NaNoWriMo Progress Report - Nope, no progress.

So I didn't win. Again. Two year streak. And yet, I am not upset. It is OK. I got a good start on a story, and didn't lose any sleep or family time. So, not a problem.

As I was debating whether to even try this year, one thing kept popping into my head: Do I really need NaNo anymore?

I can write, when I want. The reason I don't is because it is so dang easy to find excuses not to. And I am good at excuses. Trust me on this one.

Meanwhile, I wrote two pieces for the Press and began my new job as the Social Media Wrangler, which means I get to update the Facebook page. Also, I started a Twitter page for the Press (Follow us at @pikerpress) as well. Once I figure out what that means I will be working that pretty regular as well.

Along with work, kids, church, kids, wife, kids, and kids, I stayed pretty busy.

So, not a failure - a decision. A good one too, if I do say so.

Happy NaNoEdMo!

NaNoWriMo Progress Report

There has been little progress.

Although I still like my story, life has not allowed much time to sit down and work on it. And since I am not allowing myself to be pressured by the deadline and wordcount this year, I am feeling no pressure to work on it.

That is good and bad. Good that I don't hate the story yet, bad that it is still at about 5,000 words and has been since last week.

Oh well. I did make good progress on a Mes de los Muertos story today.

As long as I am writing, that is what is important, right?

This has been your NaNoWriMo progress report.

NaNoWriMo Progress Report

There has been progress.

This has been your NaNoWriMo Progress Report.

OK - I did it. You happy now?

I started a novel. Remember The Education of Fred? Well, I am taking a run at that story this year. Here is the opening paragraph:

Fred was convinced that he was smarter than he was. Or at least smarter than everyone else thought he was. He was functionally illiterate, at least that was what they whispered about him behind his back. As if being functionally illiterate also meant deaf and dumb. Not that kind of dumb either. People talked to him like he was a child, explaining simple concepts that had nothing to do with letters or books.


So check back often to see how it turns out. OK?


Happy Noveling!


(1634, but who's counting?)

NaNoWriMo day one... not so much.

For the first time since 2005, I did not stay up till midnight on Halloween to start writing. I have a vague idea of a novel, even a partial outline, but no enthusiasm for completing the story. What I have is a question - do I even enjoy writing that much anymore?

It has been months since I submitted anything to the Press. It has been even longer since I wrote something new. (My last submissions were simply gleaned from old stuff I had sitting around.) I have worked separately on two different stories. Both of them stumbled and fell down and I have not yet found the motivation to go pick them up and dust them off.

Am I whining? Yep. Sho nuff. I just thought I would explore my reasons for not caring much about NaNoWriMo this year.

Exploration done. I will write. I will make the effort. Just don't expect me to enjoy it.

Humpf...

Truthiness revealed!

I edited a wiki entry today. This was a first for me, as I have never really paid enough attention to any type of wiki entry to really care about editing it before. My interest in wikis is generally limited to remembering the name of that guy that was in that movie - or the year that Ford started production of the Galaxy. This time, however, the topic was a bit closer to home.

I think you, dear Constant Reader, must be familiar by now with NaNoWriMo. You must also know of my involvement (obsession?) with the Urinal Cakes forum there as well. My association with the Piker Press began as a direct result of trading posts with Aser in that forum. This year, the thread has been running pretty well. One of the characters, who calls herself variously Queen Chaos, QAoaS, or just Holly asked some questions about past years, wondering if anyone knew what had happened to the archives. By chance, I had very recently found an unofficial wiki for NaNoWriMo called WikiWrimo that oddly enough has a page dedicated to the UC thread, and listed links to all of the previous year's threads (including one to this very blog, which is how I found it in the first place). I posted the link, answered the Queen's question, and thought we would go on with the hilarity.

Not so. I have recently acquired another job over at the Piker Press: Facebook Group Page Updater Guy. The poor group page was pretty neglected, and so I volunteered to come up with stuff to post to it periodically. Pretty good gig, but I am now constantly on the lookout for stuff to post. Since most of the regular Filthy Pikers are also big UC fans, I decided to post a link to the Wikiwrimo entry for the UC threads. This was met with some good response, but one pointed out some small factual errors in the entry. (Note, very pleasantly. Not in a nit-picky pedantic moron kind of way.) I suggested that the person sign up for the wiki and make the corrections, but then decided that I was being kind of bossy. Also lazy. So I did it instead.

I filled out the online form to request an account with editing privileges and then set about educating myself on the ins and outs of editing a wiki entry. I then moved on to the FAQ's and discovered something very interesting: the admin (and founder) of the wiki was in fact, the UC's own Sushimustwrite! Very soon after learning this, I got the email informing me that my account was approved and that I could sign in and start editing. Also that Sushi recognized me from the UC thread and that the entry on the UC thread was one of the first entries she made in the wiki after she created it.

So finally I got down to the business of editing the entry. My rusty old html skills came in handy, as I figured out how to post hyperlinks and such. The hardest part was to modify the entry to correct the information without utterly destroying the original entry. Also, to word the information in such a way that it made sense and didn't simply compound the errors I was trying to correct. I have done a bit of that type of writing before, but never editing a relative stranger's work. I really liked the initial article - how it flowed, the way the ideas were presented - and so I wanted to correct the information without destroying all of that.

I think it worked out. I have not received any kind of feedback on it just yet, but then I don't really expect any. It is not as if I re-wrote an entry detailing the mating habits of South American primate species. But you never know what people will take exception to.

For now, I am considering my next foray into the world of wiki-writing. My own bio.

How truthy should I make that?

© 2010 Tyler Willson. All rights reserved

To NaNo or not to NaNo...

Not to belabor the point, but I am not really feeling excited for it this year. The last two years have yielded a pretty good start to a novel that coincidentally also had over 50,000 words and a horrible start to a short story that barely surpassed 10,000.

So, do I participate this year? Or take a year off? Do I try a run at a brand-new novel or do I break the NaNo-Rules and try to re-write the halfway decent novel that has been wasting away since then?

I don't know. Probably just keep making jokes about Urinal Cakes and QWAQ-ing with my NaNo friends and forget the novel. Easier that way, right?

Yeah, right.

Here it comes again...

I had almost convinced myself that I would completely ignore November this year. Last year was such a let-down; I couldn't even get into the Urinal Cakes thread with any sort of enthusiasm. Is my NaNoMoJo gone forever? Maybe.

Nevertheless, my good pals over at the Piker Press have been exerting a bit of peer pressure. KK for example made his participation conditional upon mine. "I'll do it if you do it." OK, if the old guy can do it, why can't I?

So that decision is made. Now, what to write? Start something completely new? Just head on over to the Seventh Sanctum and generate a random plot and get to work? This might be a good idea. Starting fresh with no preconceived notions of where I am going has worked well in the past. And yet I still feel that I would do better with a well thought out outline.

There are a couple of works-in-progress (meaning moldering away in that huge "I'll get to it" pile...) that I could pick up. This would technically be a bending of the NaNo rules, but would be serving a higher purpose: to get me writing again.

There is "The Education of Fred" which I have written a few scenes from. There is Zeniff the Spaceman and his trusty mining droid. I really have been wondering how he will get off that desert moon. "The Boy Named Sue" was a pretty good idea I had a few years ago, until I decided to make it a sci-fi western and tried to insert some old characters from another unfinished novel.

Whatever I decide to do, what Lao Tzu said about a journey of a thousand miles is true about writing a novel: it begins with a single word. (OK, he said step. But I am sure you knew that already.) I haven't done any writing at all for several months. This blog entry stands as the first writing of any kind I have done.

It also serves as a single step. Only 50,000 to go.

Wish me luck!

© 2010 Tyler Willson. All rights reserved

Traveling With Kids - In the Piker Press

Another fragment of my failed 2009 NaNovel has made its way back to life as a short story on the Piker Press.

A short, semi-autobiographical story of my first road trip with a child in tow.

Traveling With Kids

Writer's Round Table

And you thought I had abandoned the RT forever! The assignment this week gave me a really great idea, however, I started late, and though I got the word count required, I didn't even get close to finishing the story. So, look for a continuation of what I have tentatively titled: Fred's Education.

But first, the assignment:

For Friday, write a passage of 500-1000 words dealing with a New Years resolution that succeeds, but with unintended consequences (timely, huh?). You may make these consequences good or bad, or some mix of the two.

NEW YEERS REZULUSHUNS
Fred penciled the title at the top of the page, his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth in concentration. He sat back and looked at his title. Something in the back of his mind told him that something was not right about it, but he shook the thought from his mind and went back to work.
1 LERN TO RIT GUDER
That annoying voice in the back of his mind told him once again that the words he wrote were not quite right. Of course, that was kind of the point wasn't it? Fred was tired of people treating him like he was mentally deficient just because of the way he spoke and wrote. He knew he was at least as smart as the folks that came into his garage to get their cars fixed. It was easily apparent that he was smarter than his the guy who did his books for him. Even though Fred had no idea where to even start checking to see if anything was wrong with how he managed Fred's money, he was convinced that the garage made a lot more money than he saw in his bank account. That was another reason for Fred's resolutions.
2 LERN TO DO THE BOOKS
Fred dropped out of school in the fourth grade when his Dad put him to work in his auto-repair shop. Fred had a natural talent for fixing anything mechanical, and his Dad had a serious distrust of the "brainwashin'" going on in the red brook schoolhouse in town. "I ain't never suffered for not going to school." He was fond of telling anyone who would listen. Fred's mother was the only reason he made it as far as the fourth grade, and once she died Lyle quickly took advantage of Fred's natural talent. Fred didn't entirely mind, he loved tinkering and what fourth grade boy really wants to be in school anyway? Twenty years later, Fred's reading and writing ability had not progressed much beyond what he had learned up to that point. He fully understood that as a result, there was an entire world out there that was utterly closed to him, and he was tired of wondering how to get in.
3 LERN TO REED BOOKS
The auto-parts distributor in the next town had been a good friend of Lyle and Fred, and so he didn't mind putting forth the extra effort to look up the part numbers for the parts they ordered. However, when he retired and sold the business to a national chain, Fred found himself confronted by unsympathetic telephone operators who didn't know a catalytic converter from a hole in the ground. They refused to take his orders unless he came up with the correct part number, and so Fred had to hire another employee to order parts for him. Another person who looked down their noses at him as they pretended to respect him to his face but made jokes about his intelligence when they were getting drunk at Sherman's Pub on Friday nights.
4 GET MY DIPLOWMA
Fred's list was complete. He sat his pencil down and picked up the paper. He knew he had a lot of hurdles to overcome to accomplish his goals, but he was determined to prove that he was as smart as anyone else in this crappy town. He was going to relish being able to prove that Duane was ripping him off, and he was going to take a picture of Susanne's face when he told her that he could order his own parts now.
The next day as Fred sat in the office of a guidance counselor at the local community college. She was examining the results of his placement test with a furrowed brow. "Fred, you say you haven't been in school since fourth grade?" April Summers was the kind of guidance counselor who was perennially disappointed by the narrow-minded bureaucracy of a small-town community college. She truly cared for her students, and did her best to give them the best advice she could, but the administrators of the college could care less what was best for the kids, they cared about their federal funding. And federal funding required students with high test scores. Not students like Fred.
"Yes ma'am, my Dad never sent me back to school after my Ma died, said I would learn better in a man's world. But I learn good, I mean quick, I mean..." Fred blushed. He knew exactly how he sounded, but he lacked the knowledge to sound any different. April looked at him sympathetically but shook her head.
"Well, you see Fred. We have to ensure that the students who sign up for our classes have a certain level of..." she paused, searching for a kind way to phrase this. "...ability. You understand that this is not a measure of your intelligence, or your worth as a person, it is just..." Fred interrupted her.
"Ma'am, you don't need to put me in the hard classes. I just want to learn how to read and write more so that I can manage my own shop. I am tired..." He paused again, not wanting to get angry in front of this obviously kind woman. She nodded in understanding.
"Fred, I completely understand. However, a college is not really the place for you to start. Let me give you the name of a friend of mine over in Lakeland. He teaches some free classes at the community center there for adults like you who just need a bit of help to improve their skills." April started writing on a sticky note but Fred stood up.
"Thanks ma'am, but I don't need no charity. I have enough money to pay for my schoolin'. I'll just..." April interrupted him.
"This isn't charity Fred. Just because it's free doesn't mean its for people without money. And I am sure that he would be happy to accept a donation to his program if that will make you feel better about it." She pulled the note off the pad and held it out to him. Fred considered it for a moment before hesitantly taking it. His pride and his self-doubts put up a mighty fight for dominance, but eventually were beat back by his desire for improvement. "OK ma'am. When I am finished there, can I come back and take your test again?" April smiled broadly and nodded her head.
"I am looking forward to it Fred!" She stood and shook his hand, then watched as he turned and walked out of her office.

(To be continued...)


© 2010 Tyler Willson. All rights reserved

Schroedinger's Mother-In-Law's Cat

On the front page of the Piker Press!

Woo-Hoo!

That is all.

Back in the saddle! The tattered remnant of my NaNovel

Just so that NaNoWriMo was not a complete and utter failure, I have scavenged some usable material for a short story just in time for the Piker Press "Time Travel" issue. I have submitted, but not yet had accepted the following much abridged version of Schrodinger's Mother-In-Law's Cat.

Enjoy!

Tonight. He would do the cat tonight. And by Monday, he would be free.

He never liked the cat in the first place. He came with Marla’s mother when she came to help out with the pregnancy. Then, along with Edna, the cat never left. Made itself at home in his own house. Helped itself to water from his toilet if its own dish was empty. Helped itself to leftovers on the counter or table if they didn’t get put away quick enough. Relieved itself on the bathmat in his bathroom if the litter box did not get changed each and every morning. Scratched on the door when it wanted to come in. Scratched until it had worn the paint off the door and shredded the weather stripping. Scratched even though it was three in the morning and continued scratching even though nobody else in the house seemed able to hear it. Scratched until Will got out of bed and staggered downstairs to open the door.

But no more. The cat was going to die. A long, anguished and painful death. The way Will had suffered long pain and anguish since Edna brought him into the house.

In the darkness of an old tool box in the garage, Will had placed a dish of antifreeze. He had studied up on the effects of antifreeze poisoning. Intoxication, diarrhea, vomiting, cramping, and finally death. It wasn’t quick, but it was painful. Perfect for that damn cat.

It was easy enough to lure the cat into the garage. It was a sucker for raw chicken. More than once Will had asked Marla not to feed the cat chicken scraps as she was chopping it up for dinner, but she continued anyway. Now Will was grateful that she had trained the cat so well. He dangled the moist pink meat in his fingers and walked slowly backwards into the garage. The cat followed tentatively. It had to know how much Will hated it. He rarely allowed it to be in the same room with him, was usually chased out with a vicious kick if there were no witnesses. If there were witnesses, he would simply snarl and hiss at it and slap at it with his hand until it ran from the room. He took a lot of static for even that, but everyone knew exactly how he felt about that cat. Well, they had an idea how he felt. They just had no idea how utterly deep his hatred ran.

The cat was sitting next to the box now, and looking suspicious. Will decided that it would not jump into the box itself, so he brought the bit of meat closer and closer to the cat’s reaching claws even as he reached his other hand towards the scruff of its neck. The cat’s eyes darted back and forth from the tantalizing treat and the empty hand moving closer and closer. Will monitored its attention carefully, not wanting to break the spell of the raw meat. Then, he sprung the trap.

His empty hand flashed downwards and grabbed a handful of skin and fur. He only had to lift it up a foot and drop it in the box, but even so as he did the cat managed to get its claws into his arm. They opened up several long gashes in parallel lines up his forearm which were deep enough that blood immediately began dripping from them. Even so, Will persisted. He dropped the cat in the box with one hand and slammed the lid closed with the other. It was a heavy metal tool box, something he had inherited from his father, and which had been in his family for years. It had a worn radioactivity symbol and writing in some foreign language on the side that looked German to Will. Most important to Will, it had a heavy hasp on the lid and a large padlock chained to it. He worried for a moment as he listened to the cat struggle and snarl inside the box about whether it would spill the dish of antifreeze. Then he decided it didn’t matter. Even if it did spill the antifreeze and get it all over, it would eventually lick the sweet liquid off its fur coat and ingest the poison. At least he hoped so. He had at least seventy-two hours for something like that to happen.

After a few moments, the clamor inside the box quieted. Will imagined the cat’s evil green eyes shining in the darkness, waiting for him to re-open the lid so that it could renew its attack on his arm. He grinned with satisfaction as he instead closed the heavy hasp and inserted the padlock. The snick of the lock closing sounded like pure paradise to Will, and he decided to celebrate his weekend of freedom with a drink or six.

Besides his newfound freedom from the cat, he was also free of the rest of his family until late Sunday night. Even though the trip to the amusement park in the next state had been planned for months, Will informed Marla that he had been feeling a bit ill lately (a complete lie) and that wandering around the sun-baked pavement for hours would be intolerable (the complete truth.) She gave him that look that said she was altogether convinced he had something up his sleeve, but all too easily shrugged and conceded that since Edna was coming along she could handle it by herself.

As will sat in his recliner watching some anonymous sporting event on the TV and sipping a rather oversized glass of Captain Morgan and Coke, (more Captain Morgan than Coke, truth be told) he couldn’t keep his mind off the fate of the cat in the box. Had it licked up any of the antifreeze yet? Or was it simply huddled there, too upset to think of either drinking or grooming and waiting for him to open the lid? Was it sick and dying? Or alive and well and building up a serious grudge against him for imprisoning it? As the liquid in his glass went lower and lower, the images his increasingly befuddled mind became stranger and stranger. The cat was immune to antifreeze, and instead was turning into some sort of mutant beast like in a comic book. Any minute now, it would tear through the metal walls of its prison and come seeking revenge.

He also imagined the family arriving home unexpectedly and having to explain the dead or dying animal in his toolbox in the garage. He could see Edna’s face screwing itself up into that gorgon-like expression of rage he had only seen (thankfully!) once or twice since meeting Marla. Now that he thought about it, he realized that one of those times had been when she caught him punting the cat out of his bathroom. She really took abuse of her cat more personally than she would abuse of even her own person. How would she react to his macabre scheme?

He was certain he did not care to find out. To steady his nerves on that point, he picked up the phone and dialed the number for Marla’s cell phone. They had just arrived at the hotel and were still checking in; she didn’t really have time to talk, and the kids were already changing into their swimsuits right there in the lobby so they could go jump in the pool. Will hung the phone up and refilled his Cap’n and Coke, forgetting to add any Coke at all this time. At least he was feeling good on that point. No unexpected returns to worry about for now anyway.

The game dragged on and on, until Will wondered why he was watching it anyway. He started idly flipping through channels, interspersed with swigs of the Cap’n – now straight from the bottle - there was no longer any need to lie to himself and even include Coke in the equation. As he flipped through the channels he thought he caught his own last name, but his reactions being a bit retarded by his friend The Cap'n, he went a few channels past before his hand got the message to stop. He had to carefully go back to find the program in question, but when he did he was more than a little disturbed to find what its subject was. Apparently Einstein had an associate who shared his last name, and that together they had discussed some sort of experiment involving a cat and a locked box. Will tried to follow the extremely technical details of the program, but found his eyes were getting much too heavy to be able to accept input on a topic as foreign to him as quantum mechanics, whatever that meant. He pulled a blanket over himself, allowed the remote to fall to the floor and was soon snoring with the nearly empty bottle of rum tucked securely under his arm.

The screeching noise startled Will from his medicated stupor with a suddenness that set his heart to pounding frantically. The world swam before his eyes, and for a few seconds, he was terrified to think that he was having a heart attack. He pressed his hand to his chest, wondering if it was possible to give oneself CPR. He could feel his heart pumping through his shirt, but as his drunken mind struggled to full consciousness he could feel the rate of his pulse receding and he took a few deep breaths to calm himself down. He looked up at the television and found the source of the screech. The station had gone off the air and was now displaying a multicolored test pattern. He muttered under his breath insults and curses for whatever idiot decided it was a good idea to broadcast such a strident sound in the middle of the night. He hunted around for the remote control, finally finding it well under his recliner and turned the TV off. The sudden silence in the dark house seemed much louder by comparison, and Will shivered with a sudden feeling of foreboding. He was still clutching the bottle of rum, and he polished it off in an attempt to banish the feeling. As he swallowed the last bit of the fiery liquid, he jumped again at what he swore was the sound of a cat meowing.

The sound brought back with unpleasant suddenness the memory of his crime. Was it possible that even if it were still alive that he could hear it all the way in here? The living room was on the far side of the house from the garage, and the heavy steel box should be nearly sound proof. He tipped the bottle up once more, and was highly disappointed to remember that he had just emptied it. He looked at the smiling pirate on the label and cursed him for abandoning him in his time of need. He tossed the empty bottle at the trash can, but missed by a rather large margin. He didn’t bother to pick it up and try again. Instead he staggered into the kitchen to see if there was any more Captain Morgan in the liquor cabinet over the fridge.

Unfortunately, there wasn’t. Fortunately, the Captain’s cousin Jose Cuervo was.

Will hated tequila, but right now he needed something to banish the feeling of dread that seemed to be pouring out of the garage right now. He never thought he would be so remorseful for killing something that needed killing as much as that cat. And yet, he found himself jumping at sounds, and turning suddenly to follow shadows that seemed to dance through the darkened kitchen. After a good long pull from the bottle of tequila, Will walked around the house turning on every light. It must just be the darkness and emptiness of a home so normally filled with noise and life. When he finished, he turned the TV back on and found an old cheesy sitcom with a particularly loud and obnoxious laughtrack to banish the silence and emptiness of the house.

And yet, the dread remained.

Finally, Will decided that it was time to face the cat. Checking the clock on the microwave he saw that it had been nearly six hours ago that he had shut the cat in the box. Not nearly enough time for the poison to have done its work, but it should be enough that he could see evidence of sickness. He shouldn’t even need to open the box – he could shake it and see if the cat made any noise inside. If it sounded healthy, he might even decide to abandon the whole enterprise and take the cat to the shelter tomorrow. He could concoct a story of a stray dog, or a speeding driver, or something. Anything would be better than the horrible feeling he was practically swimming through right now.

The garage light came on weakly. The newfangled compact fluorescent bulbs always took a minute to come up to full brightness, and he hated the sickly light they gave until then. He went down the few steps into the garage, and walked across the floor. The smell of the litter box assaulted his nostrils, and gave him just a small bit of encouragement. If the cat was dead, he could get rid of that horrible thing and not have to smell it every time he came out here anymore. The box sat right where he left it, although it looked somehow... different. He took another long pull from the tequila bottle, hoping it would help his eyes to focus better in the dim light. (Or, better yet, make them not focus at all?) The box on the floor sat there stolidly, though Will was sure the radiation symbol painted on the side looked somehow... different. More there perhaps? Less worn, less touched by age.

That was it! The box looked as if it had been gone over with a polishing rag. Gone were the grease smudges and dents and dings that it had acquired over the years as Will, his father, his grandfather, and who knows who else had carted it around to various repair jobs. It fairly shone in the dim light, the only think still looking as he remembered it being the padlock.

That feeling of disquiet suddenly returned with a vengeance, and Will found himself scrabbling madly at the top of the tequila bottle as his panicked brain demanded more anesthetic to ward it off. When he finished another good long pull of the bitter liquid, Will felt a bit light-headed and decided he had better sit down before his friend Jose showed him to his seat unwillingly. He managed to drag out a dusty camp chair and get it unfolded before he collapsed into it, facing the box.

He sat and stared at it for a while, his alcohol-soaked mind running through the possible explanations for the apparent refurbishment of his tool-box. It didn't get very far. He decided to consult Jose again. He was no help either. Will decided to get closer. Not being too confident in his ability to walk, he slid the camp chair closer. He was now sitting close enough to reach out and touch the box, but the waves of dread he felt pouring off of the newly shiny surface were now almost tangible. He stared at it for a few moments, mesmerized by the way the light played off of the shiny surface. The writing on the side was clear and easy to see, and something told Will that it was not German, but Austrian. How he knew that, he had no idea, but at the same time he got the idea that he could also read it. He snorted laughter as that idea staggered through his mind, and shaking his head sent another shot of tequila after it.

The laughter seemed to somehow break the spell of doom and gloom that the box had seemed to have been casting over him. He decided he was being stupid, and that he was letting his inebriated imagination wander much too far and wide tonight. What was there to be afraid of? It was just a stupid old box, and inside was just a stupid old cat that was probably retching itself to death about now. Will decided that the time had come to stop being a baby. After a quick swig of liquid courage, he reached out a hand and grabbed the handle on top of the box.

He flinched as his skin made contact with the metal. It was hot, and seemed to be vibrating slightly as if a weak electrical current were running through it. Will almost snatched his hand back, but then, feeling a bit foolish he hardened his resolve and kept it there. The metal was definitely hot, though not enough to burn the skin. And the odd vibration could not be dismissed as imagination. Something odd was definitely happening, though he could not quite wrap his mind around what it might be. Remembering his purpose in coming out to the garage, he steeled himself (and ensured that his feet were, in fact, firmly planted on the floor...) and strained back on the handle.

Will had fully intended only to rock the box back a little, just enough to let it fall back to the garage floor with a thump. Nothing too energetic, just enough to ensure that if the cat were simply sleeping inside it would wake up and make some noise. Hopefully enough to terrorize it and make it snarl or hiss or something loud enough that he could hear it and make a guess as to its status. What happened was something entirely different. When he pulled on the handle, the entire world seemed to slip sideways like a car on an icy road slips sideways when the wheels lose traction. Bracing his feet more firmly against the floor had no effect, as the floor itself was slipping with him. Will felt terror welling up in his throat again, and he dropped the tequila bottle and grabbed at the handle on the box with both hands, as it seemed to be the only solid thing in the universe. Indeed, even the shape and color of everything in the garage, with the exception of the locked box were losing their focus and cohesion and began swirling and slipping into incoherence. Will closed his eyes and gritted his teeth, a scream of terror locked in his paralyzed lungs. His feet suddenly lost contact with the floor, and his butt lost contact with the chair and he seemed to be hanging over a pit with nothing to support him but the handle on the box. The vibration and heat increased until the pain in his hands became unbearable. Will hung on grimly, preferring the searing pain in his hands to the unknown fate awaiting him at the bottom of whatever pit had opened up beneath him. The pain increased in intensity as the vibration became a real electrical shock, eventually becoming so strong that his hands convulsed of their own accord and he lost his hold on the box and slipped backwards into oblivion.

"Is it your son? He looks a bit like you, a bit heavier perhaps..." The voice was heavily accented, sounded like Arnold Schwarzenegger. Only older, weaker, less real.

"I am not sure. He was only a boy when I last saw him." The voice is pleasantly familiar, from a deep crevice of memory locked away in the mists of childhood. His foggy brain screams that he knows that voice, but it is impossible, that person disappeared without a trace, no longer exists.

"Whoever it is, he seems to have recreated the experiment, if in a sloppy and inexact way." The foreign voice again. Will wanted to quote lines from The Terminator to it, but his voice did not yet seem to be functional. Still, the terror were gone and had been replaced by a sense of giddiness. He would have broken out in laughter had he been able to find his voice.

"Well, his mother always distrusted my work, and would most likely have steered him away from those pursuits. I would be surprised if he even knew about you." That voice. Will knew that voice. The face that matched it seemed to be floating just outside his consciousness. Why could he not place it? It seemed as familiar as his own...

"A foolish woman then. I never understood what you saw in her. Yet you were too headstrong..." Will laughed again at an image of The Terminator using a cane to walk, dentures falling out as he told the police officer he would be back.

"Wait... I think he is coming around. He seems to be trying to speak." Indeed, Will felt the tickle of vibration in his voice box, and realized that he was actually making sound. He decided to try and open his eyes and succeeded. The faces of two men coalesced out of the haze. One face, older and sickly. The other finally making the connection with the memory of his voice complete. Amazement, shock, disbelief all competed for space in Will's consciousness, all struggled to leap to the forefront and inform the first words out of his mouth. Hilarity came from behind and won by a mile.

"Are you Sarah Connor?" Will asked the grizzled old face and exploded in hysterical laughter. The faces continued to stare at him with interest, tinged with a bit of worry. He tried to stem the laughter, but only managed to squeak out a badly mangled "It's not a tumor..." before collapsing in full body laughter once again.

"Is it possible to lose your mind in transit?" The familiar voice said again, the worry evident in his voice. The accented voice answered, just as full of disdain: "Of course, anything is possible. An infinite number of possibilities with an infinite number of outcomes. He could have been a raving lunatic before entering the rift, or the transit through space-time may have torn his mind loose from its moorings. Especially considering the clumsy manner in which he set up the experiment." The disgust in the voice served at least to cool Will's hysterics.

"Wait, who are you calling clumsy?" he managed to gasp, then, turning to the familiar face managed to ask the question it presented him: "Are you really my father?"

When Will finally had full control of all his faculties the two men quizzed him unmercifully regarding the circumstances of his arrival. He seemed to be in some sort of scientific laboratory full of various and sundry instruments whose purpose he could not hazard the first guess. His father's assumption had been absolutely correct regarding his mother's suspicion of science. Particularly after the disappearance of her husband as he worked in his lab late one night. She always told her son that his father had died in a construction accident, rather than face the shame that he had deserted her. She never shared with Will the confusion at the door locked from the inside on the laboratory, the security guard who swore that nobody came into or left the lab all night long. All of these things were too painful for a suddenly single mother of three very young boys to face, and so she lied, and stood by her lies to her death bed. Will was the oldest, yet only three years old at the time and so neither he nor his brothers ever thought to question their mother's version of events. Never considered looking for any family on their paternal side, as their mother told them their father had been raised in an orphanage and had no family. Yet here he was, in a lab with a man whom he addressed as father. Will sat on the floor and considered the revelations he had just received. Not only was his father still alive, but so was his grandfather, and they were together.

"So, if you are my father, why do you look like you are my age? If I had to guess, I might even put you a little bit younger than me." Will looked quizzically at the man his memory shouted was his father, but which his intellect argued against just as strenuously.

"We are no longer connected to the space-time continuum as you know it. We no longer age. We don't get hungry, or thirsty, or sick, or have any physical afflictions at all. Our bodies are effectively in stasis. Time no longer pulls us forward." His grandfather answered, and Will was not comforted by the answer.

"I have no idea what the space-time thingy is, but does this mean I won't get sick or hungry or thirsty again too?" asked Will. The old man nodded, his face becoming even more haggard and old.

"Unfortunately yes, I am afraid you are trapped as I and your father are." Will felt a chill down his spine at the word 'trapped'. He had been considering a lifetime without illness and finding it rather appealing.

"What do you mean trapped? Never getting old, never dying? Isn't that what it's all about?" Will asked, not sure he wanted to hear the answer. The old man gestured hopelessly around the laboratory.

"Trapped, like a cat in a locked box. This is now the entirety of our universe. The door may as well be painted on the wall. It will not open, nor can we penetrate it or the walls. If I was a religious person, I would call this place Purgatory. As a scientist, I simply call it what it is: a rift in space-time created by a foolish experiment that we all seem to have recreated unknowingly." Tears sprang to the cloudy blue eyes, and the old man hid his face in his hands and sobbed. Will looked to his father for something, some refutation of the bleak prognosis and received only a confirming nod of his head.

"It is true. In here there is no passage of time. The clock on the wall mocks us, as does the calendar beneath it. We seem to breathe, but only out of habit. I once tried to commit suicide by covering my face with plastic, but soon realized that it was hopeless."

Will felt panic clawing at his throat for the third time. However, this time he felt a coldness that belied the hopelessness of the situation. He had made a successful career out of cleaning up the messes of others, and this seemed like a situation that called for his special talents.

"Tell me again about the experiment that brought us all here again. I want to be sure I understand." The old man continued sobbing softly into his hands, and Will turned to his father.

"Can you explain it?" His father shrugged.

"It was only to be a thought experiment, a way to explain quantum mechanics and the behavior of atomic particles. He proposed it to Einstein as a ridiculous case only to help understand the way in which the very act of observing quantum particles changed their behavior. It was only later in life that he began to understand that it may actually have a real world application - that the act of confining a conscious entity in an enclosed space with an uncertain and random means of death might be enough to affect the space-time continuum. He decided to try it, but not with a cat. He tried it on himself."

Will looked over at the frail old man who was no longer sobbing, but listening intently to the conversation. The old man nodded and continued.

"I was dying of tuberculosis anyway - the doctors had informed me that I had only months to live. I decided that I had nothing to lose. I said farewell to my family and friends and created my experiment with me as the cat and my lab as the box. I was only locked in for a couple of hours before the particle detector was triggered and the vial was broken." He gestured towards an odd-looking device on the counter. The hammer was frozen in the very act of smashing a glass vial filled with a greenish liquid. Shards of glass hung in the air around the hammer, and small streams of green liquid were spraying in all directions away from the cracks in the vial.

"I am not exactly sure what I expected to happen. What happened was that my physical existence was frozen in time, while my mental processes continue as if nothing happened. Then, after an eternity alone, suddenly a man appears in the lab with me. My son, reading over some of my notes has taken it into his foolish head to recreate my experiment and is consigned to the same static rift in space-time." Understanding began to dawn on Will. His father's disappearance while locked in his lab now made perfect sense. He had recreated the conditions of the experiment exactly, and had experienced the same result.

"So how did I end up here? I wasn't performing any experiment, I was just trying to kill an annoying cat." Will watched the faces of his father and grandfather as they puzzled through this question. Finally, his grandfather shrugged his shoulders.

"I suppose that since I created the rift, your father's experiment opened it wider, and you just got close enough that you slipped in." The despair in the old man's voice was evident, and Will felt his temper rising.

"So how do we 'slip' back into it and return to our proper time and place?" He asked, a bit impatiently. His father's eyes narrowed angrily.

"One of the most brilliant thinkers of the modern age, and his son have been puzzling over that for what seems to have been decades in realtime, and we are no closer to a solution than we have ever been. And unless you know something about quantum physics that we don't, I suggest you not act as if you are going to do any better than we have." Will looked from his father's angry face to his grandfather's resigned face and snorted in disgust.

"So I guess we just sit here in purgatory for eternity because you guys are simply too brilliant to see the answer then?" Scorn filled Will's voice as he stood up and strode across the lab while reaching in his pocket.

"What are you doing? What do you mean the answer?" his father's voice suddenly had a tinge of hope in it. Will ignored him and pulled the key from his pocket. The key to the padlock he had used to seal his mother-in-law's cat inside the box he had just spotted in the corner of the lab. As he approached it, he heard very faintly from inside the box that noise that filled his sleepless nights: the tireless claws of a certain black cat on the inside of the steel box.

Will woke up in the recliner, an empty bottle of Jack Daniels whiskey in one hand, and a black cat smelling strongly of antifreeze curled up on his chest. He smiled at the cat and stroked its sticky fur. It purred roughly and pushed its head against the pressure of his hand. In the kitchen, the sound of movement told him that either his father or grandfather was awake and looking for their first breakfast in decades.

Setting the cat gently on the floor beside the recliner, Will Schroedinger, grandson of Erwin and son of Robert went to help.

Schrodiger's mother-in-law's cat followed, hoping for a scrap of something.

© 2010 Tyler Willson. All rights reserved Mother-In-Law's cat followed, hoping for a scrap of something.

NaNo-Failure...

Twenty-One Thousand and some odd words... That's it. I could blame it on a crazy, busy month. I could blame it on having five kids. I could blame it on a poorly conceived plot with no advance planning whatsoever.

But in the end, I have to accept the fact that it just wasn't much fun this year. I really really tried to get myself excited about it, but it just didn't happen.

Oh well.

Next year?

Can't talk... Noveling...

It's that time again! National Novel Writing Month, the time of year when I can pretend I am a real author working against a ridiculous deadline with an editor who really doesn't care if I am spelling words right, or if they are even words as long as my manuscript is over fifty-thousand words and is done by midnight November 30th.

I don't plan to update this blog much for the next thirty days, unless I manage to write something I am particularly proud of. Or ashamed of. I just might post some of that just to show you how lenient my NaNoEditor really is. Either way, I need to save all the keystrokes I can for my novel.

Meanwhile, here is my Writer's Round Table assignment from last week. It was to write a review of my finished novel. I chose to follow the lead of the RT leader who wrote a negative (scathing really...) review in the voice of a certain troll we had all been feeding recently. I tried to get all of my ideas for the plot in here, but those very ideas are pretty scarce in the first place so the review is quite necessarily vague. No matter. It gets the point across, right?

Here it is:

Schroeder’s Mother-In-Law's Cat – and Tyler Willson’s mess
Review by Richard N. N. Raton

What might have been a very interesting concept has been horribly
mangled by an utter lack of imagination and the disorganized thinking
of a sadly arrogant and sloppy author.

Even the title displays the author's attempt at infantile humor.
Schroeder’s Mother-In-Law's Cat is a ripoff of the famous quantum
physics thought experiment postulated by Austrian physicist Erwin
Schrödinger in 1935. In it, a cat is placed into a sealed box with a
device that may at any random moment, kill the cat. His exercise
postulates that while the box remains sealed and the cat remains
unobserved, that we are faced with a situation in which we must
consider the cat both alive and dead and that two different cats now
exist: one alive and one dead. As soon as the box is opened and we
observe the results of the experiment, the other cat simply ceases to
exist and the one we find in the box becomes the only real cat.

This concept has been extended by others to explain the possibility of
multiple universes. With Schrodinger’s cat, we have two possible
outcomes which will continue to exist in parallel until we open the
box. According to the “Many Worlds” concept, each choice we make
results in one or more boxes which will forever remain unopened as we
can never really know the outcome of any choice but the one we have
made. Due to our inability to observe them, those other outcomes must
then continue to exist inside their sealed boxes. Each possible
outcome therefore becomes another universe in which we have made that
different choice and experienced the corresponding outcome.

Willson takes this fascinating concept and tries to wrap his tiny
intellect around it. Unfortunately, he fails and does so rather
miserably. The result of this failure is a muddled mess of humorless
jokes, inconceivably impossible situations, and confusing subplots.
Not to mention grammar and spelling errors that would make the most
hardened high-school English teacher have an instant conniption fit.
In fact, it is this reviewer's opinion that Mr. Willson has attempted
to purposely commit literary crime with a gleeful sense of willful
abandon!

The title character is a man named Will Schroeder. His mother-in-law
has a cat which has become the bane of his existence. Will attempts to
kill the cat by locking it in a box with a dish of poisoned food. What
results is described by the title character as a ‘cat’astrophe. (This
is only a sample of one of the very sad attempts at humor in this very
sad collection of attempts at humor.)

I will make no further attempt here to describe the plot, as there is
really not one to describe. I cannot describe any memorable scenes, as
there are not any. Characters? Likewise. As I sit here attempting to
think back and remember this book I am reminded of the uncomfortable
sensation of trying to recall a night of reckless drinking. The
headache it gives me is no less painful and annoying than the hangover
one experiences as a result of too much soju!

The worst part is that I will never get those two hours back. I have
literally sent a bill to Mr. Willson’s agent demanding that I be
reimbursed for the time I spent enduring his confusing and pointless
drivel.

Some people tell stories that inspire. Others tell stories that
entertain, or frighten, or educate. This particular story confuses,
frustrates, and wastes precious moments of your life. If I could
become the supreme ruler of the universe for but a moment, my first
act as supreme sovereign would be to hunt down and destroy every copy
of this book in existence, and institute a penalty of instant death
for any person guilty of even remembering that it had existed.

It is indeed that bad.

© 2009 Tyler Willson. All rights reserved

Writer's Round Table Assignment

After a brief hiatus, I have once again started participating with some other writers in an informal workshop to improve and inspire our writing. For the last few weeks, the RT leader has been helping us prepare for NaNoWriMo with writing prompts regarding characters, plot summaries and etc... Here is this week's assignment:

Write a passage of 500-1000 words describing the location; the neighborhood, city, state, country, territory, or region in which your work will take place. But write it as though a travel magazine article and try to include some aspect of the plot.

Since I am purposely NOT planning anything for NaNoWriMo this year I simply decided to create an all new setting just for the assignment. I kind of missed the travel magazine mark, but I think it accomplishes the same basic purpose. Enjoy!

Harold was roused from his peaceful slumber by a crackle of static as
the Captain got on the PA system. Harold was surprised to see that the
ship was already sitting on the ground at the destination spaceport
and being taxied towards the terminal by a small insect-looking
contraption. As he sat up and began gathering his things, he listened
to the bored voice of the Captain recite the now familiar speech for
all vessels landing on Philornia-4.

“Attention passengers, this is your Captain speaking. We have arrived
at the Philornia-4 spaceport and will be disembarking shortly, as soon
as we reach the terminal. Passengers making connections to other
planets in this star system please contact the gate attendant
immediately after exiting the spacecraft. We are a bit behind
schedule, and you may need to make some adjustments to your itinerary.
For those whose final destination is this planet, I am required by
the Philornian Tourism and Security Administration to read the
following statement. As you pass through the customs office, you will
receive the same information in pamphlet form, and will be required to
sign a waiver acknowledging receipt of and understanding of this
information.
Welcome to scenic Philornia-4, the crown jewel of the Philornia solar
system! Millions of visitors each year enjoy our pristine beaches, our
permanently sunny weather, and our very robust night-life. The
Philornian Tourism and Security Administration (or PTSA) has the
privelige of ensuring that your stay on our planet is a safe and
enjoyable one.
Therefore, while we are one of the premier tourist destinations in the
universe, there are some things that first-time visitors ought to be
aware of before disembarking.
1. Free medical care is available at the PTSA clinic in each city.
Should you find yourself in need of any medical care, please proceed
immediately to the nearest clinic and identify yourself as a tourist.
If you cannot make it to the clinic yourself, please locate the
nearest sub-space communications console, and dial 911. We will send a
paramedic team to your location as rapidly as possible.
2. The Tourism Zone of Philornia-4 has been certified by the Universal
Tourism Board as safe for a broad range of carbon-based life-forms
without need for any environmental or physical assistance. However,
you should consult the PTSA agent at the spaceport with any species
specific concerns you may have about the oxygen content and pressure
of the atmosphere, or gravitational pull. We are happy to make
whatever accommodations possible, but remember, you are ultimately
responsible to ensure that your species is compatible with our
environment.
3. Outside the Tourism Zone, you may encounter unfavorable weather
patterns, wildlife in their natural habitat, or possibly even criminal
elements. For this reason, non-Philornia citizens are strictly
prohibited from straying outside the Tourism Zone. Only those
traveling with a work permit or on official Universal Government
business will be excepted. Penalties for disregarding this restriction
include, but are not limited to: Deportation off-world, detention,
fines, and/or death.
4. The perpetual sunshine experienced throughout the Tourism Zone is
one of the reasons we are the most popular destination in the
Universe. Unfortunately, for some species, extended exposure to the
sun can result in adverse medical conditions. Ensure you are familiar
with your particular species’ reaction to extended sunlight, and take
all necessary protective measures.
Thanks again for visiting us. We hope you have an enjoyable visit. “

The PA system clicked off with an abrupt click and Harold stood with
the rest of the passengers as the cabin door opened and the warm
tropical breeze blew into the cabin, bringing with it the salt-tang of
the oceans and the smoky smell of beach campfires.
Harold furtively checked that his blaster was still in place under his
arm, and putting on his sunglasses he muttered into the audio pickup
that transmitted his voice to Central, “On the ground. Mission is a
go.”
Then he shuffled patiently down the aisle and off the spacecraft with
the rest of the passengers.

© 2009 Tyler Willson. All rights reserved

3-Day Novel

Way back in 2005, when I first discovered National Novel Writing Month, I wrote my first novel. Well, I should say I wrote 50,000 words of a novel in the 30 days of November. What resulted was a rambling, incomplete mess.

But I loved it.

I had rediscovered my love of writing and storytelling. I continued to participate in NaNoWriMo every year after that. Every year but one, I would meet my 50,000 word goal but not yet have a completed novel. That wasn't really the point. The point was to spend some time with my new online friends, and exercise my creative muscles. Each year but one, I was successful at both of these goals.

Then, one of my new online friends told me that she thought I had enough talent to write for her online literary digest. So I took my first NaNo novel and polished it up for publication. The Piker Press serialized The Prisoner and I had finally completed my first novel. (Or novella, depending on your definition... after I got done polishing it, it had shrunk from over 65,000 words to 35,000. Hardly a full-length novel.)

Fast forward to about a month ago. I was hanging out in the Piker Press forums and saw a posting from a fellow Piker asking for a partner to collaborate in a 3-day novel. I went to the website, and read up on it. It sounded like just the thing. Unlike NaNoWriMo, which is a contest just for the fun of it, the 3-day Novel contest actually has judges, and prizes. The winning novel gets a publishing contract.

So, I have already demonstrated my ability to hammer out thousands and thousands of words. Given a couple of years to get around to editing, I can even craft a story that people enjoy reading. Can I do it in three days?

Short answer: Yes.

Slightly longer answer: With a little help from my friends.

Chris and Mary and I have been planning this novel ever since we all agreed to give it a shot. We have pages and pages of character sketches, plot outlines, chapter summaries, and just plain notes of all the discussions we have had during the planning stage. (Contest rules allow all the pre-writing preparation you want, as long as the actual text of the novel is completed during the 72-hour period.) The rules also disallow a third collaborator, so Mary was gracious enough to accept the role of an advisor. (Since our story's main character is a teenage girl, we needed a Subject Matter Expert to ensure we sounded genuine!)

Midnight, we opened a new Google document and got to work. Oh, by the way, both Chris and Mary live in Canada - so all collaboration was going to happen via the Internet. We finished the first two chapters before going to sleep. For me, it was about four in the morning. The next day, along with my normal familial duties (including a shopping trip among other things...) I wrote and wrote and wrote. My dear wife was doing her best not to be exasperated at the amount of time I spent at the keyboard. I was doing my best not to be exasperated at the number of times I had to stop writing to take care of a crying baby. At the end of the first day, we were nearly halfway done, at least according to our outline.

The second day was Sunday, which took a four-hour chunk out of the writing schedule. Nevertheless, by bedtime Sunday night we had all but two or three of the chapters complete.

Wait, what do you mean all but two or three? Was it two or three? Well, this was the hard part. As we wrote, the story evolved. Chapters appeared out of nowhere, little plot lines growing voluntarily out of the neat plan we started with like sprouts appearing in those potatoes in your cupboard. Some get pruned right away. With only 72 hours there is not a lot of time for exploring unplanned territory. Others were interesting enough that we just had to keep them. Which meant going back and filling in plot holes that had formed due to our unplanned detours. So chapters appeared, reappeared, disappeared, merged, and transmogrified as the day progressed.

Nevertheless, at bedtime, we were confident that we could spend the bulk of the day Monday on editing and revising. A whole day for editing. What could go wrong, right?

It was about ten o'clock when panic began setting in. I was still working on Chapter Six of fourteen chapters, and I was trying to convince Chris that I needed to add at least two more chapters. And merge a couple. And drop one altogether. Gaah! What happened to that neat timeline we worked up?

Chris was great. He patiently listened as I proposed change after change. He patiently encouraged me as I totally re-wrote some of his chapters and recreated his characters with and without permission. I kept waiting for him to scream "Stop! I am tired of you changing everything I wrote!" He never did. Thanks Chris!

When I finally got around to writing the final chapter, it was after midnight my time. (Since Chris and Mary are in Mountain time, we were using their clock. I didn't start writing until 2 AM in my time zone, so I wasn't cheating!) Chris had already signed off and gone to bed (another huge gesture of trust in me!) so I was on my own. I started writing, and realized that while I had a very firm idea of what I wanted the closing chapter to contain, my brain was fried and the words were just NOT coming. It must have turned out OK, because when my wife read it later it made her laugh out loud.

As for me... I have not been able to bring myself to look at it since I finished formatting it for printing and sent it to FedEx Office.

When you pour that much effort into a story, and you write, re-write, edit, revise, rearrange, and delete, you get a tunnel vision that makes it impossible to read the story. You can't see past paragraph formatting and spelling and grammar errors. You can't see the imagery or identify with the characters, you simply see that your character starts talking about another character before she even meets him in the story line.

So it is saved in my Google docs, as well as in hard copy on a shelf in my closet. A few months from now, when the tunnel vision has receded and the fuzziness of memory has clouded those 72 hours a bit, I will pull it down and read it again. I am always surprised at how much better the story is when I have a bit of distance between the writing and the reading.

Until that time, I have yet another writing challenge to prepare for... November is only two months away.

Keyboards at the ready....

© 2009 Tyler Willson. All rights reserved

Only two months to go...

That is all.