This year I decided to dust off my 2009 NaNo Novel The Ferry because I actually finished it and could use this month to polish it into a second draft, then have someone else eyeball it. I set a modest 15,000 word goal, since I wasn’t expecting to greatly expand on it.
Then a few days ago I chucked all that aside. Am I mad?
Maybe.
What happened is I started re-reading the story after a long time away with it, so my eyes were “fresh” and it just didn’t grab me like it should have. There’s a newer prologue scene I added awhile back that I actually quite like, then it goes back to the largely unchanged text of 2009 and it doesn’t really gel, though I can see what I was attempting.
In brief, I was trying to set the mood through a long, slow burn where tensions keep increasing, without anything actually supernatural or weird happening. The ferry is late. It’s really hot. The terminal is crowded. Tempers are short. A stranger insinuates herself to the main characters in a way that is not entirely welcome. But nothing actually happens. And instead of things feeling tense, it starts to feel a little more like, “Is anything going to happen?”
And when it does finally start, I’m not convinced it’s even that interesting. Weird and deadly dog-like creatures appear to have gotten on the ferry and start attacking. There is a fear of panic. The bridge appears to have been attacked and is now empty. But still, I wasn’t sure I wanted to keep reading…and I wrote the thing!
I went back to Road Closed and in a way it has the same problem. There’s a lot of set-up in the early chapters before anything spooky or weird happens. Right now I’m deciding on how best to rework the beginning of the story and how to fit things together at the end (the middle is strangely fine). It’s already stronger than The Ferry, because it has the added bonus of watching a guy slowly self-destruct from drinking even before the ghostly shenanigans start.
Here’s hoping, then, that I can make real progress on Road Closed this year and maybe even self-publish the silly thing.
I’ve decided it makes the most sense to take my 2009 NaNoWriMo novel The Ferry, and attempt to self-publish it this year. I’ve chosen it because it’s actually a complete novel, so it only needs another draft or two to be ready, vs. actually finishing one of my other novels. It’s not my best work, but it’s words on a (virtual) page and has action, romance and horrible monsters from some other dimension. And that’s not a sly reference to some political angle.
Steps in my plan:
Choose a novel to complete – DONE
Prepare the novel in the writing tool of my choice – DONE (I am using Scrivener, the story was originally written in Word)
Read up on self-publishing – IN PROGRESS (I’ve read a few books and will go back to review as the story gets closer to being ready)
Find an artist and pay them to create a decent book cover – TO DO
Find an editor to read over and revise my manuscript – TO DO (when I’m closer to ready)
Spiffy up my “serious” website (stanwjames.com) – In PROGRESS
Decide on pricing strategy, any marketing, etc. – TO DO
We’ll see how it goes, but if I don’t do something this year, I’ve decided I’m going to give up and spend all of my free time playing Diablo 3. ALL MY FREE TIME.
Let’s Get Digital is a concise, current and captivating collection of considerations on why and especially how you might go about self-publishing your books. It also doesn’t suffer from the terrible alliteration I used in the previous sentence. Sorry about that.
Author David Gaughran has updated his book with this third edition and considering the changes that have occurred since the first edition in 2010, it’s a thoughtful and interesting look back at the early days of self-publishing (through ebooks rather than a vanity press) and an excellent primer on what the current market is like. Gaughran covers the pros (many) and cons (a few) of self-publishing and doesn’t just focus exclusively on Amazon, acknowledging that other online stores exist. He highlights where you may want to spend money (editing, a good book cover) and advises against the necessity of many things that don’t apply to those working outside the traditional model of publishing.
He backs up his advice with anecdotes, both personal and at the conclusion of the book where 30 self-published authors share their successes, along with statistics on the growth of indie publishing. Likewise, he offers detailed advice on pricing, researching your market/genre and provides a good set of resources for further investigation and follow-up.
If you write and have toyed with the idea of self-publishing, it’s hard not to be enthused about the prospect after reading Let’s Get Digital. This is an excellent, clearly-written primer and highly recommended to aspiring authors looking to break into the burgeoning world of indie fiction (and non-fiction).
Back in 2014 I proposed a writing exercise on a now-defunct site I ran. It was to write a scene or short story based on this photo:
(You can see the photo in context as Blue Mist Road here.)
Being the clever type, I called my effort “Road Closed” and somehow tied it in to being about ghosts, somehow.
As I fleshed out the story I realized it was going to be more than just an exercise or even a short story and it became my official National Novel Writing Month project in November 2014. I won! I didn’t actually finish the novel, but I did complete 50,000 words, so it was more a technical win.
Four years later and I have made progress on the story (it’s sitting at 72,000+ words) but stalled late last year after making some good progress.
The essential problem is I’m not confident in the story arc I’ve developed and I’m hesitant to invest more time if it all ends up being poop. Or ghost poop.
At some point I want to properly write out the outline of the story but this post is really about the title.
The title “Road Closed” made sense when it was a short story and the road played a big part in the whole thing. It may not even survive the final draft now, so I’m casting about for something new. It could even provide a spark that could lead to other changes and get the whole ball rolling again.
Or I could just write that outline and go from there.
Here’s the elevator pitch for the story:
A 20 year old moves to a new town and starts college as a journalism student, determined to get away from a troubled past. His efforts to start over are stymied by two things: a drinking problem he brought with him, and a ghost he starts dating without realizing the ghost part.
And the initial lackluster titles I’ve come up with to replace “Road Closed” are:
Ghosts and Other Spirits (a play on spirits referring to both ghosts and alcohol–geddit?)
Impersonal Demons (I’m not even sure what this one means)
School Spirit (simple, accurate, but also very banal and easy to misinterpret)
When I look over these titles I feel driven to make “Road Closed” work. While the name suggests street construction and detours, it can also suggest that an avenue is closed off, which can work on several levels for the story. Still, it’s also pretty generic.
I know!
BOOze
I’m sorry, I’ll see myself out.
(I’ll do the outline this week and report the grisly results.)
My first thought is: I’m too young for dementia, followed quickly by: But I’m not too young to be hearing things. I grab the phone and shove it into the same pocket with my glove. I leave the glove there because I know if I try to take it out and put it on, it’s going to just plop into the snow, guaranteed.
I stand upright and turn around toward South Street to face who or whatever is walking toward me, even though I know there is no way someone could have come from that direction without me seeing or hearing them.
There is, of course, no one there. The footsteps stopped as I turned.
My mind is playing tricks on me. I don’t like this. It’s happened before and it will happen again, but it’s annoying and also I know my great-grandmother actually had dementia, so there’s a history of it in the family and every time something like this happens it terrifies me a little, because it reminds me that the same fate could await me in my later years.
It’s too cold to be thinking about such things. I put the glove on and resume the trudge up to South Street and, hopefully, a firmer entry back into the world where phantom footsteps do not occur.
You know what happens next.
The footsteps resume behind me, coming from the original direction. For a moment this is oddly reassuring. The reassurance is tossed aide quickly and replaced with annoyance. No fear, no terror, just plain annoyance. I’m moving through the five stages of something. I don’t stop. I don’t look back. I just walk. South Street is only a minute away, less if I continue my imitation of The Little Snow Plow That Could.
The wind abruptly picks up and whips in from the east, blasting my face. It’s cold enough to take my breath away. I pull my chin in and adjust the collar of my jacket up. The wind almost sounds like it’s chuckling. Mocking me. And freezing my ass off.
The gust dies down as suddenly as it started and the air is so still and quiet I realize I have stopped moving.
The footsteps have stopped. Not just mine, all of them. Good.
The collar of my jacket flutters. The wind is picking up again. Probably a fresh storm moving in. I seem to recall hearing that on a radio playing somewhere. Time to get moving and get out of here. I resume my seemingly eternal trek to South Street, ignoring the creepy chuckling sound the wind makes. That’s not true, actually, part of my mind is wondering how the acoustics can produce something that sounds so near to a human voice. Maybe the same thing that makes phantom footsteps.
Stupid access road. Next time I’m sticking to the nicely shoveled sidewalks, even if it adds another kilometer or two to my walk. At least I won’t get home sopping wet from the knees down and wondering if my senior years will feature my mind turning into pudding.
I reach the small hill leading up to South Street and begin my ascent, imagining I’m scaling the peak of some mighty mountain. Not Everest, I’d die about ten times on the way up. But still, a mountain of some sort.
I slip and nearly fall. I shoot out my hands for balance and stop to adjust my grip in the snow. I look up and around, flakes are starting to fall again. Even though the rest of the way is plowed and shoveled, home and hot chocolate feel a long way off.
I take another step and this time my foot lands on an ivisible, ice-covered banana peel. My arms pinwheel fruitlessly, though no doubt it would look hilarious to a passerby, then I land hard on my back. Because I’m on a slope the effect is enhanced and I feel that sick whump as the air is knocked out of me. I lay there on my back, flakes gently landing on my cheeks and melting, then make my first attempt to get back up and slide a bit back down the hill. This would still prove hilarious to a passerby, I’m certain.
I’m not hurt, but the disorientation is making it difficult to focus. The wind switches back to roaring and the gentle snowflakes turn on me, pelting into my face.
This is when the chuckling I hear in the wind starts sounding more like a person and less like a byproduct of acoustics. It sounds like it’s coming from behind my head, which is currently smushed down in the crumpled snow made by my footsteps. I see a shadow fall over me. I’m not sure what to think. It’s too cold to pee my pants, so I hold my bladder tight.
Here’s Part 3 of this writing exercise. I have no idea how many parts there will be or how it will end. Or if it will end. Like real exercise, you never know until you get to the gym and start sweating. Okay, that was a terrible analogy.
I am not surprised, but neither am I especially pleased, because I was certain there was someone behind me and the acoustics in the area are not likely to lead me to mistake my own footsteps for those of someone else.
But even as I think this the whole experience begins to muddy in my mind. I am cold and a little tired and in no mood to play games with my own brain. I give in, give up. Yes, I imagined the entire thing. No one was following me. No one was there.
Instead of trudging forward and that much closer to the delicious steaming mug of hot chocolate that would be mine, I pivot around and face the way I came from. I retrace my steps, peering down into the trodden snow, examining my shoe prints and looking for others. There’s not enough light and given that letting my imagination fill in the blanks is quite possibly the reason I am now walking opposite my destination, I stop, pull out my phone and turn on its flashlight function (I wonder if it’s called Torch mode in the UK). I crouch down, my knees creaking unhappily from the cold and the damp, and wave the phone across the path I’ve made. I can see my prints clearly. I don’t see any others.
My imagination, that’s all. Time for hot chocolate and some apparently well-needed rest.
I continue to backtrack just a little more, having not quite reached the point of total satisfaction. It’s kind of like art–I’ll know it when I see it. Or in this case, when I get there.
The not-terribly-impressive beam of light sweeps back and forth from the phone and suddenly it slips through my gloved hand, landing in the snow with a soft plop. It sinks a little. I mutter a choice epitaph, then reach down to scoop it out, but the glove endows my hand with the gift of clumsiness and I instead push it further into the snow.
More cursing ensues. I pull the glove off and stuff it into a coat pocket. I begin fishing with my bare fingers, already numbing from the cold.
It is then that I hear the footsteps coming from behind me.
Part 1 can be found here or if you hate clicking and being whisked away by the internet, it’s also available in the spoiler tag below.
[show_more more=”A Walk in the Snow, Part 1 (click the expand)” color=”#1e73be” size=”110″]
A Walk in the Snow, Part 1
It is very quiet in the snow.
That’s how I hear the person walking behind me. I stop and a moment later the person stops. It is silent again.
I am walking down a service road that’s about two kilometers long. Its main function is to provide access to railway workers and park staff, but there’s little vehicle traffic on it most days. Tonight it’s covered in virgin snow and I’m up to my knees in the stuff after an early winter blast. My breath frosts in front of me, a steamy cloud that drifts up into a clear, dark sky and disappears.
I’m about halfway down the road, heading toward South Street, the main road that runs through my neighborhood. I live a few blocks east of South. I like telling people that, then watch their faces as they try to process it.
It’s bright enough to make my way without a flashlight. There is no artificial light here, just the stars dotting the black above and the snow shimmering around me.
I became aware of the footsteps–more the sound of someone pushing their way through the snow, really–a few minutes earlier. Twice I’ve tested by stopping and the person following has also stopped. It’s hard to escape the sensation that I am prey being stalked. The snow is just deep enough to make a quick escape impossible. The closest things to weapons I carry are my house keys and smartphone. I keep my breathing calm, knowing this person is probably close enough to see the puffs. Don’t show signs of panic. I gaze up at the sky, as if I’m looking for a constellation. Casual. Curious. Inconspicuous.
Maybe.
I resume walking and count one thousand one, one thousand two. The footsteps resume behind me, shushing through the snow. It will take at least fifteen minutes to reach South Street, where the road is plowed, the sidewalks shoveled and regular traffic passes by. It seems very far away. I strain to hear cars but it’s late and all I hear are my steps and the ones mirrored behind me. [/show_more]
A Walk in the Snow, Part 2
It’s nothing, I tell myself. Well, obviously it’s something, but it’s just someone who happened to hit the service road shortly after I did, probably using it as a shortcut in the same way, and the only reason they stop every time I stop is they don’t want to close the gap between us and get awkwardly close, which would be even creepier than simply walking a respectable distance behind.
This is logical enough that my mind clicks over from “stalker with knife will paint the snow with my blood” to “thinking about inane activities to engage in once home and the kettle of water is boiling for a big mug of hot chocolate.” I feel tension is my shoulders and neck ease up, the knots loosening. There’s a long lazy S in the road up ahead and once I’m into the second curve of it I’ll be able to see South Street. If it turns out I’m wrong I can start screaming like a little girl and plunge ahead in the snow, waving my arms frantically to catch the attention of drivers. I can hope the brushed aluminum casing of my phone is more solid than the drop test videos on YouTube suggest if I must brandish it as a weapon.
I enter the midway point of the S and realize my heart is racing and the shoulder and neck muscles have turned taut, but not from fear–from excitement, the excitement of having made it through whatever it was that has been happening on this snow-covered service road. I am likely excited because of an overactive imagination and that produces an actual giggle, one I stifle almost immediately. He might hear it. Or she. Or it.
I pick the pace up a bit, fancying myself an inefficient but determined snow plow. I’m in the bottom of the S now and there it is ahead, the light standard at the entrance of the service road, casting its alien yellow light over the gate that is locked and piled on with snow, looking like a Christmas diorama. Beyond it is South Street. The angle means I can’t quite see it yet, as the service road climbs a short hill where it connects to the main road, but I hear a vehicle go by.
Feeling brave, if not totally victorious, I lurch ahead a little more than stop and dare to turn around and see who has been following me.
I’ve kicked around this story idea for awhile. It uses the same premise as Fade-Out or The Tommyknockers (among other stories). This is Part 1 and I may or may not get finished. For this exercise I’ve decided to tell the story as a series of tweets (it’s a little easier now with the expanded 280 character limit). It’s like a found footage movie, but without the footage.
Tweets from the end of the world
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 3rd
Was riding at Colony Farm, nearly wiped out on something sticking up out of gravel. Something dark, rounded. Dug around a bit with stick, no idea. May come back tomorrow if weather good. Bike & me OK.
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 4th
Went back to Colony, brought camping shovel. Tried to dig around object but park worker told me to leave. WTF, they’re never there. Will try again on weekend.
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 6th
@RealFrump the name is a Simpsons reference (isn’t everything?) Look it up.
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 7th
Back at Colony again. No workers. Dug and wtf, whatever it is, its huge judging from curve. Giant rock? Gravel pit nearby so probably that. Very smooth. Looks like it’s higher out of ground now. Maybe just brain being dumb. #notallbrains
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 8th
Went back to Colony again. YES I AM OBSESSED. Rock is definitely bigger or ground around it is sinking. #notageologist Surface very smooth and cold, almost looks like crystal? No shovel today.
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 9th
Brought Liam, we dug for 20 min? Liam: Big as fuckin house. Potty mouth. Surface is translucent. Can almost make out a pattern about an inch or so down. Cloudy so phone pic is crap.
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 10th
Definitely rising out of ground. Has pushed up enough to split trail in two. Park workers probably rope off area soon. Better picture of pattern. Just random lines to me. Liam says alien language.
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 11th
CAUTION: DO NOT CROSS tape around object on all sides, four posts holding up tape. Looks like boxing ring. No other activity. Object little taller than me, looks like 18-20 feet across (what’s visible). Liam says could be radioactive, stay clear.
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 12th
Temporary fence up now, about 20-30 feet from object. Can go around but off trail very marshy. Object def. taller than me now, maybe 15 feet high. Liam made sketch of hidden part, wrote “alien mothership” underneath. Cute. Like Tommyknockers (shit book but fun) /1
FishBulb @joshuawellons • Nov 12th
Have not lost any teeth yet or built weird energy-saving devices.
A bit of spontaneous writing where Christian (circa Road Closed, when he is 20 years old) talks about his hair and puberty (925 words):
Christian talks about his hair, puberty and jetting blood
What would you think if I told you I’m a redhead? Would you think I have a fiery temper? That I’m a passionate lover?
I’m pretty mellow most of the time. The rest of the time I’m usually asleep. As for being a passionate lover, I kiss like a St. Bernard. Yeah, it’s gross. Usually because I’ve been drinking. I’m the St. Bernard in that Bugs Bunny cartoon that helps himself to the keg around his neck.
Regarding other redhead myths, I’m also not a witch, and the question of whether or not I have a soul remains to be determined. I probably won’t be able to answer that one, at least not without scaring the crap out of you when I return from the spirit realm with a really convincing response.
Puberty arrived shortly after I turned 14 and a couple of things happened, as you probably know from that talk your mom and dad avoided having that you later heard on the street. The first was the growth spurt. I went from kid height to slightly taller than my father in what felt like a span of a few weeks. I swear I could actively hear my bones popping and stretching.
And the hair. Oh god, the hair. It was like I caught a hair grenade just as it exploded. Hair on my chest, hair down yonder–so much and so fast that I almost wanted to ask about it, wondering if it was normal. But who do you talk to about something that? A priest at confession, maybe, but my family didn’t go to church. Besides, it wasn’t a sin, it was just weird.
The facial hair was the biggest surprise. We’ve all seen those high school photos where the guys are sporting wispy My First Mustaches. They look ridiculous, all of them. I didn’t have one of those. I woke up one morning and had five o’ clock shadow, as if someone had pressed it onto the lower half of my face and neck while I slept. It was so thick it might have been applied with a paint brush. By the end of each day I had enough stubble to strike a match on. I hated it. Worst of all, while the rest of my hair was a brilliant red, the facial hair was jet black. I was two-tone. It looked ridiculous. I looked ridiculous.
I taught myself to shave by using my dad’s Gillette razor. He also had a straight razor I’d seen him use once or twice but the one time I picked it up I got the strongest, strangest premonition that involved me staggering around the bathroom, painting the room with the blood jetting from my neck. I cut myself plenty with the Gillette because I had no idea what I was doing, I was just desperate to get rid of the two-tone, because it was entirely too mock-worthy and as we all know, schoolkids are not kindly creatures.
After a particularly bad week of nicks that left my face and neck covered with dabs of toilet paper, I made a trip to the local pharmacy and furtively headed past the shelves of condoms and lubricants to the hair coloring section. I grabbed a box and for a moment considered lifting it. I have one of those YES I JUST COMMITTED A CRIME COME AND SEARCH ME faces, though, so I shuffled to the checkout at the back of the store to pay for the goods.
“Is that for your mother?” the checkout girl asked. She was about 18 but I didn’t recognize her. She was in high school, I was in middle school. We orbited in different galaxies.
I lifted my head, wondering why I didn’t think of that, and was about to proclaim, “Oh god yes! Of course it’s for my mother!” and then she really looked at me and I watched her eyes go from my (red) hair to my face to the box of hair color, back to my face, and then rather too quickly to the till to ring through the purchase.
Dammit.
The worst part is I made a complete botch-up of the dye job. I read the instructions, it didn’t matter. I was sober. Again, it made no difference. I had plenty of shadow but not really enough hair. My attempt left the bottom of my face looking diseased. I shaved off the stubble and scoured the dye that had stained through to the skin with some pumice soap my mom had but never used. It made me smell nice, but left my face looking raw and terrible.
The next day at school was the first time I got mocked for my looks. Of course.
I learned to accept my two-tone hair, but I never learned to like it. I shave religiously now–I say a prayer before each shave that goes something like, “Please God make all of my facial hair fall out and never come back” and then I quickly take it back because I’d probably lose my eyebrows and look like a freak. Also I use an electric razor. Much less nicking and clean-up is easier. For a time I took the shaver with me everywhere, like a companion, and I’d just spontaneously whip it out and make sure that five o’ clock shadow never got past 10 a.m.
I brought it with me to college but one day I forgot it at the apartment, couldn’t find it when I returned, and now I’m apparently growing a beard.
I vowed to write at least 250 words of fiction every day this year, so here’s the first attempt. I tried scouring some writing prompt sites but they left me feeling despair, so I just mulled things over, remembered how much I hate snow and the results are below (352 words).
This is the first part of what could be a scene, a story or a big budget Hollywood production. I can’t say when I’ll write Part 2. Maybe tomorrow, maybe not. It’s a surprise.
A Walk in the Snow, Part 1
It is very quiet in the snow.
That’s how I hear the person walking behind me. I stop and a moment later the person stops. It is silent again.
I am walking down a service road that’s about two kilometers long. Its main function is to provide access to railway workers and park staff, but there’s little vehicle traffic on it most days. Tonight it’s covered in virgin snow and I’m up to my knees in the stuff after an early winter blast. My breath frosts in front of me, a steamy cloud that drifts up into a clear, dark sky and disappears.
I’m about halfway down the road, heading toward South Street, the main road that runs through my neighborhood. I live a few blocks east of South. I like telling people that, then watch their faces as they try to process it.
It’s bright enough to make my way without a flashlight. There is no artificial light here, just the stars dotting the black above and the snow shimmering around me.
I became aware of the footsteps–more the sound of someone pushing their way through the snow, really–a few minutes earlier. Twice I’ve tested by stopping and the person following has also stopped. It’s hard to escape the sensation that I am prey being stalked. The snow is just deep enough to make a quick escape impossible. The closest things to weapons I carry are my house keys and smartphone. I keep my breathing calm, knowing this person is probably close enough to see the puffs. Don’t show signs of panic. I gaze up at the sky, as if I’m looking for a constellation. Casual. Curious. Inconspicuous.
Maybe.
I resume walking and count one thousand one, one thousand two. The footsteps resume behind me, shushing through the snow. It will take at least fifteen minutes to reach South Street, where the road is plowed, the sidewalks shoveled and regular traffic passes by. It seems very far away. I strain to hear cars but it’s late and all I hear are my steps and the ones mirrored behind me.
Yep, with today being the last day of the month, it’s time to summarize my National Novel Writing Month effort this year and LOL is a pretty good summary.
I wrote 2557 words a few days in…for a different novel. Then my keyboard was stilled as I was overwhelmed by events, ennui, personal drama and The Rains (I read today that this November is the fourth-wettest since they started keeping records. The forecast is for sun to return next month. Then probably blizzards for the next three months).
In all, my effort was so minimal it’s difficult to feel disappointed. It’s like scolding yourself for how you placed in a race you never actually participated in.
Apart from this blog, my writing in general has stalled, which is not good. I’ll be returning to The Other 11 Months writing group on Sunday and seeing how it goes there, but if I am to write more I need to do it more often than just on Sundays. It’s not like writing is a religious experience for me.
But perhaps I should pray to the spirit of Harlan Ellison. Except he’s still alive and would tell me to stop writing nonsense on a blog and start writing a ripping good yarn by grabbing legal pad and fountain pen.
Tomorrow I’ll unveil my newest and bestest writing plan.
