In de Straten, In de Lucht

Needless to say, in the last twenty-four hours I’ve walked through the aftermath of an ice storm, managed to make it through work without loosing too many brain cells, had dinner, was interviewed as part of a doctoral thesis, wrote eight hundred words for the first new scene of my last chapter of Act One, then headed to bed and had the damnedest dreams which ended with me being forced to fly a woman to Europe so she could track a connection to a drug smuggling operation being run out of an abandoned mental hospital in some unnamed state, after which I kicked back at an outdoor electronica concert held in a square in a town in Belgium, where we drank wine from boxes and sat at school desks while getting on our groove.

I hope you got all that.

"You sorta of lost me at--mental hospital?  Really?"

“You sorta of lost me at–mental hospital? Really?”

That gives you a bit of perspective as to where I’m at this morning, sort of feeling hell-bound and down.  Though I shouldn’t say that, because yesterday–despite all the crap I just laid out above–was pretty sweet.  Walking to and from work was pretty sucky, and these days work just sort of wears me out, but at least I have some energy at night to make it into the novel.

It was flying time for Kerry, wandering through the Flight School hanger with Vicky (I should point that distinction because there is another building on the grounds that’s known as The Hanger, where the science geeks store their smaller flying machines), and they started looking at better PAVs and talking a little broom history, particularly in the area of Witchy Poo.  I also got Vicky to use a phrase that I’ve been wanting to say for some time, and that’s “lovey-dovey”.  There’s a reason for that, and those reasons won’t be apparent to you, but they are apparent to me.

After looking at the chapters I realize that I need to break up my act as I flip from the south end of the school where Kerry is, back to the north side of the school where Annie is, and that means I’ll need three more scenes.  Three more, between two scenes that are already in place, and that’s what I’m going to need to tie it all up.

It’s not a big deal, because these were going to be incorporated as part of the first two scenes I had in place, so it’s only a matter of adding and writing.  No big thing, as they say.  I’ve been tracking drug lords and drinking cheap wine outta boxes in my sleep, so three scenes is gonna be a walk.

I can see the end of this stretch, and it’s leaving me feeling a little barren, because while I know what I want to get into after I wrap Act One, I’m not sure how to go about getting there.  I’ll talk about that later, because, right now, I feel the urge to hop on a PAV and fly to Europe.

These things will do that, you know.

Around the World Through a Dream

The weekend is over, the week begins, and there are things to do.  I did a lot yesterday:  I ate, I walked, I edited, I did my research.  And I watched meth makers go on the lam.

All in all, pretty normal.

I started in on my research yesterday, bringing up The Foundation Chronicles and setting up a location folder for the different areas I have to name.  There were four that I knew off the top of my head, and the locations of a couple of others that I knew existed, but I needed to come up with names and nicknames, and that takes a little bit of brain work.  Not that I don’t have the later, but when you’re roaming the world in Google Maps, looking for interesting places to set up your world, you find places that make you go, “Hummm.”

I found my location in Australia because there was an airfield one hundred and eight kilometers from the nearest big place, and the railroad used to stop there once a week and help out the miners who lived there–at least until 1996, when the train stopped and people got the hell out.  I found my location in Japan because I found a lovely spot on a mountain pass, and found a road tunneling under that pass, then found another road that was nothing but tunnels and curves, and I had to follow it, see where it went.  In Russia I found an open pit mine, then another, then another, then the oil and gas fields in Siberia, and the city that I used was placed close by because it would make sense that my Foundation would have helped exploit those fields without the Soviets knowing they were being helped.

It went that way most of the night:  think, look, imagine.  I discovered earlier that I’m only an hour from the town that more or less was the inspiration for movie portion of Silent Hill, and I’m thinking of heading up there next weekend.  I start thinking about locations in the far north, and I start seeing roads and I want to follow them.  It’s the distraction from curiosity that gets me going, and it’s not a bad distraction, because anything that has you thinking and wondering is good.  I’m about half way through my list–I need twenty names for training facilities–and then it’s on to headquarters before going after a few research and development locations.

Then it was off to sleep, where the strangeness happens.

I had a very long, unpleasant dream.  It wasn’t a nightmare:  it was more a “Why are you torturing me so?” kind of dreams.  I was at the wedding of a person I know, a person I like–a lot.  She also knows this, but was getting married to some guy because–well, because.  There were a few moments in the dream where we talked, but we always talked around the thing that was between us, though you could tell it was there in the way looks were exchanged, word were said, even body language.

There was no Hollywood ending in the dream:  it just stopped at some point without resolution.  That woke me up and allowed me to lay in bed for maybe twenty minutes before falling back asleep and having another dream–

One that shouldn’t ever be mentioned again.  Oi.

Mortal Changes

After a weekend of working on various things, it’s now time to–get back to work?  Seems like only Friday I was looking forward to a relaxing time of doing nothing.  Which doesn’t happen around here, because if I’m doing nothing, then I’m probably sleeping.  Correct that:  trying to sleep.  Here I am, up at four-thirty again this morning, and my head is feeling a tad woozy.

One day I’ll go to bed at ten-thirty and wake up at six.  It will happen.  But today is not that day.

I was reading film reviews on Something Awful–’cause if you’re going to read film reviews, you may as well read something that’s gonna be funny, or at least sarcastic as hell–and they were doing a review of The Mortal Instruments movie.  While they didn’t care for it–they did give it a four out of ten rating “As a Piece of Absurdest Humor,” so it’s got that going for it–they did mention the fact that “Cassandra Clare”, the pen name for one Judith Rumelt, got her start penning Harry Potter and Lord of the Ring fan fiction.  They also mention that there’s more than a passing resemblance between some of the characters in The Mortal Instruments, and some of the characters and passages in the HP fanfic, all of which was pulled from the Internet as soon as her publishing career got started.

As Neil Gaiman has pointed out, fan fiction is writing, and anything that gets people writing is a good thing.  He’s also said he doesn’t care if you do fan fiction of his work, because, hey:  nothing you’re going to do is going to impact anything he’ll do to his characters.  He probably wants to stay away from Coraline slashfic, however . . .

His point about fan fiction is well taken, however.  It’s very likely that Neil never reads it, or if he has he’s sort of skimmed over it and thought, “Hum, yeah,” and moved on to working on his HBO adaptation and Doctor Who scripts.  And he’s correct:  there’s nothing millions of words of fan fiction will do to his characters that will reflect what he’s going to do to them, so why sweat it?

I wonder how he’d feel, however, if someone wrote a million words of Sandman fan fiction, put the character through some interesting changes–like having him get hammered in a strip club while watching his sister Death gyrate to some Millie Cyrus crunk as she’s making out with a demonic Taylor Swift–and then, a year later, finds a book called, Sleepytime Sam, the Dream King.  Book One:  Down and Out in Sister Stripperville.  Oh, sure, it’s just a coincidence the characters bear a little resemblance to his . . .

Not that I’ll have to worry about any of this.  I doubt that anyone will start ripping off my characters and write stories of their strange escapades, ’cause anything you can do, I know I can do better–and I love being strange.  I need to open up the strangeness stuff a little more, ’cause I feel I’m getting rusty.  Maybe it’s time to write my magnum opus about gay cuttlefish shapeshifters–

Oh, wait:  it’s been done.

Game of Mind Frell

Dreams are getting really strange, let me tell you.  Maybe it was my mind getting back at me for slamming zombies yesterday; I don’t know.

Lets put it this way:  I found my dream mind taking me to hang out with character from Game of Thrones, only Westeros looked a little like a cross between a far west Chicago suburban development, and a run-down version of downtown Indianapolis.  Everyone was tooling about Maseratis, save for Tyrion Lannister, aka the (P)Imp, who was driving around in a Bugatti Veyron.

As for me, I spend most of my time hangin’ out with The Mother of Dragons, though I never saw the dragons, and some guy by the name of Mars Serpentcraft, who I know isn’t a character in any of the stories, but who looked a lot like Sean Bean.  In the dream I looked a little like Daenerys, only with red hair and no dragons to keep me company–though I do think I was wearing the yoga pants.

What happened, you ask?  Um . . . I spent a lot of time trying to figure out the phases of the moon, the Daughter of Death was giving me tips on skin care and how to kill people, and it seemed like, from time to time, I had to fight off killer bugs that eventually turned into cooked Cornish hens.

Oh, and I had a Lamborghini Murciélago to drive, so at least there was something good happening.  Though my feet seemed to keep slipping off the brake; must have been the heels.

I have no idea where there was coming from, honestly.  I had a long, trying day yesterday, and I believe that my mind may have been revolting against something that could have been, I don’t know, perhaps logic?  It was something strange to go through, and the fact that it was no only vivid, but went on for a very long time, and involved things that I never would suspect–like The Silver Lady and I heading into town to buy drugs, and getting into a fight over the cost, after which we hacked the dealers to death with short swords.  Maybe it was because they kept saying, in falsetto voice, “Where are my dragons?”  That was pissing us both off like no one’s business.  Let me tell you, this is the sort of stuff I couldn’t make up if I wanted.

This all might have come about, too, because I was actually thinking about a story.  No, not my NaNo Novel 2012, but–believe it or not–a story that would happened to the same characters some years after this current story I’m planing.  Yes, that’s right:  I’m thinking about another story for the characters I’m putting into a story now, but this would be something that will happen to them at some point in the future.

Why am I thinking this?  Why am I planing stories that I might not write for years?  Hey, that’s what I do.  I think ahead; I plan; I get ready.  Plot bunnies, my ass:  I keep ideas at ready, so that when I’m ready, I get them down.

I have maybe twenty-five years of writing ahead of me, so why not have stuff to write?

I mean, it’s either that, or going shopping while covered in blood in my dreams.