Sam Hilliard's Blog, page 4

Oh, it's on

Following some final tweaks to the outline and synopsis during the holidays, began writing The Cropsey Effect this morning. It's the second book in the Mike Brody series. After spending a solid year of writing The Last Track before falling into the story–entirely by accident–this time around I opted to tackle such considerations earlier. My apologies to everyone who got drafted into off-line discussions these past few weeks.

Writers have long argued over how much preparation is necessary before starting a novel. For instance, Ray Bradbury skips pre-production completely, arguing that "plot is the footprints left in the snow." Write it first and then worry about getting it right later.

At the other extreme, John Grisham works everything out point by point on legal pads, months before writing word one. Make your mistakes on the legal pad, rather than the page. Why torture the reader as the writer stumbles his way through a murky plot, his thinking goes.

Both strategies have their merits. Certainly I respect Ray Bradbury. His collection of work is vast and in many ways without equal. He has written several classics, one of which will be taught in schools hopefully in perpetuity.

John Grisham approaches a project like a lawyer preparing for trial. Those battles are won or lost eons before the bailiff calls everyone to order. Since there is nothing a lawyer hates more than a surprise in the courtroom, he puts a tremendous energy into the advance preparations.

Regardless of the model, each author rules at their respective genre.

That being said, there's serious sense of relief in having the critical plot points out in the open now. Because the who and what's going to happen is settled, my energy can focus on how to get where the characters want and need to go. And in their journey, they just might detour from the path I forecast. Which is an unintended bonus to the outline process.

Because giving the characters enough space to run with their own script is where the best stuff comes from.

Electa: now fifty percent heavier

Sometime in August, the very fuzzy gray and black Maine Coon named Electra lost a perilous amount of weight and nearly died. Her ailment manifested quite suddenly and without warning. One day she was fine, the next she could barely stand. The evil culprit: Hyperthyroidism.

Fortunately the condition–which is quite common among her breed, unfortunately–often responds to treatment. Two Tapazole pills a day, keeps the hyperthyroidism in check. Which really means smelly blobs of Whiskas cat food wrapped around pill bits; otherwise Electra refuses the medication. And since the Cat Army won't stand for one member of the ranks receiving special treatment, they all get a bit of Whiskas. Clever Cat Army.

Saturday she visited the vet and according to their records, she's fifty percent heavier than in August. Thank you, Whiskas blobs. And Tapezole.

I also feel fifty percent heavier since August, but I'm not nearly as cute.

That doesn't look like snow

Throughout this past month, one thought kept nagging me: was it a long year or did the Internets just make it seem so? That thought and where the ice cream man goes until spring. It's not like he can hibernate in the aluminum sided truck with a stack of push-ups resting his head on the freezer. And yet, maybe he can survive like that, which is even scarier than the original question.

The rest of the year aside, December was pretty crazy. At work, a really important server began a long and painful slide into goodnight. For the first time ever, I got a carpal tunnel syndrome, which traced back to texting abuse. Luckily, that fix was simple: less time at the cellphone, and more typing at an actual keyboard. Soon enough, the pain subsided.

In the downtime I read some good books, the best among them, The Adderall Diaries. If too many days pass between reading sessions, I forget how much I really enjoy it. Reading steadily helps writing, so it's important on several levels to feed the habit.

Better yet, I'm almost done with the outline for The Cropsey Effect, so the actual writing will begin in earnest . . .

Don't forget the fries

After a lot of back and forth, got the synopsis for the next book into good working order. For those around the site for a long time, the story for The Last Track revealed itself after wandering around for more than a year through various drafts. While everything worked out in the end, I wanted to try doing it a little differently for this book. Thus, the two page synopsis.

The Last Track actually had no synopsis until after the book was finished and agents started requesting one in response to queries, very late in their consideration process. Not only does the synopsis make for one point of stress, having one in hand relieves the concern about whether there is a viable story.

Speaking of "this book", besides the pre-production technique, trying something different with the title as well.

Because it took so long to get the first book into print, two of the titles had to be scrapped when they appeared in new releases by Very Big Authors. Complete coincidence, but irritating when I was certain about having the perfect title a first and then a second time. So I have decided on a throwaway title for now, one I don't care about in any fashion; it's just about giving the book a name. Much easier referring to a manuscript by title rather than "the novel" or "this book."

The throwaway title: The Cropsey Effect.

Maybe the "fake" title will serve the project better than the "real" one. Ah, time will tell.

Sometimes an albatross helps

Carpal tunnel seldom makes for a happy writer. Few writers I know are really satisfied anyway, but not being able to write makes for an especially crusty sort of person. Maybe because instead of ignoring life while writing, and dealing with the usual self-doubts that accompany such a predicament, the sidelined writer has to think about the fact he or she can not do the one thing that keeps them sane. Or something like sane, anyway.

Such a situation is particularly frustrating if one is the sort of writer that believes almost any writing obstacle can be solved by keeping at the manuscript. And actually, I consider that previous statement one of the few truths about writing.

That is not to say, there's no time and place for taking a break. After finishing a massive project it's not only justified, but necessary. Or while on a vacation with family. Or whenever the writer starts believing the fact one writes is a point of consequence, as if in the great picture it actually matters to the Universe. Writing is just as important as replacing defective heart valves in the hearts of infants. OK maybe not that far, but almost as important. It's gotta be just a little more important than what everyone else does all day, because well, everyone else isn't writing.

That inflated self-appraisal is also known as hopping the fast train to Super Ego City. Karma usually derails that car and all its occupants pretty quickly, so it's best to get off before the train rolls over the loose tie in the track. Better still, do not board in the first place. As it is, I have enough open debts with karma to settle already, so I see the business like this:

Writing is about staying focused while seated, and having some fun now and again with the pages that come from the time spent at the keyboard. Hopefully what's on the pages make sense, to me and at least one other person. And I write until I hit a wall, and then write over, around or through it. Just stay the course, until the writing project says downshift or brake.

Ah, but carpal tunnel is the one problem one can't write his or her way through; wrist wraps and ice will only carry one so far–the real fix is rest. So I've been resting a lot the past few weeks. With some reservations.

In fact, it's time to return to what should be the tail end of the rest phase. And maybe find the wrist wrap.

There's now snow in Hades

The landlord finally broke down and redid the driveway. How long did he wait? According to neighbors, the driveway was last done in 1959. Yes, that's right, a mere six decades ago.

Here's what it looked before. OK, it's what it looked like during the demolition.

And after the work, just waiting for stripes.

Hope it's built to last. Might be another 51 years before the next touch up.

Umbrage and server woes

When the power goes out in the middle of a server audit, it's generally a very bad day. If the server in question is pushing seven–seventy-nine in people years, and it's not a realm where that much experience really pays off–the bounds of a day stop mattering.

Spent most of last week repairing a very sick machine, one that is still, well a bit malevolent. Oh well. On the plus side got approval for a new server thanks to my super cool boss. It's a point for celebrating, albeit not too loudly. After all, HAL the mail server might hear about his planned obsolescence.

And that could turn a very bad week into a worse month.

But of better days and nights, the entries for the reopened Name the Baddie contest are now in hand. Deciding on the best villain name won't be easy; the entries are all good. Perhaps surprisingly so. Aiming for Thursday for the announcement.

Top ten signs

Maybe I've been coming into work too early.

Oedipus Update

Last Friday was take your black cat to work day; so I brought Oedipus along on our way to the vet.

The vet found his eye nearly completely healed. To celebrate we watched Zodiac.

Then he took over the sock monkey from Electra.

In other words, all is well in Cat Army land.

Cat Attack

Even before the first yowl, the other cats sensed trouble and sought cover. Oedipus and Electra had been fighting for several minutes already. The cats–one nearly twice the size his opponent–chased each other between the rooms. Paw strikes, at first playful, escalated into full on swipes and grapples. It was getting ugly fast.

After fourteen years, they knew each others hiding spots, and each others weak points. Retreat was not an option. Neither was surrender. One cat was going to lose big.

And then the cry.

When it ended, heaps of gray and white fur from Electra lay in random piles across the carpet. A swatch of exposed flesh was etched into the crook of her right ear, like some kind of prison yard slashing. Child's play compared to the injuries Oedipus suffered.

The mighty Oedipus, and all his 21 pounds of muscle and glory, leaned against the wall, his right lid shut tight over the eye. His battle scar: a scratched cornea.

Later at the vet, a droplet of liquid made his eye appear green. The prognosis was excellent and Oedipus returned home shortly after the examination, and a stop at Sonic Burger for some Tots. He likes Tots.

Now Oedipus has a new opponent, more fearsome, and the consequence of the fight far more urgent than the last. Antibiotic drops, administered four times daily, and a once a day dash of atropine. It's enough to make a grown cat cringe. And he does. He shudders. The atropine also makes him foam at the mouth for several minutes, like a mad animal. Or rather, like a talk show host.

But at least his eye stopped turning green, and it's nearly half open. By Friday Oedipus will be good as new.