Fragments
People sometimes approach writers and offer them ideas. As if authors have any shortage of such things. I have more ideas than I have time for. More ideas than I can seem to focus on. At this very moment I’ve got four novels in serious need of rewriting: Spring of Goliath, a historical novel about the Mongol defeat on September 3, 1260 at the Spring of Goliath in what is today Israel, the first battle that the Mongols ever lost. Had the Mongols won, Islam would likely have ceased to exist, while the Mongols would have converted en mass to Christianity. Of course, the Mongols would also likely have devastated Europe and prevented everything from the Reformation to the Renaissance from ever happening.
I’m also rewriting Hacker’s Apprentice, the story of a couple of homeless guys who inadvertently overhear a wizard casting a spell. They get caught up in a search for the underlying programming code of the universe. Centuries of incantations by numberless wizards has created patches and hacks and odd subroutines in the universe’s programming. It seems to be destabilizing and is in danger of crashing. Has the universe been backed up recently? What happens if it reboots?
Then there is the novel Bent Anvil, a murder-mystery and science fiction novel set in a world where the corporation FourWinds (and its competitors) have set up a system where everyone and everything is “backed up.” If you die, if your house burns down, no problem: FourWinds will restore both you and it. Every ten years or so you get a body restore, so you never get old. Backups of yourself are made at least once a month; they are kept on file permanently. Convicted criminals are not incarcerated; they are reverted to an earlier backup, before they committed the crime, with all backups following the crime erased. Repeat offenders may suffer reversion back to their childhoods. But what happens when a B movie starlet’s body is found in a dumpster? And she doesn’t remember dying and there’s no record of her death and restoration in the system logs of FourWinds. It reveals a conspiracy by those who oppose the backup process, who feel that heaven has been stolen from them. They want to destroy FourWinds and restore death and reopen the gate to Paradise.
Best of All Worlds is another novel that needs rewriting: The protagonist, Albes Forlen has come to reject a belief in God following the tragic death of his son. He is a successful musician and author, with close ties to the entertainment industry in Southern California. An unexpected and mysterious visitor, the Wayfarer, appears at his door one day. Together they begin an experiment with history, to see if they can fix some of the most obvious and glaring mistakes, focusing first on trying to keep Hitler from destroying six million Jews. So they kidnap him as an infant and get a nice Rabbi and his wife to adopt him. Things don’t turn out quite as expected. Other experiments in changing history follow, resulting in even less satisfying outcomes; eventually, Albes tries to save his son’s life. The novel focuses on the question: if you could do it all over again, would you? If you could change the tragedies and mistakes in your life, would it make things better–or worse? Is this really the best of all possible worlds?
I’m in the process of writing a new novel called Cold, set on a tidally locked planet orbiting a red dwarf; it’s inhabitants live on the daylight side of the world, with no concept of day and night, and who never sleep. They have no concept of a year, and no nothing beyond the fact that their world is round and the backside is frozen and eternally dark. In an era roughly equivalent to the end of the 19th century, a scientific expedition sets out to explore the cold side for the first time.
And then there are all the fragments and starts of novels that I have written outlines for, that I have written the opening scene for, or maybe even a few chapters of. In going through my “novel” sub-directory tonight, I noticed a bunch of them. Here are some fragments. I wonder if I’ll ever get around to doing anything with them:
Thomas
Chapter One
“That doesn’t seem like a good idea.” Thomas frowned at the campfire.
Jesus’ face danced with orange and shadows from the flames. He was twirling a long stick with his left hand. “Like you would ever think it’s a good idea.” His lip twitched in a half-smile.
“They tried to kill you last time we went there.” Thomas poked at a glowing ember with his own stick. “I’ve been talking to people here, listening to them. The support here is strong. If we build on that base, then maybe in another six months…”
“We go tomorrow.” Jesus tossed the stick at the fire. Sparks showered the dark sky.
“But they’ll try to kill you again.”
“That’s the whole point, Thomas.”
* * *
The Instant Age
Chapter One
Not all human beings live but three score and ten years. Some are mutants that can never die.
This does not necessarily make them nice people, however.
It reminds you, in case you ever forgot, that some people really need to die.
And the sooner the better.
Or if that isn’t possible, just a prison that would never let them out would just barely do. Ordinary methods of punishment were not fatal, not even beheading. Ian had found that out the hard way. He shuddered at the memory. He suspected that more modern possibilities, such as being vaporized by an atomic blast at close range, or simply being tossed into a wood chipper might do it, but he wouldn’t bet on it. Though there was one person he wouldn’t mind testing that and any other methods out on. Sequentially.
Ian’s thoughts skittered away from him; he tried to gather them back together. Especially, he tried not keep them from traversing such well-worn paths. Letting them go there never did him any good, and just left him in a bad mood.
And he didn’t want to be in a bad mood. Not here. Not now.
The sounds from the bathroom indicated his new bride was just about done doing whatever it was that new brides did just before joining their new husbands for the first time in bed.
As quaint and old fashioned as it was, there was nothing better than marrying a virgin and waiting until the wedding night for the first time. Delayed pleasures were the grandest of all. So few seemed to appreciate that any more in the Instant age. But then, fast food was considered haute cuisine, so what could he expect?
For the briefest moment, the nearly two dozen previous wedding nights flitted through his mind, in sequential order, each similar to the previous encounter, though the difference between the first and the here and now spanned a radical difference in honeymoon styles, not to mention just a hair over two thousand years. And, except for the first night, so very long ago that it hardly seemed real, he had always been the actor, pretending that he, too, was a virgin. Only with his first wife did he not have to act. Trysta.
Long dead.
Had to try not to let his mind drift down that path, either. It was his honeymoon. Be happy. Everyone was always happy on their honeymoon, and it had been long enough. Far too long.
Grief was a permanent guest in his home. Sometimes he could pretend he wasn’t there, but pretending changed not a thing about reality.
His new bride exited the bathroom and framed herself at the foot of the bed, hands spread, a triumphant grin on her face.
“You’re so beautiful!” he managed to say. And then he blanked on her name. But by then she was in his arms.
* * *
“Sophie, dearest,” he began, interrupting himself with a sip of coffee. He remembered her name now. They were seated on the same side of a booth in the restaurant tucked off the lobby of their hotel in Tiberias. He let his eyes momentarily drift toward the window and caught a glint of the morning sunlight off the rippling waters of Lake Kinerret.
“It’s early; I don’t want to think about it. Let’s enjoy the moment, Ian.” Her mouth was set in a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “We can finish breakfast without rushing.”
The waitress appeared, pad in hand. “Ready to order?”
* * *
Unmerited
Chapter One
“Did you bring me the papers?” Paul lifted his right index finger and stroked the side of his nose gently, relieving a sudden and intense itch. As he lowered it, he brushed at the offending black hair that had displaced itself and caused the itch to begin with.
The man he was staring at twisted his mouth, pouted his lips and made a quick shake of his head. “No.”
“Then why are you here?”
“I thought you should know.”
“Know?”
Jonas’ face remained mildly twisted, but then, that seemed to fit his general disposition. “Miriam and her daughter are in custody.”
Paul let out a sigh. “That’s very good news. Ananias and the rest of the Sanhedrin will be pleased, too. I think.”
* * *
And there at at least twelve others–I kind of got overwhelmed and stopped counting: some mostly done, some with multiple chapters, some only bare outlines, some barely an idea quickly typed and filed on my hard drive. I’ll never want for something to write, to rewrite. The frustrating thing about it all is 1) finding time to do it all 2) coming up with some way of working through each of them 3) being able to focus on anything long enough to finish it, and finally 4) I’m constantly coming up with new ideas that I write down, think about, and find myself fiddling with. I don’t approach these things in order. Some ideas cut ahead in line, and insist on my working on them first. So some of these ideas have been waiting around a long time. Some of these stories will never get written; they’ll be stillborn things. And they’ll hang over my head making me feel guilty for not getting around to them, even as I rush off on other tangents.
And that’s just novel length fiction; then there are the short stories, some finished, some needing rewriting, some bare ideas. And the nonfiction books. And essays.
It’s a flood overwhelming me and I’m barely treading water.
I don’t need any more ideas. But they’ll keep coming. I can’t shut off the spigot. But I don’t suppose I’ll actually drown, either.
So please, if you have an idea for a story, for a novel, for a nonfiction book–just write it yourself.
