Experiment in Fiction 1

The following is an excerpt from a story I started nearly four years ago.  I haven't touched it in a long time, and I'm not sure I will.  I wanted to throw it up here, however, in the hopes that I'll get some feedback on it and see if it's worth pursuing.  I don't know if it is.  I haven't read this in forever and don't know if I'd word it the same way now, and it's not that far along if I have to.  If you like it, sound off.  If it's not your cup of tea, tell me that too.  I'm just exploring right now before I begin writing something new in earnest, so your input is valuable and very important to me.  Thanks, everyone!

She was watching the clock, working quickly, mopping as fast as she could. The melting, slushy snow from the dirt-and-gravel parking lot and gas islands made for mud the consistency of ketchup, and the black-and-white tile floor was slick. There was no way she was going to mop earlier in the day; every trucker that tramped through the tiny outpost on the edge of Utah would have messed it up anyway. The tiny gas station was the last stop before Wendover, and the gambling haven of Nevada. It was the only thing for literally dozens of miles around, and set off the highway to the south, apart from the underpass of the eastbound highway lanes. As such, it went from frenetically busy to completely dead at no particular intervals. That was maddening; aside from the usual cast of four or five folks from town that came in every morning for their coffee, the gas station was an oasis of life and fuel for the truckers and travelers traversing the nation across Interstate 80. They came in at all hours and in great waves.

She was slopping the muck around the floor and watching the clock edging toward closing time: 11:30 p.m. Once that clock struck the magic hour, Lucy Wallace could lock the doors, shut off the lights and signs, and then pack it in for the night. She was forty-eight years old, and had worked for the same gas station since her husband has passed away three years ago. Despite the odd hours, she preferred the closing shift; as a rule, it was quieter and there was a lot less for her to do. She often whiled away the evening watching TV on the tiny portable behind the counter, or reading romance novels. Her dark hair, colored once a month – nothing wrong with coloring the gray, she told herself – was cut sensibly to the shoulder, and her lovely blue eyes hid her age. But, her toughened hands and calloused knuckles betrayed the fact that she worked in a menial job. That realization, as she looked at her rough hands and short nails, brought her back to the task at hand. The crap on the floor would wait for the morning clerk, Evan Morris. Evan was a jackass anyway … let him clean it up.

She was just smiling to herself at the idea of leaving some of this mess behind, and the thought of the coffee and brandy she was going to have before going to bed, when she saw the headlights emerge in the blackness of the night from beneath the underpass. There wasn’t anything else on this end of the road; it dead-ended into the gas station. There was no doubt where the vehicle was heading.

“Son of a …” Lucy grimaced.

The dim, aging bulbs of the light from the gas station island barely illuminated the dark pick-up truck as it crunched and slid to a halt beside the pumps. A man with his collar turned to the mountain winds and cold, a ball cap pushed down over his brow, hunched over the nozzle and began to wrestle with the gas cap on the dirty truck.

Lucy sighed angrily and slammed the mop against the wall, then moved back toward the counter. She tried to plaster on her most pleasant face; it was the last customer of the day. It wouldn’t hurt to be nice.

The door opened with a wash of cold night air, and the man in the fleece-lined denim coat, buttoned to his chin shuffled in. The tail of the coat, she noted, was dirty about the bottom where it hung to mid-thigh. The jeans that bagged around his legs were dirty, too. His hands were grimy and the area around the nails and under them black. He looked like he’d been traveling a long, long time, and the journey wasn’t an easy one so far.

His head was bowed as he fished through his wallet, his beat-up work boots slushing through the remnants of the mud on the floor. She watched him out of the corner of her eye while she reached beneath the counter and checked the amount on the pump. The pumps were old, analog pumps; more than one customer had commented that they hadn’t seen pumps like that for at least ten or fifteen years. She noted what the dollar amount was, and shut off the controls to prevent any other late arrivals from keeping her yet longer.

Lucy was finishing up, noticing that he had moved off toward a freezer full of cold drinks, and she decided to turn off the lights outside, and the “OPEN” neon sign. As she flipped the switches and got the keys ready to lock the door behind the man milling his way around the store, looking at the items on the shelves, she cursed softly under her breath. Hurry up already, she thought venomously. You’re not the only one with someplace to be, jerk.

She finally began jangling the keys in her hand, trying to make as much noise as possible, hoping he’d take the hint and leave. At last, she heard him shuffling toward the front, head down again, the bill of his hat hiding his features from her as he continued fishing through his wallet.

He put the wallet away, and reached inside his coat, simultaneously placing a bottle of soda pop and a bag of chips on the counter.

“That it for ya?” Lucy asked, trying – unsuccessfully – not to sound annoyed.

“Cigarettes?” he asked, head still down, looking at the items on the counter.

“Sure, what brand?” she said, the irritation creeping more deeply into her tone.

“Uh, Marlboro Reds,” he drawled.

He had an accent, but she couldn’t identify it. She reached over her head into the cigarette dispenser above the counter, her hand scanning over the boxes for the right ones, and noticed something flash near the counter. She felt a peculiar pressure on her chest and upper abdomen, and she jumped in start at the sudden pang she felt and the blast of light.

She looked down, suddenly feeling light-headed, and that’s when she saw that she’d been cut, and blood was gushing all over the counter and floor.

She opened her mouth in horror, and looked then, into his eyes, those cold, snake-like eyes, the world swimming around her, her head light and spinning, vision tunneling, seeing but not seeing as he casually and deliberately cut the cord on the telephone.

Interestingly, Lucy noted, she was never able to scream.

Technorati Tags: fiction

Okay -- What Would YOU Like to See?

It goes without saying that I need to write another book.  In fact, I should be doing that already.  But ... I haven't started a new one yet.

Why?  I'm glad you asked.

I don't have any clue what to write about, that's why.

See, I have this weird thing that happens when I write.  I finish the thing I'm working on and I feel emptied out, dried up, and done.  I don't know why.  I focused a lot of energy and attention on Ghost Hunters and I'm happy with the first draft so far.  What that means, though, is that I didn't have a lot of time or energy to devote to coming up with my next story.

So here's my question to you, Blogosphere:

What would you like to see a story about?

I was thinking about another story with our three intrepid paranormal investigators.  I'm just not sure what kind of adventure they should have this time.  I don't want to be stereotypical.  I guess I could give them another story with ghosts, but ... meh.  I don't want it to become old hat, you know?  I could have them encounter some other otherworldly phenomenon or presence, but what?

See the problem?

Or should I just move on to something else altogether?  You know, a new story with new characters in a new setting with a new style?  Should I try my hand at another genre?  (I thought this was horror, by sweet, insightful Sherri has taught me that this story falls under fantasy, not horror.  I'm not sure whether or not I know how to write horror ... should I try that?)

Or should I make my next post a question-and-answer thing with the characters from the story?  You know, I'll set up a post, those who want to can leave questions targeted at one or more of the characters, and I'll answer some of them in character on the next blog post?  Would that be fun?  Boring?  Stupid?  How many of you would submit questions?  It would help me flesh out the characters, and what I say would become canon for the characters ... how's that?  And, if you have what I consider to be the best question, I'll use you as a character in the book ... but you have to sign your rights away and agree that anything I do to you is okay.  ;)

What do you think, blogophiles?  Sound off, let me know.  I can't wait to hear what you think!

I may do another software review tomorrow.  Hope to see you all then!

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: writing, blogging, random thoughts

This is One Grateful Traffic Whore

I want to take a minute to thank all of you who have visited this blog and took time from your busy lives to read my posts.  I know it's hard to make time to do that with the way most of us have things going on.  I'm very, very grateful.

After I posted my last "traffic whore" post, my views went through the roof.  I can't thank you all enough, whether someone else asked you to come or whether you found me through other means.  If you were sent here by some anonymous (to me, anyway) director of traffic, please thank them for me.  If you found you like what you see, I'm even more happy.  If you came on your own, and you enjoyed reading what you found, I'm so glad for that.  It makes me happy to know I could help you pass time in enjoyment.

I'd like to especially thank Raga6 for her timely comments, letting me know that the Ghost Hunters story was a way to escape the workaday life and have a good time.  I'm so glad you came, Raga, and I'm even more glad you commented.  Thank you for being a faithful reader.  If you have a blog, provide me with a link to it, Raga -- I'll be happy to plug it for you.

Thank you, Bryce, for all your kind words and encouragement during the process.  I'm really, really glad the 'Net brought us together.  I look forward every week to your new installments, and now that you've got a publishing cred, I guess you're not a wannabe anymore.  I really hope it goes well for you, brother.  Thanks, too, for all you did to help with the review of Text Tree.  It's a great piece of software and the one I'll be using to outline the next book I write.

Thanks also to Sherri.  You don't know how much it means to me to have a represented writer willing to read through my book and provide constructive criticism on how to improve it.  I don't think you know how much you've meant to me as a person, either; and I know I'm not alone in that.  We love you.

Thanks to Dwight Wannabe for publishing as much as he has on his own blog to help other wannabes move ahead and take steps toward not being wannabes anymore.  I've found a lot in there of value, bud, and I'm grateful that you do it.

But most of all, I want to thank my loving, kind, sweet, beautiful wife.  She wanted the story to continue from its very inception, even when I didn't plan on continuing it.  She asked me to keep writing it, to keep it going, and she provided the additional challenge of constantly trying to figure out where it was going.  She's an avid reader and a great critical thinker, and it was all I could do not to make it too easy for her to figure out.  We do that with movies all the time -- we don't do suspension of disbelief very well.  But, she managed for me.  Thanks, my love.  I can never express in words how grateful I am for you being there the whole time, through the whole thing.

And to all of you that read in anonymity, who "lurked" but came to see if the next installment was written, who came for the software reviews or just to see what I'd written if anything -- thank you all too.  I'm glad you stopped by, however briefly, and would like you all to know you're welcome here anytime.  All the time, actually.

Thanks, everyone.  Thank you all.  It's been so cool to watch that hit count climb.

Oh, and if any of you are editors or agents -- feel free to drop me a line.  I'd love to move up from the ranks of wannabe.  :)

God bless, all.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: Gratitude, writing, random thoughts

Ghost Hunters, Pt. 47 - Conclusion

(Just joining us? You may want to start at the beginning.)

JD sat in the car, staring into nothingness, thinking.

The night went perfectly. There were no apparitions. There were no visions. There were no sounds, no shadowy figures moving in the darkness, no fog, no lost time. There was nothing but a cool, crisp autumn night staring through the blackness of the parlor windows at them. They waited and watched as the hours slipped away, but the night was thankfully normal, rather than paranormal.

Dillon and JD loaded the car with his equipment. They worked in relative silence. They worked deliberately, not hurried or in fear. They walked without a second thought between the curb and house, never fearing the mysterious fog or the shades of long ago materializing from the quiet. They drove home past the quarry without a sideways glance at the final resting place of Robin Brown. They weren't even aware of it until it was already behind them. They spoke quietly about silly things, casual things, things that normal friends speak about when they drive. They laughed a bit, but mostly they introspected. They pondered the events of the last four days and they wondered how the future would be affected by them.

They used one of the boxes for JD's equipment to carry their newfound artifacts, the tiny things they treated like Egyptian treasures, unearthed from the lost tomb of some long forgotten pharaoh. No one spoke of them as they loaded them into the car, or as they rode with them in the back seat behind Dillon. Uncharacteristically, Dillon never gave them a second glance.

A strange calm had come over them. A peculiar sense of knowing, of being sure within themselves that the haunting was over. The spirits of the past had successfully brought to light the events of three and a half decades prior, and there was nothing more to tell. There were no more elements that were required. There was no more of the plot to know. The key players had spoken their lines, performed their actions, and the curtain had lowered. It was over.

They had nothing to assure them of that. They just knew it.

Wendy followed behind, and they chatted with JD's cell phone on speaker while they drove. It was a short 45 minutes, the time passing easily. They said good night and hung up when JD parked, and he and Dillon brought in the boxes of wires and cables, extension cords and carefully packed equipment. The little segment of pipe, its prized note and the expensive jewelry items entombed within it he carried in last, setting them on the counter in the kitchen without another thought. He locked the house while Dillon shuffled up to bed, then shut off the lights and went to bed himself.

He slept soundly that night, with no whispers lingering just beyond the audible range of hearing, no shadows shifting just beyond the visible range of the lights as he turned them off.

He just slept, without visions of rotted faces and black, wet orbs in their sockets. He didn't dream of bludgeoning criminals and murdered innocent victims. He didn't hear strange, unearthly and soul-numbing cries from the pits of hell. He felt no icy grip on his chest, was not accosted or screamed at, and when the alarm sounded the next morning, he was certain there would be no phantoms hiding in wait in his kitchen.

It was just over. The story had been told.

JD rolled out of bed and made his phone call, letting his employer know he'd be out for another day unexpectedly. He didn't spend a lot of time thinking about the mini treasures from the pipe as he loaded them into the car. He tried all morning to think about how he would handle this situation. He contemplated not addressing it at all, and just letting the story be told. But somehow he knew it was right to do this, to take this final step. He couldn't speak the entire truth as it was, but he could lead them in the right direction. He didn't know how to do that, he just knew that he had to do it, somehow.

He'd tried rehearsing in a mirror, but couldn't find anything that sounded either reasonable or feasible. The actual story was not an option for him. He already felt crazy. Adding to that sensation by talking of haunted houses and ghosts revealing buried treasures and bodies didn't really sit well. So, he sat in the car, thinking instead. Inwardly, he hoped that words would simply come to him, that they would flow out of him in a logical, coherent manner, and he wouldn't have to struggle with stumbling over difficult questions and piercing stares. Outwardly, nothing like that ever happened to him, and he didn't expect it to now.

Nothing conjured itself from his mind as he reflected on how he himself had changed. How different things were for him now. How much more he understood than he did before. He realized that he'd been so sure he could prove it all a lie, prove it all false. Most of all, he arrogantly assumed that he would debunk not just the paranormal things he was asked to investigate, but debunk those that reported them and believed in them. He felt, more than anything, humbled and small. He'd been afraid. Terrified. He'd seen things, heard things, experienced things that he never imagined possible. He never even believed he could imagine them possible. He'd run headlong into events and things that changed the course of his life, probably permanently. None of those things could be cataloged, categorized or labeled.

He'd seen ghosts. Heard them speak. Felt their grasp, their power, their force. He'd witnessed events that took place before he was born. He'd spoken with a woman that had been dead for two weeks. He'd witnessed a murder and the disposal of a body. He'd been through so much, and none of it came through any of the normally acceptable channels of stimuli for him.

JD was a very different man today than he was on Thursday, sitting in that frigid parlor, waiting to prove to two more homeowners that they didn't see what they thought they'd seen, didn't hear what they claimed to hear, and that there was no such thing as the paranormal.

Monday morning. He needed the convincing now. He was the believer now.

At least he was today. Unless something changed what he perceived, he was a believer today.

Tomorrow held enough mysteries of its own. Today was content to let him be a believer.

He checked his PDA and saw that he'd scheduled the call-back to the homeowners for that night, when he would try to explain everything. And he'd scheduled a follow-up with them in April, which he'd synch with his computer when he got home.

Smiling one last time, shaking his head in that acknowledging way he had, he gathered the little open cardboard box with the pipe, the note and the jewelry. He took a deep breath, and got out of the car.

Trying to draw himself up to full height, he snickered at himself.

"Well," he said to no one but himself, "no sense putting it off anymore."

And he strode into the police station to tell whatever story ended up coming out of his mouth.

Technorati Tags: fiction

Another Software Review - Text Tree

There are a lot of things I like about Bryce Beattie.  He's one of the followers of my online novel, Ghost Hunters, first of all.  But beside that, he's also a talented pulp fiction writer with his own online serialization going.  He hopes to one day be published, like me, but he also has aspirations of seeing it as a major motion picture and a Broadway Musical.  (Check his site for more information on those.)

Along with producing his own weekly adventures series, Bryce is a full-on software developer and the webmaster of a lot of sites, not the least of which is BabyKatieMedia.com.  This is a site where Bryce provides software that you can download and try for free before you buy it.  I like that, but not as much as I like freeware, of course.  Still, Bryce is an honest guy, and he even made a potential book cover for me when he promoted Ghost Hunters on his site.  How much more can a guy do to pimp my story?

When I finished my story, I was looking for a piece of software to use to outline the next one.  I've recently reviewed some very cool software for writers, and I hope you caught those reviews.  But there wasn't really anything I had to easily and quickly construct an outline.  Most of them would take care of all the steps subsequent to outlining, and Liquid Story Binder XE has an outlining feature, but at the mo', I don't have the funds available as expendable capital to burn on LSBXE, or any other software for that mater.  So, what's a guy to do?

Well, knowing that Bryce had the Baby Katie Media site, I went and checked him out.  Lo and Behold, there was an outlining software he'd written, with a free trial version available for use.  Huzzah!  Just what I wanted.

Now, Bryce as a writer is sort of a disciple of Randy Ingermanson's Snowflake Method of novel writing.  That's not a bad person to emulate; a successful writer willing to share the experiences and methods that worked for him is always a valuable resource.  Essentially, the method starts very simply and builds to complexity.  That's where Bryce's software, Text Tree, comes in.

With Text Tree, you're starting with a couple of simple steps that blossom and grow, and you can do a lot of it right there in the software itself.  Expansion on the outline makes it gradually grow into a full-blown novel in fractal steps, and Text Tree facilitates that beautifully.

I wasn't sure how large the files could grow before having problems with either character counts or file size limits, but Bryce himself says that he does the outlining in this software and the actual writing in a word processor.  While Text Tree may not be your all-in-one software for writing, it certainly handles thing very well.  It allows different nodes for setting up characters, chapters, etc.  And, it has an export feature that's surprisingly rich.  It can export to RTF, text, HTML and Noterrific, which is a Pocket PC program.  That's pretty versatile.

And it's not just for novel writing, either.  Text Tree can be used to build a lot of things.  BabyKatieMedia.com was built, at least in part, with the program.  It can create FAQs, Basic FAQs (which includes some of the questions, I think), Basic Story (really cool), articles and biographies.  It even has templates for each of those kinds of documents.  Sweeeeet.

In addition, it has a scratch pad feature, which are little notes you can jot down about the project.  You can manipulate the notes in various ways and they can be saved as a separate file if you want.

It has a spell-checker, too, which can either check the entire Tree for you, or just the individual nodes.  For those of you that need that help.  Not me, of course.

The program is pretty versatile, and for $19.95, it's not going to break your bank.  In addition to the program itself, Bryce has a nice Flash tutorial on using the software on Baby Katie Media that you can check out and follow along with to get the feel for it.  Not a bad deal.

So, if you're looking for a flexible and powerful outliner, think about Text Tree.  It's worth a look.

-JDT-

Technorati Tags: software, reviews