30th
07 -
2010
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1 comment »
This was originally posted at http://katen.livejournal.com.
Been suffering from writer’s lock this week.
Not writer’s block, writer’s lock. Due to the way we work, it can strike at any time, but it especially occurs during editing. In my mind, I have trouble reframing a scene enough to do the necessary rewrites to it. My concept of the scene becomes locked down. To some degree this is related to killing the beauties (as my teacher Marly Swick put it; also known as murdering your darlings). My brain has trouble accepting that a scene could be written as well as it already has been; that the perfect flow cannot be tampered with. Even when the scene is lacking important narrative information.
For example, I’m working on what will potentially be Ch. 1 of Luck for Hire. One of the main points of the scene is to establish Aleister’s adversarial relationship with Devine, Chance and Merit and their security head, Davis. Our original talk about the scene included the two meeting. Eric felt that was an important point. I agreed. And then promptly wrote the scene in a different, less effective way. Eric called me on it, though not immediately. My broken scene was enough to make him briefly forget what was originally intended. I’ve been fiddling with the changes since Wednesday. While I understand how the scene needs to go, it’s been locked.
The solution, to belabor an analogy, is a mental door-breaking of the scene. I can try starting over with a blank slate, but the previous version of the scene can’t be un-thought. I jimmy the edges of the scene until I let myself back in. Or something like that. In the case of this Luck scene, a real-world logistics problem cropped up and broke the spiffy beginning I’d written. I’m still not done writing the chapter and I’ve lost confidence that it is well written. That doesn’t mean it isn’t or that my opinion won’t change in time. It’s just not the zippy little collection of scenes that it was.
23rd
07 -
2010
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9 comments »
This is a retread of “Not the Girl for Him”. The first 500 words or so are pretty much the same: Mr. Luck “playing” blackjack. The difference is who is observing him. Gone is Rosalyn. Instead, we meet Dana. While there are slight changes throughout, I’ll mark in bold where the biggest deviation begins. The scene concludes in a very different manner.
—###—
Mr. Luck to the Rescue
Every private detective in every novel, TV show, or movie is pleasantly labeled as “down on his luck.” That’s a term for the poor. Of course this is because private detectives in novels, TV shows, and movies are good people. They help the needy and if they’re involved in shady dealings it’s in the interest of doing right regardless of margins.
Mr. Luck was one of those good people. Or at least he tried to be. He was selective about his clientele and didn’t worry about whether they could pay. And that’s why Mr. Luck generally turned to magic to make a living.
Aleister Luck always chose a busy blackjack table. If there was someone loud, flamboyant, or self-centered, so much the better. In comparison, the casual observer wouldn’t notice Aleister Luck and the casino didn’t get too suspicious when he wasn’t the only one with a pile of chips in front of him.
Tonight, his fellow players were a pair of giggling middle-aged women, a quiet bearded man, and a college-aged kid accompanied by his blonde girlfriend. The women were fairly new to the game. The kid had been drinking and his girlfriend found his poor math skills exceedingly funny. The bearded fellow was sandwiched between them.
A near perfect set up.
Dealt from a shoe, all face up, no one really noticed that Mr. Luck didn’t look at his cards.
He had instead trained himself to look at people’s hands and wrists, blocking out the card faces. The ladies both had manicured nails, doubtless the product of an afternoon at the casino’s spa. The college kid had a tattoo of ornate lettering that started at wrist. Luck couldn’t read what it said. Luck’s own hands were a geography of dry skin and hangnails. Dealers’ hands were never interesting. They were clean, soft, and dealers rarely wore jewelry.
He didn’t watch to see what the other players were dealt or what the house had. He motioned for another card without any information. He simply knew it was the right decision. He put chips forward haphazardly too, never checking their color or the size of his stacks.
He won when he wanted and he lost when he wanted. Occasionally, he shifted his efforts to someone else at the table. With a thought, he knew that the card dealt next would be what that player needed. On the surface, he wasn’t a good enough player to be noticed, but every time he walked away from the table, Mr. Luck had enough to live as he liked. His banker took care of the details.
Things started to go wrong after the second lady, the one wearing a gaudy crystal ring on her right hand, split a pair. That was really more information about the table than Aleister Luck preferred, but it wasn’t anything that should cause him trouble. She lost when Aleister saw her winning. The next hand, Aleister lost when he had decided not to. Panic became an itch in the back of his throat. How much had he lost? How had he lost? His faith shaken, Mr. Luck excused himself from the table, sweeping his winnings into a plastic cup usually used for slot tokens.
And then he saw her.
She was sitting on a stool at the vacant table next to Luck’s. She had been watching him and flashed a smile when he had turned toward her. Observed, his magic had failed. How much had she really noticed about Aleister Luck?
Luck nodded politely and headed to the bar. He tried to ignore her. The lack of a compelling sport to watch on the big screens didn’t help. She followed and took a seat next to him.
“Can I buy you a drink?” she asked.
Polished. That was Aleister’s impression of her. Glossy dark hair. The right amount of makeup where it needed to be. She wore a casual suit and a chain of rich gold.
Luck weighed her interest. She wouldn’t be put off easily. “Sure,” he said.
“What will you have?” The bartender hovered on the other side of the bar.
“Gin and tonic.”
“Same. My name’s Dana.” She offered a hand.
“Aleister. Aleister Luck.”
“Luck. Are you particularly lucky, Mr. Luck?”
“Not at all.” Aleister answered honestly.
She tapped a manicured fingernail against his plastic cup full of chips. “You seem to be doing pretty well to me.”
The bartender placed two highballs on the bar.
She could be casino security. Or, sometimes people happened upon Aleister. Instead of seeing an ad or looking him up online, they found him.
The answer wouldn’t be found in her sleek hair and the earrings that matched her necklace, but Aleister picked up one of the drinks while looking at her. The flavor of the gin was satisfying. Whether unconsciously or not, Dana mirrored his actions.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” he asked.
“No, I…” She glanced at Sports Center playing on the flat screen and at her hand holding the gin and tonic. “I just thought you might be an interesting person to know.”
“I see.”
She might be attracted to him, for whatever reason. Aleister wasn’t good or even novel looking. He was careful not to be outstanding in any way. Still, every so often, a woman took an “interest” in him. She’d pay attention to him. She’d stalk him in the nosey way women had. Most men didn’t notice or mind. For Aleister, though, this could be a problem.
“What kind of business are you in?” she asked. She sipped at the drink.
“Usually, I investigate certain matters for clients.”
“Oh? Like a private investigator?”
“Yes, something like that.” On the screen above the bar an impossible football play caught Aleister’s attention. The receiver, concerned about the defensive player behind him, seemed to get only the tip of one finger on a wobbly pass before the rest of his hand reeled in the ball. He was watching the second replay when Dana said, “That must be exciting. What’s the most interesting case you’ve been involved in?”
Mr. Luck heard it in her voice then. The timbre of her words was off. She knew who he was.
He ignored the question. “What is that you do, Miss… Dana?”
The question shouldn’t have taken so long to answer. “I work for a law firm.”
“Lawyer?”
“Sometimes.”
“Only sometimes?”
“My work includes many different things. Some investigation, in fact.” She set her glass, empty of all but ice, on the bar.
“What firm?”
“Pardon me?”
“What firm? What law firm?” Sports Center had moved on to a story about recruiting violations.
“Devine, Chance and Merit.” Despite the prestige of the institution, she said the words quickly, and Aleister thought he heard fear in them.
Aleister kept his tone light. “I know of it, of course.”
“Yes.”
“In fact, I’ve had a few run-ins with some of your colleagues.” On commercial break, a buff gentleman hawked men’s deodorant. “But I think you probably know that.”
“Yes…” she slurred.
He switched his attention back to her.
Dana sat with her hands flat on the bar. She was staring somewhere past the inside edge of the counter. Her eyes were wide and dark.
The bartender was gone. He’d already removed her glass.
“They’re going to kill me,” she blurted. “They’re here. They’re all around.”
She pushed away from the bar without getting her feet under her. The barstool tipped and she tumbled to the floor. She was scrabbling away when Aleister took her by the shoulders and hefted her to her feet.
“My friend is a little distraught,” he said to no one in particular. “Lost a bit of money.”
He left his cup of chips on the bar as the started toward the door of the casino.
She struggled and Aleister pinned her arms to her side.
“We need to get out of here,” she whispered. “There are assassins in the chandeliers. In the balconies.” She twisted and turned as they moved through the cavernous lobby. Mr. Luck resisted the urge to check if anyone was following, if there was anyone watching from the sweeping stairway to the casino’s restaurants and shops.
“We’re going,” said Aleister. “We’re going.”
“They’re going to shoot me!”
“No, they’re not.”
Once they were outside, Aleister was less worried about Dana being loud, but increased his grip on her arms. She quieted but also struggled more. “We need to be faster!”
Luck had parked nearly a block away, but he moved in the opposite direction. More people. More alleys. He didn’t look back despite Dana’s warnings. Her wide, overly dark eyes saw enemies behind every sign and in every moving car. Aleister was peripherally aware that the ever-present Las Vegas crowds were giving them a wide birth. He didn’t like it.
Tires squealed somewhere behind them, followed by the acceleration of an engine. Dana wrenched away from him and darted back the way they had come. She was clumsy and Aleister had no problem capturing her again, but he saw the sedan speeding toward them.
Mr. Luck closed his eyes as he picked Dana off her feet. He lurched a few steps before opening his eyes again and taking stock. Three long steps would take him to a space between two buildings that was tighter than the sedan. The alley was dark, there would be no outlet. Aleister shook his head and lunged out into traffic. He kept his attention on Dana’s face, her polish replaced by wild fear.
More tires shrieked and the shouts of bystanders added to the cacophony. Aleister tripped up the opposite curb and nearly dropped Dana. The pause in their flight was enough to allow the driver to swerve toward them. After all, Mr. Aleister Luck, hobbled somewhat by the woman he was carrying, was headed for an open corner. He wouldn’t be able to outrun the sedan.
The driver didn’t notice the fire hydrant and neither did Aleister Luck. Only Dana saw the spray of water that erupted as Luck dodged around the corner.
—###—
More process:
We wanted a “Mr. Luck to the rescue” scene. After some talking (in person since Eric’s back from Nebraska), Eric convinced me that I could re-purpose the casino scene written a couple weeks ago. The more exciting aspect was placing this scene more firmly in the chronology of the book. This will probably be chapter 2 of Luck for Hire.
10th
07 -
2010
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no comment »
Originally posted as a comment by Eric Nabity at http://katen.livejournal.com.
The first thing to understand is that the way we work together has changed as time has passed. Lucinda at the Window started as a short story that she wrote and I read. My first question was essentially what was going on. Katherine had little idea, at least none that she cared to share, but I had several ideas. She liked one of them and a discussion started about what should happen next as well as how the story could end. This proceeded throughout the writing of the book. Katherine took the ideas from me that she liked, but the process often consisted of Katherine writing large chunks and have me read them and consult. It wasn’t at all efficient, but it reflected our relationship, which wasn’t that far along yet.
Currently, my job is to define the world, the major players in the story and the conflict, essentially the dynamic system of the story. All of these are not perfectly defined when we start, but there is usually at least a significant portion worked out. Then we talk. As Katherine has mentioned, it starts with a discussion of the main ideas. Once we agree that she understands at least part of what I’m trying to communicate, we discuss the sequence of events. Obviously at the beginning, we talk about how the story will start while keeping the general vicinity of the destination in mind. Usually, a chapter/scene is defined by what plot events have to occur. There will also be some discussion about thematic components that need to show up somewhere in the manuscript. Then, Katherine attempts to translate that very non-linear pile of poorly communicated information into a narrative that is interesting. The process continues with me evaluation what she writes and critiquing how the story is consistent with the world system and plot. This can lead to discussions to clear up communication errors and/or about what will happen next. I try to avoid critiquing anything that doesn’t significantly impact the world system or main plot, because that isn’t my job. This certainly places Katherine in the position of having her work being criticized more, but plenty of the mistakes are my fault due to poor communication or lack of foresight.
As an example, Aleister Luck. I defined the system for magic and worked out how it would work in a few scenarios. Most of those were related to how he makes his living on games of chance, as being a PI is more of a hobby for him. Katherine decided to go with a casino scenario, which was not my preferred choice because it doesn’t work so neatly. However it is probably a better choice for character interaction. In any case, it just so happened that while I was on the plane to Omaha doing some further work on the system and how he would have to execute it in the casino case, Katherine was writing her short story using the not so well worked out casino system. Fortunately, it didn’t take too much effort to fix.
At the end of the day, we each have our own jobs. Both of us do a fairly good job of not poking our noses too far into the other’s business.
Eric
9th
07 -
2010
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1 comment »
Originally posted at http://katen.livejournal.com.
Aleister Luck had a problem and her name was Rosalyn.
***
Every private detective in every novel, TV show, or movie is pleasantly labeled as “down on his luck.” That’s a label for the poor. Of course this is because private detectives in novels, TV shows, and movies are good people. They help the needy and if they’re involved in shady dealings it’s in the interest of doing right regardless of margins.
Mr. Luck was one of those good people. Or at least he tried to be. He was selective about his clientele and didn’t worry about whether they could pay. And that’s why Mr. Luck generally turned to magic to make a living.
***
The night he became acquainted with Rosalyn, Luck was happily working the blackjack tables at Jummer’s Casino. The night started out uneventful.
Luck always chose a busy table. It was more interesting to spread winning around. If there was someone loud, flamboyant, self-centered at the table, so much the better. In comparison, the casual observer wouldn’t notice Aleister Luck and the casino didn’t get too suspicious when he wasn’t the only one with a pile of chips in front of him.
This night, his fellow players were a pair of giggling middle-aged women, a quiet bearded man, and a college-aged kid accompanied by his blonde girlfriend. The women were fairly new to the game. The kid had been drinking and his girlfriend found his poor math skills exceedingly funny. The bearded fellow was sandwiched between them.
A near perfect set up.
Dealt from a shoe, all face up, no one really noticed that Mr. Luck didn’t look at his cards.
He had instead trained himself to look at people’s hands and wrists, blocking out the card faces. The ladies both had manicured nails, doubtless the product of an afternoon at the casino’s spa. The college kid had a tattoo of ornate lettering that started at wrist. Luck couldn’t read what it said. Luck’s own hands were a geography of dry skin and hangnails. Dealers’ hands were never interesting. They were clean, soft, and dealers rarely wore jewelry.
He didn’t watch to see what the other players were dealt or what the house had. He motioned for another card without any information. He simply knew it was the right decision. He put chips forward haphazardly too, never checking their color or the size of his stacks.
He won when he wanted and he lost when he wanted. Occasionally, he shifted his efforts to someone else at the table. With a thought, he knew that the card dealt next would be what that player needed. On the surface, he wasn’t a good enough player to cause anyone to notice him. It might have only been luck, but every time he walked away from the table, Mr. Luck had rent, utilities, and enough to eat well.
Things started to go wrong after the second lady, wearing a wide turquoise necklace, split a pair. It was really more information about the table than Aleister Luck preferred, but it wasn’t anything that should cause him trouble. But she lost when Aleister saw her winning. The next hand, Aleister lost when he had decided not to. Panic became an itch in the back of his throat. How much had he lost? How had he lost? His faith shaken, Mr. Luck excused himself from the table, sweeping his winnings into a plastic cup usually used for slot tokens.
And then he saw her.
He had encountered her one or two times in the past on the casino floor. She always smiled at him, but he took it as a gesture of general friendliness. Nothing of note.
Tonight, she was sitting on a stool at the vacant table next to Luck’s. She had been watching him and her face flashed an honest smile when he had turned toward her. Observed, his magic had failed. How much had she really noticed about Aleister Luck?
Luck nodded politely and headed to the bar. He tried to ignore her. The lack of a compelling sport to watch on the big screens didn’t help. She followed.
“Can I buy you a drink?” she asked.
She was small with honey hair and lightly tanned skin. She wore light pink lipstick and clothes that could be described as breezy by a newsstand magazine.
Luck weighed her interest. She wouldn’t be put off easily. “Sure,” he said.
She took the chair next to him and offered a hand. “Rosalyn,” she said.
“Aleister. Aleister Luck.”
“Luck? Are you particularly lucky, Mr. Luck?”
“Not at all.” Aleister answered honestly. She could be an employee of the casino, but he didn’t think so. “Rosalyn, is there anything I can help you with?”
Sometimes people happened upon him. Instead of seeing an ad or looking him up online, they found him.
“No, I…” And there it was, a blush below her tan. “I just thought you might be an interesting person to know.”
“I see.” She was attracted to him, for whatever reason. Aleister wasn’t good or even novel looking. He was careful not to be outstanding in any way. Yet, every so often, a woman took an “interest” in him. She’d pay attention to him. She’d stalk him in the nosey way woman did. She’d find out what she could about him.
In short, until she lost interest, his life was ruined.
—###—
Right. So. Here we are. The first meandering steps into the world of Aleister Luck. If it is confusing, please comment. Feedback is good!
Also, I apologies in advance if I never write about Rosalyn again. This is play-piece. It might have nothing to do with the novel that Eric and I end up writing. It’s meant to be a troubleshooting exercise. My “wouldn’t it be cool if” is met with Eric’s sense of system. The piece came pretty easily with some angst Wednesday night when Eric mentioned a new facet to the rules governing Luck’s magic. I sent it to him yesterday and Eric bounced it back with a couple notes. I think the changes I made in regards to those notes have improved the piece. Regardless of whether this eventually “makes the cut” in any way, shape, or form, I’ve enjoyed doing this more than anything I’ve written this year.
8th
07 -
2010
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no comment »
Originally posted at http://katen.livejournal.com.
JT asked a good question about the collaborative process that Eric and I engage in. The reply because post-sized:
My journal entries tend to simplistically reflect my side of the process.
We each have our role, and our roles are complementary.
I’m pretty bad with plot. Given enough time, I could probably become competent at cobbling together enough “and then this happens” to form a novel, but it wouldn’t be pretty. My strength is stringing words together in a (hopefully) clear and (hopefully) compelling manner that form characters and places and things.
Eric is full of story ideas, and I hear a fraction of them. I’d say that when he proposes an idea it’s already gone through a fairly rigorous crap filter. What Eric can’t do is write. Well, he can and he can do it quite well, but it’s a torturous process. I can’t fathom how it could take a week to craft 1000 words of prose, but that’s around Eric’s speed. Conversely, he doesn’t understand that I don’t immediately see how the actions of characters will naturally play out.
So together, we’re closer to being a whole writer than we are apart. But that doesn’t quite explain the process.
What I depict is the easily quantifiable part: I write, submit for critique, rewrite, repeat. What goes on behind that is hard to nail down. There are cases in which Eric offers an idea, I pull a face and voice my doubts, and force him to rigorously defend his position. That usually results in either my being convinced or Eric talking himself out of the idea. He does occasionally writes a passage that I can’t quite handle. And then I smooth it out.
It may be dangerous and non-PC, but this is not an even relationship. I’m filtering Eric’s vision through my writing. The core ideas are his. This doesn’t mean I don’t add to it. Some of the best bits happen when I spring something on Eric (a locked tinder box, an extra character named Balito), but in the end what I write has to be consistent with his initial ideas.
Bad analogy: It’s like he has an idea for an all-salmon menu, but I have to come up with the individual dishes. As soon as I decide that trout should be substituted for salmon or that a salmon/chocolate sorbet is a good idea, I’ve deviated from the idea too much. On the other hand, I can say that it’s a bad idea to have a salmon-based desert and suggest something that works, but isn’t salmon.
Do I occasionally feel picked on during the process? Of course, but I generally trust Eric’s judgment and he keeps away from being critical of my writing style and the like. Unfortunately it’s always the things that need work that get attention. “Good job on that” should carry more weight, but “this is wrong for the following reasons” gets more time. And I’m sure Eric has his anxieties when broaching a new idea. I know I hate explaining mine.
In the end, if I can’t get behind the vision, it’s not going to work. Zeta Iota wasn’t working. I couldn’t put enough of me in it to write anything but bland prose. The hope with Luck for Hire is that this is a vision I can play around in. We’ll see how it goes.
7th
07 -
2010
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no comment »
Originally posted at http://katen.livejournal.com/867689.html.
So, Eric’s on his way to Nebraska to visit family and, due to my earlier trip and other circumstances, I’m not.
…
Eric and I have continued talking about Luck for Hire. I’m going to start writing some vignettes. The plan is: I write things, things that will probably be wrong in the context of the world we’re trying to build. Eric will critique them. If there’s hope for the piece at that point, I’ll do a rewrite and they’ll probably get posted here as #FridayFlash. Which means, the first vignette is due tomorrow at 6-7pm AZ time. Eric will bounce it back to me that evening or Friday morning. It’s good to have a deadline, but also a little scary. Our last few projects have been very start-stop. Do I still know how to do this?
