Alan Loewen's Blog, page 28

The Shrine War Gets Some Good News

When you submit a short story to an anthology, the editor puts in in one of four categories.
The rejected pile are those stories that do not stand a chance to be considered. It does not necessarily mean the writing is bad. It could also mean the story's theme or subject matter is not in harmony with the theme or subject matter of the anthology.The slush pile are those stories that are passable, but will only be considered if additional stories are needed to pad out the anthology. Have you ever read an anthology and came across a story that seemed an odd fit and you wondered how in the world it got in there? It was probably padding from the slush pile.The finalist pile is proof that your story was well received and fits the theme and subject matter of the anthology, but the editor is holding out  for a final acceptance just in case a better story comes along.The accepted pile is just that. Stories that will certainly be going into the anthology and a check is forthcoming.Editor Fred Patten sent me an email informing me that The Shrine War is on the finalist pile and I am very content.

Wish me luck. I probably will find out mid-November if my labor of love gets moved to the accepted pile or the rejected pile. Either way, it was a great story to write and I don't regret an iota the time and research I put into the tale,

The Shrine War Is Done

It took me three months and 24 days (or 116 days total) to finally complete the last draft of The Shrine War.

I am sitting in a hotel room at a Days Inn at Middleboro, Massachusetts and I'm taking a day off from sightseeing specifically to wrap up the conflict between Sen and her kitsune sisters and Akumu and her marauding band of Inugami.

Great liberties were taken with Japanese Shinto mythology, but it was a lot of fun. It has been sent off to Fred Patten for consideration for his Dogs of War anthology, but even if he deems it not appropriate for the collection, it does not negate the great feeling of satisfaction I have in putting the words, The End, on a Loewen-crafted tale.

The total word count came to 17,770 words.

From My Bucket List

Do you have a bucket list? I have a bucket list.

One item on my bucket list is to attend a Baltimore Orioles game when they are playing the Detroit Tigers. At the bottom of the 9th, the score is tied 7-7.

As the game commences, a man sitting three rows below me and one who has been acting ill throughout the game suddenly keels over and arises as Patient Zero of the zombie apocalypse.

As the carnage and violence erupts all around me, Orioles pitcher, Kevin Gausman, oblivious to the rampage in the stands, throws a curve ball to Miguel Cabrera who catches the ball right on the sweet spot of the bat.

As the ball soars through the air and into the stands, as I face off against a zombie, the ball strikes it squarely in the temple, dropping it like a stone. The ball bounces right into my hands and there, amidst the havoc, I stand on the Big Screen holding aloft the winning ball with my arms held in a V for victory.

At his home, George Romero, watching the game, begins to weep in naked jealousy.

Of Lucid Dreamscapes and Cat Wives

Artist: Kishibe As I have stated before, I have always been a vivid dreamer and now that I take a Vitamin B Complex capsule before bed, my dreams have become even more so. Something about the combination of the various vitamins in the B family trigger vivid dreams and any of these dreams have become a seedbed for future stories. However, I advocate caution. Dreamscapes are inherently boring for readers as the power and symbolism are highly subjective. To use a dream as an idea for a tale is to invite massive revision with heavy emphasis on plot and character. Very few writers can communicate the visceral punch of a dream as the dreamer experienced it.

Last night I had a rare lucid dream where for the first opening scenes, I actually knew I was dreaming.

It was a dream city I had visited many times before. The street I knew the best contained a number of quaint shops, bistros, and bed and breakfasts, delightful destinations for a nocturnal wanderer, but I had not revisited this locale in many years. I was well aware that I was dreaming and the certainty of my destination and the joy of seeing again a place where I had idled away many a night brought me both joy and fond memories.

The sun had set and a gentle snow had started to fall when I finally reached my destination. I looked forward to food and rest, but the landscape had changed over the years. The street was deserted, the shops were all closed, windows were dark and boarded up, and some buildings had actually been torn down. My sorrow at my loss became so great, at this point I lost the power of lucid dreaming and became trapped in the flow of the story unable to affect its outcome.

With great sadness, I turned and walked away from the deserted street, now determined to find some other form of shelter from the snowstorm. A pay phone must surely exist somewhere. A block away I found a public playground where children, bundled against the snow, were enjoying a final frolic before heading home for the night.

I approached one small child, a pretty little thing of around 12 years of age. Dressed all in white, she was shielded from the cold by a little white cap, a woolen dress that came to her knees, and warm white tights that protected her legs. Dainty white leather boots completed the picture.

She told me she did not know where a pay phone was, but instead she would introduce me to her parents who could certainly help me.

Her parents say nearby on a bench, her father nothing more than a typical stereotype of an English laborer: unimaginative, typically phlegmatic, and totally practical.

Her mother wore a close-fitting black cape with hood. However, she was an anthropomorphic cat, some five feet tall, her eyes a bright blue that complimented the brilliant white fur that made up the gentle feline face, the only part of her body visible.

I followed them to their home where the husband told me that I could use their phone and we walked a block or two making it to their front door as the snowfall increased in volume.

The house was in shambles. The foyer actually had drifting snow on the floor as well as snow coming through gaps in the ceiling, but the house proper was warm, cozy, and dry though a jumbled mess of bric-a-brac and worthless junk.

The husband discovered his old rotary phone was not operable and he instructed his wife to walk me down the block to the home of an acquaintance in hopes I could find a working phone there. That was when I noticed that at no time had the cat wife ever spoken, nor had she taken off her shawl. Even inside, she kept it on with the hood pulled tightly around her face.

We walked back into the ever-deepening snow. Taking her arm in mine, together we made it safely to their friends' house some blocks away. By this time, many of the row homes stood dark, but without even knocking, my silent companion opened the front door and led me inside to a home that was neat and tidy. It was immediately clear nobody was home and I was concerned that with the deepening snow we would be trapped for the night, unable to return to my companion’s residence. At that point I awoke leaving my furry companion behind for a more mundane waking world.

You might want to try my Vitamin B experiment for some nocturnal adventures of your own, but I make no guarantees as to the subject of your dreams. One's subconscious can be quite fickle in its affections.

Slender Man: An Excerpt From An Old Work

One of my favorite activities is participating in a tuckerization of my fiction, using real people as characters in my work. I want to thank Juan for allowing me to make him a character in one of the few actual horror stories I've ever written.

What follows is the prologue of a work that I have yet to complete, but I did enjoy writing it. The delightful challenge of writing about Slender Man was dampened when mentally ill children started committing crimes to appease this made up character. Also, the character of Slender Man, originally in the public domain, is now held in copyright by an unknown third party. I'm not going to invest time in a story I cannot publish for profit.

I shall probably rewrite the story, cleansing it of all Slender Man references and making up my own little beastie. Here is the opening prologue. Enjoy.




Slender Man
by Alan Loewen
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
ROUGH DRAFT
PROLOGUE


“Subject: Juan Claude Simeoñ. Madison College isolation tank research, number 22. Mark time. Juan, how are you doing?”

Juan floated gently in the heavy, warm Epsom salt solution, his ear plugs making Gerald’s voice sound far away instead of coming from a tiny speaker just three inches above his head. “Doing okay,” he replied. He opened his eyes for a moment to the pitch blackness inside the chamber and then closed them again.

“Everything is working fine out here," Juan heard Gerald say. "Are you feeling the effects of the compound yet?”

Juan let out a breath. “No, not yet. I only took it twenty-five minutes ago. Let’s give it another five to kick in.”

“It’s your experiment. I’m switching my mike off. I’ve got a good level on yours.”

“Good.” Juan concentrated on his relaxation technique, deliberately relaxing the muscles in his feet and working up his body. Floating in the solution that had been warmed to body temperature, Juan enjoyed the sensation of floating. Though the tank was just big enough to hold him, in the blackness he felt like more like a mote floating in the center of an infinite universe.

“Mark time,” he said. “My skin is itching again.” He allowed himself to flow with the unpleasant sensation, a side-effect of his mind freeing itself from the world of the senses. “I suspect I’m a good ten to fifteen minutes away from theta brainwave conversion.”

He took a deep breath and slowly let it out, willing himself into a greater degree of relaxation. “I feel the new compound kicking in. A great calm. Itchiness is gone. Mark time. Here’s a new sensation. I’m gently falling.” Juan allowed the sensation to take him. “I’m seeing phosphenes now. Brilliant. More brilliant than I’ve ever experienced before, the most common being a shade of purple with flashes of red and green.”

He felt himself floating, falling between the cascading colors. “Pretty. They’re starting to take shape. Mark time. I suspect the compound is doing this. We might have finally reached the perfect mix.”

The colors swirled and congealed into a madman’s color palette. “Interesting. Mark time. I think I’m hallucinating. Maybe we increased the compound too much? These colors look solid. Weird angles. Reminds me of some of Lovecraft’s stories. What did he say? ‘Complex angles leading through invisible walls to other regions of Time-Space.’ I have to stop reading nonsense like that.”

Juan floated among the odd geometric shapes. “Wow. I never knew my mind could come up with what I’m seeing. Gerald, I hope you’re getting all this. I really don’t know if I’m talking out loud so my mike can pick it up.”

Gerald rolled his eyes as Juan continued his observations. As long as he got his weekly check, Gerald didn’t care what the psychology majors did with his time. He made a quick scan of the controls. The solution in which Juan floated kept its temperature constant and the chronometer marked off the minutes as they passed.

Stifling a yawn, he leaned back in his chair and rubbed his eyes. Listening to some psych major ramble on about his hallucinations did not improve his already unpleasant mood.

“Mark time,” he heard through the speaker. Gerald leaned forward and pushed a button that would independently time stamp the recording.

Clean the tank. Punch buttons. Listen to some guy hallucinate. This is what a college degree did for him.

“Gerald? I really hope you can hear me. I … I can’t help but feel I’m not alone in here. Something out of the corner of my eye. I guess I should more accurately say ‘my field of vision.’”

The speaker stayed silent for a minute. “Mark time!” the speaker squawked, more urgently this time. “I saw something. The experience feels real. Something behind the weird angles.”

Gerald punched the time button again.

“Maybe if I look before my peripheral vision detects it. Hold on a minute.”

Suddenly, a scream burst out of the speaker, distorted by the volume of Juan’s terror. “No! Gerald! Get me out of here! No! Stay back! Get away from me!”

With an oath, Gerald jumped to his feet and reached for the hatch to the small isolation chamber.

It did not respond to his pull.

Juan’s screams continued as Gerald struggled with the door. Lacking any type of latch, it should have opened with little difficulty, but now Gerald felt as if he fought against all the weight of the world.

With a sudden pop, the hatch slammed open on its hinges and Gerald screamed.

Expecting to see Juan floating in a solution of brine, the interior of the small chamber opened up unexpectedly into a vast infinity of insane angles and odd geometries. His eyes and mind ached as he tried to take it in. He stumbled back, whimpering.

A shape emerged from the hatch. Impossibly thin and composed of a darkness that spoke more of a void than lack of color. Thin lines of darkness that hinted of obscenely long and thin arms reached for him.

Frozen in shock and terror, Gerald looked up at the ceiling where the head of the figure should have been.The last thing he ever saw as tendrils wrapped themselves around his neck was a featureless face that radiated a palpable evil.

The Shrine War Draft Gets Cut To Shreds

Last night I met with two friends who have excellent editing skills. I had sent them the first rough draft of The Shrine War and we sat around my friend's kitchen table and began the dissection.

Let me assure you the first draft of any story is basically garbage. You, as author, are too close to the story to see the mistakes and the errors and that is why it is necessary to have an independent person look it over. Guess what they found?
In the 11,800 word story, I used the word 'carefully' 16 times, sometimes repeating the word in the same paragraph.A Shinto shrine normally has two distinct buildings: the Haiden and the Honden. I misspelled 'Haiden' several times and in one case I confused the two buildings.In a number of sentences I had the action refer to the wrong subject.References made at the beginning of the story need to be repeated at the end to remind the reader of what is happening.I end the story with a character I introduced only by name at the beginning of the tale. And quite a number of other errors as well.I was too close to my story to see these errors myself and I'm grateful for the experience of having the story reviewed.

Of course, I did not agree with every recommendation they made. In one instance they wanted me to explain the result of an action in greater detail, but I will deliberately kept the result vague so as to create suspense as it is a common trope in speculative stories.

So, I now start work on revision and correction. Like I said, some writers are talented and can churn out a short story every two to four weeks. My own experience is that it takes me about 6 months.

I feel no shame in saying that. Story telling is a subjective art. There is no set formula. If it takes you a year to write a short story, then that is what it takes. The name of the game is to have a finished short story that you feel good about, spit-polished and shining bright and ready to make the rounds of submissions.

Write on!

Conversation With a Group of People About Writing

Friend: So what genre do you write in?

Me: Rather hard to explain. I just call it dark fantasy romance with a body count.
Jim George: So its all autobiographical?



I high-fived him for a rapid witty remark. I'm also stealing it.

What? You think witty comebacks in my stories are all from me? I plagiarize, baby! You'd be surprised how much creative dialogue from my brilliant friends ends up in my tales.

First Draft of the Shrine War is Complete!

Topping the word count at 11,800 words, I wrapped up The Shrine War, brought everything to a conclusion, and did a subtle ending that leaves open the remote possibility of a sequel.

I started writing the tale on May 28th and there are doubts that if it takes this long to write the first draft of a short story, I can forget becoming a millionaire on quantity alone.

And I know writers who can crunch out a short story in a month! How do they do that?

And there are prolific writers who can crunch out a novel in that time!

Well, can't compare myself to others. That way, madness lies.

But I am done with the first draft. Break out the beverages and bring on the dancing bears! Let the party commence!

And tomorrow night (Monday) three editor friends start the look over. I love these people because when they are done the manuscript looks like it came in at last place in a meat cleaver battle.

And 99.99999% of the time, their edits are spot on.

Shrine War Update and Excerpt

After the sudden passing of my mother on Saturday, July 23rd, I took a break from writing to deal with her personal affairs as well as my own grief, but she would have wanted life to go on. So today for the first time in weeks, I traveled once again to Japan and at 8,770 words have finally come to the final part of my story, the final big conflict between the Inugami and the kitsune shrine maidens trying to defend their shrine against them.

Writing a series of complex scenes is a lot like playing chess. Before your big attack, everybody needs to be where they are supposed to be and finally all my characters are in their proper places.

There has been some attrition as you can expect in any conflict. Of the original ten Inugami, three are down for the count, but the shrine maidens are in a serious sticky wicket. Only Sen and Chiyo are left in the oratory in a doomed effort to save their souls and Inari's Mirror from the desecration of the spirit dogs. They assume Hoso to be dead and the twins probably sharing the same fate. Or worse. Inugami use kitsune souls to power their soul crystals to power their magic.

My sole human character is outside hiding in the bushes and freaking out, but his part of the story is not yet done. Not to worry. He's not going to save the day. Sen and Chiyo are going to have to solve this one all by their lonesome.
Here's a rough draft of an excerpt that follows Kiku and Kuwa who tried to defend the shrine entrance from the Inugami. Currently they are hiding in the canopy of the trees that stand on the shrine property

ALL RIGHTS RESERVEDROUGH DRAFT
Kiku carefully made sure her feet were solidly placed on the tree branch and tried not to think of the hard ground so far below. Kuwa held onto her twin sister’s back trying her best not to hinder Kiku’s progress across the canopy of leaves and branches as they tried to put distance between them and the attacking Inugami. Kuwa’s left leg dangled uselessly, her thigh heavily bandaged using material torn from her haori. Fortunately the Inugami iron dart had not punctured an artery nor did it appear to have been poisoned.

“Sister, dear,” Kiku muttered through gritted teeth, “perhaps you might consider not eating so many rice balls in the future.”

“We are high enough in the tree the Inugami cannot see us through the branches and leaves. Unfortunately, we cannot see them either,” Kuwa replied. “Still, we are well out of the range of their darts while they are still in range of our soul arrows. Please, sister, put me down on this branch. We can make a stand here.”

Kiku made her way closer to the trunk and allowed Kuwa to stand on her one good leg. She took a moment to massage her throat where Kuwa had wrapped her arms for support. “Do you see them?”

Kuwa carefully looked over the branch toward the ground below. “No. Nothing. I think they may have gone up to the haiden.”

Kiku clenched her fist in useless frustration. “Sen and Chiyo will need our help. How many Inugami did you see, sister?”

”Nine,” Kuwa said. “I saw nine when they charged the human. I know we struck two of them down.”

“But they are not dead. Their soul stones were fractured so they have lost the source of their magic. Our soul arrows went through them, but they will shake off the paralysis quickly enough.”

The two kitsune looked at each other.

“Kuwa, you must stay. I cannot carry you, but I must help defend Inari’s Mirror.”

Kuwa clutched the trunk and eased herself into position where she could straddle the large branch, one leg and two tails dangling on one side and her wounded leg and her two other tails on the other. “Yes, sister, you must go. And with Inari’s help, I will try to see if I can find a vantage point that will allow me to deal with any spirit dogs I see. They will not leave the shrine with the Mirror if I can help it.” With that, she worked her bow out of her torn haori and, with prayer beads in her one hand, she closely inspected her bow so Kiku would not see her tears. Within moments, Kiku was swallowed up by the branches and leaves as she made her way across the treetops toward the hoiden.

Writing Is A Socially Acceptable Form of Schizophrenia

 What other form of recreation allows me to have voices in my head telling me what to do as I weave fantasies that have little bearing on reality?