The 50,000th Stair Finale

I haven't been updating my blog as frequently this year as I like (I try to get a post up at least once a month), but I have by no means been writing less!  I have been working on The Midnight Files, my serial novel that will be three seasons (well, books, really) long.  

I'm not generally a super fast writer.  I average a book every 2 years, and that book averages 80k words.  I wrote Season 2, The 50,000th Stair, in two years . . . and it is the longest book I've ever written at 147k words.  So, you know, I am still writing, and I'll start writing Season 3 (which doesn't yet have a title) no later than November 1.  In the meantime, I'm working on a different writing project with a friend of mine, which I hope to zip through quite quickly.

But none of that is exactly what I wanted to talk about.  Instead, I'm going to tell you, in brief, the story of The 50,000th's Stair's finale.

The Midnight Files is written episodically -- and not just in that it's posted in episodes.  The format of the story is, per season:

1st, introductory, assignment
    Interlude at the Agency or in the past
2nd assignment
    Continuation of previous interlude
3rd assignment
    Continuation of previous interlude
4th assignment
    Continuation of previous interlude
5th, season finale, assignment
    Season extras

In each case, the assignments are of fairly comparable length except that the season finale is twice as long.  In the case of Season 1, the assignments are between 7k and 11k words long and the season finale is 21k words long.  In Season 2, the assignments are 14-22k words long, and the season finale is almost 36k words long.

As I was writing Season 2, I could guess the season finale was going to be a tizzy (I estimated 30-35k words) and that it was going to take a long time to write.  I therefore set myself up for success, and managed to write quickly enough to give me seven months to write it before it was due.

Seven months!  Plenty . . . right?

Well, apparently not, because six months in, I had very little.  I knew (and from the season title, this shouldn't be a spoiler) my agents were going to travel down to the 50,000th stair and find something very interesting there.  I had written the descent and found I couldn't write any further.  Anything I tried, anything I planned, felt boring.  What was more, even the descent felt boring.  I struggled with it, and six of my seven months evaporated.  I was getting desperate.  I knew I needed to come at it from a different angle.  But how?

Then my sister told me our mutual friend had lent her a book of Lovecraft's short stories.  Now, I knew my friend had just read the 800-page book, and I'd heard of Lovecraft and even tried to read some of his stories before, but without success.  All I had gleaned was that they had a very certain sort of atmosphere . . . and a different atmosphere and new direction was exactly what I needed.  

"Dearest sister!" I cried.  "Lend me the book!  I need it now, this moment!  Despite never having had any interest in Lovecraft before, I'm going to immediately devour the whole thing and base my own story on its prose style, tropes, and philosophy!"

The fact that I'd tried to read a couple of his stories before and failed meant nothing.  I began immediately, and did exactly what I said I would.  I read the stories, and I rewrote the descent in something vaguely reminiscent of his style.  (I reference him clearly enough that readers familiar with his work should definitely recognize the influence; but, obviously, the writing, ideas, and content are wholly my own.)  

It worked.  It worked marvelously.  The finale basically wrote itself.  I rewrote the whole thing in two weeks (the first version was only 27k; I tend to be sparse on first writes) and then deeply edited the first portion and got it double-proofread before my seven months were out.

And then I collapsed.  I wasn't done, but I collapsed, because I'd been working 40 hours a week and also writing 20 to 40 hours a week for a month.  

But I wasn't done.  A month passed as I recovered, and then . . . and then a new opportunity came my way, one unrelated to writing, and I desperately needed to immediately start work on it.  So I gave myself a week and a half, and during that time I binge-rewrote and edited (while still working nearly full time) the rest of it, edited it, got it proofread, and did the season extras while I was at it.

All in all, from start to finish, almost all the writing took place within a 3 month period, with 6 months of me going in circles.  The finale ended up being long enough that, with the season extras, I was left with a 6-month lead before the next part is due.  That should be plenty of time . . . right?

The next part will not be Lovecraftian.  Obviously.  The beauty of The Midnight Files is that each assignment is in a different style and referencing different tropes and subgenres.  As for what it will be--?

I'll find out, I guess.

(Incidentally, the book of Lovecraft short stories I read is by the Library of America.  I highly recommend it.  It is a very high quality print, and they somehow fit 800 pages into one inch of spine, so it doesn't kill my poorhands.  I also, after reading all those stories, ended up not only liking the vast majority of them, but even really liking the one I previously couldn't get through, "The Shadow Out of Innsmouth" -- which, incidentally, benefits from being read with its companion story, also in that book.  (I read the stories out of order; when I came back to that one, I'd read about half of the rest of the book.)  For me, Lovecraft is an author I had to invest in to enjoy . . . though I still find his Cthulhu lore less interesting than many of his other elements.  Certainly, as he himself acknowledged, his best story by far is "The Colour Out of Space"; it is the epitome of its type and essentially without flaw.  But every story has something to recommend it.  I bought my own copy after reading my friend's, and I'll read it again.  Pity my dog gnawed on it.)

Flora: 10-Year Adoption Anniversary

Ten years ago, on 7/3/2014, I adopted Flora from the National Mill Dog Rescue—a wonderful organization. Dog mills (or puppy mills) for those who don’t know, are breeders who breed dogs irresponsibility, sacrificing the health and happiness of the dogs to make a quick buck. If you want to learn more about that corner of evil and get really, really angry, go ahead and google more about dog mills.

In any case, I'd been looking for a dog for four months by that point. I wanted a beautiful dog (and I prefer red dogs) and, more than anything, one that would love me. I wasn't allowed a puppy at my apartment, I so looked specifically for a dog between one and four years old. I knew nothing about Cavalier King Charles Spaniels, but just before I went to the rescue to look at a different dog, I spotted Flora's face on the rescue's website and did some research on her breed. At 3-1/2 years old, she was just inside my age specifications. When I got to the rescue, I looked first at the other dog and then, uncertain, met Flora.

She pressed herself against my leg and stared up at my with her giant, melting-chocolate, romance-heroine spaniel eyes. I told the rescue that as long as she didn't have any health issues, I'd adopt her--and I took her home a week later, after she'd been spayed.

She was pretty doped up at first, and to be honest, I had no idea what I was getting in for. She did love me; she never barked at me or was alarmed by me. She slept with her head on my shoulder and was always on my lap. . . .

And she urinated on my bed when she was upset, barked constantly at whoever came by, couldn't be left for even a short time due to severe separation anxiety that led her to cry the whole time I was gone. . . .

She had never gone up stairs, never had her belly rubbed, never seen her own reflection, never stepped on autumn leaves. . . .

Cavaliers are a breed who, beyond anything, love their people, and Flora now had a person. And I had a dog. I had someone to take on walks, someone to show off to my friends, someone to care for.

Flora and I have now lived together for 10 years, and our lives have wrapped around each other. The job I have, the way I designed my house, even the kitten I adopted -- all were because of Flora.

She's old now, of course, but still spry. She has the two inevitable Cavalier King Charles Spaniel issues (stage 2 mitral valve heart disease and syringomyelia), but both are controlled by medication; and other than that and a tiny touch of arthritis in her back, according to the bloodwork/ultrasounds/ x-rays she had half a year ago . . . "her values look like she's a puppy."

She's always been incredibly healthy, especially considering her background. We still walk about two miles a day. She still tears up and eats tissues. She is calm now, and friendly, and hardly barks at all. She goes up to strangers (including children) for pets. She follows my brother-in-law around for treats and loves my young nieces. She is happy and she is loved.

On this our anniversary, I will be donating to the wonderful National Mill Dog Rescue, website https://nmdr.org/. I highly encourage any of you who are looking for a place to do some good to do the same. And as for you who want to adopt a mill dog -- they can be the most wonderful companions. But be prepared also to be very patient. These dogs are horribly traumatized.

And thank you everyone who has helped them.

Day 1: 7/3/14

Ten years later

Books I Would Like to Write (But Probably Never Will): Part 3

Read Part 1 and Part 2

 

I Play Both Hero and Villain

So, it’s not impossible that I’ll one day write this book—perhaps in serial format—but I’m not sure I could write it the best.  The idea behind it is in the spirit of Japanese light novels.  Many of these follow protagonists who become either the hero or the villain, and so it occurred to me that it would be nice to have a story that did both.

It could be hilarious.

We begin by seeing a cliché villain-hero end fight:

“Do you think, hero,” the dark lord demanded, “that because you killed a few piddling minions and overcame my traps, you are a match for me?  Hah!  I am ten thousand times greater than the greatest of these, and I will crush you under my heel.”  Unlike before, when his voice had seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere, now it was definitely located at the top of the stairs—at the figure who stood there, swathed in shadows.

Except that the hero is strangely incompetent at heroing, so the villain has to keep covering for him, something that annoys the villain greatly:

The Shadowfiend currently fulfilling the role of dark lord in this second-rate backwater, was significantly less amused.  What was the multiverse coming to that he, Toloman Vraak, had to deal with such incompetence?  Yet it had been increasingly like this for years.  He, who had once played the best roles, the deepest darkness battling the most shining golden light . . . he who had gone up against Tom Griffin in the most epic battle ever recorded . . . how could he be pitted against mediocre hero after mediocre hero?

Toloman finishes up his villain role by “dying” whereupon he returns to his agency, fed up with this nonsense, only to be told he’s being retired:

The Fox puffed out his breath.  He was, in his own opinion, a good-natured and put-upon soul, and he wasn’t without sympathy for the villain before him.  But he was also a man with a job, and Toloman was making that job a lot more difficult.  “I’ve explained this,” he said.  “Old-fashioned villains are old-fashioned, Toloman.  They haven’t been in vogue for decades.  You have to move with the times if you want the big roles.”

“I,” said Toloman, “am classic.”

“Yes—exactly!  That’s the problem.”

In a fit of rage (he is a professional villain, and magically powerful), Toloman kills his boss and escapes into a world to which a hip, sexy villain-type has been sent.  There, he intends to replace his rival and live out his glory years with one final chance to be the perfect villain.  He even plans to sneakily train the hero to be a worthy adversary.  But when he disguises himself as a wise old hermit and meets the “hero,” he is disgusted by what he finds:

“If you want a puppet you can push into saving the world or some other nonsense, look somewhere else,” George said.  “I’m no hero, and I’d just as well this garbage world burn.”  He seized his shovel, surprised at how angry he had become, and for the third time turned to go.

 “You are right,” said the hermit, “when you say you are no hero.”  He threw his arms up and shadows poured forth.  George only had time to see blue flames burst through the blindfold before the shadows stripped the flesh from his bones like a sock.  It took him a little more time to die, but not much.

Toloman clutched the discarded skin in his hand, seized by the determination that had barely begun, back in the Fox’s office.  He was still crying, the tears evaporating in the heat of his eyes.  “You were not worthy to be a hero,” he snarled at the skin, ‘and I will not have you sullying the name of Tom Griffin or Alan Sun or Owen MacLeon.  A true hero is brave and self-sacrificing.  A true hero believes in people no matter what.  Are there no heroes left in the multiverse?”

There was only one possible answer, and it bloomed within him like magic, pulling him to his feet.  He threw back his head and laughed.  “If a villain is only as good as his hero,” he cried, “let the hero be as good as his villain!  Then let me play hero and villain both—as both roles ought to be played.  Let us have a story such as has not been seen since Tom Griffin fought Toloman Vraak!”  In one movement, Toloman pulled on the hero’s skin, letting it mold over his own and sticking up the holes with shadows. 

Half a minute later, George Moon stood there once more, alone, with such an expression on his face as had never appeared there before.  “For you, Tom,” he said, “and for Alan and Owen and Ben—and even for you, Fox.  Let the Game begin!”

For the rest of the story, Toloman goes back and forth, trying to juggle both roles.  Being a hero is harder than it looks, and he keeps getting it wrong, because he is acting as the villain perceives the hero to act, rather than how the hero actually acts.  After the Agency discovers the Fox dead and figures out what happened, it gets Tom Griffin (the hero Toloman admired most from back in the day, and now a retired king) in after him.  Tom Griffin decides to beat the evil overlord by mentoring “George,” who is really Toloman in disguise, to be a true hero . . .

Oh, I love this idea so much.  It is absolutely delightful and potentially hilarious.  Maybe I will write it someday, possibly as a serial novel; but it intimidates me.  Since I really would like to read this book, I AM MAKING THE CONCEPT AVAILABLE UNDER A CREATIVE COMMONS COPYRIGHT.  That means you are able to use the basic concept (though preferably not the same character names), including for commercial use, as long as you properly credit me as follows:

Original story concept by Deborah J. Natelson (www.deborahjnatelson.com), used under a Creative Commons license.  

Please also send me a copy!

 

Other Books

There are a couple of other books floating about in my head, which I may or may not write; and, since this is getting pretty long, I’m not going to include here.  Ultimately, what I decide to write and not write isn’t entirely up to me: as demonstrated by the number of half-books I’ve written (including, alas, the sequel to Bargaining Power—which, when I write it, will be entirely different from the tens of thousands of words I’ve already put to paper), it’s what I’m able to write.  How strange, wonderful, terrible . . . and human.

Books I Would Like to Write (But Probably Never Will): Part 2

Read Part 1 HERE

 

The World of Magic and Faerie

Swallowgate and Logic’s Emporium of Stolen Memories are in the same universe as each other, along with two others. One is Underground Highway 51, where you can find anything you’re looking for.  I never even started this book, but you can see a reference to it in Swallowgate: it’s where Mort’s mother came from.

 

The other book, The Nightmare Children of Faerie, is finished.  It’s just not good.  I couldn’t make it be what I wanted it to be, and it’s in some ways derivative of other books.  Since I created a proof copy to use to completely rewrite it, though, I do have a back cover summary:

“In the Land of Faerie, in the Kingdom of Nightmare . . .

“Something has gone very wrong.  The entire country is fraying at the edges, and nightmares aren’t just being sent to Earth anymore; they’re also invading the land. 

“In order to save not only the countries of Nightmare and Dream but all of Faerie, four siblings must discover first what’s happening and then how to fix it.”

The third country of Sleep, by the way, was the Sleep Sands: a massive desert where the sand men lived.  I had thoughts at one point of writing another book in this country, about a sand man who fell in love with a human woman and kept coming to visit her as she slept, inadvertently sprinkling too much sand on her so that she was always sleepy.  This final concept will be incorporated in some form into a sequel to The Land of the Purple Ring (if I ever write a sequel, which I don’t know).

 

The Merlinmobile

A man buys an old van, which is painted in wizardly swirls and stars, from a circus.  He soon finds that when he drives it, he ends up driving into other worlds, where people come to him with their bizarre problems.  He calls himself Merlin to these people, which he thinks is hilarious (and which his son thinks is “horribly embarrassing, Dad”).

 

Unsympathetic Magic

I wrote a short story with this title in my collection, The Day the Exclamation Marks Came, and I thought it had real potential.  Ernest is an insurance collector in a world that is half-magical, half-not.  He himself isn’t magical, except for the ability to see magical things.  He is middle-aged, overweight, and not impressed by anyone and especially not by his partner (who is a comic foil, not a romantic interest).  He is such a fun character to write.  My plan was to have him get wrapped up in a murder mystery.  But again, the story never got off the ground.

 

Night Castle

This is another book I wrote several quite solid chapters on, only to get stuck.  It takes place in the Night Castle, a huge and extremely magical pyramid-like structure with a beating heart. 

The corridor lay empty and silent when they returned to it.  As with all corridors in the Night Castle’s outer later, this one was dotted with windows tall enough to climb out of but no wider than a hand.  When the sun angled just right, long narrow strips of light illuminated the hall and kept the opposite wall bathed in light.  Between, above, and beneath each window twisted ivy, vibrant green and pulsing with life.  That ivy didn’t grow in full sunlight, but one could find it everywhere else in the Night Castle, growing voraciously.  Once in a while, it would become tangled and choke itself, and the Great Sorcerer or his apprentice would cut it back; but otherwise, they let it grow.

Increasingly, magical monsters (based on viruses and bacteria) invade and have to be fought back in various epic action sequences by The Great Sorcerer.  After his master is slain before him and he goes to extremes to save the Night Castle, Ezra becomes the new Great Sorcerer. 

The pain receded in an instant, and with it that deep knowledge.  But he knew he could call upon it at any time—that he could call upon the Night Castle, and she would respond.

The old Great Sorcerer was dead.  He was Great Sorcerer now.

And Vashti was coming for him.

He succeeds, but in doing so becomes trapped and unable to help the Night Castle for a long time.  When he escapes, he’s damaged and the Night Castle is overrun.  Desperate for help, Ezra goes to find an apprentice, only to find that the overrunning of the Night Castle has bled out into the land, which is also having trouble with monsters that have evolved from the ones in the Night Castle.

One apprentice clearly won’t be enough, so Ezra brings in an entire class full, including our other protagonist, Asher.  The Great Sorcerer’s special ability is to split himself into multiple selves (an ability somewhat damaged by his imprisonment), whereas Asher has some precognitive ability and ability to answer questions—which he sometimes has trouble expressing due to a stutter. 

“I heard he sees visions,” Tevye went on.  “That he can answer any question and can see past close doors.”

“I hope,” Zephaniah threatened, “you aren't attempting to blame my son for anything.”

“Who's blaming him?  I just want to know why he didn't warn someone that this was going to happen.”

“He did warn someone,” Yiskah said, standing on his chair.  “He warned us.  It's our fault we didn't understand until it was too late.  And we got there in time to help.”

“You got there in time to nearly get yourselves killed along with the rest of us!”

“Peace,” said Rabbi Henschel.  He was the sort of person people listened to, and everyone turned to him.  “Instead of blaming Asher, we should use his abilities.  Asher, come here.”

Zephaniah pushed him forward, and he had no choice but to obey.

Henschel laid a companionable hand on the boy's shoulder.  “Tell us, Asher.  That man who saved us.  Is he really the Great Sorcerer?”

Asher looked around him, at the adults staring, waiting for his reply.  His fingers felt numb.  “I d-don't know,” he whispered.

“You're doing it wrong,” Benaiah said.

“You have to ask him where something is,” said Zephaniah's head shop assistant, who often asked just such questions.  “Asher, where is the Great Sorcerer?”

“B-behind the walls of the Night Castle,” Asher said.  “In a roomm without ceiling or floor.”

The townsfolk gasped at this and began to wonder.  Many of them had not heard of Asher's abilities, because they did not associate closely with day laborers or shop assistants.  They had their pride.

“Now,” said the head shop assistant, “where is the man who saved us Wednesday from the ahemaitwu?”

“B-behind the walls of the Night Castle,” Asher said, knowing this was true.  “In a roomm without ceiling or floor but with floating sparks like stars.”

Due to some misunderstandings and miscommunications, their relationship is initially awful; but through their mutual work on behalf of the Night Castle, they come to respect each other.

Several of the parts I’ve written could be easily turned into standalone short stories, so I might do that for a future collection of short stories.