Mike.Sierra.Echo Updates and Re-Writes
Time to get into Mike.Sierra.Echo updates and re-writes now that I’m done with Superhero Shrink:Alpha. Received some more feedback on the manuscript that suggests I’m ignoring vital story opportunities that keep it from being published. Means I thought I was done but I guess I’m not. Means I need to go back to the drawing board.
As I’ve said before, writing is similar to forging steel. A blacksmith has his standards, and when it comes to writing I have mine. Yes, I thought Mike.Sierra.Echo was done before, but when it was obvious there were things that could be better, I have no choice. I have to go back and re-shape the material, especially if I expect my ‘blade’ to survive the battle.
Set the alarm clock for 5am and get an early start. Wake up at 3am because my neck hurts and I can’t sleep. Start the coffee pot early and slam 800mg of ibuprofen. Start reading, start writing. Consolidate major scenes into paragraphs:
Doctors and nurses swarmed over Mom. Nobody had any answers. My feet ached. There was no place to sit. I couldn’t leave Mom! Techs pushed a large machine into the room to scan mom’s head. I was in over my head. Mom seemed asleep – maybe that’s all she needs, I thought.
Busy doctors ignored me. Stuck in a slow-motion nightmare, feeling horrified, frustrated, and bored simultaneously.
Go back a few hours like you’re re-winding a movie. Mom – tired from last night’s Guild dinner and Rocket4 business declaring a ‘Mike Day.’ Jennifer throwing a hissy fight – why did I get a trip into Boston to see nerdy stuff after getting suspended?
I was happy – needed a break from fights in school and fighting with my sister. Stop at my ultra-rich, ultra-bossy grandma’s house. My breath smoking in the early spring air, the smell of wet earth. Grandma’s mite-sized AI drones flashing yellow to green as they scanned our faces and let us into the house.
The museum smell of Grandma’s parlor and all the original antiques inside. Don’t touch anything. Can’t sit on the furniture. A jade helmet from the Shang dynasty in the corner and a cowboy painting by some guy named Remington over the fireplace. Originals, not copies, collected by the family over three generations. Mom gave it all up to be with Dad. Then Dad ended up working for Grandma, anyway. Jennifer says this is called ‘irony.’
A million robocars zooming into Boston. Charles Hayden Planetarium. Smells of stone and wood. Echoes of a thousand voices. Near Earth Objects. Asteroids with weird names like 2008 EV 5. Total serenity in the Planetarium, stars swirling in musty air. Narrator’s voice reminding me of chocolate or coffee, reciting facts about the universe. Lots of boring stuff on rocket shipping and space travel. You can’t talk about rockets without talking about Grandma and her Rocket4 company. People hear ‘trillionaire’ and stop listening after that. No one cares that ‘ultra-rich’ means ‘can’t visit your grandkids at their house.’
Then Bang. We were at the grocery store. That’s all I know. She fell, I froze.
Angry thoughts slid around my head like my butt across the the EZ-clean vinyl passenger seat. I’m a tough guy, why didn’t I save her? I should have done more!
Some rocket guy said “Failure is not an option!” because Dad yells it all the time. He doesn’t accept excuses. To him, everything’s an engineering problem that ‘needs analysis.’ He designs rockets to ship billions in cargo every day, no room for feelings or ‘I meant for the best.’
Mom bridged those gaps between Dad and me, Grandma and everyone else. “Give it time,” Mom said. “One day you’ll see everything I love about your Dad and your Grandma, and they’ll see everything I love about you. Won’t that be a beautiful day?”
It’d be beautiful if you woke up, Mom. Please wake up.
Mike.Sierra.Echo updates and re-writes. There’s no way around doing your best when your best is what you’re doing. Mozart wrote his symphonies in the first draft – you aren’t Mozart right now but maybe someday. Back to the drawing board. Wake up at 3am, start the coffee pot. Start reading, start writing.
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