Cage Dunn's Blog, page 81

How to go one more week without –

Was it a promise I made? Did I say something to someone about having a break from this daily grind – for a whole month? Surely not! Not this manic, obsessed, driven, etc. words-gotta-get-out person!

But I did. Whether I promised someone else, or the promise was to myself, I need some time to get my mind back together.

And then something really weird happened. Because I’ve already written up dozens of beat sheets, some with accompanying ‘stuff’, it was easier to let it sit there and wait for me to come back. There’s one on the top of the pile, and while I’m doing other stuff, ordinary life stuff, the story comes to me in ways that are ten times more powerful than the original idea. Really.

The bones of the story are the same. The characters are the same. The journey is the same. But how it all comes together, the things that make it zing with power, or move it forward or backward or sideways – are More. More direct where they need to be pointy; more sublime where they need to be subtle; more intriguing where they need a touch of mystery and depth; more unique where they need to diverge from the norm.

One more week – to the day – and I’ll be able to go back to my workstation and put all these potent refreshed moments of the story into the life of It.

True, I’ve snuck in a first draft of the first scene, and it’s been critiqued. Which was good, and it highlighted how I get carried away with ‘what’s in the head’ instead of ‘character in action’ but it hasn’t stopped the forward movement (in my mind) of the plot, of the story, of the moments in the story that needed time to be thought through to make it the a ‘good story, well told.’ Sometimes, I forget about that last bit.

But it’s the most important bit. Why tell a story about a good idea if it’s not told well? Who would be interested in nothing more than a good idea, or something they’ve read (pretty much) before?  Would I?

No.

So giving myself this time, whether it feels like a sentence or a chain or a hindrance, is the best thing I can do for my story right now. While I’m learning the new process, putting it all together in a way that will stay with me and get better and easier and faster, I’ll stick with the ‘break’ and see just how much it works to keep the story in mind after the initial mud-map is created.

I promise you this, it will be good. Stuffed the schedule, though, but who cares? It’s only a month behind the commencement date, so I’ll do what a creative person does: I’ll say that the schedule dates are not the beginning of the month I’ve written, it’s the End. So Feb becomes end Feb, not Begin, Middle, or anywhere else in Feb. End. Fixed.

We’ll see how that works too.

 

What Happens Now?

[image error]The last few months (how many – a lot of them, that’s how many) have been a blur. When too many things happen at once, when stresses are formed for this thing and that thing and levels and balances and checks and dances are all over the place, confusing each with the other – that’s the time to put it all down, rethink, and start over. That’s what’s happened, and that’s what I’m doing.

The constant battle with the phone company (not over, but in my mind – they’re done! toast!), the battle with the people who don’t care if their health fails (not true, really, but my perception because ‘I told you … blah, blah, blah.’ – you know the drill!), the battle with bits of the body that don’t know when it’s time to give up the pain and be useful again, the battle with closing the eyes for the purpose of sleep (what? What is that?) – I’ve given up on them, and need to do a rethink, and start over.

A new purpose. A new schedule because the old one got railroaded (see above). A fresh perspective. Let’s begin again, shall we?

The purpose? Silly question! Write, keep writing, keep learning, get the stories out there. Simple!

The schedule? Okay, maybe I’ll think about that one for a bit and get back to you (it takes a lot of shuffling, scribbling, looking through lists, etc. to ‘see’ what’s needed).

And perspective? Can I change my outlook on life? Can I clear the web of daily life from my filter and see a clear and unobstructed path?

Nah!

Can I at least outline what those things are that block my view and make decisions about how important they are (or not) in my life? You betcha!

The next few days (maybe a week – thinking takes time and energy [and lollies]) I’ll sit down and re-evaluate the ‘way things are’ and see what should be here, what shouldn’t be here, and what I want to hold on to but don’t need. And then I’ll do it again, because I’ll always think ‘I could use that, couldn’t I?’ I mean, I have to be honest with myself, don’t I? No one else can know these things about me, can they? (Don’t mention the partner – they’re just as bad as me!)

Here goes.

What is important to me now, at this stage of my life? Writing. Why? Because it is the mark of my ownership of my time; because it is who I am at my inner core; because I have so many stories to tell; because it makes all the things I sacrificed worthwhile; because I’ll go stark-raving bonkers without it. That should do. Writing is Number One on the ‘To Stay’ list. It stays. Writing. Verb. Action. To Write and Complete.

And that means the schedule needs to be second on that list, so I better work on it now.

And all those other perspective things? Not even one of them matters as much as the Writing, so they all go – Simple!

Oh, wait, what about …?

No, forget it – don’t go there! Don’t look back! Move forward! Move into your life, not into the past. Forward. One step, next, shuffle – skip, run, gallop, but move forward and don’t look back!

Ciao! I’m off to write, and when I’m a bit tired or need a rest, then I’ll reword the schedule. See you on the other side!

How it all comes together …

The last few months I’ve been trying out a new process (yes, yes, yes – a process is the way it’s done [before the procedure of outline], and I’m talking about from Idea to Concept to Premise to Beat to Balance Sheet to [finally] Outline) and it’s proving a little difficult at certain points.

Don’t get me wrong – I love how it works, and I can see how (in the end) it will make my life so much easier (and the novels so much better), but when undertaking a new way of doing things, it is sometimes difficult to retain the focus to the new way. There’s always something that pops up its head and says ‘I’m much more juicy to chew on than that silly thing! Come play with me.’ Or: ‘That’s so hard – come play with me the way you used to.’

But the power and passion that comes from understanding the new process is (well, can be) All-Encompassing. I can feel the bits that lack the full gamut of story; I can stand up and walk around the picture I create with these things; I can feel the life of the characters as they do their thing (always remember: character in action [yes, still a weak point that has to be considered when outlining each scene]). It is power, and once I get my head around how to turn that switch on for each and every idea that compels the passionate embrace of a story unfolding, it will be worth it.

For the moment, I struggle through each section, each scene, each character arc. I put words in the final outline that sound like a good journey – and then I see how it could be made much more dramatic, with much higher stakes, and an outcome that evokes a full-body response in terms of emotion.

Well, that’s me – if by the time it’s finished and the context of that connection is still there, I’ll be the happiest chappie (writerly type) in the world (kitchen).

So, back to work (where’s that cat – he’s supposed to do this editing task?) to discover new things about how to make it betterer, gooderer, and uber-interesting (compelling, in fact).

And that brings me to the apprenticeship of writing. I’m the person who’s been doing the story thing since I was a kid, but when you have a life in the country, when you do country school stuff and have limited access to resources and personnel who could point the way – what is there to do [pre-internet, but even now internet is a variable thing out there]? And when you finish school, life insists you need to earn your way (and writing? who does that? layabouts, that’s who – get a real job!) by enslaving your soul to the multi-national (or worse, government).

But now that’s over, and I’m free (sort of, still have to pay taxes, etc.) to put my words in the proper order to make them into stories that become novels that end up out there in the world. And it’s been a long and hard path, because first I had to learn things:

1. Everything’s changed, and the rules of novel are mucho different;

2. Most of the resources (books and tutors) are as much in the dark as everyone else;

3. The people who do know what they’re doing and talking about don’t talk to plebs (the ones who do are very hard to find – gold dust in the river of muddy life);

4. The words used are vague and wobbly – and big! – to make it harder to break through and in (and hide their vagueness of comprehension);

5. The young writer/s suffer the condescension of published author/s (yes, it happens).

01. One thing hasn’t changed: People still have the passion for putting story together.

BUT …

Now my apprenticeship is over. Last year I wrote several novels (yeah, a bit rough, or even a bit worse than rough) and what I learned through the process of doing that practical work, of keeping my eyes and ears open for what worked and what didn’t, and the act (verb) of continually seeking (see, my own journey) the Way. And I found it.

This year, I will write (and co-write) at least the number of books I wrote last year, but these ones will be not only be good, they will be better, and by the end of the year, I want to have the concept of Best in there.

Next year will be the Best Story I Ever Wrote (unless I get to it this year, of course).

So, back to work … … …

 

 

 

 

The Reading List Catchup Task

[image error]In all seriousness, you should get back to me later – I’m a bit busy trying to catch up on my reading list (as you can see – top of the list in terms of serious business). Bye!

 

 

A Longer Short

Wave

Boots thumped on the boards over their heads. Issi didn’t dare breathe. She held onto the boy’s head and held it under her body and into her chest with a grip so firm he wouldn’t be able to wriggle even a mozzie smidge. He just had to keep his mouth shut and not make any noise – none, or they were dead. The girl to her left was frozen in a rigid torment – and no breath came from her nose or mouth. No movement of the fetid, thick air.

Good. No sound, no sign of life – let the thumpers move on quickly, not hear or see anything that might take their fancy. Don’t let them look too hard. Please.

Mud caked the three piles of clothing they inhabited, other bits of flotsam and jetsam, into an unrecognisable mass of detritus. More of the same. Bloated bodies, mudded up things that looked like they were once something. Not now. The undersea earthquake – did that make it a seaquake? – and the tsunami that came after laid waste to everything on the plains. The whole city, gone.

Issi wanted the boot-thumpers to see only the useless piles of detritus; wanted them to keep going. She wanted to be safe, to be dry, to find water and food and shelter. But the most critical need was for the thumpers to be gone.

If they grabbed her, if these two kids she’d rescued gave her up, she’d have no chance. They’d have no chance. They’d be dead. Food for the scavengers. After a bit of fun, of course.

Not a single building remained whole or standing. Not a house or hotel or high-rise or mansion or shack. Nothing was recognisable. Not one car or bus or truck or crane or tractor – or any type of vehicle – stood upright on their wheels; all lay dead on their sides, or upside down, or torn apart; bled oil and fuel and mud; added to the aroma of the putrefying bodies and rotting vegetation and the salt and the fear and the chaos.

Crows and dogs circled and flanked, crowded and prowled and pounced – silent unless feeding. Things howled at night, their direction hidden by the sound reflected from the surfaces at crazy angles. Only the flies – millions and millions of flies and mozzies and midges and bities – made any sound. The buzz and zubb and drone of the things that bit them bloody.

Issi and the two children – who would not or could not speak – hid among the battered and broken and brutalised remnants of human habitation. Camouflaged by the rags their clothes had become, by the colour of mud and blood and other stains on their skin; by the gummed-up and ratty tangles of hair and limbs and odd, unmatched shoes; by the smell of unwashed, uncombed, uncared for people and places and things. And the shit that was everywhere, in lumps and mounds and solid bits of water; high on a now-dry bit of wall or fence; stuck to everything that lay on the ground, that floated in the thick water, that settled back to the ground after the water abandoned its prey.

The things that bit kept biting. Don’t slap, don’t swipe – cover bare skin. Find clothing or rags or mud. Make no noise. Attract no attention.

The thump of boots receded. Issi kept hold of the boy, kept watch on the girl. The girl swivelled her eyes slowly in an upward and left-first arc without moving her head. Nothing reflected in the glisten of her eyes. Still Issi waited. She counted to one thousand before she moved her own eyes. Scanned. Only then did she lift her head.

 

The day before, the boy had moved too soon. The second party of boot-thumpers almost had them. Issi let herself fall to the ground when the thump sound registered. Instinct. The girl had held him still under the metal that swayed and wallowed as the boots went over them; as Issi lay among the rotting vegetation they had been searching through. They needed something to put on their rotten feet. They needed bandages.

Her eyes were closed to slits, and she thought she might have prayed that they wouldn’t look into the sea of garbage. Her body shape would have been a clear beacon – too different from the surroundings. Bare skin on her hands and one arm.

The first group had looked, pointed. Issi felt tears, tasted salt, lowered her face a micro fraction at a time. The camo-uniforms and masks hid their faces. The loose outer flaps of ponchos hid their shape. The heavy tread of boots was the only sign of how close they were. Unless they were too close.

When she had heard the hiss of the re-breathers on the masks. That’s how close the second group was.

Luck didn’t give second chances.

The thumpers moved on, gloves pointed at something over her head. Laughter.

She hadn’t been caught – that time. But the boy was scared, whimpered all the time unless someone was holding him. Issi was scared. The girl was scared. It was a nightmare and they couldn’t wake up. If the girl had spoken in her life before, she couldn’t now. Every time something happened, or Issi swore, or a sound startled her, the girl froze into a lump of hardness. The Lump.

Issi began calling her Lump, and the boy became Fred. Two words that didn’t take too much effort to speak; could be whispered without sounding too distinct from the other sounds that surrounded them. They each responded to the name she gave them. She didn’t bother telling them her name – they didn’t speak, and her spoken name would be like a beacon of difference. Too much sibilance to be inconspicuous.

 

The count completed, Issi went one hundred more before she roved her eyes through the surroundings. The boot-thumpers were long gone; no second party this time. Her eyes flicked to Lump, who still hadn’t stirred. Issi lifted Fred from under her body. He was still, his eyes closed, his skin grey.

Shit! Had she suffocated him? She opened his mouth, closed his nose with finger and thumb, leaned over his face. His eyes opened. All the breath left her body in a thunderclap. Asleep. He’d been asleep.

They were all so tired. Nowhere was safe. Or dry. Or warm. They had to take turns to stay awake, on guard, while two of them slept. But only for short periods. Staying still was not an option. Too many boot-thumpers out on patrol. And they had seen what happened to the people who surrendered to them.

The younger women suffered the longest. Issi had watched the first time; had tried to come up with a plan or a distraction. The thumpers wore masks, covered their faces, so she couldn’t see if she knew one of them, if she could have begged for help or mercy. She even sent Lump out to one of the flanks to try to find other people who could help.

Nothing. So few people, and the ones alive were in worse shape than Issi and her charges. And the thumpers took any of the living with them, regardless of their condition; dragged them in a line of linked chains; condemned to obey or die. The thought of following a group of thumpers to see where they went, if there was any help, crossed her mind before she saw what they did. Now, she avoided them. Hid from them. Scanned for any sign of them in a movement, or a sensation of sound, or even just a feeling.

Where had they come from? Or were there always the people like these? The ones who hung around at the edges of disasters and took what they wanted, hurt and killed and plundered until there was nothing left, or until they grew tired of the game. Or until the real humanitarian help arrived.

Where were the rescuers? In every major catastrophe, and this certainly was catastrophic, there were the teams of rescuers, helicopters, food drops – that sort of thing. Humanitarian organisations were set up for these situations. They had plans and strategies and structures. They always came in at the first opportunity.

Not this time. No choppers, no planes, no drops, no crews in bright yellow haz-suits. No loudhailers. No big red crosses on white flags.

No one came. No one would come.

They needed to do it themselves; save themselves. The first thing was to get away from the plains, get up into the hills. Away from the thumpers and the scavengers and the flies and the mozzies; the smell.

Issi knew her way around the hills. Knew how far up and in to go to get to the orchards and dairies, the small towns and co-op communities. People above the wave line. All they had to do was get off the plains. Alive.

If there was nothing in the hills, they would at least get to the safe plains on the far side of the hills; the flat farming land that rolled on undulating mounds of grasses and grains as far as the eye could see. The bread-basket, her mother had called the area, as she had called the hills the food bowl.

They had to keep moving, get out of the danger zone.

 

The only safe time to move was during dusk and dawn. Lump huddled next to her brother to sleep. The metal tray-thing that rose at an angle from the skeletonised building protected them from the light of the fading sun; helped guard against being visible to the patrols of thumpers. The exact moment the light faded to a drizzle of indigo, Issi grabbed Lump by the arm and looked into her eyes. Fred whimpered, and Lump put her hand against his mouth for a second. Fred opened his eyes, nodded. Lump twisted her neck to look around; raised her body and lifted Fred at the same time, stepped into the pattern their life had become.

Lift feet with care, step down only after looking, test the stability of whatever it was the foot was going to land on. Her feet couldn’t feel anything anymore. The rot had left skin peeled away to bright red and yellow goo. Lift the foot. Look. Move. Again and again and again. Occasionally, Issi or Lump would look up towards the dark outline of the hills. So far away. Maybe too far. But there was no giving up. They were alive. They were together. They had a plan. All they had to do was reach the hills. Alive.

Any area where there was noise or light or smoke, any disturbance, they veered away. Stayed low and quiet. Moved with the stealth of a slug. Oozed through the muddle of dead things, and rotten things, and unknown things. Watch each shape of thing: could it be useful? Hold water, maybe? Protect their feet? Keep them warm? Dry? Not many of those things. Too hard to see much in their light-deprived course through the muck. Too hard to look for good things while the brain was on guard against the bad things – the thumpers and their patrols. Other things – heard but not seen. Unknown things; hard to tell where they were, but they kept going – go up, always up. Keep going. Always at least one of them awake to watch the surroundings.

Issi was tired. It was too soon to stop, but her mind spun in mad whorls. Her thoughts strayed and slid from one daring option to another. It was a dangerous slide. She knew better. Keep only the thoughts that would save them; abandon all the worry about the things that didn’t matter, couldn’t feed them, couldn’t help them. Keep going. One foot over that lump of slippery, greasy goo. The next step. Slip. Slide. Move. Follow – who was Issi following? Was that . . . no her mother wasn’t here. The lump ahead of her was Lump. The girl. Where was the boy?

Lips parted, air sucked in. Issi almost spoke, almost yelled. Stopped herself. She could see a moving shape ahead of Lump. That must be Fred. Were they still heading up? She lifted her vision, looked around. Didn’t recognise anything. It was dark. Too dark. Had they been walking in the darkest dark that came just before dawn? How would they know where they were, what they were walking on, if they couldn’t see their own feet?

A hand on her arm – cold, so not a thumper’s gloves. Issi opened her eyes. Lump looked down, her lips drawn into a thin line. So they had stopped. Issi was dreaming. Again. She hoped she hadn’t made a noise. She had always been a sleep talker and walker. Now that silly childhood affliction was a danger to their lives. She could not make noise, or move without knowing exactly where she was, and that no one was near.

It was supposed to be her doing the protecting. She was older than Lump by at least five years, which would make Lump ten or so, and Fred would only be about six, maybe not even that. But he was tough and wiry, even if he did want to cry all the time; even if he whimpered when he didn’t realise. How was Issi any different? They were all kids. But not now. Now they were only survivors. No one else around – except the thumpers.

When she opened her eyes again, Issi saw Lump with Fred nestled in her lap. Issi assumed they were brother and sister. What if they weren’t? What if Lump and Fred had come together the way Issi had found them? A single face that didn’t look at them like they were prey?

 

That first moment, when Issi knew it was human eyes looking at her through the murk, her heart had pounded and skittered. She was an animal being hunted. Her body responded with a freeze first, but her eyes had been looking around for a path to take for flight. Then the second pair of eyes, big brown eyes, wide black pupils, and the whimper of a child. Issi felt her heart slow, her eyes soften, her breathing calm. No choice. She had to take them with her. They wouldn’t survive without her. He had the eyes of a baby. Someone’s baby.

Now she knew she wouldn’t survive without them. Issi had to have one of them near while she slept. No one could keep going forever. Her body would fail eventually. Her mind was already slipping into fantasy. She had dreamed of a bakery. The one she used to walk past on the way to school in the mornings. Peter, the big fat baker, would wave as she drooled past the window. Bread.

Water would be better at the moment. They couldn’t afford to drink anything from the ground. Too many dead things, too many chemical things. Rain only happened in light drizzles. Enough to keep them cold, not enough to keep them hydrated. They had to keep going. Further up into the hills.

Before their skin peeled off completely; before they became desperate enough to drink anything wet.

 

Three more slogs through dusk and dawn; three more days without water or food; three more days of dodging the thumpers and the screams. They reached the hills. The road was gone, but Issi knew a way. The road to the quarry. A rough track more than a road, but it was still there. The quarry, when they reached it, was full of trees and rocks and briny water. The wave must have pushed even up this far.

They kept going. Issi could see the crest of the hill where the lookout tower was. That’s where they’d go. She couldn’t see the tower, but it wasn’t visible except from the other side, the in-road to the park, so it didn’t bother her. It would be there. From the tower, they would be able to see where the refugee stations were, where to go for help.

Two more days of trudging through rough scrub and painful steps on stony ground, but at least they had water. The hills were full of little springs and creeks. The water was muddy in some places, so they washed in that water, cleaned the pus and muck from their cuts and wounds and festering bites; waited until they got to another spring before they drank their fill; rested, and drank their fill again. Their feet began to dry out; skin began to heal in slow lumps of scar.

More walking, slogging over rough ground, slippery clay, loose gravel. Always going up, heading to the high ground. Picking off the crickets and frogs and tadpoles to crunch or suck or chew on.

No need to worry about noise now. They walked on ground that crackled; used sticks to wave off the blowies and bush-flies. Issi heard a strange sound, turned around, saw Fred moving his mouth in an O. He was whistling. A very quiet whistle, but a whistle. She smiled, turned back to the path, and walked with more vigour. They were nearly there. A thick steel pylon poked part of its skeleton through the trunks of the dryland forest.

 

The steel girders became larger, more solid, through the blank spaces between the trees. The western track was steep, the sun was at their backs; it took all their concentration to walk up at such a steep angle. The sound of their breathing stabbed into the almost-dusk, punctuated each step upwards, softened by the soft roll of stones under their feet. So quiet in the damp air. No birds sang; they had seen no kangaroos or lizards or snakes. Just insects, sometimes frogs. No people.

A gap between the trees. They stopped. Looked out over what was once the car park. It was filled with big tents.

A circus? No. But big. Drab green and grey stripes on the largest tents; covered in a web of black or nearly black open-weave material. If the sun hadn’t been behind them, it would be impossible to see until . . . until too late.

Uniformed guards – count: twelve; no, fourteen – with weapons held at ready. This was not what she had expected, but . . . what if these were the rescuers? The military had been called in for emergencies before; it could be. She didn’t recognise the badges or the flag or the uniforms – had a foreign military been called in to assist? If they were here to help, why were they being so quiet about it? Why were they camouflaged? Why were there no signs or banners or . . .

A tiny tendril of fear snaked in her thoughts, held her still – she would stay clear until she knew for certain.

All the tents but the largest were camouflaged; the biggest was white – dull white, with a subtle pattern that moved with the light. Or was that the yellow smoke that emanated from the far side?

People moved towards the centre of the compound. White safety gear covered the guards in front of the white tent. Drab-uniformed guards surrounded and herded a group of dirty refugees into the opening. One man staggered and fell; he was naked but for one sock, with red hair and blood caked in a long blaze on his neck and back and legs. Two uniformed guards kicked him with savage thwacks until he stood up, shuffled back into the line. Fred grabbed Issi by the hand. Lump had her fingers clamped onto Fred’s shoulder. They were frozen in place, until Fred slowly pulled them all lower, below the thick outline of prickly acacia. Under the bush.

Each person in the line, refugees from their clothing and demeanour, went into the big white tent. The rubber-like walkway made no sound. No squeak or squelch or squeal. Feet shuffled and dragged as they walked or were pushed or dragged. The soldiers peeled off as each line entered the tent. No refugee was allowed to sidestep the entry guards, the white coveralls and rebreather masked guards.

A sharp, high-pitched screech from the air above them sliced through the nerves in her teeth, and Issi flinched, but didn’t move. Directly above them, lowering from the darkening sky was a metal machine. Not a chopper, not a plane. It was stationary, almost; a dull thrum of motors behind the squeal of the flat metal porch opening; a hatch. Dozens of people, refugees, survivors, were dropped from the machine and onto the ground. Some screamed. Some were probably already dead, or died as soon as they hit the ground. Thumps and oomphs reverberated through the ground, into her torso lying flat on the ground. She shouldn’t look. Boots thumped on the hatch as more people went over the edge. Hooded heads leaned out, watched, pointed and laughed as their cargo emptied.

The sun set. The world went dark. Mid-winter. The longest night.

Bright lights boomed into the darkness, scared them rigid.

White coats shuffled over and divided the trash into living and dead. Living went into the line for the tent. Dead were dealt with immediately by – oh, shit! The red mist floated for a moment, hung in the air, before the tiny drops descended into the dark earth. The smell, sulphur and ozone and roast pig, made her gag. Lump put her hand over Issi’s mouth.

One of the white coats lifted the mask. Tangerine eyes with a vertical black stripe dripped grey fluid – a hand pulled off one of the gloves, wiped a cloth across the sepia skin, spat, pulled the mask back down. Pulled the glove over the ash-white claws.

 

Copyright Cage Dunn 2016 (from Speculations of a Dark Nature, Shorts Vol II: Alone in the Dark).

From Concept to Storyboard

Originally posted on SpecFicChic.

From Concept to Storyboard

Structure – sounds easy, sounds good, and we have an understanding of all the little words strung together to make it sound very ‘writerly’ and vague.

It’s not. Vague, that is. And it can be very simple – but only once you work out which method, which form, works best for the way you work.

So, let’s have a look, shall we?

Structure – from Concept to Storyboard

The first thing to do is find an idea, and from the idea we build a concept of a story and then we turn it into a premise (read Larry Brooks for examples).

Idea: travel to Darwin; concept: travel to Darwin by camel and stop at Rainbow Desert [etc.]; premise: harassed daughter travels with mother [to find a good spot to bury her where no one will find the body!] to Darwin by camel, stopping at Rainbow Desert, etc.

Some people do log-lines for this purpose (see Save the Cat by Snyder), some people like to write out the ‘initial idea’ scenario, some people do other things – what do you do with your idea?

In order to do the ‘Good Story Well Told’ the critical things to know are:

Does the title and cover tell you what it is? If not, why would a reader go further? And if they get the wrong idea about what it is and go in, will they be disappointed? Very important.

What is it? It’s the hero’s story – who he is, who/what he’s up against, and what’s at stake. The premise with the most conflict, the baddest bad guy, the clearest goal – that’s a winner concept. So, it’s about a guy … who is someone we can learn from, want to follow because we are connected to him by empathy, deserves to get what he needs/wants, has the best reason for the stakes at risk. Choose the most suitable character and premise for the genre of the story.

A scene is one event in one place/time from one POV where something happens.

A beat is an action-reaction – a movement.

And we come to a Beat Sheet. There are lots of examples out there; some are very complex, some are very simple. Some have only five beats, some have nine, some have fifteen. Choose the one that works for you (I like Snyder, but have amended to suit the way I work – you can too).

Fill in the main beats: the Inciting Incident, the First Plot Point (1PP), the MidPoint (MP), the Second Plot Point (2PP) – then go back to fill in the bits in each Part.

Part 1 (Act 1 for some) 25% of the story – contains the Setup, Catalyst (or Inciting Incident), and ends (after the Debate) when the DECISION is made to step forward (this is the 1PP);

Part 2 (Act 2, part 1) 25% of the story – contains the response: running, learning, hiding, challenging; mistakes happen; initial attempts at attack don’t produce the results expected; losses happen (Snyder calls it the Fun ‘n Games section); this is the place for a pinch point (which is ‘see the baddy’), ends with the MidPoint;

Part 3 (Act 2, part 2) 25% of the story – contains the Attack, by them and hero (MC) using new info, new knowledge of tools, courage, etc. in an attempt to overcome the (committed and powerful and complex and cunning) enemy/bad guy/antagonist. Several bits here: another pinch point in the middle somewhere, an All is Lost moment, the Dark Night moment, and ends with the 2PP;

Part 4 (Act 3) 25% of the story (no new info in this part) – contains the resolution and finale, the lessons learned can be used in more effect way, the lessons learned put to good use, better equipped to move on, change and growth into the hero – evolved from coward to courageous, from isolated to engaged, inner demons conquered. Now prepared to act, to apply learning to implement heroic decisions – even to the point of martyrdom.  This is where the six things (see Snyder) are shown as proved or disproved or irrelevant.

That’s what the four parts are, the four q’s. Find a beat sheet to put the right things in each of the four q’s and you’re well on the way. Oh, and don’t forget – for every sub-story within the main story, do another beat sheet and board (the board if the story is complex), and it’s a good idea to do one for the antagonist as well.

The structure of the four q’s can be used with Aristotle’s Incline – just put the pieces along the line instead of in the picture of four parts.

And what do we have:

An Idea is developed into Beat Sheet, which evolves into Story Board (the 4q’s), which becomes your Story.

With the beats written out, filled in on the 4q board by the scenes that set up the main beats, scenes that respond to the beats – oh, my – there are so many scenes – I could write a whole novel from that! Yes, because structure is 80% of the work of story. Now it’s up to you to put the best effort into laying out the words that pull your reader in so far they don’t want to come out until … The End.

 

The Same World

But Different Views.

The face on the television – male, of course – said something that sparked my anger. What was it he said? I don’t remember the exact words, but I do remember the feeling. The gist of what he said was that ‘Oh, people aren’t like that anymore – that sort of thing doesn’t happen in our modern society.’

What was he talking about? Classes within the society we live in – Australia. Apparently, there are no more divides between the bottom, the variety of middles, and the uppers. So, the person on the bottom has as much chance of getting a proper education as an upper? No. As a middle? No. Will the person on the bottom have any chance of something as high-falutin’ as a university education? NO. Not unless they fight everything in their cultural environment. Not unless they find a way to get there on their own; pay their own way without help from family or friends – because they’re in the same sinking boat. Sometimes they even have to fight against the norms of their family and environment to even think about something so high-flyin’.

Not kidding. How many people from the bottom of society ever make it to university? How many of them finish? Any numbers on that? I did some looking – if it does exist, it’s a bit hard to find (and I didn’t find it, even with help from sources who do know how to find things).

The middle rungs are always aiming higher, so some of them might make it to the holy grail of higher education. Some of their family or friends might help. Not many, though – it’s too hard. Those little blocks that drive you nuts? There for a reason. Figure it out.

The bloke who said that stupid thing? Educated to the highest level we have, straight out of high school and into university – without a scholarship (oh, scholarships in Australia – good luck with that, unless you know the right people).

So he’d know all about it, wouldn’t he? Studied the output of the people who say the world isn’t ‘like that’ anymore. And it’s very likely he’s seen it, too – right? He’s gone and lived on that place they call ‘struggle street’ (and how angry does that use of words make you feel?). Think on it – they still call it struggle street, or worse labels, but ‘those things don’t happen in our modern society.’

Has it changed? Go down there (yes, I do mean down) and listen, even if you don’t get out of your car. Do the words that fly around in anger or rage or substance-fuelled impotence sound like the words you hear around a university? Any words that sound as if they’ve been through a higher education? Any hope or potential in those conversations?

It has changed. Really, it has. It’s worse. Harder to get past the minimum educational standard. Harder to pass the basic test for standards of education. Harder to find bread to put on the table if you don’t have a ‘top tier’ job (more part-time, less full-time unless you’re in the top tier of job-seeker  – how to pay for the necessary things that way, let alone reach higher than your standing?). More people who have children just to get the benefits because it’s the only way they see to get an extra something. Of course, it doesn’t work that way, but it certainly has been advertised that way – make babies to make society strong (the background is: make babies who can be taxpayers later and pay off the debt we’re giving you right now).

It really peeves me when I hear words that come from the mouths of people who are educated enough to know better – and deny the world around them because they choose not to recognise reality. They don’t live it, so it doesn’t exist. When things get rough, it’s drugs or thugs or things that are anomalies.

No. It’s the real world. And it is real. And angry. Impotent.

Those words I heard – a spark.

 

The Way

A Short Story by Cage Dunn, Copyright 2017

Yabber, yabber, yip. The words could be the barking of dogs – made no sense at all. Just loud, louder, and loudest. Why all the fuss? All Ila wanted was permission to take the path to her Altar Day.

The Way. All the adults had taken their own Way at her age, and she wanted it, too. It was the Way. Her Way. And it would mean she could take her place at the Decision Table; she could be Real. No one would treat her as if she were a ghost again. Not after the Walk to the Alter through the Way.

She smiled. It would mean the end of her ties to these people. She could go into the forest and become herself. Her real self, not the person – the slave – these people thought they knew. They didn’t know.

Louder picked up a hatchet and slammed it into the table – it cracked loud enough to scare thunder. The other three, now screaming through their huge open mouths from their huge expanded chests, now rising from their huge heavy chairs to stand with fists up and hackles up and spittle raining horizontally across the room.

Ila smiled. They knew what it would mean. They would have to take care of themselves, bring in their own wood, cook their own meals – oh, yes, catch their own food, farm their own food – and clean up after themselves.

The filthy scum would probably let it all pile up, as it had been when Ila first arrived.

If it hadn’t been for the forest fire, she would never have had to make that choice. If the fire hadn’t destroyed her home and her family, life would have been different. But these people were the last of the Tree people, and the worst, but she had no choice at the time. Tree people did not go Outside, didn’t involve strangers in Tree business.

This should be her day to travel the Way to her Altar Day to become – well, she didn’t know exactly. Since she’d been alone, there’d been no training, no learning at all, and there were no books or scrolls or writings or scribbles of any description in this place.

The only building close to the outside world – that was their excuse for not having the writings. Too close to the outside world – what if someone found out about them? The truth about the Tree people? Can’t have that – so no words, not written or spoken or even thought about.

Would she need those words to take the Way?

A small tingle of fear crept up her back and settled on the single rising bump on her scalp. It had to be done. If the Way was not taken, the sprout would root and she would become Tree. If she had any fear, the sprout would shoot and root and bear her to stillness forever. If the Way was not taken, she would …

She would take the Way, with or without permission, because she was the last female and if there were no more females there would be no more Tree people – she needed to make seeds and ensure the survival of her world.

Ila stepped out the door, left the noise and stink behind. She smiled as the sun lit up the path that led to the top of the hill, as the scent of humus rose to her nose with each step. Flickers of dappled green and blue shaded the sides of the path as she walked – the door slammed with a bellow and thud behind and below – she lifted her feet and ran and squealed and breathed deep. And smiled.

 

 

Sunday post?- No, Saturday!!

Because tomorrow (Sunday, when I usually do this) I’m up for a big job! A really big job. What is it? What’s so important that I give up the usual Saturday things (which, by the way, aren’t happening at this time of year anyway because of? – holidays? what are they?) to do this blog?

It’s the construction of scene cards to go with the beat sheet and basic story concept and premise. I’ve never done scene cards before, but I think it might be something I need to do (so I don’t get lost in the drama of the moment – and so the reader doesn’t get lost) before I get too far along with the ‘real’ writing task – the novel.

This one, the new one, is a YA Fantasy: Equine Neophyte of the Blood Desert in collaboration with Shannon Hunter.

And on the note with collaboration – is it easier, faster, or the opposite: more difficult, slower? I’ll let you know. And whether it’s easier to ‘see’ what the other person is doing by using these cards.

But the story! Get on with the story.

Not this time. I have to slow myself down and get more structure into the skeleton so it’s strong enough to hold the muscles and stuff of the story in the right places when it gets the green light to ‘power on’ and become real. Until I say the words: Complete. Fini. Because that’s what I want. The best story I can do, using the most powerful moments of emotional connection with characters who compel the action of the dramatic compulsion through this small piece of time. I want strength, big muscles and fast thinking; I want the journey to be one that will be traversed more than once – and that each time there will be more to find!

Does that sound . . . I don’t know – egotistic? Probably. But that’s what I want to read, so I think that’s what I need to write. What’s the point of writing stuff that’s the same as all the others? What’s the point of not putting the best out there? (I’ve done that – sorry!)

Anyway, after all that ramble – tomorrow, I set up the long table (better clean that off tonight – the phrase creativity is not a pretty sight comes to mind [thanks Garfield!]) and lay out the first attempt at scene cards to go along with the beat sheet (and a few other things – you know, scribbles, descriptions, locations/settings, languages, money, cultural background stuff).

Tomorrow, it begins – a new story!

***

I’ll pop up at sometime to update the progress, but don’t count on regular schedule-y type posts – they’ll happen when they happen!

Ciao!

A New Member of the Team

Meet Shannon Hunter, who will be co-writing the next story with me (Something about a horse – oh, yes: Equine Neophyte of the Blood Desert – watch for it!) and has offered up a short piece for the Wednesday Work.

The Storm

Copyright Shannon Hunter 2017

The devastation lay around their feet in swirls of mud and sticks and broken things that couldn’t be identified. Just mud. Muck. Sticky stuff that stank; that stuck to the bottom of the boots; that sucked at the ground it was trying to escape.

Evinor looked up at the stiff whiteness of her mother’s face. At least there was no blue in the lips – yet. She dared not let the hand go – had to feel the pulse without her realising she was being checked on.

It wasn’t right. They had enough to deal with. A storm. Was God so angry at her for the words she spoke that the storm came to clean out her list of priorities, to force her to realign the world? Evinor did her best. She did. But she wanted things, real things, from her life. Like being a kid, knocking around with the wild ones and their sense of freedom and indestructability.

She wanted that. To believe there were more tomorrows that yesterdays. There weren’t. Not for her family.

And now there was this mess to clean up. Along with the thoughts of freedom. Sweep them up, toss them out, get on with reality.

The neighbours walked up, clicking through the mud, stood by her mother, put arms around her shoulders, spoke words of calmness and assistance. It wouldn’t be enough – they knew it, but they did it anyway. Did they do it for Evinor as well?

They made teams, two work as one, dig up with shovels, pass out the bottled water, move all the really bad stuff to the location marked with the big black X – dump it all there so the truck has easy access. When it comes. If it makes it this far.

The truck would come. Tomorrow would come. The world moved on and cleaned up and joined hands.

The slow movement of Evinor’s world became slower when she saw the first signs, when she yelled the first warning. So slow. Her feet were too slow. Words too slow.

The topple seemed to last for hours. A gradual twist of the upper torso as the legs folded. A slow roll to the head as it glided through the space between up and down. A deep growl in the groan of air as it left the lungs for the last time.

Evinor heard the words, spoke the words, moved the body, ran, did the things that needed to be done, used the tools that needed to be…

The flash of the ambulance – too late, of course. The officials in three different uniforms – too late to help, of course.

The dampness of the  stinky mud that crept through her jeans and into her heart and mind.

***