlier. If there’s a lot of work left to make this into a novel-length story, I’ll usually abandon that goal and focus instead on coming up with a resolution to the story that ties everything up in a much shorter time span. Better to have a novella than nothing at all.

A Complete Mess. If I’ve got a lot of words and not much else, I’ll lower my goals to simply extracting something from the pile. Maybe the first chapter—when I was inspired and focused—could work as a standalone short story. Maybe a middle section could work on its own. If there’s nothing worth pulling out then I’ve really screwed the pooch, because that means there’s literally no contiguous set of a few thousand words worth reading in the whole thing and I should reconsider my application to Clown College.

That last scenario almost never happens, though, because there’s almost always something worth saving. A few years ago I started work on a novel that’s been up and down quite a bit. I originally cut it off and Went Novella on it when the story lost steam, but then I went back and thought I had a solution to the book’s many problems. I doubled the word count and yes, it’s a novel now, but it still isn’t a good novel.

Still, I’d rather have a finished novella and novel out of it than a swamp of messy words. I may never publish either version of that story, but at least with finished, somewhat polished work the possibility of publishing it in some form remains.

Whether or not the world benefits from publishing those stories is an issue our future alien overlords will have to determine when they sift through the ashes of our culture.

The Long and Winding Road

In a few weeks I’ll finish revising the second novel I’ve completed in 2018 (technically they were both completed in 2017 in terms of first drafts, and now they’re both hitting a “presentable” polished stage, meaning I can inflict them on my long-suffering agent). This isn’t unusual for me; since 1988 or so I’ve completed 44 novels, and it’s not at all strange for me to finish 2-3 in a calendar year. Of course, that doesn’t mean they’re good novels; of those 44, after all, I’ve published 10 (one self-published), and at the moment there’s only 3 unpublished novels that have any chance of seeing the light of day (and that number includes the 2 I’m discussing here).

That’s me, that’s my process. I’m a write-it-all-and-figure-it-out-later kind of guy. I draft quickly, pants my way through plot, and as a result I have a high failure rate in terms of having top-notch material ready for my agent. I’m okay with that, because it’s just naturally how I work. By the time I figure out that a novel’s not working out I’m 80% of the way through it and my compulsive need to finish things kicks in.

The two novels I’m finishing up right now are really good, I think. And they’re interesting because they were both born, originally, as short stories written in 1992. Which, if you’re keeping score at home, was 26 fucking years ago.

I am old.

The Glorious Year of Glad

So, 26 years ago I wrote a story called The Hollow Men and a story called The Only Time. One was sci-fi, and one was sort of a dark thriller that wasn’t speculative but felt speculative, is the best way I can describe it.

I never sold either story as a short, but they lingered with me. The Only Time I tried to work into a novel in 1999, and to be honest I really liked that book at the time. A few years ago I was thinking about my journey with The Electric Church (which was originally written in 1993, then revised in 2004 into the version that sold to Orbit Books), so I dusted off that 1999 draft of The Only Time to see if similar magic might be done, but I wasn’t too happy with it in the cold light of middle age, so I started re-working it entirely in 2016, combining it with another concept. I finished that draft in 2017 and, frankly, hated it. The mixture of concepts didn’t work, and the earlier chapters had a different tone and feel because they hued closer to the earlier draft.

The Hollow Men just sat on my hard drive for decades. I always liked the core story, but even shortly after finishing it I realized it was juvenelia—one of those stories you write as a kid because you think it’s “cool” and “edgy” when it’s really just pointlessly nihilistic. But the basic concept stayed with me, and I finally decided in 2015 to try to expand the story into a novel. 60,000 words later, I had a hot stinking mess of a story. There was some great stuff in it, but one of the big reveals in the latter part of the plot turned out a bit more ridiculous than I’d expected.

I worked on it again in 2016, changing the big reveal to something more speculative and out-there. This didn’t work either.

Finally, I started revising again last year. The book had bloated up a bit, so I started cutting out unnecessary stuff, shifted a few parts around, and removed all explicit references to the speculative aspect while leaving it in invisibly—in other words, I know what’s behind everything, but it’s no longer stated in the story, and that works so much better y’all.

So: I wrote two shorts stories in 1992. In 2018, I’m finishing up novel-length versions of each and you would be hard-pressed to see the connections between them. The novels are so different from those original stories you’d never guess in a million years th related in any way.

And that’s writing, sometimes. The evolution of ideas is harsh. You cut ruthlessly. You sand and hone endlessly. Details erode away to reveal new details. Characters and entire subplots get deleted, shifted around, rendered invisible. And sometimes it take more than a quarter-century to take an idea and make it into a book.

Never Bulk Up

So you have an idea for a novel. You carve out some time to work on it, you put thought and care into the story, the characters, the setting. You diligently pound out words. And when you’re done, your story is 25,000 words long. It’s clearly not a novel. What do you do?

a) Go back and start ginning up material to bulk it up into book-length proportions

b) Accept that you’ve written a novella

Neither of those choices is going to be correct 100% of the time, but in general I’d argue that you’re almost always much better off choosing option B. Because bulking up a story is usually a very easy way to wind up with a really, really terrible novel.

No More Words

Let’s backtrack a bit and admit that there are scenarios where bulking up a manuscript makes sense. For example, if you have something that’s borderline when it comes to word count and your agent or publisher says they think they can sell it except it needs 5,000-10,000 more words to make publishers see it as viable in the market, that’s a good reason. Or if someone whose opinion you trust says that the book needs something that naturally adds bulk, that can be a good reason too.

In both of those scenarios, the novel is almost there and adding material isn’t a Herculean task, and arguments can be made that the bulking up is beneficial. But when you’re just pouring in words like so much concrete just to hit a random word count you’ve decided is important—well, that’s everything that’s wrong with using word counts as a literary metric in the first place.

Because sometimes when you hit THE END and you’ve got a novella, that’s because your story should be a novella. And yes, novellas are hella hard to publish unless you’re already somewhat successful, and yes, maybe you’re disappointed because you wanted it to be a novel. But some of the best stories of all time were actually novellas—and even some books marketed as novels are really novellas. Point in fact, my first novel, Lifers, is borderline: It’s about 40,000 words. Would it have been improved if I wrote an additional 30,000 words? Absolutely not. It would have become the go-to example whenever writers were discussing noodling.

Now, if more story occurs to you naturally and you want to revisit a short work with more material, no reason not to. But dumping in words just to bulk up a story is a terrible idea. Don’t do it.

Unless someone’s paying you to do it. My advice is to always do things you’re paid to do, no matter how ill-advised, illegal, or ill-conceived.

The Dystopian Shock

Dystopias are always popular in science fiction, for a variety of reasons. Number one, of course, is that there’s depressingly little play in being optimistic about the future. People who go around talking about how the future will be awesome and all our problems will be solved get derided as soft-headed hippies, while people who are all doom and gloom about our fate are taken very, very seriously. Number two, dystopias are fun. Utopias are boring. Which is also why we immediately become suspicious whenever a SFF book depicts an apparent utopia—because we figure it’s got to be a ruse, and thus actually a dystopia. Otherwise, why write the damn book?

Dystopias also give the writer a junkyard sandbox to play around in; world-building is tough because you have to figure out how everything works and trace the development of concepts and traditions. But in a dystopia, the world is broken. Things aren’t working correctly. You can smash stuff and leave things unexplained, you can shrug and leave a mess behind and your readers will just assume it’s part and parcel of a broken world (to an extent—there’s always a limit to stuff like this).

Dystopia Now!

But another big reason dystopias are effective is the shock factor. You’re going about your day, living in a world that is far from perfect and which is filled with injustice, but isn’t precisely a dystopia—yet. And then you start reading and suddenly you’re faced with a world where everything has been perverted and ruined, where basic human rights are discarded and everything is terrible. It’s like walking into WalMart.

Because in real life, dystopias happen gradually. You’re not going to wake up tomorrow to find fascist troops outside your door instructing you to donate your mandatory spittle quota to the Great Leader. That’s the end of a decade or three of slow frog-boiling. In real life, you never notice the dystopia you’re living in because it just creeps up on you. When you crack open a book, suddenly you’re dropped into a dystopia and it’s a shock. A horrifying shock that transmits power from your story directly to the reader. When handled well it’s an incredibly effective moment.

The difficulty comes in maintaining that shock and channeling the energy of it to the plot. When a reader starts your story and experiences that rush of virtual anxiety that comes from experiencing a dystopian society, you’ve got to take that response and use it to push them forward in your story. If you don’t get them involved in the story quickly, the shock dissipates. They get used to the horrorshow of a society you’ve presented them with. This happens in real life, too; even when society’s decline happens in a fairly sudden, stomach-flipping lurch, people find ways to define a new normal and get their sea legs, and the frog boiling begins again.

Please note I don’t encourage you to actually boil any frogs. Even in the name of science! that’s kind of horrible.