Not knowing much, well, anything, about international copyrights, this could best be called fanfiction. The main character here, Nike, plays a not-insignificant role in my forthcoming novel, Defiant.
This story takes place in a world created by Yoshitoshi ABe nearly twenty years ago. It yielded an anime that – while dated – is one of the most powerful and compelling stories I’ve ever experienced. For a non-Christian, ABe had an amazingly Catholic vision.
And yes: I do know who’s in the cocoon.
Yeah, it’s not the best title, but it captures what these are: micro (micro, tanjit! no 18k light novels!) stories from my world of Machine Civilization. It keep me writing and sane, at least one of which is a good thing.
Below the fold is after “Cursed Hearts.” A friend of Cat’s begins to get her life back together, just to see that interrupted. Spoilers.
From a few in-person, including my wife, but mostly via email. Why almost no one ever leaves comments here, I don’t know.
There was much unhappiness how I wrapped up Defiant Act 2.5: at the pool with Joe’s diagnosis. If I were to distill is all down, I guess “casually tossing out a main character!” would be the flak I caught.
Yeah. I did. Because this was never meant to be a coherent novel, but a nine-month long writing exercise, the break from Acts 2 and 3 was huge. 2.5 was meant to be a bridge; but, it seems that like the Lewis & Clarke, it was a bridge too far. The anchor issue is that Joe MUST have cancer and go to Japan for treatment: he’s on the boat back to Portland with Maya in “Cursed Hearts.”
Is it the hyper-sexualized environment of the pool, and the emotional whiplash after, when Nichole5 realizes her First Friend is sick? A human girl would have no idea about his illness and banged him then and there. Nichole5 chose to shatter the moment for everyone in face of what she sees as a medical emergency.
Perhaps I went too far, too fast. I’ll give some thought as to how I might re-write this. Suggestions welcome, as I see nothing, right now.
Defiant began life as a writing exercise. What if, I thought, during NaNoWriMo – which I am not formally taking part – I made a writing exercise of my writing exercise? My slovenly, lay-about, unemployed wife suggested that she study some training manuals while I write each night.
“Fine. Forty five minutes.”
“Why that?”
“Ten to immerse, thirty to write, five imbedded to tactical edit on the fly.”
“Okay.”
We started Monday. Not being an idiot, I’ve built in a 3-day lag for the blog, for RealLife(TM) events. Dailies, these will be shorter than my typical additions. I enjoy the exercise.
As Churchill noted, jaw-jaw is better than war-war. But, there are some people that just need killin.’ Cannibals, for instance. I know way back in Defiant Act I, wrote that how they were dressed and cut their heads, “it was hard to tell the men from women.” So, I could be really edgy and call them tranny-cannies; that should trigger a few thousand hate-hits to my little blog.
Meh. I’m just here to tell the stories they show me; as Nichole discovers, sitting across from Mayor Johnson, in his study, politics is work.
Just months after Steven Den Beste, to who’s memory I dedicated “Cursed Hearts,” comes news this evening of the death of Dr. Jerry Pournelle, the other most responsible for my becoming a writer (“start your story in the middle!”).
I am devastated. I shall wrap up PT when I can see through my tears. The world is… so dark.
There are many with eulogies. I went to a friend’s site, once I’d heard the news.
Coming to around 1000 at my day-job, I had a moment of clarity: for the last seven months, all my waking moments had been filled with Chris, Cat, and Maya somewhere in my mind.
For the past 36 hours: all quiet.
The mental moment was this: I was in a darkened – but not dark – older church, alone. A place that was just recently host to a hundred, and soon will be again, but now preternatuary still.
At the end of T4L, I’d already seen the sequel. The close of EFL was a ‘LOL’ moment, as kids would type.
Alone, looking at three graves of those that have been, not a part of me, but me… well… it’s very quiet, now.
Don’t like it.
Here I go to the time and trouble to kill Anton, only to realize at lunch what a conundrum that makes: sure, Maya now knows the entire plan to try to save Chris & Cat, but that still leaves her at UCSD, miles from Miramar Air Station and at the mercy of their passive and active defenses – to say nothing of the ‘boss battle’ in the hanger. It’d be 5k words, minimum, to get through that.
Soooo… Anton doesn’t die. Maya (and her riders) tempts him, instead. Fits the theme of the story better, really. Anton accepts, calling for his bodyguard/driver, Manuel. He promises to get her through Security. I’m not sure if he’s scared for his own pampered, aristocratic life, or if he’s sincere. We’ll see.
Personally, if a demoness was resting her teeth on my neck, after killing my soldiers, and having leeched about 10% of my life out, so long as it wasn’t about my wife & kids, I’d talk a deal, too. Buy time. The horse might learn to sing.
Being Spring, I was cleaning up things in the backyard. Gave ‘The Dog with the Golden Nose’ a haircut. Finally made some coffee, added bourbon, and got Maya to cross paths with Debbie & her Rottweiler, Daisy.
Ran away to make dinner for family. After that, was itchy enough to take bi-weekly oatmeal bath. No! I’m not avoiding…
Grabbed notepad and pen (I’m a lazy writer, not a stupid one) and jotted down Maya’s break-in to Chris & Cat’s place. Then: blank.
Got more red-piss (the cheap wine I drink; told my wife to cut me back once ‘CH’ is finished) and a hunk of cheese for dessert. Saw more: Maya’s discovery of Cat’s condition, her escape – after killing Anton (and thus knowing his plan) – as Maya races towards the guarded hangar at Miramar Air Station.
Five months ago, I saw everyone dead in a subterranean parking garage. Perhaps that was in error. I don’t yet know: does the fight start in the hangar, and C&C retreat?
“Ask again later.”
PS Yesterday was also a local author fair at the county public library. Meh. Not much, but I’d brought bourbon, so there was that.
I’ve never had writer’s block. Nope, not even once. I sit down, usually at a computer, but still, occasionally with pen and paper, and write.
What I do have, is Writer’s Fear. If several days go by without said ‘sitting down,’ I am afraid that once I do, nothing will happen, that I’ll just sit there. So what do I do? Everything else: clean house, walk the dogs, run for food and booze, get drunk early and watch anime… anything to keep me from facing my fear.
I’d put off writing for five days this week. I’d a great weekend of several thousand words, even into Monday and Tuesday, I’d figured out Maya’s time-lapse, inadvertently introduced Emma Miller… and did everything I could to not touch Nichole (the laptop I do 99% of my writing on) until this (Saturday) afternoon. Finally, fearfully, with only one partial scene in mind, I began. That was four and a half hours ago; 3k works ago. Chris, Cat, and Anton are in a small armored column on their way to Miramar Air Station, and Maya finally killed someone in San Diego. It was so easy! I’m over 60k words, and not even to the Big End… which just makes the Fear worse.
Will I be able to do this tomorrow? My family’s coming back from vacation, so I should wash our bedding. The weather’s getting better, and I need to paint the trim of the entire front of the house. After Mass tomorrow morning, I should stay for Adoration for at least an hour…. I should… I should…
Fear. It’s a horrible, corrosive disease.
“I must not fear.
Fear is the mind-killer.
Fear is the little-death that brings total obliteration.
I will face my fear.
I will permit it to pass over me and through me.
And when it has gone past I will turn the inner eye to see its path.
Where the fear has gone there will be nothing.
Only I will remain.”
machciv 