As I cast about for inspiration for National Novel Writing month–a mere two days away–I realized how selfish I was being. Why spend time thinking of ideas for myself when I could be spending time thinking of ideas for the whole world?
So here they are, a bunch of prompts that will lead any budding* author to a 50,000 word NaNoWriMo success story**!
A mysterious woman is feeding ducks at a pond. When you approach her she turns around and pulls off the shroud she is wearing, revealing the head of a duck. She quacks at you. What happens next?
Lots of people have already written novels and people love sequels. Put the two together and presto, you can write a sequel to another author’s book. No nuanced characters to invent, no pesky worlds to build, just pick up where the author left off! Note: this may not be legal so you might get sued or sent to jail or something. Maybe pick a book that came out two hundred years ago to be safe.
Every time the saddest person in the world cries it starts to rain. Pretty soon the world is in danger of a flood that would make Noah nod his head and say, “It’s ark-buildin’ time!” How do you make the sad person stop crying and save the planet from being a little too fish-friendly?
People love historical novels that tackle serious subjects with care and emotional depth. Since all the good stuff has already been written about, make your novel a sober examination of hoedowns in the frontier towns of early America.
An author struggling to come up with an idea for National Novel Writing Month suddenly finds herself in the middle of her own story–whatever it is! This has never been done before, trust me.
Those two guys on “What Could Possibly Go Wrong?” decide to travel back in time to stop Hitler.
Something with vampires.
Part 1 of a 10 part series about, oh, anything. Just throw darts at a board. The important thing is people love series even more than they love sequels.
For inspiration, watch 50 self-made YouTube videos of people talking about how they are preparing for National Novel Writing Month. Upon completion of viewing the last video, you will never want to write again. Maybe don’t do this, actually.
Include the word “girl” in your novel’s title. Then use one of the other nine ideas listed above for the actual story.
* this is not a “BC bud” joke, I swear
** this is, however, an awful play on words
As a series of website updates that present the daily journal of a soldier surviving a zombie apocalypse, Day by Day Armageddon works fairly well. Collected into a novel it feels a little creaky but fans of zombie apocalypse fiction (you may have noticed a few* books of this type have been released over the last few years) will likely enjoy this particular take on what happens when the dead don’t stay dead.
True to its name, the story is told through journal entries, covering the first five months of a zombie outbreak that devastates the world, forcing survivors to navigate hordes of shambling, mindless people. Wait, that’s the mall during Black Friday (ho ho). Supplementing the journal entries are maps, letters and other bits typical of an epistolary novel.
The story doesn’t follow a traditional narrative, given its unique structure, though Bourne does ramp up the action/tension from time to time by placing his protagonist and others in especially perilous situations. And while the story does build toward a showdown of sorts, it ends abruptly, with an author’s note promising there will be more in the form of sequels. Not surprisingly, there are sequels. A reader looking for a strictly self-contained story may be disappointed by the ending.
The prose is workmanlike, as befits journal entries, but at times I wished the protagonist was a struggling writer rather than a soldier. Sure, he wouldn’t know which way to hold an assault rifle (a handy zombie survival skill) but he would not how to wax poetic about the existential dread of facing each morning not knowing if you’d make it through to the end of the day. Plus there’d be comic relief when he tried using an assault rifle.
The ebook edition has a fair number of spelling errors in it, but I’m still not sure if they are actual editorial slips or if Bourne was trying to portray his protagonist as being as fallible as most when it comes to the difference between “to” and “too.” The repeated use of “lightening” over “lightning” grated, though.
The women in the story seem to mainly serve as props, with Bourne referring to them as “the females” and of course they don’t know how to handle guns (not to worry, the protagonist teaches them). At least there is no requisite romance, though the possibility is hinted at (“I am a man, after all,” as the protagonist puts it).
Overall, this was a quick and effortless read. Given the day-by-day approach, Bourne does a good job in keeping things moving along, but the whole presentation feels a bit slight. This isn’t a knock, exactly, because I think Bourne did about what you would expect given the parameters he set out for himself.
I’m at 1% complete. I should finish prompt #1,000 right around the same time I turn 1,000 years old. Come on, technology, keep me preserved so I may accomplish this tremendous literary feat.
Prompt 10
(from Chapter 1: Time and Place):
It’s been said that the negative events of the past will repeat themselves if we fail to learn from our mistakes. Do you agree with that statement? Why or why not? How might the statement apply in your life?
Answer:
Do I agree that if we don’t learn from our mistakes we will repeat them? Let me give this some serious thought here.
No, let me skip that because what a stupid question. This is a stupid prompt. It’s like asking, “If you stand at the top of a staircase and someone comes up behind you and gives you a hard shove and you tumble down the stairs and break many bones as a result, will you learn that tumbling down a flight of stairs kind of sucks?” Hmm. Maybe!
How might this statement apply to my life? I learned that eating barbecue-flavored sunflower seeds when you secretly have the stomach flu isn’t a good idea because you will barf those barbecue-flavored sunflower seeds all over the dining room floor, which, by some miracle, is the only room in the house that isn’t carpeted. By incorporating this lesson into my life I have never repeated the mistake of eating barbecue-flavored sunflower seeds when I secretly have the stomach flu.
Seriously, though, it did suck, though not as much as being pushed down a flight of stairs (the stairs were carpeted, too). I was ten years old, didn’t feel at all unwell, was happily noshing away on the sunflower seeds, and then suddenly the flu switch flipped to ON and everything in my stomach had to leave RIGHT NOW. And did. I went from no flu to very flu in a second.
It also left me sufficiently traumatized that I didn’t even touch barbecue-flavored sunflower seeds for twenty years. And then only once. (I didn’t throw up the second time.)
[spoiler title=”Explanation of this exercise” icon=”plus-circle”]These are prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link). My intent is to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long, working through the prompts in order. When I am done I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes the short stories will be longer and sometimes instead of a story I will answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).[/spoiler]
The last time I ran it was getting downright gloomy by the end of the run. I was then felled for two weeks by an especially stubborn cold. Now that I am recovered the days have grown so short that the sun is setting before I can even head out for a run.
This presents a dilemma because I do not have built-in night vision and even if I did I’d probably get chased by vampires out there in the dark, anyway.
My options for running now are:
run around the golf course during lunch. This is a so-so option because I’m not crazy about the route, it cuts into my lunch, I’d have to figure out some way of having a shower afterward (because most days it’s going to be wet) and did I mention I’m not crazy about the route? Because I am not.
run on a treadmill at a place like the Canada Games Pool, which, despite the name, does indeed have treadmills. I’ve done this before and I’m even less enthusiastic about running on a treadmill than I am about running around the gold course. It feels weird and unnatural.
run at a location that has artificial lighting. First I’d have to find one and second it would need to be close enough to be practical. I don’t want to spend half the evening just getting to the place and back. This would also likely mean running at a track, not exactly a thrilling activity but sometimes you gotta takes what you can get.
don’t run. This carries the explicit danger of replacing running with eating, specifically with eating delicious in-season shortbread. I do not want to go from a runner’s physique to a shortbread physique.
some other magical solution that I haven’t thought of yet.
I must ponder. In the meantime I will probably miss runs this week, but should at least head out for a weekend run on Sunday, unless there are bears again.
What is the most important lesson you’ve learned from studying your own past experiences? Would you consider teaching that lesson to others? Why or why not?
Answer:
The most important lesson I’ve learned from my past experiences is that you cannot change the past because it’s over there, in the past. Where you can’t change it. Yesterday will never come back. You can keep waiting like a faithful dog on the porch, wagging your tail, knowing master will be home any moment but he’s not coming back because he is gone, baby. Gone. Because your master is the past.
Unless you have access to a time machine. That changes everything. If you have a time machine then you’ve got the equivalent of a giant erase button on every mistake or ill-considered decision you’ve ever made. Of course you’ll probably screw up history in the process and inadvertently lead to the creation of an army of Hitler clones and you just know that’s not going to end well (unless you’re a Hitler clone).
So the most important lesson I’ve learned from my past experiences is that I can’t learn from my future experiences because they haven’t happened yet. No, that’s not the most important. Actually, it’s probably barely in the top five.
The most important lesson is that you can’t change the past. And if you could, you probably shouldn’t (because Hitler clones).
Would I consider teaching this lesson to others? I just did.
Class dismissed.
[spoiler title=”Explanation of this exercise” icon=”plus-circle”]These are prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link). My intent is to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long, working through the prompts in order. When I am done I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes the short stories will be longer and sometimes instead of a story I will answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).[/spoiler]
If you could send yourself a message several years in the past, what would it be and why? How might getting [a] message in the past change you in the present?
Answer:
This is easy. No, super easy.
Invest in Microsoft and Apple stock. Sell at the appropriate time.
Here are the winning numbers to a $20 million lottery jackpot (I could go bigger but I’m pretty sure I could manage on $20 million).
How would this change me in the present? It would make me filthy rich. I’d spend my time traveling, writing nonsense, painting sharks and dinosaurs or possibly a hybrid, the sharkosaur. I’d go grocery shopping and buy weird birthday cakes and I’d fill up the bin for the food bank on every trip with actual useful items. I’d donate money to schools and give more to family and friends. Sometimes I’d attach conditions, like “You have to spend half of this money on someone else before you can spend the other half on yourself.” I’d donate to Translink if they promised to scrap every one of those terrible original trains that have been tootling around since 1986. I don’t want to ride trains that were running when parachute pants were not an ironic fashion statement.
Maybe money can’t buy happiness but it can buy a ton of LEGO. That’s good enough for me.
These are prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link). My intent is to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long, working through the prompts in order. When I am done I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes the short stories will be longer and sometimes instead of a story I will answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).
After nearly a decade of no contact, an important person from your past has come back into your life. What questions do you have for them? Would you welcome this person with open arms? Why or why not?
Story:
Our last meeting was brief and unpleasant. It wasn’t really a meeting at all, we only spoke over the phone. This was back when people actually spoke on phones. Today we would exchange a string of angry tweets, drawing in spectators who would take one side or the other, they themselves getting wrapped up in side arguments of their own. When we last spoke, the conversation went something like this:
Him: You made a promise.
Me: Strictly speaking, I didn’t make a promise.
Him: You’re just being an asshole now.
(I couldn’t deny this, I was definitely engaging in some rules lawyering here. If I had a chance to have the conversation again I would have simply admitted it instead of trying to word-game around what I’d done. Things could not have ended any more poorly than they did and likely would have gone better.)
Me: I had every intention of following through. You know me, I wouldn’t leave you hanging without a good reason.
Him: It’s not a good reason. It’s not a reason at all.
(At this point I fell silent, unsure what to say next. There were no good choices here.)
Him: Did a family member die?
(This completely blindsided me, it was so random.)
Me: No.
Him: Well, then. Bye.
And he hung up. After thinking for a moment I realized he was inferring that a sudden death in the family was the only reasonable excuse I could have had for not following through on my not-quite-a-promise. That seemed a bit extreme to me. I could think of other reasons that would be valid. It was really just bad timing on my part. I waited too long to say anything. I do that sometimes, trying to avoid conflict but only delaying it and making it worse. Turning a molehill into a mountain.
That was ten years ago. We had not spoken at all in the intervening time. I once caught a brief glimpse of him at a mutual friend’s house–Tom’s–when he stopped by, unannounced, to drop off something he’d borrowed. He didn’t see me, which helped avoid unpleasantness. Other than that there was no contact at all. His first child had gone from preschool to middle school, his marriage had celebrated its tenth anniversary and then some. Were they still married? I didn’t actually know. He blocked me on Facebook after the phone call, completely erasing himself from my Facebook presence. The only time I saw a hint of him was when he commented on some photo and another person alluded to the comment. He was trying to be funny.
He tried to be funny. He was not a funny person.
On this day a blustery fall wind was blowing through the trees, eagerly tugging off the last of the leaves, gathering them against sidewalk curbs, clumping them so they could clog sewer drains and create lakes at intersections that pedestrians would have to carefully navigate around. The weather conspires against us.
The message blindsided me as much as “Did a family member die?” had those ten years ago. I had a full beard back then and a full head of hair. I have neither now. I wondered if he would recognize me if we passed on the street. Probably. There are things you just pick up on–body language, the way you carry yourself. This message didn’t come via a phone call but it did come via phone–my iPhone, to be precise.
It was a Facebook friend request. It was from him.
It had to be a trap, but there was no way to know for sure. I accepted the request.
Three days passed and I heard nothing from him. I could see his Facebook profile again. Pictures of his wife and kids. Not much else. It looked like he didn’t post often. We were alike that way. I don’t really get social media. I’m old.
On the fourth day I got an invitation to an event he was attending. It was a reunion for a show he’d done–the show ten years ago that led to our friendship of thirty years ending abruptly after one brief phone call.
So it was a trap. I didn’t decline the event, I just ignored it. In six days it would come and go.
Those six days passed uneventfully. He did not update his Facebook feed in that time.
A few more weeks passed and still nothing happened. That was it, I supposed. I wondered if the invitation was his awkward attempt at reconciliation and not a trap after all. Odd as it felt, I experienced some pangs of guilt. They passed. It would be glib to say they passed like gas, but that’s not an entirely inappropriate comparison. It was ten years later, the guilt was fleeting, like a bad memory that resurfaces before sinking again as the events of everyday once again take over.
One night while sitting bored in front of the TV I launched the Facebook app and went to his profile again. His last post was a picture of his wife. The text was only two words: Beautiful girl. It had 16 likes. The date was from nearly a year ago. He posted even less than I did. His wife looked about the same, her hair was a little longer. Her smile was pinched, like she wasn’t in a good mood when the photo was taken. Maybe he had just told her a joke.
A notification popped up on the phone. Someone was wanting to start a conversation on the Messenger app. I’d never used it before. I forgot I had installed it. It was him.
I wasn’t sure what to do. All the notification said was “Hi.”
I tapped the notification and was taken to the app. I stared at the screen long enough for it to dim. I tapped on it and it brightened. I chose a reply.
Me: Hi.
A few moments went by and got the notice that he was typing. I felt strange and uneasy, knowing we were having live communication after so many years of nothing.
Him: you didnt go to the reunion
Me: No, sorry.
I fought the impulse to add a bullshit excuse like “I had a previous commitment.”
Him: thats OK. would like to meet for coffee and catch up
What a glorious minefield this was. I tried coming up with a reply, anything, and a headache blossomed, nailing me between the eyes.
Me: Sure.
Him: how about the Second Cup on Pender?
I knew the place. We’d hung out there many times. He never went to Starbucks because “they burn their coffee.”
Me: OK.
I would volunteer nothing more. I was already trying to think of how to get out of this. Were any family members about to die?
Him: thursday at 7?
Me: 7 p.m.?
Him: yes
Me: OK
Him: see you then
He immediately went offline. At the same time something was twigging in my head, fighting to push through the headache. I went into a kind of instant trance-like state and found myself opening the calendar app. I had a meeting Thursday night at 7 p.m. I legitimately had a previous commitment. This was the AGM for my condo complex and I couldn’t miss it because we were voting on a bunch of increasingly horrible things foisted on us by a strata council that was itself doomed to be voted out. I had to be there.
What would happen if I messaged him back and declined? Would it buy me another ten years of silence?
I kind of liked the idea, actually. I had three days. I could think about it.
On Wednesday night I pulled up the Messenger app and found his name in my Friends list. He was offline. That was good. I typed.
Me: Hey, very sorry about the last minute notice but I remembered my condo’s AGM is tomorrow at 7 p.m. Could we reschedule? Maybe Friday same time?
I hadn’t planned on suggesting a reschedule, it just came out and I sent the message off before I could change my mind.
I could see him typing a response. The dread manifested itself as a sour knot in my stomach.
Him: Did a family member die?
This struck me as equal parts chilling and absurd. He was trying to get to me. It was working. Just like ten years ago, I had no good choices here.
I was spared, though, as he disappeared offline before I could reply.
Thursday came and went and the AGM was everything I had expected–lots of shouting, drawn-out arguments, the veiled threat of violence that never quite got acted on. A vote to remove the council was postponed for two weeks, the equivalent of telling the firing squad to come back in fourteen days. I needed to sell my condo and get out, the place was the Titanic of property development and the iceberg was in sight. I furtively checked my phone midway through the meeting but no sign of him on Facebook or in the messenger app.
Friday came and went, too, and I still heard nothing. I felt something that wasn’t quite relief and on Saturday I welcomed the weekend, the bright sun providing relief after so many days of gray rain. I had a craving for stuffed olives from a local grocer in my old neighborhood and spontaneously drove over. It was silly to spend more in gas than it cost to buy a small deli container of olives but sometimes you just need to satisfy these cravings.
As I made my way to the deli counter I ran into Tom, the mutual friend. He was happily pushing a shopping cart filled with bulk bags of spices, nuts and dried fruit. We chatted pleasantly for a few minutes, catching up on things. I mentioned that I had recently been contacted by our old friend. He looked me over and upon spying my puzzled look, informed me that he was looking for stab wounds. He grinned.
I chuckled, but it was hollow. Even as a joke the idea that our relationship had deteriorated to the point of violence left me chilled. I skipped the olives.
Shortly after arriving home I got a notification from Messenger. From him.
Him: want to meet at Second Cup on monday?
No reference to missing Thursday. Was this good or bad? I didn’t know. How did a fox feel on a hunt? Maybe he was ready to move on, maybe this wasn’t a set-up.
I finally started tapping out a response as the phone’s screen began dimming.
Me: Yes, Monday at 7 is fine. I checked and no conflicts this time. I’ll be there. We have a lot to catch up on!
The exclamation point struck me as friendly, perky. I felt better. It was time to heal old wounds or some shit like that.
Monday evening the rain had returned. I grabbed a bite to eat after work at a sushi restaurant downtown–the toughest part was choosing from the million or so locations–then made my way to the Second Cup on Pender. I got there early and spent five minutes standing on the sidewalk as people brushed past, wondering if my feet would take me inside or back to my car. I took one step back, stopped. Then I strode forward and in, ordered a latte, got a table and sat down. I was nervous as hell. I wondered if he might arrive with a gun.
I got up at the thought and looked at a clock on the wall. 6:52 p.m. I was going to bail. I had to leave now before he got here. I made my way past a young couple at a nearby table and clipped a wet umbrella they had propped up against a chair. As it splatted on the floor I muttered a terse apology. By the time I approached my car I was running and my heart was hammering.
I drove too fast but got home safely. I went into the condo and moved from room to room, turning on all the lights. I pulled the blinds down on the living room window and sat on the couch, holding the phone in my hands.
I had a notification waiting from Messenger. It was, as expected, from him.
Him: where are you?
I did not reply.
I got another message but this time there was no text, just a map. It was my place. But that wasn’t quite right–it was showing his location. And he was here. Shit.
I stood up and waited. I glanced at Messenger. He was showing offline now. Did he change his mind and leave? I was about to check Facebook when the phone rang in my hand. I let out an actual yelp in surprise and nearly dropped it.
I took a moment to compose myself, checked the call display–it was Tom–breathed out a small sigh, then answered.
Tom’s tone left me feeling dread all over again. He had bad news.
Our old friend had an aneurysm while brushing his teeth in the morning. Killed him instantly. My first thought was that he had died doing something sensible. We exchanged condolences, I expressed the requisite regrets over not getting a chance to close the rift between us. I disconnected.
Another notification came in, another message.
Him: im waiting for you
I walked to the front door and peered through the peephole. The hallway was empty.
Another message.
Him: outside
I walked to the couch and sat down. I put the phone on the coffee table and used a finger to scroll back up to the map. His position on it shifted a little, sometimes moving closer, sometimes moving away, but never moving far.
In Messenger he went offline again.
I’m sitting here and waiting and I don’t know what to do next.
Explanation of this exercise
These are prompts featured in 1,000 Creative Writing Prompts, Volume 2 (Goodreads link). My intent is to write ultra-short stories that are no more than a few paragraphs long, working through the prompts in order. When I am done I will perhaps have a party of some sort.
Sometimes the short stories will be longer and sometimes instead of a story I will answer the questions (most of the prompts are in the form of questions).
Potential ideas: 2. This doesn’t sound like much, but with nine days before National Novel Writing Month is underway, having two ideas ready to go puts me way ahead of where I usually am, which is zero ideas the day before. Still, the ideas aren’t making my socks roll up and down yet so I am still hunting around for more. At least I’m not trying to recycle an existing story again, something that has failed more often than it’s worked. “No, I’m sure we’ll miss the iceberg this time!”
Writing tools: I’d previously decided to write in text/markdown format, which broadens my choices of writing software quite a bit since the file(s) will easily move between programs without any formatting weirdness happening, since there will essentially be no formatting.
However, I would still prefer to use a program that works on all three platforms I’m likely to use:
Windows
Mac
iOS
Right now the only option that covers all three is Word and Word is the super-colossal opposite of a plain text writing program. Most of my other choices are available on two of the three platforms. My original idea was to use FocusWriter because it works on PC and Mac, and then to use one of the many plain text programs available on iOS, like iA Writer. I’d wanted to use WriteMonkey again but it looks like it won’t be out of beta before NaNo starts. Boo. But I’ve never really used FocusWriter and now I’m trying the Mac and iOS-only demo version of Ulysses, which is kind of like Scrivener but with the billion features I never use removed. And it saves seamlessly, unlike Scrivener, which always feels like it’s on the verge of destroying everything you’ve written because of its insane save-every-two-seconds coupled with millions of disparate files and not forgetting you better not have your project open on another device. I mean, it’s fine, but it scares me.
So I am in the odd position of having a story idea (or two) ready to go but still haven’t figured out how I’m going to actually write the thing yet.
Maybe I will write longhand, in loving tribute to Harlan Ellison.
Haha, no.
He would think this entire post is completely stupid, though. Did Ben Franklin fret about which feather quill to write with? No, he just killed a turkey, plucked a feather and started writing. On paper, I mean, not the turkey. Or maybe on the turkey. I don’t know, maybe that was a thing back then.
Prisma is a photo filter app released earlier this year that lets you apply arty filters to your photos, sort of like a more advanced version of Instagram. Some of the filters are fancy, a few are underwhelming and a special selection allow you to transform innocent portraits into the stuff of nightmares, as with this selfie I took in a hotel room in Nashville in October 2013.
I really have nothing to add. Enjoy your dreams tonight!
One of the nice things about ebooks is how they allow you to easily analyze aspects of a book that would have been much more tedious or time-consuming to analyze back in the days of books made through the sacrifice of trees.
For instance, in just a few moments I was able to find out Slaughterhouse Five repeats the phrase “so it goes” 106 times. Amazon lists the paperback edition as being 224 pages long.
The repetition of the phrase is a device used for varying effects and at first I accepted it as such a device and nothing more. Toward the end of the book, though, it finally became grating. Maybe that was the point all along.
So it goes.
Slaughterhouse Five is irreverent and droll and makes important statements about the purpose and meaning of life, contrasting its absurd characters and banal suburban life against the horror of World War II and specifically the firebombing of Dresden, something Vonnegut experienced directly as a POW. Vonnegut’s time as a journalist undoubtedly influenced his writing style, which is as concise and straightforward as his subject matter is sardonic. The contrast between grim reality and the absurd is constant and lends the novel a surrealistic feel, as if one is not really reading a narrative but instead catching glimpses of a life or lives that are dull and depressing, filled with few moments of genuine joy.
For as light as the writing style is, Slaughterhouse Five is a glum thing. I can’t say I enjoyed reading it, but I admire Vonnegut’s technique and the ease with which he draws out scenes with simple phrases–the buttons of a man’s spine, the tearing of a coat too small, the grit and grime in window sills. In many ways it’s a fascinating book but not one I’d particularly want to revisit.
I thought of this while looking at my wrist, which is where my Apple Watch is, and realizing how much of my interaction with my watch is via Siri (voice commands for the uninitiated).
Sometimes it’s handy to do a little writing during the commute when you’re smushed in with everyone else, by pecking out a few sentences on your phone. Except actually doing this completely sucks because pecking out anything on a phone is a maddening exercise in madness and commutes are awful enough without trying to enhance the effect.
But doing some quick voice dictation would be pretty easy and sometimes even accurate enough to not qualify for one of those “Oh, autocorrect, you lovable scamp!” websites. The only problem here is dictating a story into your phone on a crowded train will do nothing but enhance your reputation for being a scary and/or eccentric person.
The solution?
Some fancy technology that allows your voice to transmit to your device while being completely silent to everyone around you. Yes, you’d still look like a kook talking to yourself, but at least you’d do so while preserving your voice and preventing others from hearing and therefore swiping your million dollar ideas.
Hmm, I swear this idea sounded better when I spoke it aloud to myself.
With two weeks before the writingpalooza of National Novel Writing Month begins, I came up with another idea, this one while laying in bed waiting to fall asleep. Weirdly, I managed to remember the idea and recorded it the next day.
I’ve been itching to do some kind of alternate dimension/parallel universe story but the ones I’ve mulled (or actually tried) have proven too ambitious for the fevered writing that NaNoWriMo demands. This new idea pares everything down considerably and in the end is basically a simple love story.
I’ve tentatively titled it One Slip and the story goes something like this:
A couple meet in their early 20s and spend the next 20+ years together, experiencing the usual ups and downs of any relationship, against the backdrop of the Vancouver gay community and the specter of AIDs.
One day as they stroll around the rugged terrain of a national park, one of the partners slips at the edge of a lookout over a spectacular waterfall. There is a safety barrier but it’s too low and he goes over, as his partner watches in horror. The body is never found.
As the surviving partner grapples with the loss of his spouse, he begins to experience odd phenomenon that seems related to his departed lover. Gradually he begins to wonder if they are messages “from beyond the grave.” Eventually he realizes that his partner is still alive and somehow trapped in another dimension, one that has a portal just below the falls. The other dimension is unstable and unfriendly and time is running out.
The story concludes with a return to the waterfall and a last ditch effort to pull the missing partner back into the world where he belongs–or risk having both end up in the other world where neither should be.
The ending could be radically different, as this is just idle thinking right now, and the details of the alternate dimension, sketchy as they are, may also change. But it’s still meatier than the subway story so it might gain some traction.
And I still have two weeks to think of a third and even more undoubtedly spectacular idea. Go, creativity! (please)
