Month: June 2025

A rare two-chapter day and the sun is still high in the sky. That puts me 65,000 words into the rewrite. It isn’t Shakespeare, but its starting to feel like Shadowrun again. I have a few more “beats” in my mind to end the story. There’s this one, another transitional, the end part, and then the Coda. Originally that all played out over 44 chapters and just over 80,000 words. I don’t see that 80K being enough, but I do see 44 Chapters being more than what is needed to wrap this thing up. My guess 36 chapters–12 more–ought to do quite nicely.

Then what?

I don’t have the time to think about that right now. I did learn in this process that what I am developing is quite difficult to do. It is an ensemble novel where I am required to have an arc for every one of the five or so people involved, but it is an adventure piece that isn’t meant to be 240K words as is suggested for so many arcs. The way to balance this is to have a single POV character and have these other arcs play out through him and advance those characters through his eyes. I’ve done this to the best of my ability. I think it is working–to a degree.

Only sales will tell, I suppose.

I don’t want to rest my ego on how many copies fly off the shelves. There are not many ensemble stories being told in SR in this fashion. Most are about solo operators or duos. Often it is a solo attaching with a crew and they get little attention. This crew is getting all the attention I can offer. What makes me feel good right now is that the story is not slogging. I’m moving it along and editing through it with a decent amount of speed this week. Hasn’t been like that at all till now. I aim to continue the momentum and be done early to mid July.

5 Pm on a Sunday and the sky is bright. The rain threat has passed and I find myself on the porch writing away. This is the Tennessee life I live on occasion. I strike a rough balance between tending farm, making improvements, hanging with family, and work in. These four components don’t include the hour or so I spend playing pokemon TCG, but it does sum up the life out here.

It is better out here. Sure, I worked my butt off and still failed to hit the required steps, but I’m building towards a better strategy in all things. My life is a series of edits and improvements–much like this novel that I’m about sick of. Once, I was told that if your first novel is a failure then you are a failed novelist forever. Might as well find a pen name for hopes of a second chance. I don’t know how much truth there is in that line of thinking, but I do know that I’ve grown increasingly uncertain of a future writing tie-in novels. If I want to get it–really get in there and get a name in the industry–I’m going to need to hit the convention circuit and make a few new friends and allies. I have made no effort to do so and will not until this novel is done and I have another book lined up in the pipeline.

It isn’t even about being bored with the material. It is, as the Lady Talis says, about trying to do too much with the material I am working with. I need to slow it down–take on one core character and write the hell out of that character. I can do that. I have the framework for such a story and I plan to use it should I write another book for this line.

That part feels to be in jeopardy, because the edit notes argue that I am such an awful writer that an AI directed by monkeys ought to crank out better material. I don’t have access to a monkey, so I don’t get to test that theory completely. What I intend to do next is write an independent story–sci-fi but not shadowrun and not action-adventure. I’m diving into the Justice Engine for real. I want to get it to an agent before its too late–before the concepts become yesterday’s news.

This is not going to be much more than a collection of some thoughts about the writing happening today. I’m struggling with revision, so let me point out how and why…

Some Thoughts:

1. Had a conversation with the Lady Talis the other day about doing too much with this novel, and had another this morning about trying to recognize how to simplify that and move the story unerringly towards the inevitable conclusion. I am clearly in that stage of the story now, but it feels like the story is starting over. I don’t know how to reconcile the reset. I don’t know how to move forward with the story in a way that makes sense but hits the points I am trying, stubbornly, to cover. It sounds like I am going to need to murder more darlings.
2. The way I got there, the way I got to the conversation, was by trying to tell myself the story in summary in bed this morning. When I got to where the revision ends (and the present work begins) I was stuck. The idea I’d originally come up with didn’t resonate in the summarized telling. So now I am trying to lock in on logic and create a way to get us to the end–or find a new ending based on where we are now.
3. It all boils down to a hidden truth… a bit of knowledge that has to be revealed in order to force the conclusion. The other aspect is with a specific character arc that I need to decide to either loop back in or abandon. I wanted to keep it, but I don’t know that it makes sense. That moment is what is killing the entire forward momentum. At this point the characters are being forced into actions by me in order to create a moment that is unnatural and does not need to happen in order to move the story to conclusion.

Not sure how much time I will get to write today. There’s work to do on the farm and people to see. So, I broke off from the revision to get into this blog. There is a sense of urgency about writing when I know that I work on borrowed time. It might be a good thing–it makes me process faster and forces me to make choices about the work as opposed to thinking about it to death and then doing whatever as a result. I’m not writing peak literature where I can meander aimlessly. I’m writing a book based on an RPG where the beats are king and the character story is meant to develop neatly alongside those beats. It isn’t what I want it to be, but as the Lady Talis tells me, it is what it is and I can’t make it what it isn’t. The framework simply isn’t built to support that.

When I wrote the first draft it was a straight shot mess that made no sense, because I wrote it as it came to me, and didn’t follow a definitive structure or stop to think about the choices I made. In essence, I submitted a bad first draft to my editor and she shredded it. Deservedly so. Of course, in the art of shred, once you know you have a thing you may find yourself digging in a little too hard in spots, reflecting what is going on with you and your proclivities vs. trying to let the story be what it is trying to be. I learned a ton from this latest book because she wrecked me and I discovered how much of that came from core problems and how much of that was about flavor and about personality.

I can do better drafts. I have to do better drafts. I also have to remember that the first draft is not the one you turn into anyone but your Alpha Reader (My Lady Talis). You can only be naked and vulnerable around loved ones. They are the ones without agenda. So, when submitting work, make sure it is bullet proof as much as you can before getting to the editor. This is going to make you look better as a professional. It is going to create a sense of a polished persona that is expected in the industry.

Nobody wants to work that hard. If an editor feels your work requires too much editing then they are going to take it out on your work and on your ego personally. That is what happened to me. Don’t let it happen to you.

My summer has three chapters. We completed the first, an extended jaunt to Spain and some of the world’s greatest beaches. I miss it badly. I want to be back on the beach, chillin. I want to do my daily walks to the beach and along the beach. Chillin… However, that segment is over and I cannot say for certain that we will ever return to Castelldefels. On to Cincinnati. Well, Tennessee actually. This is a short bit–the reverse of a novel where the middle is the longest. We’re going to see family and enjoy the sweltering heat and humidity. I’m looking forward to the humidity, oddly. I know it isn’t a wonderful thing, especially with the heat, but I feel much better when I am not so dry.

Second Chapter and the interludes pre and post should give me the required time to buckle down and move a significant degree forward on the novel edits. I need to get cracking on that, because I have no chance or desire or ability to get it done once the wedding season starts. So, get it done before. It may take a few long writing days to hammer out the tougher parts, and a day or two of transition to make sure I am hitting all the points I need to hit. Part of what I plan to do next is list out the steps taken and remaining in the story to ensure I’ve closed all the arcs. I gotta get this one right or else it will be my last for the line. Failed writers and writers who don’t sell do not get 3rd chances.

Some Thoughts:

1. A really good writing tactic I’ve discovered in editing is directly addressing questions an editor has in conversations between characters. I’ve see it before and hadn’t realized that was what was happening until I tried doing it myself. It’s brilliant. The questions get answered in-character!
2. Missing football. No news though. I will say I am baffled by the decision to turn down an invite to the premier High School 7s tourney in the state. It makes no sense.

I saw a man getting off a bus in Spain. He was old, black, and hunched over. He didn’t use a cane like so many older men there do. He tried to walk under his own power. He reminded me of you. He reminded me of how you left. 

I looked you up recently, curious about the man you were, and how that walks alongside the man I am trying to become. Clarence Kingston lives in a malaise of fictional references. He is the CEO of Skynet. He is the head of the nefarious EGG labs. Of the real you, my stepfather, there is nothing. 

My mother didn’t let me see the open casket. She didn’t want that to be my last memory of you. So, I have no last memory of you. 

I didn’t see you in the hospital. I wasn’t allowed. I don’t know how you died. Where you scared, like my Grandmother? Did you fall asleep the way they do it in the movies? I don’t know what killed you. I heard snatchets of conversation. You died of liver failure. You needed a blood transfusion, but they gave him blood that had AIDS in it and you died of that. These form the outline of my understanding of where people think you went. 

I never thought any of that was real. I remember being twelve. It was weeks after you died. It was a few days before we were set to take the boat out again and ride deep into the waters where we’d catch fish. I was running to catch a bus. I wanted the M1 but as I approached, I saw it was the M2. I still pushed to run up alongside it, stretching my long legs to keep pace. I looked up and I saw you.

You were sitting at the back of the bus. I couldn’t see your entire face, but it was you. It had to be. You radiated that warmth that kept me sane when everything around me felt crazy. You wore that gray shirt you loved so much, but mommy said looked terrible on you. The bus sped up, catching the flow of traffic. I pushed on, trying to catch it, though the stop itself was three blocks ahead. My legs failed me, and then the light did. A red light sprang up ahead of me. Your bus cruised through, catching the dying embers of yellow. I skidded to a stop as a wave of cabs buzzed angrily through the intersection. By the time the light turned the bus was gone. You were gone. I never got a chance to ask you why you left. 

That night I asked my mother if you were really dead. She stared at me for a long time, not speaking. Then she told me that people die and that is a part of life. She told me I would die one day and so would she. She didn’t answer my question. She left me that small hope, at least.

I imagine you very old now, eyes staring forward at the back of the bus as it rolls away from me over and again. I don’t know where you are going. I know only that you are a passenger and I am not.

Well, I finally made that weight I was expecting to hit in January of 2024. According to that Fail Blog, I was scheduled for 232 with a steady decline to follow. I’ve not seen anything resembling steady or decline. In truth I’ve fluctuated like an EKG. Today it’s 232, but next week it could be 238 again. I don’t know how to lose weight–not consistently. I am on the hard walking trail now, logging 15 miles over the last two days. I close my apple rings as many days as I can. The days I don’t generally reflects being in the 100+ degree heat of the valley, which reflects a condition where I would rather not be outside.

I am not moving towards healthy with any real speed. I can say that I am moving towards healthy. My stamina is greater than it was at the time of that Fail Blog. I can and I want to walk further each day. I try to get in the daily walk even with the weather suggests it won’t be pleasant. Once, I even walked the dog and jogged with him for a bit. All of these changes show that there is a want involved here. I want to live. I want to be able to do things physically. I want to look better for the Lady Talis and for myself. Where I fall short is properly distinguishing between wants and needs.

I’m quite terrible at organizing needs properly or realistically… or even ahead of wants. For example, I need to get back to writing, classwork, and grading (in some version of that order), but I want to step back for 30 minutes to an hour and play a game. I know that once I do this, I’m down to, say 45 minutes of remaining work time for my day. So I need to convince myself to stay on the keyboard and not wander off into a Minecraft realm to play. This is far more difficult than it ought to be, especially because I feel burned out on the writing for today and don’t want to do the other two things that need doing.

Working towards being healthy is a lot like the above. I don’t want to put the work in. I qualify it as a need, but I don’t address the need properly. It is a change I am going to have to make sooner, because it won’t be an option later.

Still trying to make sense of the world and having a very tough time doing so. We’re bombing Iran and talking about regime change. We are in fact talking about pushing a proxy war between them and Israel without giving much credence to anyone catching Iran’s back. So far nobody has in a way that is noticeable. I hope this remains the case, because I do not want to be living in the age of WWIII. That isn’t a great look for us. It won’t just be waged overseas. We don’t get that luxury anymore. I don’t know that the people here are fully aware of that. I don’t know that they want to be.

Not forming a lot of coherent streams, so I will move on to…

Some Thoughts:

1. Just Chilly’s Flight Club is the premiere High School 7s tourney in the valley. My boy’s team wasn’t invited as a lock-in but they were invited to the play in. They went 7-0 and earned their ticket… with the backup QB. In Defense we Trust
2. Saw a bit of the Firestarter remake. Terrible. A poor attempt at a shot for shot kind of thing that went awry when the gravitas could not be pulled off. It moved too fast and was not good. Eventually, I fell asleep.
3. Excellent Sunday-Monday. Felt like a roadmap of how I want to live life. The only flaw was that I didn’t write either day. I need to figure out how to incorporate this very important aspect of my life into the daily routine in a way that works. This time the writing time was absorbed by either driving or football. I gotta fix it. I need to get the novel turned over the the editor… again.

Here sits a man.

Beneath him a marble bench shows its age, which is likely far older than the man. Far older than his grandfather, perhaps. It has seen many pictures, many poses. It has seen cameras shrink from the size of a backpack to the size of a credit card. It has seen many men and women seated here. It has lasted long enough that this man and the woman he cradles have gone from being an affront to society, to simply another couple, even here where Popes once roamed.

The man, and the beautiful woman are locked in an embrace. She leans towards him, her head touching his hooded shoulder. Her black hair, a sharp contrast to her porcelain skin, shines over the black fabric like a sheet of glass.

It cannot be said that he is in love, not definitively. His eyes, those upturned brown orbs, a sharp contrast to his downturned face a broad nose, say he cares very deeply for the woman resting beside him. Whether that caring is love or lust can only be gauged by time and further examination.

Here again sits the man. He is alone now. A smile sweeps up his face from left to right. Those eyes, before inscrutable, have a definite glaze of dissatisfaction. They do not seem staged, as the pose seems staged. Here he is straightened. His shoulders tilt backwards. His gut is sucked in to the point where it disappears beneath the ripples of his deep blue shirt.

He has learned, perhaps from the earlier image, that when he tilts his head down he looks quite demonic. It isn’t the smile or the eyes alone, but a particular combination of these factors across the smooth brown expanse of skin that completes the effect. Now he tilts his chin upwards. It gives him the look of a man who just backed a very large truck into a much smaller spot.

It is impossible to say if who this man is without the woman is who he is when beside her. We are all, it seems, staged in one fashion or another to appear in a certain way. This happens in stages, from the first clicks arriving from the cradle to the final close of the shutter moments from the grave. It can be said, at least, that he is incomplete from one image to the next, as the flashes of our lives wind us from night to day to night again.

Here I am, yawning through a Saturday afternoon. The temp is 98 (37), which triggered a heat warning. When will people realize that locals only get worried when we creep past 105. It’s only supposed to hit 103 today. Weak. Bring it…

I kid, actually. I know that the heat here is desperate enough that we need to be concerned for the homeless and any others who are left outside for too long. I was sweating through the Farmer’s Market this morning. There’s a statement I never thought I would see myself write in the non-fiction sense. I went to a Farmer’s Market with the Lady Talis and our married daughter and her husband.

On purpose. What hath Love Wrought!

Well, I wrought…

Some Thoughts:

1. I really want to talk about High School and College football, but I don’t have enough to say. I will continue sourcing info and, in time, write a good bit on it… perhaps Wednesday?
2. Same goes for the pros. I’m excited about the sport… even if my teams suck.
3. Wedding Cakes are an extravagance. This goes triple if your entire guest list is 18 people and you mean for the cake to be a very beautiful and sweeping centerpiece. These things do not quite work together. Still, if I can find the perfect cake topper, I’m going to make this magical.