Going Viral

The writing deadline crept up on me quicker than I thought, so Going Viral ended up not being done. 1400 words out of maybe 2000. We'll see. Read and give me an opinion.

Going Viral

Finn had sworn he would never be in New York in July. 104 fucking degrees, and enough humidity to make the air tighten around his head like a vice. He had a throbbing heat headache to go with his stomach ache, and he was on a nice mix of Modafinil E, Seroquel, Enki inhibitors and Advil. He hadn't slept since he got to the city.

For four days Finn just drifted around. He rode the subway for hours and hours and walked aimlessly through the Village, down streets lined with trees and tattoo parlors. Drank shit coffee in small diners and ate falafel from Turkish street vendors. The Enki virus made his stomach churn despite the inhibitors, but he needed sustenance.

He bought a prepaid phone to replace the iPhone he had slipped into the pocket of a truck driver outside Boston, and a .357 Smith & Wesson from a pawn shop in Brooklyn. Finn didn’t know jack about handguns, but the revolver appealed to him in a vaguely Dirty Harry kind of way, and he did need protection.

There was no direct evidence that LookingGlass were closing in, but he knew it was only a matter of time. They wanted the virus and would stop at nothing to get it back from him. The morons thought he simply carried it around.

Phelps, the director of LookingGlass' security division, was ex-NSA and Finn was certain he still had friends there. Echelon, KH-12 satellites and God knew what else Phelps could get access to would have found him in hours if he hadn't taken precautions.

The store was on 44th Street. ”Internet access inside” a sign over the door said in failing neon letters, ”1 hour photo” next to it. Inside was a cramped space filled with I heart NY tshirts, bags of M&M and racks of cheap cigarettes. In the back on a table sat two aging PCs held together with duct tape and prayers, surrounded by a labyrinth of cables, empty coffee cups and overflowing ashtrays. Finn never saw anyone else use them.

”Hello, boss,” the Persian proprietor always said as Finn walked in. He called everyone boss and smoked constantly.

Finn went to the store every night to check his email. He went through two different anonymizing services and a desktop machine he had set up years ago, hidden in a abandoned warehouse in downtown Boston, leeching off a wide open WiFi connection in a nearby hotel. Paranoia had been his close friends for years. The Seroquel helped.

One email a day from Connor, his supervisor at LookingGlass, and one from Patterson, the company shrink. Finn always deleted them without opening them. The first day there had been a panicked message from his ex-wife Mary, after LookingGlass goons posing as FBI agents had searched her house on a fake warrant, but since then nothing.

The fourth day Finn needed to sleep, however reluctantly, and took a room at the Y, paying in cash. He tried to go to the bathroom, but nothing came out. The virus ate whatever he put in him. He lay down on the bed, fully clothed, the revolver on the nightstand, and set his alarm for six hours. Sleep, and then it was time to leave New York. Keep moving.

Not in a gay way

Sunday night. Tired. Warm. But in a good mood.

I was killed in the write-athon on Friday night. K I L L E D. I wrote 1100 words, which ain't bad. Palin poured out 1900 words. So now I owe her a cookie. I have been pondering a "double or nothing" kind of thing.

Earlier in the week, Peeko the Elf (previously known as Charley Horse) went on a scouting mission and found us another comic bookstore and an Indian restaurant. So yesterday we went, Peeko, Meta, Palin, Barbecue and I.

Newbury Comics turned out not to be much of a comic book store, with only one corner of actual comic books. They did however have a large selection of action figures, tees and other merch from various pop culture franchises, as well as well-stocked shelves off both CDs and DVDs. I could have spent all my money.

I bought a bunch of blind assortment Kid Robot figures from The Simpsons, Futurama and Family Guy. They turned out to be Bender, Groundskeeper Willie, Patty, Bender again, and this guy:

Best. Action figure. Ever.

Death, from Family Guy. A whopping 3 inches tall.

I also bought various knick-knacks for friends, the new This Will Destroy You album (mind-blowing), The Acacia Stain's "Wormwood", a Decepticon sticker and some more geeky stuff. We're going back there this coming week. I want to buy more Kid Robot figures. I want Zoidberg!

The Indian place turned out to be really good, so we're definitely going back there. There's also an Army surplus store around there that I want to check out.

So. Maybe a word or two about writing, since that's why I'm here.

My post-apocalyptic fantasy story turned out to be an apocalyptic story. As in it takes place during the apocalypse. The world ends. It wasn't planned. It just happened, and carried me with it. Go where the story goes.

Over the past four weeks we've learned a lot of techniques around writing. During my learning period I will focus on a few of these techniques for each story. For the fantasy story I have focused on consistent point of view (especially challenging since I am using a different point of view character than the protagonist), a solid three act structure, submitting a story that's below 6000 words in length and without a synopsis, and writing a swordfight. I think (hope) I will accomplish all four.

I have also started on something else, which I may or may not finish. I have several options for my last story. If all else fails and I run out of time I can always submit the werewolf story to the class as well.

Doing the crits today, I realised just how much this class is improving people's writing. I hope others see the same kind of evolution in my writing. Today I've read one story about a female merc in the aftermath of a bloody battle, one about a plush Cthulhu doll (Ph'nglui mglw'nafh Cthulhu R'lyeh wgah'nagl fhtagn!) and one dark fantasy Western. All three really good, all three enough to make me doubt my own writing skills as well as find immense inspiration. One of the weirdest combos of emotions, and one that keeps coming back when faced with the texts of others.

Today horror author Gary Braunbeck arrived. He will be our writer in residence for the whole coming week. He will hold lectures every day, do critiques all week long and hold private meetings with a few students, including me. I sent him my werewolf Viking story, "The Long Night", last week. I expect him to tear it apart and I expect I will learn a lot from that.

We held the reception for him tonight. He was funny, open and had good insights. I am really looking forward to this week.

We've been on a few nightly walks. I declined a midnight walk twenty minutes ago, because I wanted to write and then sleep. Palin's answer? Sleep is for babies and dead people. My reply? And for large Swedish bearded men.

After the reception we went to a pizza place. As we were finishing up, a big bearded guy walks up to our table and says to me:

"Not in a gay way, but I was watching you from across the room, and you emote really well." O . . . K . . ?

He went on to explain that he was an actor who just got a part in an independent movie, and he thought my facial expressions were particularly interesting for his character. While he was telling me this, he managed to get the phrase "Not in a gay way" in two or three more times.

Finally he asked for my number ("Not in a gay way") so we maybe could talk about it. I told him the sad truth that I would only be here two more weeks, and later back to Sweden. He looked sad, and we left.

So now I've been hit on by a guy. Wohoo! Ego boost! Because no way was that simply about my facial expressions. Hilarious. And props to the guy for actually having the courage to come up and talk.

Somewhere in all this the nickname Fjordface was applied to me by Meta. I can't even remember how or when.

Finally, a quote from Mr Braunbeck:

If I see one more zombie novel I'm going to put my head in a propeller.

Peeko turned kind of pale at this, since the short story Braunbeck is critiquing in private with him has a reanimated corpse in it. The results of that crit shall be very interesting.

Why is it late?

This was supposed to have been posted last night, but Blogger was giving me attitude, so here goes.

0110. I have no idea why I am up this late. The crits took a lot longer than ever, and I feel like I have nothing to say. I've tried to get to grips with a swordfight in my fantasy story, and it doesn't feel right no matter how much I twist and turn it.

So I give up for now. It's nice and cool outside, and with two windows wide open I have enough air in here to be able to sleep now.

First, a quick recap of our day. Still talking about style in the lectures, continuing about weakness in style and then on to techniques to strengthen style. We learned that "it was" and "there was" are evil, and should be exterminated, and we talked about why you should put the important stuff in the beginning and end and not the middle of a sentence (it's because us lazy readers only really pay attention at those points). And lots of other stuff.

I finally managed to get a pic of a chipmunk

I slept for an hour after class. I don't get the people that stay up until 0300, writing. How come they're not absolute zombies? Sarah Palin sat up all night today. Not a moment of sleep. She was in class, all smiles. They must have some really groovy drugs over in the other house.

Oh yeah. The house. This is Falvey House, where I'm staying. Two apartments upstairs, housing the five male students in the class, two downstairs housing three of the girls/women and the Commodore.

College housing in all its glory

We took another late night walk. Saw some more fireflies, dancing in the tops of trees. So cool. And we took a stroll to the cemetary, where the monks are laid to rest (we think). Eerie place in the dark.

As we walked back, Charley remarked: I can't believe we haven't made a late night food run.

And it's true. We have been far too efficient when it comes to keeping snacks in the house. This has to change. We need more of a college feeling. Studying like crazy and going out at midnight to buy donuts and coffee. And here's the pathetic part. We will plan it. Yeah. We're adults now.

We have lots of laughs in our apartment, something which isn't always good when it comes to productivity. The following quotes are connected, but were uttered days apart.

Charlie: I love it when it becomes too much for Meta and he puts on his headphones to shut me out. It gives me such a sense of pride.

Meta: And eventually, if you don't stop, I will keep my headphones on while I choke you.

Not that it's that bad. Yet. But it is funny though.

Saturday slam!

Every year, Odyssey holds a slam at the Barnes & Noble bookstore in Nashua, New Hampshire. Odyssey students stand up in the coffee shop part of the store and read a story no longer than five minutes in length.

So off we went. Five of us in Charley Horse's car. For some reason we had hand-written directions on a piece of paper instead of using one of the smartphones along in the car. We didn't get lost, really, we just weren't sure of where we were...

Barbecue Man whipped out his phone. Tap, tap, tap. Turn here. Go here. After a while, it dawned on us that we were in a holding pattern. Round and round we went. Which wasn't that strange, we realised. Barbecue Man is a retired air traffic controller. Holding patterns is what he does.

This lovely exchange took place.

Dundee: We're going the right way. I remember trees.

Barbecue Man: Yeah. There was also an oxygen nitrate atmosphere.

But we arrived in time. We had time for lunch before the slam, and ate at a micro brewery pub in Nashua. I had a killer lobster stuffed haddock with scallops. Nom nom nom.

Then off to the bookstore. Walked around in the store for a while. Bought some stuff. And then did the slam. There were some former Odyssey graduates there, and some people that had actually come to listen. Wow. So we read our stories. Commodore (formerly known as Assistant Teacher) and Evil Overlord (formerly known as Teacher) also read a text each, which was cool. We haven't heard anything from them before.

I suck at writing flash fiction. So I was in awe of some of the stories that were read. In awe. There are some hideously creative people here. A source of endless inspiration and angst.

Afterwards we learned that the slam had been broadcast on the store PA. So everyone heard our texts. Even in the bathrooms appearantly. Commodore tried the innocent act, but we all know she knew. Curse her and her puppet dragon!

And then the quote of the day.

Charley: They don't celebrate birthdays in Sweden.

Sarah Palin: That's because they all come out of rocks.

Thanks, Sarah. Really.

Current

Current text: The Long Night. Vikings and were-creatures.

Current attitude to text: frustration.

Current state of mind: slight panic (text deadline 0730 tomorrow morning).

Current state of body: hot.

Current state of headache: a four on a scale of one to ten, where zero is absolutely none and ten is on the floor curled up in a foetal position crying.

Current state of stomach: hungry.

Current state of room: messy.

Current schedule for the day: write, eat, write, write, breathe, write, write, write, write, eat, write, write, write, maybe sleep.

More later. Maybe.

Plot matters

Yesterday and today have been mostly about plot.

An idea is not a plot, kids. It goes like this:

1. Idea. The premise. Describe it in one line.

2. Story. Characters and goals and conflicts.

3. Plot. How the conflict develops, what the obstacles are, what the climax and resolution are. This is where I get lost.

I have no problem coming up with ideas that are fairly original (not just my opinion, some people that should know have said so too). I have no problem coming up with interesting characters. Hell, if it's taught me nothing else, 20+ years of RPGs should have given me that. But plot gets me every time. I have an idea but I can never get it through the whole way. Confusion ensues. So how to do it?

"Drama is the quest of the hero to overcome those things which prevent him from achieving a specific, acute goal" - David Mamet.

In other words, unless the protagonist has a strong desire to reach a certain goal and has to fight, and fight hard, to overcome obstacles in the way of him reaching that goal, the story is boring. If the goal and the conflict and the obstacles aren't clear to you, there is no plot. Confusion ensues.

We went on to talk about scenes, chapters and acts as building blocks of the plot, and how each should be structured. There's so much theory that I have no grasp of, but once it's laid out in front of me, it's so obvious that a lot of the stories I really love follow these theories. There is always the choice to break the rules, as long as you're aware you're doing so and giving the reader something else to make up for it, but in general, one should stick to the rules. If not? Confusion ensues.

Right after class, I went to the reading room, which is nice and cool, did my two critiques and then tried to smack some sense into my scifi story, due in the submission folder tomorrow morning at 0730. I wrestled with it for hours. Turned it in around 1800, today. I'm not happy with it, but I reached a point where I noticed I was screwing it up even worse by working on it, so I just turned it in.

Tomorrow Theodora Goss, our next guest lecturer, arrives. My scifi story will be critiqued inclass by my fellow students, as well as Teacher and Theodora. Nervous, but looking forward to it.

For dinner, Meta, Charley and I went to Consuelo's Taqueria, in downtown Manchester. We've had Mexican food a few times since we got here, but that's been of the fastfoodish kind, drenched in cheese and fat. Now? A perfect burrito with rice, beans, lettuce and sautéed pork. Glorious. We'll definitely be going back there, especially since that big bad boy and a drink only set me back nine dollars. Sweet.

And of course I can't leave you without some quotes.

We talked briefly about the lack of plot in horror movies, and also the lack of true suspense as the stupid teenages, yet again, go into the dark room where the strange noise is coming from. Teacher saw a bright side:

"We can always enjoy them being chopped up, which is another kind of pleasure."

We critiqued a story in class with the words "Erotic Adventures" in the title. Not much erotica, but quite a bit of romance. Charley was agitated:

"I wanted sex. You promised me sex. I'm away from my wife for six weeks."

Imagine or die

The day started with a lecture from Barry Longyear. The subject: Imagine or die.

He spoke a lot about how we associate different levels of information in our minds, and how creating such an association, whether consciously or subconsciously, can open up all kinds of stories.

He went on to talk about his own process, his research, how he keeps things organised and how he keeps his imagination running using external cues. Very interesting stuff, and a very candid view into the mindset and process of an author who's been doing this for decades.

During the lecture I felt my apprehension for my afternoon one on one with Barry growing. He had been sent one of my stories, And Then There Was The Word, two weeks ago, and had written notes.

It's at moments like these, when I'm sitting there listening to someone like Barry lecturing, that I really don't understand how I ended up here. This is truly a once in a lifetime experience, and I am so happy I came here.

Then on to my one on one. My language was "exquisite", which felt very good hearing. Then the artillery came out. Bang! Bang! Bang! Suffice to say that I will now put that story in a dark corner of my harddrive for at least three months, then take it out, sit down with notes from both Teacher and Barry, and pull the whole thing apart. Try different things, shift POV, restructure the plot, mess with the setting, all of it. I love the premise of the story, but obviously it doesn't work as a whole.

Still, it wasn't so bad. I learned a lot today, both from the lecture and my one on one.

The weekend will be spent writing. I have four stories left to turn in before the class is over. On Monday I will get in-class critique on the story I turned in today (Sacrifice - about a man who finds a god of war in Iraq). On Friday I will get in-class critique, with added opinions from writer Theodora Goss, on a story I hopefully will finish over the weekend. It's hardcore sci fi, something I haven't tried before, and I am really going out there with the POV character being a shapeshifting alien. We'll see how that goes.

Today we also had our weekly class mixer. Last Friday, barbecue. Today, pizza. We played a setting game, to help us think outside the box on setting. We went far far outside the box, and much laughter ensued.

Best quotes of the day:

Barbecue Man: Everybody needs goals.

Me: Everybody needs trolls?

Barbecue Man: Yeah. That too.

This one requires context. Charley Horse borrowed my umbrella (more rain today! Hooray!) and found the receipt for it. Thus:

Your umbrella cost 99 femenarkenborken.

Börk börk börk!