Jon Ureña's Blog, page 24
January 9, 2024
We're Fucked, Pt. 126 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
Ramsés swings the door open, revealing a concrete staircase that descends into darkness. He reaches to flick a switch. With a faint buzz, a bulb sputters to life in a rusty cage, casting a sickly yellow hue tainted by grime and dust. A lattice of pipes, ductwork, and wire mesh panels snakes across the ceiling in an organized fashion, save for a few rogue wires hanging loose. The pipes' smoothness contrasts with the concrete's pitted and scuffed surfaces. Deeper within, a chaotic collection of debris, including cardboard boxes, construction material, and old electronics, lies in haphazard heaps like rats' nests.
My boss steps aside and sweeps his hand, motioning for me to enter.
"After you."
As I stand at the threshold, dizziness engulfs my senses in a sudden wave. I clutch my notebook and pen as if they could anchor me.
"Have you lost your mind? This isn't a conference room!"
"I never suggested we were heading to a conference room," he replies in an untroubled voice.
"Do you intend to hold a meeting in a dungeon?"
Ramsés sighs. He aims his pointing finger at a doorless metal cabinet standing close to the base of the stairs, juxtaposed against a bundle of ribbed conduits. The cabinet houses network switches mounted on racks. Arrays of LED indicators blink yellow within an entangled mass of black cables resembling the veins of a cybernetic organism.
"You're a programmer," Ramsés says, "not a computer technician, but you should know what I'm pointing at."
"That's a network rack. I think."
"Correct. Would a dungeon have a network rack?"
Ramsés' belittling tone irks me.
"It would, if its owner required an internet connection."
"Leire, I've just brought you to the basement level. Not a place for guests, but Jacqueline accompanied me here. Jordi as well. Afterwards, they both continued with their lives, and in the case of your woman, she even decided to quit on her own accord. So please, let's proceed further. In the end you'll be glad that you agreed to follow me."
"Whatever. I warn you, though: if I see any cockroaches scuttling about, I'm out of here."
"I don't recall ever spotting a cockroach in the building, but just in case, don't stare at the floor."
I step onto the topmost stair, and then the one beneath it. Ramsés follows me in. As his keyring jingles, the door thumps behind me, followed by a click as it locks.
Down the concrete stairs I slog, while my boss plods after me. Our footsteps echo off the walls in a chorus of hollow thuds. I'm inhaling warm air heavy with the scent of neglect: the mustiness of decaying cardboard and the acrid tang of deteriorating electronic parts.
After I step off the final stair, I lumber toward the closest heap of junk, past the network rack and its array of blinking LEDs, as chunks of white styrofoam crunch and shift underfoot. Dust cloaks an overturned air conditioning unit, its casing cracked and its internal components exposed. Two dead flies and a paper cup rest nearby as if someone had nudged debris aside instead of cleaning up. What atrocity has Ramsés lured me into?
As my boss strides past me, the refuse warps the echoes of his footfalls.
"After me."
We navigate along the perimeter of a junk pile made out of disassembled cabinetry and discarded light fixtures. My foot catches on a random brick, causing me to stumble.
A shimmer of movement on the wall to my left jerks my attention upwards. Near the ceiling, tubes and pipes running parallel, along with a tangle of electrical wires, delve into the pitch-black void of a gaping hole. Perched on its threshold, a blob of cosmic matter pulses with twinkling stars and nebulae, the purples, blues, and oranges ebbing and flowing like a living fragment of the night sky. As the amorphous form shimmies, the edges of the hole warp around this creature, bending inward.
My neck muscles tense up. I whip my gaze from the cosmic critter to my boss' broad back.
We maneuver through a channel between two heaps of scrap that loom over me. I pick my way gingerly, hoping to dodge any sharp edges that could scrape my legs. My eyes itch from the particles floating in the stagnant air, and the soles of my sneakers stick to the grimy concrete. The ocher light casts jagged shadows through the masses of junk, but ahead, beyond the range of the bulb, only murky darkness awaits. My mind escapes to picturesque havens: a café overlooking a glittering lake, a gazebo in a lush garden surrounded by hedgerows, a rustic cabin with a crackling hearth.
"I can't stress enough," I rasp, "how much I'd rather hold this meeting of yours in a proper venue."
"Noted. Just down this corridor."
A sour, moist stench, like the aftermath of a urinary tract infection, seeps into my nasal passages and lingers on my tongue. My stomach roils. With each step, the stench grows stronger. I'm about to complain when I notice that the corridor ends in a plank, from a bookshelf or a storage cupboard, leaning against the wall like a makeshift barrier.
I narrow my eyes, and my words escape in a hiss.
"Hey, am I not supposed to notice that you've led me to a dead end?"
My boss' silhouette, which takes up much of the cramped space, marches ahead undaunted.
"It looks like a dead end. That's the point."
Either he's oblivious to my rising dread, or he's feeding off it like a vampire.
"Sir, I demand to know what we're doing here. What sane reason could you have for bringing me into this hellhole? Did you intend to take me down? Tell me why, then go ahead and make your move!"
Ramsés glances back, his face a shadowed outline.
"Leire, you're getting on my nerves." He grips the sides of his plank. "Give me a hand with this."
I cross my arms.
"Sure, as soon as I build some muscle."
Ramsés shakes his head.
"Well, aren't you the comedian. Anyway, you're right: you wouldn't be of much help."
With a grunt, he heaves the plank aside, and tilts it so it rests against a junk pile. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I glimpse a door. Its layer of paint has peeled and flaked off in patches, revealing the metal beneath.
The stench comes from behind that door, as if an ammoniac marsh were seeping from the crevices. What new horrors lurk in this mausoleum of rubbish and ruin?
I envision my boss as the leader of a cult, one that orchestrates human sacrifices in a chamber that gleams with tools for torture: knives, cattle prods, bone saws, nipple clamps. Robed worshippers, their garbs adorned with profane runes and eldritch symbols, chant in tongues while they chain me to an altar. Flickering torches cast a golden hue over their twisted faces, revealing patchwork scars and soulless eyes. As the acolytes' chant crescendos, one by one they lunge at me. Their fingernails, curved into talons, rip through my clothing, tearing into my muscles and viscera. They gnaw on my flesh like ghouls. Ramsés, the high priest of this unholy congregation, emerges from the shadows and approaches with a whirring drill in hand, about to offer my brain as tribute to the Outer Gods.
My boss reaches into a pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a keycard. He swipes it across the door's handle, and a beep sounds as two green LEDs blink in sync. The lock clicks.
Within me, a primal force screams in warning: we have reached the threshold of Hades. I'm tempted to turn tail, bolt down the corridor of junk, and scramble up the concrete stairs. Instead, risking the loss of dignity and self-respect, I reach out and grab my boss' shoulder.
"I can feel it..." I whisper, my throat closing up, "something evil behind that door, staring at us."
Ramsés snaps his head back, then faces me in the gloom.
"Interesting. You may be hypersensitive to electromagnetic fields. Don't worry: nothing awaits us inside, other than a miracle."
The door's hinges groan as Ramsés swings it open, unleashing a fetid reek that singes the membranes of my nostrils, that crawls into the deepest recesses of my lungs, that brings to mind a mound of rat corpses teeming with millions of mucky maggots. Apart from a novel hint of burned dust that could belong to an overheated computer, I inhaled this cocktail of putrefaction before, whenever Spike visited; when professor Bunnyman intruded on my peace through the toilet where I was peeing; when Alberto, transformed into a slimy blob studded with eyeballs, came to warn me about the forthcoming collapse of the universe. Although I've covered my nose and mouth with the crook of my elbow, a wave of nausea ripples through my gut.
Ramsés ushers me into his underground realm. The hairs on my nape bristle. When the door shuts behind us with a resonant thump, the blackness wraps around me like a shroud of primordial night.
---
Author's note: today's song is "Stuck in the Middle With You" by Stealers Wheel. I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and nine videos. Check them out.
Fun fact: the depicted setting is based on a network “closet” located under the psychiatric ward of the hospital where I work. Anyway, check out the audiochapter.
The novel is going on hiatus for about a week or so; my subconscious has spent the last week weaving a short narrative that I'm eager to render into a free verse poem. Since I started this novel in October of 2021, it will be the first break I take to work on a different story.
---
Ramsés swings the door open, revealing a concrete staircase that descends into darkness. He reaches to flick a switch. With a faint buzz, a bulb sputters to life in a rusty cage, casting a sickly yellow hue tainted by grime and dust. A lattice of pipes, ductwork, and wire mesh panels snakes across the ceiling in an organized fashion, save for a few rogue wires hanging loose. The pipes' smoothness contrasts with the concrete's pitted and scuffed surfaces. Deeper within, a chaotic collection of debris, including cardboard boxes, construction material, and old electronics, lies in haphazard heaps like rats' nests.
My boss steps aside and sweeps his hand, motioning for me to enter.
"After you."
As I stand at the threshold, dizziness engulfs my senses in a sudden wave. I clutch my notebook and pen as if they could anchor me.
"Have you lost your mind? This isn't a conference room!"
"I never suggested we were heading to a conference room," he replies in an untroubled voice.
"Do you intend to hold a meeting in a dungeon?"
Ramsés sighs. He aims his pointing finger at a doorless metal cabinet standing close to the base of the stairs, juxtaposed against a bundle of ribbed conduits. The cabinet houses network switches mounted on racks. Arrays of LED indicators blink yellow within an entangled mass of black cables resembling the veins of a cybernetic organism.
"You're a programmer," Ramsés says, "not a computer technician, but you should know what I'm pointing at."
"That's a network rack. I think."
"Correct. Would a dungeon have a network rack?"
Ramsés' belittling tone irks me.
"It would, if its owner required an internet connection."
"Leire, I've just brought you to the basement level. Not a place for guests, but Jacqueline accompanied me here. Jordi as well. Afterwards, they both continued with their lives, and in the case of your woman, she even decided to quit on her own accord. So please, let's proceed further. In the end you'll be glad that you agreed to follow me."
"Whatever. I warn you, though: if I see any cockroaches scuttling about, I'm out of here."
"I don't recall ever spotting a cockroach in the building, but just in case, don't stare at the floor."
I step onto the topmost stair, and then the one beneath it. Ramsés follows me in. As his keyring jingles, the door thumps behind me, followed by a click as it locks.
Down the concrete stairs I slog, while my boss plods after me. Our footsteps echo off the walls in a chorus of hollow thuds. I'm inhaling warm air heavy with the scent of neglect: the mustiness of decaying cardboard and the acrid tang of deteriorating electronic parts.
After I step off the final stair, I lumber toward the closest heap of junk, past the network rack and its array of blinking LEDs, as chunks of white styrofoam crunch and shift underfoot. Dust cloaks an overturned air conditioning unit, its casing cracked and its internal components exposed. Two dead flies and a paper cup rest nearby as if someone had nudged debris aside instead of cleaning up. What atrocity has Ramsés lured me into?
As my boss strides past me, the refuse warps the echoes of his footfalls.
"After me."
We navigate along the perimeter of a junk pile made out of disassembled cabinetry and discarded light fixtures. My foot catches on a random brick, causing me to stumble.
A shimmer of movement on the wall to my left jerks my attention upwards. Near the ceiling, tubes and pipes running parallel, along with a tangle of electrical wires, delve into the pitch-black void of a gaping hole. Perched on its threshold, a blob of cosmic matter pulses with twinkling stars and nebulae, the purples, blues, and oranges ebbing and flowing like a living fragment of the night sky. As the amorphous form shimmies, the edges of the hole warp around this creature, bending inward.
My neck muscles tense up. I whip my gaze from the cosmic critter to my boss' broad back.
We maneuver through a channel between two heaps of scrap that loom over me. I pick my way gingerly, hoping to dodge any sharp edges that could scrape my legs. My eyes itch from the particles floating in the stagnant air, and the soles of my sneakers stick to the grimy concrete. The ocher light casts jagged shadows through the masses of junk, but ahead, beyond the range of the bulb, only murky darkness awaits. My mind escapes to picturesque havens: a café overlooking a glittering lake, a gazebo in a lush garden surrounded by hedgerows, a rustic cabin with a crackling hearth.
"I can't stress enough," I rasp, "how much I'd rather hold this meeting of yours in a proper venue."
"Noted. Just down this corridor."
A sour, moist stench, like the aftermath of a urinary tract infection, seeps into my nasal passages and lingers on my tongue. My stomach roils. With each step, the stench grows stronger. I'm about to complain when I notice that the corridor ends in a plank, from a bookshelf or a storage cupboard, leaning against the wall like a makeshift barrier.
I narrow my eyes, and my words escape in a hiss.
"Hey, am I not supposed to notice that you've led me to a dead end?"
My boss' silhouette, which takes up much of the cramped space, marches ahead undaunted.
"It looks like a dead end. That's the point."
Either he's oblivious to my rising dread, or he's feeding off it like a vampire.
"Sir, I demand to know what we're doing here. What sane reason could you have for bringing me into this hellhole? Did you intend to take me down? Tell me why, then go ahead and make your move!"
Ramsés glances back, his face a shadowed outline.
"Leire, you're getting on my nerves." He grips the sides of his plank. "Give me a hand with this."
I cross my arms.
"Sure, as soon as I build some muscle."
Ramsés shakes his head.
"Well, aren't you the comedian. Anyway, you're right: you wouldn't be of much help."
With a grunt, he heaves the plank aside, and tilts it so it rests against a junk pile. As my eyes adjust to the dark, I glimpse a door. Its layer of paint has peeled and flaked off in patches, revealing the metal beneath.
The stench comes from behind that door, as if an ammoniac marsh were seeping from the crevices. What new horrors lurk in this mausoleum of rubbish and ruin?
I envision my boss as the leader of a cult, one that orchestrates human sacrifices in a chamber that gleams with tools for torture: knives, cattle prods, bone saws, nipple clamps. Robed worshippers, their garbs adorned with profane runes and eldritch symbols, chant in tongues while they chain me to an altar. Flickering torches cast a golden hue over their twisted faces, revealing patchwork scars and soulless eyes. As the acolytes' chant crescendos, one by one they lunge at me. Their fingernails, curved into talons, rip through my clothing, tearing into my muscles and viscera. They gnaw on my flesh like ghouls. Ramsés, the high priest of this unholy congregation, emerges from the shadows and approaches with a whirring drill in hand, about to offer my brain as tribute to the Outer Gods.
My boss reaches into a pocket of his suit jacket and pulls out a keycard. He swipes it across the door's handle, and a beep sounds as two green LEDs blink in sync. The lock clicks.
Within me, a primal force screams in warning: we have reached the threshold of Hades. I'm tempted to turn tail, bolt down the corridor of junk, and scramble up the concrete stairs. Instead, risking the loss of dignity and self-respect, I reach out and grab my boss' shoulder.
"I can feel it..." I whisper, my throat closing up, "something evil behind that door, staring at us."
Ramsés snaps his head back, then faces me in the gloom.
"Interesting. You may be hypersensitive to electromagnetic fields. Don't worry: nothing awaits us inside, other than a miracle."
The door's hinges groan as Ramsés swings it open, unleashing a fetid reek that singes the membranes of my nostrils, that crawls into the deepest recesses of my lungs, that brings to mind a mound of rat corpses teeming with millions of mucky maggots. Apart from a novel hint of burned dust that could belong to an overheated computer, I inhaled this cocktail of putrefaction before, whenever Spike visited; when professor Bunnyman intruded on my peace through the toilet where I was peeing; when Alberto, transformed into a slimy blob studded with eyeballs, came to warn me about the forthcoming collapse of the universe. Although I've covered my nose and mouth with the crook of my elbow, a wave of nausea ripples through my gut.
Ramsés ushers me into his underground realm. The hairs on my nape bristle. When the door shuts behind us with a resonant thump, the blackness wraps around me like a shroud of primordial night.
---
Author's note: today's song is "Stuck in the Middle With You" by Stealers Wheel. I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and nine videos. Check them out.
Fun fact: the depicted setting is based on a network “closet” located under the psychiatric ward of the hospital where I work. Anyway, check out the audiochapter.
The novel is going on hiatus for about a week or so; my subconscious has spent the last week weaving a short narrative that I'm eager to render into a free verse poem. Since I started this novel in October of 2021, it will be the first break I take to work on a different story.
January 8, 2024
On writing: Protagonist #2
You can check out all my posts on writing through this link.
If you’ve been following my posts up to this point and you’ve done the necessary work, you should have ended up with a killer concept and a promising premise. Congraturation! But this story is still far from its happy end. The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on creating a worthy protagonist that will endure the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and that in the end will either emerge victorious or fail spectacularly.
-Who is your protagonist before the story changes him? Change him from what?
-What is your protagonist’s flaw or flaws?
-Is there a notable event in his past that has traumatized him?
-Does your protagonist have an inner problem that’s impacting his life or the lives of people he loves?
-In some cases, a protagonist’s flaw could be seen as a lie that hurts him, caused by a traumatic event that explains that character’s motivations.
-Examine the premise to see if the lie/problem/flaw might already be evident in the conflict.
-How “big” is your character’s flaw/misbelief? If you made it bigger, would you end up with a stronger arc?
-How does the flaw or problem of the protagonist relate to the story at large?
-How does the flaw prevent the protagonist from immediately solving his problem?
-Could the flaw be exactly the opposite of the final self-revelation and/or moral change?
-How have you transformed this person from a generic “anyone” plunked into a dicey situation, into a specific someone, who brought the situation on himself? Not “brought on” in the finger-wagging sense, but because it’s all the things we’ve already done in our lives that have, for better or worse, landed us where we are right now.
-How is the “new world” of the story designed to bring the protagonist’s flaws to the surface?
-How does he get worse regarding the flaw before he gets better?
-How does his desperation to beat the oponent bring out the worst in him?
-What makes your protagonist unique?
-Have you created a protagonist who is in some respect larger than life?
-Is there some quality or talent that will allow the character to do what others do not, to succeed where others would fail?
-Does the hero use pre-established special skills to solve problems?
-Ask what does the person, usually the protagonist, want, what he’ll do to get it, and what costs he’ll have to pay along the way.
-Is the hero’s primary motivation for tackling this challenge strong, simple, and revealed early on? In high-jeopardy stories, the size of the motivation must match the size of the problem. The bigger the problem, the bigger the motivation required for the hero to tackle it, and the bigger the risk of not tackling it. Ideally, the reward for doing it and the risk of not doing it will both be high.
-How is what the character wants (conscious desire) versus what he needs (subconscious) at odds?
-What conflicting emotions tear your protagonist apart? How could it be considered an interior war?
-Could his inner conflict be way bigger than the outer conflict, acting as an amplifier to the outer conflict and making it much more significant?
-What is the central inner conflict your protagonist is dealing with as it pertains to your concept? Can you increase it?
-What would the protagonist have to overcome internally to achieve the goal?
-How would your protagonist go through painful dilemmas?
If you’ve been following my posts up to this point and you’ve done the necessary work, you should have ended up with a killer concept and a promising premise. Congraturation! But this story is still far from its happy end. The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on creating a worthy protagonist that will endure the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and that in the end will either emerge victorious or fail spectacularly.
-Who is your protagonist before the story changes him? Change him from what?
-What is your protagonist’s flaw or flaws?
-Is there a notable event in his past that has traumatized him?
-Does your protagonist have an inner problem that’s impacting his life or the lives of people he loves?
-In some cases, a protagonist’s flaw could be seen as a lie that hurts him, caused by a traumatic event that explains that character’s motivations.
-Examine the premise to see if the lie/problem/flaw might already be evident in the conflict.
-How “big” is your character’s flaw/misbelief? If you made it bigger, would you end up with a stronger arc?
-How does the flaw or problem of the protagonist relate to the story at large?
-How does the flaw prevent the protagonist from immediately solving his problem?
-Could the flaw be exactly the opposite of the final self-revelation and/or moral change?
-How have you transformed this person from a generic “anyone” plunked into a dicey situation, into a specific someone, who brought the situation on himself? Not “brought on” in the finger-wagging sense, but because it’s all the things we’ve already done in our lives that have, for better or worse, landed us where we are right now.
-How is the “new world” of the story designed to bring the protagonist’s flaws to the surface?
-How does he get worse regarding the flaw before he gets better?
-How does his desperation to beat the oponent bring out the worst in him?
-What makes your protagonist unique?
-Have you created a protagonist who is in some respect larger than life?
-Is there some quality or talent that will allow the character to do what others do not, to succeed where others would fail?
-Does the hero use pre-established special skills to solve problems?
-Ask what does the person, usually the protagonist, want, what he’ll do to get it, and what costs he’ll have to pay along the way.
-Is the hero’s primary motivation for tackling this challenge strong, simple, and revealed early on? In high-jeopardy stories, the size of the motivation must match the size of the problem. The bigger the problem, the bigger the motivation required for the hero to tackle it, and the bigger the risk of not tackling it. Ideally, the reward for doing it and the risk of not doing it will both be high.
-How is what the character wants (conscious desire) versus what he needs (subconscious) at odds?
-What conflicting emotions tear your protagonist apart? How could it be considered an interior war?
-Could his inner conflict be way bigger than the outer conflict, acting as an amplifier to the outer conflict and making it much more significant?
-What is the central inner conflict your protagonist is dealing with as it pertains to your concept? Can you increase it?
-What would the protagonist have to overcome internally to achieve the goal?
-How would your protagonist go through painful dilemmas?
January 7, 2024
Life update (01/07/2024)
Check out this post on my personal page, where it looks better
---
I spent most of last weekend, that lasted three days, sick with some respiratory issue. I returned to work on Tuesday only to wake up the next day with a fever, and I tested positive for the flu. I must have caught two separate diseases, but it doesn’t surprise me, because literally every single coworker was going through a respiratory issue of their own. I suspect that when I return to the office tomorrow, I’ll find out that we’re forced to mask ourselves up for the duration of the work hours.
Apart from being sick, I have been significantly depressed. Having to attend family functions due to the holidays only worsened my mood: the noise contamination for someone with a sensory processing disorder, the absurd amounts of food we’re supposed to gobble up, being forced to listen to their mind-numbing opinions, etc. Ever since I was a child, being around family members only made me feel alone. I don’t have anything in common with them, and when they attempt to relate to me, they make it clear that they believe themselves to be dealing with someone very different from the person that exists in my brain.
For as long as I can remember, I have yearned to distance myself from my family, as well as from everyone I’ve known, even putting whole continents between us, but I became a lousy adult with a deficient capacity for self-organization due to my brain issues, so I have never strayed far. On top of that, because my life must be some kind of cosmic joke, I even work with a loudmouth family member, which frays my nerves for most of the work hours. I also suspect that it contributed to triggering at least one of my episodes of arrhythmia. Unfortunately, I don’t work at the kind of office that allows you to isolate yourself with noise-canceling headphones.
Some months ago, I used to make myself available to online acquaintances to have a chat from time to time, but for a good while I haven’t felt like dealing with human beings in any capacity. Having to force myself to interact with people at work only reduces my willingness to do so in my spare time.
Although I’m a thousand words into the current scene of my novel, I’ve had to trudge through the mental fog characteristic of depression, and I haven’t had much energy to do anything other than sit at my desk, read manga, or play a video game. I can’t count how many times I’ve found myself this week shedding tears to a song, often to the same song on repeat. When I go to bed, my brain treats me with elaborate nightmares related to my lost youth and/or failings. I’m nearing 39, and it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that growing old will consist on accumulating more and more regrets and griefs until I break one way or another.
On a happier note, I’ve managed to distract myself thanks to the UEVR tool that a certain “praydog” and his team put together: it turns Unreal Engine games into VR games natively, even though they weren’t made for VR. Obviously the performance of plenty of them will depend on your rig, and I haven’t upgraded to the 4000 series (I’m waiting for them to release the new generation, that will hopefully prevent me from having to upgrade my PSU; the 4090 is an energy hog). However, I played through most of Life Is Strange, that silly teenage drama that released now nine years ago, featuring interesting plot points related to time-bending powers, but also featuring godawful, embarrassing dialogue along with one of the most infuriating, if memorable, characters from the fiction of that era: Chloe Price, a terrible brat that reminds me of my sister when she was a teenager. At least Chloe can use her dead dad as an excuse.
Fuck you, Chloe. I liked you better when your father was alive.
The game also features this moment, related to beans.
Anyway, playing in VR confuses your brain into believing that it's more immersed in the experience: scary situations become terrifying, tender moments become heart-warming, and sad moments can wring quite a few tears out of me (in Life Is Strange, the whole sequence involving the protagonist returning to her tween self, and the consequences of altering that past; in Cyberpunk 2077, when I played it in VR, the beginning of the second act, when V finds out that she has contracted a brain guest that may end up replacing her). Also, I’ve had better orgasms with VR sex than in real life. Too bad that it can’t replace intimacy (yet).
Not sure why I felt like sharing any of this information with you, stranger that for whatever reason took time out of your life to read this post. I hope it was worth it.
---
I spent most of last weekend, that lasted three days, sick with some respiratory issue. I returned to work on Tuesday only to wake up the next day with a fever, and I tested positive for the flu. I must have caught two separate diseases, but it doesn’t surprise me, because literally every single coworker was going through a respiratory issue of their own. I suspect that when I return to the office tomorrow, I’ll find out that we’re forced to mask ourselves up for the duration of the work hours.
Apart from being sick, I have been significantly depressed. Having to attend family functions due to the holidays only worsened my mood: the noise contamination for someone with a sensory processing disorder, the absurd amounts of food we’re supposed to gobble up, being forced to listen to their mind-numbing opinions, etc. Ever since I was a child, being around family members only made me feel alone. I don’t have anything in common with them, and when they attempt to relate to me, they make it clear that they believe themselves to be dealing with someone very different from the person that exists in my brain.
For as long as I can remember, I have yearned to distance myself from my family, as well as from everyone I’ve known, even putting whole continents between us, but I became a lousy adult with a deficient capacity for self-organization due to my brain issues, so I have never strayed far. On top of that, because my life must be some kind of cosmic joke, I even work with a loudmouth family member, which frays my nerves for most of the work hours. I also suspect that it contributed to triggering at least one of my episodes of arrhythmia. Unfortunately, I don’t work at the kind of office that allows you to isolate yourself with noise-canceling headphones.
Some months ago, I used to make myself available to online acquaintances to have a chat from time to time, but for a good while I haven’t felt like dealing with human beings in any capacity. Having to force myself to interact with people at work only reduces my willingness to do so in my spare time.
Although I’m a thousand words into the current scene of my novel, I’ve had to trudge through the mental fog characteristic of depression, and I haven’t had much energy to do anything other than sit at my desk, read manga, or play a video game. I can’t count how many times I’ve found myself this week shedding tears to a song, often to the same song on repeat. When I go to bed, my brain treats me with elaborate nightmares related to my lost youth and/or failings. I’m nearing 39, and it’s becoming increasingly clear to me that growing old will consist on accumulating more and more regrets and griefs until I break one way or another.
On a happier note, I’ve managed to distract myself thanks to the UEVR tool that a certain “praydog” and his team put together: it turns Unreal Engine games into VR games natively, even though they weren’t made for VR. Obviously the performance of plenty of them will depend on your rig, and I haven’t upgraded to the 4000 series (I’m waiting for them to release the new generation, that will hopefully prevent me from having to upgrade my PSU; the 4090 is an energy hog). However, I played through most of Life Is Strange, that silly teenage drama that released now nine years ago, featuring interesting plot points related to time-bending powers, but also featuring godawful, embarrassing dialogue along with one of the most infuriating, if memorable, characters from the fiction of that era: Chloe Price, a terrible brat that reminds me of my sister when she was a teenager. At least Chloe can use her dead dad as an excuse.
Fuck you, Chloe. I liked you better when your father was alive.
The game also features this moment, related to beans.
Anyway, playing in VR confuses your brain into believing that it's more immersed in the experience: scary situations become terrifying, tender moments become heart-warming, and sad moments can wring quite a few tears out of me (in Life Is Strange, the whole sequence involving the protagonist returning to her tween self, and the consequences of altering that past; in Cyberpunk 2077, when I played it in VR, the beginning of the second act, when V finds out that she has contracted a brain guest that may end up replacing her). Also, I’ve had better orgasms with VR sex than in real life. Too bad that it can’t replace intimacy (yet).
Not sure why I felt like sharing any of this information with you, stranger that for whatever reason took time out of your life to read this post. I hope it was worth it.
January 2, 2024
We're Fucked, Pt. 125 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
I trudge through the hallway, past the vending machines and the bathrooms, and down a flight of stairs into uncharted territory, following a bear of a man. The fluorescent lamps spill their milky light over the shoulders of my boss' navy-blue suit as he leads me with a self-assured strut. He's trailed by the stench of cigarette smoke mixed with a musky cologne; yet, even if he were clean and carrying a bouquet of roses, it wouldn't mask his inherent stink. The fabric of his slacks fits tightly over his rump, straining the vertical seam at its center. I feel like I'm stuck on the highway behind a truck, but instead of an effluvium of exhaust fumes, I risk a miasma of farts billowing in my face.
The pockets of muted conversations, the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, and the ringing of phones die down, replaced by my boss' heavy footsteps squeaking on the linoleum of a cramped corridor, barren but for an encased fire extinguisher. If Ramsés were about a head taller, his hair would brush the ceiling. Streaks of grime have marred the yellowed wallpaper, as if a janitorial cart had grazed it in passing.
Ramsés turns to speak over his shoulder.
"Jacqueline is stretching out that sick leave of hers, isn't she?"
What's with the resentful tone? I have betrayed myself to tail after this pig, and now I'm subjected to his rotten moods? If mommy could shapeshift into a wolf, I'd ask her to take a chunk out of his flabby ass.
"She must have her reasons," I retort, bristling at the insinuation.
"And what are they?"
"Wouldn't you know? You're her boss, after all."
"She's been dodging my emails and phone calls. Besides, you'd know her reasons better than anyone, given how close you are."
"Wh-what kind of relationship do you think I have with her?"
"You know, I have wondered that, how would it even work between you two. But I suppose that the term 'girlfriend' suffices."
When did I let my guard down? To random strangers on the street, I might gush that my lascivious paramour and I indulge in sex rituals that would make any swinger blanch, but I have never wished to reveal such matters to my boss. Though Jordi's in the know, I can't picture him sharing the secret. I feel as if the pristine glass of my relationship with Jacqueline has been sullied by a greasy handprint.
Seizing my silence as an opportunity, Ramsés continues.
"So, is she expecting me to fire her?"
"No, she has realized that one must live for better things than filling Excel cells, or however the hell she spent her work hours. She'll inform you in her own time, I'm sure."
My boss tsks and shakes his head.
"What a mess," he says, sounding disappointed. "I'll have to endure the hassle of hiring and training a new secretary, when Jacqueline was managing just fine. It goes to show that loyalty has an expiration date, no matter how exceptional the circumstances. Take that as a lesson, Leire."
A presence appears at the corridor's end. At first glance, my mind conjures mundane imagery: a custodian, a technician. But as I focus, I realize that I'm staring at a figure unlike any other before: a ghost-white creature standing as tall as me. Its form is dominated by two backward-bending stilt-like legs, wrapped in a gauzy membrane that flows like silk. The limbs taper into blade-like talons reminiscent of sleek prosthetics. Atop the convergence of its legs perches a bean-shaped, faceless head, that gazes through a centered eye glossy and black as polished onyx.
The light from the fluorescent lamps, cut into sharp-edged rectangles, glistens on the linoleum through the creature. It's striding with a fluid grace, as if subjected to a moon-like gravity, in a collision course towards Ramsés. When they should bump into each other, the creature phases through my boss and carries on its march.
A shiver of dread writhes down my spine and coils around my ribcage. I flatten against the wallpaper, yielding passage to this phantom. It glides silently past me. If I were a dog, my hackles would have risen.
A second alien, smaller by a third, scuttles unsteadily after its kin. As the smaller creature passes by, it pauses mid-stride to fix its onyx eye on me. In that glossy blackness, I expect to glimpse my reflection, but instead see a tangle of reeds. The creature glances at its towering companion, then scurries onward to catch up.
"Leire, what's wrong with you?" Ramsés asks impatiently.
My heartbeat thuds against my sternum, my hands and feet have gone cold, and my brain buzzes from the rush of adrenaline. My boss has halted before a nondescript door at the side of the corridor. His keychain dangles from the keyhole.
"You saw something, didn't you?" he insists.
I tear myself off the wallpaper. As I shuffle to join Ramsés, I manage to speak in a feeble voice.
"I was just... lost in thought."
He squints at me, scrutinizing my features.
"I may have brought it up in the past, or at least wanted to do so, but there's a good chance you're schizophrenic, Leire."
"Excuse me?"
"You match most of the diagnostic criteria: you tend to withdraw into yourself, your thinking can become incomprehensible, your grooming and hygiene have been found wanting at times, you experience hallucinations... And you're not faking: the color has drained from your face."
I'm tempted to confess that I was fixated on the phantasmal aliens stalking the corridor, and that I won't dare a glance over my shoulder in case they're standing behind me. However, while decent people might use such an opportunity to exercise their empathy, this swine's expression suggests that my mental illness inconveniences him.
I steady myself. I can't afford to look crazier.
"If I had a brain disorder that glaring, the therapists who listened to me prattle would have spotted it. Even if they had diagnosed me with schizophrenia, though, I'd need to keep a job, wouldn't I?"
Ramsés shrugs with an indifference as conspicuous as the cigarette stench clinging to his suit.
"I suppose so. I wouldn't expect any favors from the state; at the most, they'd put you at the end of the line. So, therapy sessions, huh? They must have cooked up some theories about you."
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them, I force myself to meet Ramsés' gaze, although I'd find more comfort in a gorilla's pupils.
"Sir, respectfully," I utter, biting back the sharp words itching at my tongue, "I want to get through this meeting, finish my work, and go home. The day has been long enough already."
He twists the key, unlocking the door.
"Good. We're almost there, after all."
---
Author's note: today's song is "Sloop John B" by The Beach Boys.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and eight videos. Check them out.
I’m sick with the flu, yet I produced this audiochapter just for you.
---
I trudge through the hallway, past the vending machines and the bathrooms, and down a flight of stairs into uncharted territory, following a bear of a man. The fluorescent lamps spill their milky light over the shoulders of my boss' navy-blue suit as he leads me with a self-assured strut. He's trailed by the stench of cigarette smoke mixed with a musky cologne; yet, even if he were clean and carrying a bouquet of roses, it wouldn't mask his inherent stink. The fabric of his slacks fits tightly over his rump, straining the vertical seam at its center. I feel like I'm stuck on the highway behind a truck, but instead of an effluvium of exhaust fumes, I risk a miasma of farts billowing in my face.
The pockets of muted conversations, the rhythmic tapping of keyboards, and the ringing of phones die down, replaced by my boss' heavy footsteps squeaking on the linoleum of a cramped corridor, barren but for an encased fire extinguisher. If Ramsés were about a head taller, his hair would brush the ceiling. Streaks of grime have marred the yellowed wallpaper, as if a janitorial cart had grazed it in passing.
Ramsés turns to speak over his shoulder.
"Jacqueline is stretching out that sick leave of hers, isn't she?"
What's with the resentful tone? I have betrayed myself to tail after this pig, and now I'm subjected to his rotten moods? If mommy could shapeshift into a wolf, I'd ask her to take a chunk out of his flabby ass.
"She must have her reasons," I retort, bristling at the insinuation.
"And what are they?"
"Wouldn't you know? You're her boss, after all."
"She's been dodging my emails and phone calls. Besides, you'd know her reasons better than anyone, given how close you are."
"Wh-what kind of relationship do you think I have with her?"
"You know, I have wondered that, how would it even work between you two. But I suppose that the term 'girlfriend' suffices."
When did I let my guard down? To random strangers on the street, I might gush that my lascivious paramour and I indulge in sex rituals that would make any swinger blanch, but I have never wished to reveal such matters to my boss. Though Jordi's in the know, I can't picture him sharing the secret. I feel as if the pristine glass of my relationship with Jacqueline has been sullied by a greasy handprint.
Seizing my silence as an opportunity, Ramsés continues.
"So, is she expecting me to fire her?"
"No, she has realized that one must live for better things than filling Excel cells, or however the hell she spent her work hours. She'll inform you in her own time, I'm sure."
My boss tsks and shakes his head.
"What a mess," he says, sounding disappointed. "I'll have to endure the hassle of hiring and training a new secretary, when Jacqueline was managing just fine. It goes to show that loyalty has an expiration date, no matter how exceptional the circumstances. Take that as a lesson, Leire."
A presence appears at the corridor's end. At first glance, my mind conjures mundane imagery: a custodian, a technician. But as I focus, I realize that I'm staring at a figure unlike any other before: a ghost-white creature standing as tall as me. Its form is dominated by two backward-bending stilt-like legs, wrapped in a gauzy membrane that flows like silk. The limbs taper into blade-like talons reminiscent of sleek prosthetics. Atop the convergence of its legs perches a bean-shaped, faceless head, that gazes through a centered eye glossy and black as polished onyx.
The light from the fluorescent lamps, cut into sharp-edged rectangles, glistens on the linoleum through the creature. It's striding with a fluid grace, as if subjected to a moon-like gravity, in a collision course towards Ramsés. When they should bump into each other, the creature phases through my boss and carries on its march.
A shiver of dread writhes down my spine and coils around my ribcage. I flatten against the wallpaper, yielding passage to this phantom. It glides silently past me. If I were a dog, my hackles would have risen.
A second alien, smaller by a third, scuttles unsteadily after its kin. As the smaller creature passes by, it pauses mid-stride to fix its onyx eye on me. In that glossy blackness, I expect to glimpse my reflection, but instead see a tangle of reeds. The creature glances at its towering companion, then scurries onward to catch up.
"Leire, what's wrong with you?" Ramsés asks impatiently.
My heartbeat thuds against my sternum, my hands and feet have gone cold, and my brain buzzes from the rush of adrenaline. My boss has halted before a nondescript door at the side of the corridor. His keychain dangles from the keyhole.
"You saw something, didn't you?" he insists.
I tear myself off the wallpaper. As I shuffle to join Ramsés, I manage to speak in a feeble voice.
"I was just... lost in thought."
He squints at me, scrutinizing my features.
"I may have brought it up in the past, or at least wanted to do so, but there's a good chance you're schizophrenic, Leire."
"Excuse me?"
"You match most of the diagnostic criteria: you tend to withdraw into yourself, your thinking can become incomprehensible, your grooming and hygiene have been found wanting at times, you experience hallucinations... And you're not faking: the color has drained from your face."
I'm tempted to confess that I was fixated on the phantasmal aliens stalking the corridor, and that I won't dare a glance over my shoulder in case they're standing behind me. However, while decent people might use such an opportunity to exercise their empathy, this swine's expression suggests that my mental illness inconveniences him.
I steady myself. I can't afford to look crazier.
"If I had a brain disorder that glaring, the therapists who listened to me prattle would have spotted it. Even if they had diagnosed me with schizophrenia, though, I'd need to keep a job, wouldn't I?"
Ramsés shrugs with an indifference as conspicuous as the cigarette stench clinging to his suit.
"I suppose so. I wouldn't expect any favors from the state; at the most, they'd put you at the end of the line. So, therapy sessions, huh? They must have cooked up some theories about you."
I close my eyes and take a deep breath. When I open them, I force myself to meet Ramsés' gaze, although I'd find more comfort in a gorilla's pupils.
"Sir, respectfully," I utter, biting back the sharp words itching at my tongue, "I want to get through this meeting, finish my work, and go home. The day has been long enough already."
He twists the key, unlocking the door.
"Good. We're almost there, after all."
---
Author's note: today's song is "Sloop John B" by The Beach Boys.
I keep a playlist with all the songs I've mentioned throughout the novel so far. A total of two hundred and eight videos. Check them out.
I’m sick with the flu, yet I produced this audiochapter just for you.
December 29, 2023
On writing: Protagonist #1
You can check out all my posts on writing through this link.
If you’ve been following my posts up to this point and you’ve done the necessary work, you should have ended up with a killer concept and a promising premise. Congraturation! But this story is still far from its happy end. The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on creating a worthy protagonist that will endure the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and that in the end will either emerge victorious or fail spectacularly.
-Write down possible options for the hero’s weaknesses and change.
-Can you center your story on a character blinded by a single-minded obsession, whose weakness is the flip side of her strength?
-Can you have the protagonist desperately pursuing something?
-Does he desperately want something and is willing to risk almost anything to get it?
-Consider how sharp the point of the story will cut for each possible protagonist, in order to choose the better one.
-The event you’re writing about should be the most important moment of your hero’s life, the most critical. If your story isn’t about the most important moment in your hero’s life, don’t write the story. Write about whatever was the most important moment in his life, because that’s likely to be more interesting.
-How does the plot arise of the main character?
-How does everything rest on your main character?
-How does he have enough grit to possibly resolve the problem?
-Could you make the protagonist someone very unlikely to achieve the goal?
-How can the protagonist be the vehicle to showcasing the concept?
-How many people can you involve and affect by her choices?
-How does the protagonist’s past make what happens to him the moment he steps onto the first page of the story inevitable?
-How would the protagonist’s past be a big part of the story’s force of opposition? How does it tell you what, specifically, your protagonist is against, both internally and externally?
-How does this protagonist’s specific past determine not only what will happen in the plot, but how she sees her world, what she does, and most importantly, why?
-Explain in broad terms how the gauntlet of the plot will test this protagonist.
-Are you sure this character is the most compellingly conflicted in the story?
-How would this protagonist’s transformation, his inner change, embody the point of the story?
-How is this story the quest this protagonist has spent most of his life suiting up for?
-How does the story force this protagonist to call into question deeply held beliefs?
-What will the problems in the story mean to the protagonist? What specific plan will they topple? What internal fear will they force him to confront? What long-held desire will they give him no choice but to go after? Because your story isn’t about the external change your “what if” is going to put the protagonist through; it’s about why that change matters to him.
-How is the protagonist about to walk into the next day of her life, which she believes will go according to plan, her plan, the one based on all the past experience, but it won’t, because the story doesn’t meet his expectations?
-What are the protagonist’s plans that the story will upend, and why do they matter to him?
-How would the story test his flaw/misbelief to the max, opening his eyes along the way, or, depending on the point you are making, not?
-Does the protagonist require any noticeable personal growth to gain the inner strength to defeat the external antagonists? Use this to spark ideas and also figure out what type of arc he will have.
-In the first half of a book, protags are generally trying to achieve an objective which allows them to continue on as they are. A proud character will try to preserve their dignity; a fearful character will give in to their fear and want to run away. In the second half, they generally begin trying to achieve objectives that will allow them to master their flaws.
-Does the protagonist make significant decisions? Does he enact those decisions? If not, why not?
-How would this story exist to serve this hero?
-How is, in the end, this hero the only one who can solve the problem?
-There needs to be a deeper reason why your heroes are the only ones who can solve this problem. Calling the cops should not be an option, whether or not a cell phone is available.
-Could he, and other characters possibly, start on the edge of a crisis?
-You can’t tell the audience who the hero is; you need to show them. The audience chooses the hero, not the other way around. The audience will choose the character who is trying the hardest to get what he wants.
-Does the hero have (or claim) decision-making authority?
-Do you have a compelling or unique take on character that can only enhance your premise?
-Try to think outside the envelope. Take the idea you have for your protagonist and see how that looks when you make her astronaut, a nuclear physicist working to create an invisible force field, or a paranormal healer that can see people’s illnesses in their eyes.
-Your heroes shouldn’t react to their situations in typical ways. Instead, heroes must respond to their challenge in their own unique way. That unique reaction is what makes the heroes. This is what the Everyman wouldn’t do. This is why this story happens.
-Is the protagonist interesting and someone we could root for?
-Will my reader experience empathy for my hero?
-Why do you love your protagonist? And if you don’t, why do you intend to write about a protagonist that you don’t love?
-How would he be both a winner and a loser? The audience wants to cheer and fear for every hero throughout every story.
-How does he have a lot of badassery and a lot of vulnerability?
-How would he be in over his head often?
-Caring is only the first half of empathy, because as much as we feel for their flaws, we also need to trust the heroes’ strengths. This is the area where many beginners fall down on the job. Audiences are naturally inclined to reject heroes until they earn their investment. Your heroes need not be do-gooders or Earth savers, but they must be active, resourceful, and differentiated from those around them, even if it means they’re extraordinarily rotten.
If you’ve been following my posts up to this point and you’ve done the necessary work, you should have ended up with a killer concept and a promising premise. Congraturation! But this story is still far from its happy end. The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on creating a worthy protagonist that will endure the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune, and that in the end will either emerge victorious or fail spectacularly.
-Write down possible options for the hero’s weaknesses and change.
-Can you center your story on a character blinded by a single-minded obsession, whose weakness is the flip side of her strength?
-Can you have the protagonist desperately pursuing something?
-Does he desperately want something and is willing to risk almost anything to get it?
-Consider how sharp the point of the story will cut for each possible protagonist, in order to choose the better one.
-The event you’re writing about should be the most important moment of your hero’s life, the most critical. If your story isn’t about the most important moment in your hero’s life, don’t write the story. Write about whatever was the most important moment in his life, because that’s likely to be more interesting.
-How does the plot arise of the main character?
-How does everything rest on your main character?
-How does he have enough grit to possibly resolve the problem?
-Could you make the protagonist someone very unlikely to achieve the goal?
-How can the protagonist be the vehicle to showcasing the concept?
-How many people can you involve and affect by her choices?
-How does the protagonist’s past make what happens to him the moment he steps onto the first page of the story inevitable?
-How would the protagonist’s past be a big part of the story’s force of opposition? How does it tell you what, specifically, your protagonist is against, both internally and externally?
-How does this protagonist’s specific past determine not only what will happen in the plot, but how she sees her world, what she does, and most importantly, why?
-Explain in broad terms how the gauntlet of the plot will test this protagonist.
-Are you sure this character is the most compellingly conflicted in the story?
-How would this protagonist’s transformation, his inner change, embody the point of the story?
-How is this story the quest this protagonist has spent most of his life suiting up for?
-How does the story force this protagonist to call into question deeply held beliefs?
-What will the problems in the story mean to the protagonist? What specific plan will they topple? What internal fear will they force him to confront? What long-held desire will they give him no choice but to go after? Because your story isn’t about the external change your “what if” is going to put the protagonist through; it’s about why that change matters to him.
-How is the protagonist about to walk into the next day of her life, which she believes will go according to plan, her plan, the one based on all the past experience, but it won’t, because the story doesn’t meet his expectations?
-What are the protagonist’s plans that the story will upend, and why do they matter to him?
-How would the story test his flaw/misbelief to the max, opening his eyes along the way, or, depending on the point you are making, not?
-Does the protagonist require any noticeable personal growth to gain the inner strength to defeat the external antagonists? Use this to spark ideas and also figure out what type of arc he will have.
-In the first half of a book, protags are generally trying to achieve an objective which allows them to continue on as they are. A proud character will try to preserve their dignity; a fearful character will give in to their fear and want to run away. In the second half, they generally begin trying to achieve objectives that will allow them to master their flaws.
-Does the protagonist make significant decisions? Does he enact those decisions? If not, why not?
-How would this story exist to serve this hero?
-How is, in the end, this hero the only one who can solve the problem?
-There needs to be a deeper reason why your heroes are the only ones who can solve this problem. Calling the cops should not be an option, whether or not a cell phone is available.
-Could he, and other characters possibly, start on the edge of a crisis?
-You can’t tell the audience who the hero is; you need to show them. The audience chooses the hero, not the other way around. The audience will choose the character who is trying the hardest to get what he wants.
-Does the hero have (or claim) decision-making authority?
-Do you have a compelling or unique take on character that can only enhance your premise?
-Try to think outside the envelope. Take the idea you have for your protagonist and see how that looks when you make her astronaut, a nuclear physicist working to create an invisible force field, or a paranormal healer that can see people’s illnesses in their eyes.
-Your heroes shouldn’t react to their situations in typical ways. Instead, heroes must respond to their challenge in their own unique way. That unique reaction is what makes the heroes. This is what the Everyman wouldn’t do. This is why this story happens.
-Is the protagonist interesting and someone we could root for?
-Will my reader experience empathy for my hero?
-Why do you love your protagonist? And if you don’t, why do you intend to write about a protagonist that you don’t love?
-How would he be both a winner and a loser? The audience wants to cheer and fear for every hero throughout every story.
-How does he have a lot of badassery and a lot of vulnerability?
-How would he be in over his head often?
-Caring is only the first half of empathy, because as much as we feel for their flaws, we also need to trust the heroes’ strengths. This is the area where many beginners fall down on the job. Audiences are naturally inclined to reject heroes until they earn their investment. Your heroes need not be do-gooders or Earth savers, but they must be active, resourceful, and differentiated from those around them, even if it means they’re extraordinarily rotten.
December 28, 2023
On writing: Originality
You can check out all my posts on writing through this link.
If you’ve been following my posts up to this point and you’ve done the necessary work, you should have ended up with a killer concept and a promising premise. Congraturation! But this story is still far from its happy end. The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on an isolated aspect of developing a story before you delve into the nitty-gritty of structuring the damn thing.
-No matter what aspect of writing we’re talking about, you need to find a unique take, a unique slant, a different way in that audiences haven’t seen before.
-What is original within the story idea, what makes it unique?
-How is the story different from all the others on the same shelf?
-How can you make this idea more interesting than any other handling of the same concept by another author?
-How does the originality speak for itself in your premise?
-How is this material truly your own, of central importance to you?
-How does it present novelty, challenge and/or aesthetic value?
-What are other stories with a similar concept, and how can you make yours more interesting?
-How do you tweak the norm or expected? How do you bring to that tired old plot idea something unexpected, something intriguing?
-If other stories have touched on your themes before, how will your story offer a clever variation?
-Evaluate how surprising and interesting your character’s quest to achieve his wants and needs is.
-Is this single story line unique enough to appeal a lot of people besides you?
-Describe as many of the story challenges and problems that are unique to your idea as you think of.
-Will your story show us at least one image we haven’t seen before (that can be used to promote the final product)?
-Look for where the idea might go, how it might blossom. Brainstorm the many different paths the idea can take, and choose the best one.
-Ask “what if” about the story idea. It helps you explore your mind as it plays in this make-believe landscape.
-Always go beyond the obvious choice. One of the keys to becoming a professional writer is not settling for the obvious choice, whether that choice be a concept, a character, a scene, or a line of dialogue. Good writers push past the obvious until they find something unique.
-Discount the 1st thing that comes to mind. And the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th – get the obvious out of the way. Surprise yourself.
-Don’t resort to repeating stories you’ve already seen. Look for opportunities to twist things around and approach the idea from a new angle.
-One of the things a writer must do is surprise the person who can’t be surprised.
-Is anything promised by this idea? Does this idea generate certain expectations, things that must happen to satisfy the audience if this idea were to play out in a full story? Think of the obligatory scenes this premise demands, and concentrate on making them original. Brainstorm plenty of alternatives.
-Ask what is an unexpected thing that could happen. What would be the expectations, and how can you throw them off?
-Does the story contain a surprise that is not obvious from the beginning?
How would you let your characters surprise you, and therefore surprise the audience too?
If you’ve been following my posts up to this point and you’ve done the necessary work, you should have ended up with a killer concept and a promising premise. Congraturation! But this story is still far from its happy end. The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on an isolated aspect of developing a story before you delve into the nitty-gritty of structuring the damn thing.
-No matter what aspect of writing we’re talking about, you need to find a unique take, a unique slant, a different way in that audiences haven’t seen before.
-What is original within the story idea, what makes it unique?
-How is the story different from all the others on the same shelf?
-How can you make this idea more interesting than any other handling of the same concept by another author?
-How does the originality speak for itself in your premise?
-How is this material truly your own, of central importance to you?
-How does it present novelty, challenge and/or aesthetic value?
-What are other stories with a similar concept, and how can you make yours more interesting?
-How do you tweak the norm or expected? How do you bring to that tired old plot idea something unexpected, something intriguing?
-If other stories have touched on your themes before, how will your story offer a clever variation?
-Evaluate how surprising and interesting your character’s quest to achieve his wants and needs is.
-Is this single story line unique enough to appeal a lot of people besides you?
-Describe as many of the story challenges and problems that are unique to your idea as you think of.
-Will your story show us at least one image we haven’t seen before (that can be used to promote the final product)?
-Look for where the idea might go, how it might blossom. Brainstorm the many different paths the idea can take, and choose the best one.
-Ask “what if” about the story idea. It helps you explore your mind as it plays in this make-believe landscape.
-Always go beyond the obvious choice. One of the keys to becoming a professional writer is not settling for the obvious choice, whether that choice be a concept, a character, a scene, or a line of dialogue. Good writers push past the obvious until they find something unique.
-Discount the 1st thing that comes to mind. And the 2nd, 3rd, 4th, 5th – get the obvious out of the way. Surprise yourself.
-Don’t resort to repeating stories you’ve already seen. Look for opportunities to twist things around and approach the idea from a new angle.
-One of the things a writer must do is surprise the person who can’t be surprised.
-Is anything promised by this idea? Does this idea generate certain expectations, things that must happen to satisfy the audience if this idea were to play out in a full story? Think of the obligatory scenes this premise demands, and concentrate on making them original. Brainstorm plenty of alternatives.
-Ask what is an unexpected thing that could happen. What would be the expectations, and how can you throw them off?
-Does the story contain a surprise that is not obvious from the beginning?
How would you let your characters surprise you, and therefore surprise the audience too?
December 27, 2023
On writing: Developing the premise #9
You can check out all my posts on writing through this link.
Are you happy with your concept? Then grow a premise out of it. Premises involve a task to be accomplished and a character that must accomplish it in the midst of conflict.
The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on revising the work you’ve done so far, particularly related to your premise, to solve all the glaring issues before you delve into the meaty parts of turning a premise into a full story.
-Are you able to summarize your story in a few sentences, or a single paragraph?
-Can you spot any inherent problems right at the premise line?
-Having in mind that the premise is your prison, are you happy with the special world you’ve chosen?
-Is the premise all that it could be? Does it seem too familiar? Is it too reminiscent of stories you’ve read before?
-Are you sure the reader hasn’t encountered this story before, or if he has, this offers a new and intriguing twist?
-Are you sure you have found your best story yet? What could be better?
-Are you sure that the dramatic focus of this story connects with the concept that “spawned” the premise? How does it connect to it exactly?
-Are you sure it doesn’t focus too much on character, without giving him or her something compelling to do?
-Does your story rely on “real life” to present obstacles to the hero’s quest? In that case, it could lead to episodic narrative without a central spine.
-Are you sure your story isn’t too small?
-Have you made your story sound big and important?
-Are you sure your story has enough potential for dramatic tension?
-Can you ensure that there’s something more at stake in your story other than the hero’s happiness, redemption, or restoration of self-confidence, which may only be part of their character arc?
-How do you have a concept with a kicker, conflict with high stakes, protagonist with a goal and theme with a heart?
-Is your story at risk of lacking a compelling plot because it lacks a natural antagonist or villain?
-Will it have unique imagery, buzz worthy scenes, and a few narrative surprises?
-Are you sure you don’t have a split premise? Make sure there’s a single cause-and-effect pathway, or else it will feel like it’s all over the place.
-If you are developing a premise with many main characters, each story line must have a single cause-and-effect path.
-Premise is something you need to nail. It is the beating heart of a story. When you do nail it, it can be stated in a few short, glowing sentences. If it needs explaining, chances are it’s not yet focused enough. The drama needs to leap from it; the stakes need to be clear.
Are you happy with your concept? Then grow a premise out of it. Premises involve a task to be accomplished and a character that must accomplish it in the midst of conflict.
The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on revising the work you’ve done so far, particularly related to your premise, to solve all the glaring issues before you delve into the meaty parts of turning a premise into a full story.
-Are you able to summarize your story in a few sentences, or a single paragraph?
-Can you spot any inherent problems right at the premise line?
-Having in mind that the premise is your prison, are you happy with the special world you’ve chosen?
-Is the premise all that it could be? Does it seem too familiar? Is it too reminiscent of stories you’ve read before?
-Are you sure the reader hasn’t encountered this story before, or if he has, this offers a new and intriguing twist?
-Are you sure you have found your best story yet? What could be better?
-Are you sure that the dramatic focus of this story connects with the concept that “spawned” the premise? How does it connect to it exactly?
-Are you sure it doesn’t focus too much on character, without giving him or her something compelling to do?
-Does your story rely on “real life” to present obstacles to the hero’s quest? In that case, it could lead to episodic narrative without a central spine.
-Are you sure your story isn’t too small?
-Have you made your story sound big and important?
-Are you sure your story has enough potential for dramatic tension?
-Can you ensure that there’s something more at stake in your story other than the hero’s happiness, redemption, or restoration of self-confidence, which may only be part of their character arc?
-How do you have a concept with a kicker, conflict with high stakes, protagonist with a goal and theme with a heart?
-Is your story at risk of lacking a compelling plot because it lacks a natural antagonist or villain?
-Will it have unique imagery, buzz worthy scenes, and a few narrative surprises?
-Are you sure you don’t have a split premise? Make sure there’s a single cause-and-effect pathway, or else it will feel like it’s all over the place.
-If you are developing a premise with many main characters, each story line must have a single cause-and-effect path.
-Premise is something you need to nail. It is the beating heart of a story. When you do nail it, it can be stated in a few short, glowing sentences. If it needs explaining, chances are it’s not yet focused enough. The drama needs to leap from it; the stakes need to be clear.
We're Fucked, Pt. 124 (Fiction)
Check out this chapter on my personal page, where it looks better
---
The front door of the office thuds closed. Once Jordi's footsteps fade into the background hum of fluorescent lights and the air conditioning's whir, I crane my neck toward the frosted-glass wall of Ramsés' office. His door is open. I hold my breath and perk my ears up to detect the clatter of keyboard keys, the creaking of his leather executive chair, or a muffled fart. Instead, I hear the pulsating of my blood vessels. The last time Ramsés left the office to take a shit or smoke a cig, he must have segued into his lunch break.
Even in the haze of my caffeinated anxiety, the fist of tension that had held me tight unclenches. I lean back in my chair and exhale deeply. I have reached my favorite moment of the office hours, other than when they end: I'm free from the presence of other human beings, that as if I were a quantum system, had transformed me from a superposition of states into something definite. Now I can let my mind drift off without worrying about making weird faces or muttering nonsense as I argue with my inner demons.
I reach for my lunch: two triangular halves of bread, ham, and cheese, their natural colors peeking through synthetic packaging. I pinch the edge of the cling film and peel it back. The seal breaks, releasing the trapped aroma, a salty-sweet combination of meat and dairy. After hours of holding a computer mouse, I welcome the cool, moist texture of the bread, but when I take a bite, the sandwich's taste reminds me of its week-long confinement inside a refrigerated machine.
Oh, YouTube has recommended a "fails of the week" video. I munch on my sandwich while enjoying the parade of mundane disasters: a teenager barrels his bike into a garden fence; a man crossing a log over a stream slips and crushes his nuts; a texting college girl face-plants into fresh cement; a pair of overambitious souls try to wedge a gigantic fridge into a two-seater; a car mounted on a hydraulic lift at a mechanic's shop falls on its side; a long-haired dude attempts a flip on his skateboard only to shatter his teeth against the curb; a worker, losing his footing, slides helplessly down a snow-covered roof and plunges onto the street three stories below; a girl posing coquettishly in front of a full-length mirror is interrupted by the mirror toppling onto her head; a pole vaulter nails his jump, but the tilting pole crushes his nuts.
These individuals, belonging to a species increasingly adept at its own annihilation, have not vanished into the cosmos: their misfortunes have been captured on digital footage for entertainment. They serve as reminders that we're fragile creatures prone to error, but if we laugh at our mistakes, we can mitigate their sting, unless we end up castrated or dead.
The office lights cast a glare on my boss' receding hairline as he looms over me like a giant boulder about to flatten a worm.
I shriek.
My thoughts have scattered like panicked cats. When I gather them together, my heart is hammering against my ribs.
"You're one easily startled woman," Ramsés says.
He rests a hand on my shoulder, his greasy fingers pressing into the cotton of my jumper: an unabashed assault. My neck stiffens, and a wave of heat rushes to my face. I dread to glance down in case the bulge of his crotch has swollen.
I'm a flower trembling before a vast, chaotic universe that threatens to consume me, and Ramsés, a pillar of pungent humanity, is the harbinger of doom. I should shatter the veneer of a civilized society by punching him in the throat. Once my boss falls to his knees, coughing and spluttering, I'll stomp on his hand over and over, mashing it into the carpet.
His filthy hand slips away from my shoulder, likely smearing a stain on my jumper.
"Is there anything I can help you with, sir?"
My tone must have betrayed my annoyance, maybe even my homicidal impulse, because Ramsés lengthens a pause. The overhead lights are emphasizing the raised mole above his left eyebrow.
"It's time we had that chat, Leire."
"What chat?"
"As I told you, I was waiting for the opportunity to offer you a proposal. I'm free, you're free, and I don't want to take up your time after work. Let's do it now."
A sickly yellow fog seeps through the soggy marshland of my psyche. Ramsés, always the bearer of ill tidings, doesn't deserve a coherent reply. At best I should muster a dismissive wave of my hand, signaling the end of his unwelcome interruption. I could also let loose a string of profanities and spit in his face. Instead, betraying myself, I clear my throat and wipe the sandwich residue off my lips.
"Is this one of those things where you'll keep insisting until I listen to your proposal?"
Ramsés' brow furrows into a map of foreboding.
"Let's not be oversensitive, Leire. I only discuss matters of significance, you know that."
These days, a part of me reluctantly acknowledges the wisdom in lending an ear, on the off chance of averting an apocalypse. The rest of me, though, wants to jam a pen through Ramsés' eye and twist until the point penetrates his brain.
"Alright then. Please proceed."
My boss turns, exposing his kidneys to a crippling blow. Wait, why is he heading to the front door? Did he intend to show off his ass?
"Weren't you going to tell me something?" I ask nervously.
Ramsés halts, and looks over his shoulder.
"I had in mind a more secluded spot for our discussion, concerning the proposal I mentioned."
"Where? Do we have a conference room?"
Ramsés sighs. He beckons me with his thick fingers.
"We're wasting time. Come along, and you'll find out soon enough."
After gulping down the last of my sandwich, I push myself up from the chair. He's already holding the door open for me. Is it legal for a boss to compel his employee into having a private meeting? Instead of indulging his whims, I yearn to finish my work, go home, and make sweet love to mommy. Right now, my two family members must be strolling along Ondarreta beach, while Nairu marvels at the crashing waves and the seagulls coasting on the air. Maybe they have moved on to the Comb of the Wind, which Jacqueline was eager to present to our Paleolithic artist. I picture Nairu seated on the steps as she sketches the rusted iron sculptures integrated in rocky outcrops, or the water jets that shoot up from the platform, spraying sea mist. The pavement is a mosaic of cobblestone and foam like from a receding tide. If I could join them, my heart would be set at ease.
Should I refuse to meet with my boss unless Jordi accompanies me? He gave me his number, so he may come to my rescue if Ramsés' behavior turns creepy. Jordi, despite having been born a man, is a clean-cut kid who listened to Jacqueline's sexual escapades during lunch break without getting aroused, while our boss, this shithead who worsened a life that already sucked, tends to flicker his gaze toward my breasts. I have felt him seconds away from groping my butt, and I suffered nightmares of him cornering me in his office and shoving his fingers up my cunt. Nobody would have found out, because I would have kept such indignities a secret.
So what now? Will I follow Ramsés into the overcast midday until he finds a quiet corner in the park or a café? I would prefer somewhere I can order coffee. I'd warm my palms around the cup as I sat in front of my boss, and if he uttered something nasty, I'd splash the scalding brew in his face, blinding him. He would stumble into traffic and get mowed down by a truck. With his body twisted and broken on the tarmac, his last words would be, "Sorry, Leire. I'll never bother you again." But what if Ramsés takes me to a deserted parking lot, a wooded grove, or a derelict warehouse? Maybe I'll end up on a torture table, lying spread-eagled with shackles binding my wrists and ankles. I picture the brassy gleam of a scalpel slicing through the flesh of my belly, his hands reaching into the crimson mess to fondle my guts.
In the darkness of my mind, the one provider of freedom rotates like a pick-up item in a video game: Spike's revolver. Its cylinder, deeply fluted, casts shadows along the six chambers. Above its grip of checkered wood, the polished frame is engraved with a skull and crossbones. I wish I were clutching my weapon already, feeling its wood and cold steel against the sweaty heat of my palm. As the one in power, I wouldn't hesitate to follow my boss to any secluded corner; if he annoyed me enough, I'd hold him at gunpoint until he praised or at least complimented me, knowing that with one twitch of my forefinger, a bullet would blast out at the speed of a tiny cannonball, and its kinetic energy would carve a tunnel through the delicate union of cranium and consciousness. Blood would ooze from the hole in thick, viscous streaks. A rattle would escape Ramsés' throat, and he would crumple to the floor. Then I'd fire into his corpse until the revolver clicked dry. If I could spare the time, I would dip my finger in his blood and write on the nearest wall, "Respect to the strong."
"Go right ahead," I say in a raspy voice. "I gotta grab something."
While I scurry to the office, Ramsés complains to my back.
"Go right ahead? You don't even know where we're going."
I fish the key chain out my trouser pocket. As I kneel in front of my desk cabinet and I fumble with the keys to unlock the top drawer, where I keep my revolver among office paraphernalia, I hear Ramsés' footsteps approaching.
"You don't need to grab anything to have a conversation," he says somberly. "Let's go."
I glance over my shoulder. Ramsés is looming behind me with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched. Shit, how can I retrieve my revolver when he's staring right at me? I never asked, but I'm guessing that my boss adheres to a no-weapons policy.
"Oh, I just need my notebook and pen. I'll forget the important stuff if I don't jot it down."
Ramsés unfolds one of his arms to point at my workstation.
"Right there. Next to your keyboard."
I find myself staring at my bumblebee-yellow notebook and the ballpoint pen that rests on top of it. I swallow, grab my notebook and pen, and haul myself to my feet.
---
Author's note: today's songs are "Seven Nation Army" by The White Stripes, and "Take Me Out" by Franz Ferdinand.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel. A total of two hundred and seven videos. Check them out.
Are you into AI-generated audio? Of course you are. Check out the rendition of this chapter.
---
The front door of the office thuds closed. Once Jordi's footsteps fade into the background hum of fluorescent lights and the air conditioning's whir, I crane my neck toward the frosted-glass wall of Ramsés' office. His door is open. I hold my breath and perk my ears up to detect the clatter of keyboard keys, the creaking of his leather executive chair, or a muffled fart. Instead, I hear the pulsating of my blood vessels. The last time Ramsés left the office to take a shit or smoke a cig, he must have segued into his lunch break.
Even in the haze of my caffeinated anxiety, the fist of tension that had held me tight unclenches. I lean back in my chair and exhale deeply. I have reached my favorite moment of the office hours, other than when they end: I'm free from the presence of other human beings, that as if I were a quantum system, had transformed me from a superposition of states into something definite. Now I can let my mind drift off without worrying about making weird faces or muttering nonsense as I argue with my inner demons.
I reach for my lunch: two triangular halves of bread, ham, and cheese, their natural colors peeking through synthetic packaging. I pinch the edge of the cling film and peel it back. The seal breaks, releasing the trapped aroma, a salty-sweet combination of meat and dairy. After hours of holding a computer mouse, I welcome the cool, moist texture of the bread, but when I take a bite, the sandwich's taste reminds me of its week-long confinement inside a refrigerated machine.
Oh, YouTube has recommended a "fails of the week" video. I munch on my sandwich while enjoying the parade of mundane disasters: a teenager barrels his bike into a garden fence; a man crossing a log over a stream slips and crushes his nuts; a texting college girl face-plants into fresh cement; a pair of overambitious souls try to wedge a gigantic fridge into a two-seater; a car mounted on a hydraulic lift at a mechanic's shop falls on its side; a long-haired dude attempts a flip on his skateboard only to shatter his teeth against the curb; a worker, losing his footing, slides helplessly down a snow-covered roof and plunges onto the street three stories below; a girl posing coquettishly in front of a full-length mirror is interrupted by the mirror toppling onto her head; a pole vaulter nails his jump, but the tilting pole crushes his nuts.
These individuals, belonging to a species increasingly adept at its own annihilation, have not vanished into the cosmos: their misfortunes have been captured on digital footage for entertainment. They serve as reminders that we're fragile creatures prone to error, but if we laugh at our mistakes, we can mitigate their sting, unless we end up castrated or dead.
The office lights cast a glare on my boss' receding hairline as he looms over me like a giant boulder about to flatten a worm.
I shriek.
My thoughts have scattered like panicked cats. When I gather them together, my heart is hammering against my ribs.
"You're one easily startled woman," Ramsés says.
He rests a hand on my shoulder, his greasy fingers pressing into the cotton of my jumper: an unabashed assault. My neck stiffens, and a wave of heat rushes to my face. I dread to glance down in case the bulge of his crotch has swollen.
I'm a flower trembling before a vast, chaotic universe that threatens to consume me, and Ramsés, a pillar of pungent humanity, is the harbinger of doom. I should shatter the veneer of a civilized society by punching him in the throat. Once my boss falls to his knees, coughing and spluttering, I'll stomp on his hand over and over, mashing it into the carpet.
His filthy hand slips away from my shoulder, likely smearing a stain on my jumper.
"Is there anything I can help you with, sir?"
My tone must have betrayed my annoyance, maybe even my homicidal impulse, because Ramsés lengthens a pause. The overhead lights are emphasizing the raised mole above his left eyebrow.
"It's time we had that chat, Leire."
"What chat?"
"As I told you, I was waiting for the opportunity to offer you a proposal. I'm free, you're free, and I don't want to take up your time after work. Let's do it now."
A sickly yellow fog seeps through the soggy marshland of my psyche. Ramsés, always the bearer of ill tidings, doesn't deserve a coherent reply. At best I should muster a dismissive wave of my hand, signaling the end of his unwelcome interruption. I could also let loose a string of profanities and spit in his face. Instead, betraying myself, I clear my throat and wipe the sandwich residue off my lips.
"Is this one of those things where you'll keep insisting until I listen to your proposal?"
Ramsés' brow furrows into a map of foreboding.
"Let's not be oversensitive, Leire. I only discuss matters of significance, you know that."
These days, a part of me reluctantly acknowledges the wisdom in lending an ear, on the off chance of averting an apocalypse. The rest of me, though, wants to jam a pen through Ramsés' eye and twist until the point penetrates his brain.
"Alright then. Please proceed."
My boss turns, exposing his kidneys to a crippling blow. Wait, why is he heading to the front door? Did he intend to show off his ass?
"Weren't you going to tell me something?" I ask nervously.
Ramsés halts, and looks over his shoulder.
"I had in mind a more secluded spot for our discussion, concerning the proposal I mentioned."
"Where? Do we have a conference room?"
Ramsés sighs. He beckons me with his thick fingers.
"We're wasting time. Come along, and you'll find out soon enough."
After gulping down the last of my sandwich, I push myself up from the chair. He's already holding the door open for me. Is it legal for a boss to compel his employee into having a private meeting? Instead of indulging his whims, I yearn to finish my work, go home, and make sweet love to mommy. Right now, my two family members must be strolling along Ondarreta beach, while Nairu marvels at the crashing waves and the seagulls coasting on the air. Maybe they have moved on to the Comb of the Wind, which Jacqueline was eager to present to our Paleolithic artist. I picture Nairu seated on the steps as she sketches the rusted iron sculptures integrated in rocky outcrops, or the water jets that shoot up from the platform, spraying sea mist. The pavement is a mosaic of cobblestone and foam like from a receding tide. If I could join them, my heart would be set at ease.
Should I refuse to meet with my boss unless Jordi accompanies me? He gave me his number, so he may come to my rescue if Ramsés' behavior turns creepy. Jordi, despite having been born a man, is a clean-cut kid who listened to Jacqueline's sexual escapades during lunch break without getting aroused, while our boss, this shithead who worsened a life that already sucked, tends to flicker his gaze toward my breasts. I have felt him seconds away from groping my butt, and I suffered nightmares of him cornering me in his office and shoving his fingers up my cunt. Nobody would have found out, because I would have kept such indignities a secret.
So what now? Will I follow Ramsés into the overcast midday until he finds a quiet corner in the park or a café? I would prefer somewhere I can order coffee. I'd warm my palms around the cup as I sat in front of my boss, and if he uttered something nasty, I'd splash the scalding brew in his face, blinding him. He would stumble into traffic and get mowed down by a truck. With his body twisted and broken on the tarmac, his last words would be, "Sorry, Leire. I'll never bother you again." But what if Ramsés takes me to a deserted parking lot, a wooded grove, or a derelict warehouse? Maybe I'll end up on a torture table, lying spread-eagled with shackles binding my wrists and ankles. I picture the brassy gleam of a scalpel slicing through the flesh of my belly, his hands reaching into the crimson mess to fondle my guts.
In the darkness of my mind, the one provider of freedom rotates like a pick-up item in a video game: Spike's revolver. Its cylinder, deeply fluted, casts shadows along the six chambers. Above its grip of checkered wood, the polished frame is engraved with a skull and crossbones. I wish I were clutching my weapon already, feeling its wood and cold steel against the sweaty heat of my palm. As the one in power, I wouldn't hesitate to follow my boss to any secluded corner; if he annoyed me enough, I'd hold him at gunpoint until he praised or at least complimented me, knowing that with one twitch of my forefinger, a bullet would blast out at the speed of a tiny cannonball, and its kinetic energy would carve a tunnel through the delicate union of cranium and consciousness. Blood would ooze from the hole in thick, viscous streaks. A rattle would escape Ramsés' throat, and he would crumple to the floor. Then I'd fire into his corpse until the revolver clicked dry. If I could spare the time, I would dip my finger in his blood and write on the nearest wall, "Respect to the strong."
"Go right ahead," I say in a raspy voice. "I gotta grab something."
While I scurry to the office, Ramsés complains to my back.
"Go right ahead? You don't even know where we're going."
I fish the key chain out my trouser pocket. As I kneel in front of my desk cabinet and I fumble with the keys to unlock the top drawer, where I keep my revolver among office paraphernalia, I hear Ramsés' footsteps approaching.
"You don't need to grab anything to have a conversation," he says somberly. "Let's go."
I glance over my shoulder. Ramsés is looming behind me with his arms crossed and his jaw clenched. Shit, how can I retrieve my revolver when he's staring right at me? I never asked, but I'm guessing that my boss adheres to a no-weapons policy.
"Oh, I just need my notebook and pen. I'll forget the important stuff if I don't jot it down."
Ramsés unfolds one of his arms to point at my workstation.
"Right there. Next to your keyboard."
I find myself staring at my bumblebee-yellow notebook and the ballpoint pen that rests on top of it. I swallow, grab my notebook and pen, and haul myself to my feet.
---
Author's note: today's songs are "Seven Nation Army" by The White Stripes, and "Take Me Out" by Franz Ferdinand.
I keep a playlist with all the songs mentioned throughout the novel. A total of two hundred and seven videos. Check them out.
Are you into AI-generated audio? Of course you are. Check out the rendition of this chapter.
December 26, 2023
On writing: Developing the premise #8
You can check out all my posts on writing through this link.
Are you happy with your concept? Then grow a premise out of it. Premises involve a task to be accomplished and a character that must accomplish it in the midst of conflict.
The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on going deeper. Throughout the process of developing your premise, you must have settled for elements that seem good enough. However, you’re still at the stage where you can vastly improve your future story if you strengthen it from multiple angles.
-Are you sure the big-picture proposition of the premise is strong enough?
-How strong is the drama the premise promises, as opposed to just the intrigue of a static situation?
-Consider how big a challenge the premise presents, to make it the most compelling.
-Expand on the ordinary. Is it possible you could transform your premise into something more original, more exciting, more likely to grab the attention of a literary agent or reader?
-How could you make the premise fundamentally ironic?
-How can you instill tension at the premise line, the continuing feeling of unease, of things not being right in the world?
-Make the ticking clock louder and the obstacles more ominous. Assign a deadline for what the hero needs to accomplish.
-Try to have a plot that only fills half your pages, and then let your complex scenes expand to fill the rest with unexpectedly volatile emotional complications.
-If your characters are simply people you know, in settings you know, having experiences you’ve had, will that be enough?
-How great is the gulf between expectation and outcome, to maximize the meaning the story will have?
-Is there at least one “Holy crap!” scene?
-What’s the one moment that will make readers perk up and go, “Whoa! I’ve never seen that before. This story actually went there. I’m out of my comfort zone now.”
-How could this story of yours be the one to do that thing that none other would do?
-What themes, issues, or volatile topics does your premise involve? Think of at least three and write ways you could add them to the story line.
-How many mysteries can you introduce in the story, for the audience to have more reasons to keep reading?
-Are you sure there’s something interesting or unique about the protagonist, the setting or the situation?
-How could you add a deeper empathy for the characters?
-How do you make sure that your characters cannot escape from the troublesome situation they need to face?
-Why can’t the protagonist just get what he wants? Why can’t she simply talk it out? Why can’t he just walk away or quit? Why can’t she simply change?
-As much as you love your protagonist, your goal is to craft a plot that forces her to confront head-on just about everything she’s spent her entire life avoiding. You have to make sure the harder she tries, the harder it gets. Her good deeds will rarely go unpunished. Sure, every now and then it’ll seem like everything’s okay, but that’s only because you’re setting her up for an even bigger fall. You want her to relax and let her guard down a little, the better to wallop her when she least expects it. You never want to give her the benefit of the doubt, regardless of how much you feel she’s earned it. Because if you do, the one thing she won’t earn is her status as a hero.
-Could you move the premise to a higher level of conflict?
-Try to make sure that the premise involves genuine conflict, scenes where characters don’t want to do something for reasons such as these:
--it would require them to question their deep-seated assumptions.
--it would require them to overcome an inner weakness.
--they promised someone they wouldn’t do it.
--it would reveal their painful secrets.
--it would get their love interest or a family member in trouble.
Are you happy with your concept? Then grow a premise out of it. Premises involve a task to be accomplished and a character that must accomplish it in the midst of conflict.
The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on going deeper. Throughout the process of developing your premise, you must have settled for elements that seem good enough. However, you’re still at the stage where you can vastly improve your future story if you strengthen it from multiple angles.
-Are you sure the big-picture proposition of the premise is strong enough?
-How strong is the drama the premise promises, as opposed to just the intrigue of a static situation?
-Consider how big a challenge the premise presents, to make it the most compelling.
-Expand on the ordinary. Is it possible you could transform your premise into something more original, more exciting, more likely to grab the attention of a literary agent or reader?
-How could you make the premise fundamentally ironic?
-How can you instill tension at the premise line, the continuing feeling of unease, of things not being right in the world?
-Make the ticking clock louder and the obstacles more ominous. Assign a deadline for what the hero needs to accomplish.
-Try to have a plot that only fills half your pages, and then let your complex scenes expand to fill the rest with unexpectedly volatile emotional complications.
-If your characters are simply people you know, in settings you know, having experiences you’ve had, will that be enough?
-How great is the gulf between expectation and outcome, to maximize the meaning the story will have?
-Is there at least one “Holy crap!” scene?
-What’s the one moment that will make readers perk up and go, “Whoa! I’ve never seen that before. This story actually went there. I’m out of my comfort zone now.”
-How could this story of yours be the one to do that thing that none other would do?
-What themes, issues, or volatile topics does your premise involve? Think of at least three and write ways you could add them to the story line.
-How many mysteries can you introduce in the story, for the audience to have more reasons to keep reading?
-Are you sure there’s something interesting or unique about the protagonist, the setting or the situation?
-How could you add a deeper empathy for the characters?
-How do you make sure that your characters cannot escape from the troublesome situation they need to face?
-Why can’t the protagonist just get what he wants? Why can’t she simply talk it out? Why can’t he just walk away or quit? Why can’t she simply change?
-As much as you love your protagonist, your goal is to craft a plot that forces her to confront head-on just about everything she’s spent her entire life avoiding. You have to make sure the harder she tries, the harder it gets. Her good deeds will rarely go unpunished. Sure, every now and then it’ll seem like everything’s okay, but that’s only because you’re setting her up for an even bigger fall. You want her to relax and let her guard down a little, the better to wallop her when she least expects it. You never want to give her the benefit of the doubt, regardless of how much you feel she’s earned it. Because if you do, the one thing she won’t earn is her status as a hero.
-Could you move the premise to a higher level of conflict?
-Try to make sure that the premise involves genuine conflict, scenes where characters don’t want to do something for reasons such as these:
--it would require them to question their deep-seated assumptions.
--it would require them to overcome an inner weakness.
--they promised someone they wouldn’t do it.
--it would reveal their painful secrets.
--it would get their love interest or a family member in trouble.
On writing: Developing the premise #7
You can check out all my posts on writing through this link.
Are you happy with your concept? Then grow a premise out of it. Premises involve a task to be accomplished and a character that must accomplish it in the midst of conflict.
The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on trying to ensure that anyone other than yourself would give a damn about the story you want or need to tell. I don’t focus much on what a random person will think about my stories; for me, the “target reader” is a fantasy. You can only truly satisfy your own subconscious, and you satisfy random readers’ subconscious to the extent that their neural pathways mimic yours. That said, considering your story from an outside perspective can improve your work.
-Create an elevator pitch for your story. Three paragraphs: 1) a character and situation; 2) the push into the plot; 3) the main story question.
-Write the pitch in three sentences: MC’s name, vocation, initial situation. “When” + main plot problem. “Now” + the death stakes.
-See if you can formulate the idea into a compelling, 30-second pitch. At least three sentences. First describes the character, his vocation, and initial circumstances. The second is the doorway of no return. The third is the death stakes.
-Your story’s logline should include the main character, the objective, and the major source of conflict.
-Why would anybody want to see or experience this story?
-How does the premise make people excited to learn more about the story just by hearing the one-line story summation you’ve come up with?
-Does your premise have an inherent appeal, or are you relying solely on your execution to make the story compelling?
-Is the one-sentence description of your story uniquely appealing?
-How does your premise seduce, make people want to read the story?
-How does it promise drama, conflict, stakes and emotional resonance?
-How is your premise cool and provocative, even if it’s actually impossible?
-How is the problem introduced in your premise larger than it looks? Why does it matter to us all?
-Could the premise be so strong that it could draw readers by itself, not depending on other components such as execution?
-Does this premise have a kicker that would make readers ask questions they would want answered?
-What controversial or sensitive issues or themes can be at the core of this idea so that it will tug on readers’ hearts?
-Would the premise appeal to a wide and inherently commercial readership? Or does it focus too narrowly on a specific corner of life, even if that issue is important to you?
-How would your story make the readers experience wonder?
-Imagine you have a gatekeeper’s attention. How will you describe your story? When you launch into your ten minute summary, will they like what they hear?
-Is this a story anyone can identify with, projected onto a bigger canvas, with higher stakes? Could you write into it the emotions you know, putting those emotions into a more extreme situation with a lot more at stake?
-Go through each of the following audience attractors your story could contain, and try to explain how your story would include them:
--Laughter
--Lust
--Adrenaline rush
--Bloodlust
--Power fantasy
--Romantic fantasy
--Pathos (something devastating)
--Beauty
--Cognitive dissonance (blew your mind)
-Is what happens to your characters exciting and dramatic, out of the ordinary, and most importantly, meaningful?
Are you happy with your concept? Then grow a premise out of it. Premises involve a task to be accomplished and a character that must accomplish it in the midst of conflict.
The following notes, gathered years ago from many books on writing, focus on trying to ensure that anyone other than yourself would give a damn about the story you want or need to tell. I don’t focus much on what a random person will think about my stories; for me, the “target reader” is a fantasy. You can only truly satisfy your own subconscious, and you satisfy random readers’ subconscious to the extent that their neural pathways mimic yours. That said, considering your story from an outside perspective can improve your work.
-Create an elevator pitch for your story. Three paragraphs: 1) a character and situation; 2) the push into the plot; 3) the main story question.
-Write the pitch in three sentences: MC’s name, vocation, initial situation. “When” + main plot problem. “Now” + the death stakes.
-See if you can formulate the idea into a compelling, 30-second pitch. At least three sentences. First describes the character, his vocation, and initial circumstances. The second is the doorway of no return. The third is the death stakes.
-Your story’s logline should include the main character, the objective, and the major source of conflict.
-Why would anybody want to see or experience this story?
-How does the premise make people excited to learn more about the story just by hearing the one-line story summation you’ve come up with?
-Does your premise have an inherent appeal, or are you relying solely on your execution to make the story compelling?
-Is the one-sentence description of your story uniquely appealing?
-How does your premise seduce, make people want to read the story?
-How does it promise drama, conflict, stakes and emotional resonance?
-How is your premise cool and provocative, even if it’s actually impossible?
-How is the problem introduced in your premise larger than it looks? Why does it matter to us all?
-Could the premise be so strong that it could draw readers by itself, not depending on other components such as execution?
-Does this premise have a kicker that would make readers ask questions they would want answered?
-What controversial or sensitive issues or themes can be at the core of this idea so that it will tug on readers’ hearts?
-Would the premise appeal to a wide and inherently commercial readership? Or does it focus too narrowly on a specific corner of life, even if that issue is important to you?
-How would your story make the readers experience wonder?
-Imagine you have a gatekeeper’s attention. How will you describe your story? When you launch into your ten minute summary, will they like what they hear?
-Is this a story anyone can identify with, projected onto a bigger canvas, with higher stakes? Could you write into it the emotions you know, putting those emotions into a more extreme situation with a lot more at stake?
-Go through each of the following audience attractors your story could contain, and try to explain how your story would include them:
--Laughter
--Lust
--Adrenaline rush
--Bloodlust
--Power fantasy
--Romantic fantasy
--Pathos (something devastating)
--Beauty
--Cognitive dissonance (blew your mind)
-Is what happens to your characters exciting and dramatic, out of the ordinary, and most importantly, meaningful?
