"If you were any other man, I would kill you where you stand."--Worf
One cool thing about being ill: my Worf impression is much better than usual.
Friday, August 31, 2007
Thursday, August 30, 2007
Codename: Edgy: It is my great pleasure to introduce...
I've been thinking about introducing characters a lot recently. Having finished the pages threatened out of my by one of my outer demons, I'm now faced with an interesting toughie. The chapter I submitted to the group this last time had tolerable gimongous alterations done to it, which have set the novel on a new and, I think, pretty good track. And, as an effect, chapter two needs to be rewritten--then chaps three plus need to actually be written, but...yeah, anyway. The toughie is interesting because chapter two needs a lot less rewriting than chapter one needed. Chapter two was actually there first, and since its original form--which was sort of a vanilla read--it's been in a shape, essentially, which quite pleases me. The tone has been darkened, bad dreams added and so on, but the arc and thread and all haven't changed a lot.
Now that I've changed my intentions from series of short stories to novel, it's freed up my meander instinct quite a lot. I'm still trying to keep things brief and edgy, but I have, because it's a novel, the freedom to have long introductions and things in the middle. And consequently, one character in a draft of chapter three had an introduction several scenes, some five pages perhaps, long. Maybe more. Maybe ten pages. I don't know. I could have waxed eloquent. It was a fun bunch of scenes to write. It's strange, though, but pretty cool, considering that character is less intriguing to me than a character who features prominently in chapter two, who hasn't got much of an introduction.
Chapter two character is meant to be frightening. For his/her introduction, I pretty much want to depict paranoia with the character absent from the scene or scenes. A boding style of fing. A general sort of boding, just an unsettlement.
I look forward to trying it. Though I'm unsure how to start. It's a little bit difficult for me to think of ways to just spontaneously bring about a feeling of unrest. I can conjure in my mind visuals of how the scene or scenes would begin if it or they were in a movie. Which only helps me to a point. Although.... Hmm...
So my goal for tomorrow/this coming week: bode. Thoroughly scare the bejeezus out of the group of folks being scared by chapter two character, keep them on edge and paranoid, then go BOO! at them....
Huh, put like that, it doesn't sound so hard.
Now that I've changed my intentions from series of short stories to novel, it's freed up my meander instinct quite a lot. I'm still trying to keep things brief and edgy, but I have, because it's a novel, the freedom to have long introductions and things in the middle. And consequently, one character in a draft of chapter three had an introduction several scenes, some five pages perhaps, long. Maybe more. Maybe ten pages. I don't know. I could have waxed eloquent. It was a fun bunch of scenes to write. It's strange, though, but pretty cool, considering that character is less intriguing to me than a character who features prominently in chapter two, who hasn't got much of an introduction.
Chapter two character is meant to be frightening. For his/her introduction, I pretty much want to depict paranoia with the character absent from the scene or scenes. A boding style of fing. A general sort of boding, just an unsettlement.
I look forward to trying it. Though I'm unsure how to start. It's a little bit difficult for me to think of ways to just spontaneously bring about a feeling of unrest. I can conjure in my mind visuals of how the scene or scenes would begin if it or they were in a movie. Which only helps me to a point. Although.... Hmm...
So my goal for tomorrow/this coming week: bode. Thoroughly scare the bejeezus out of the group of folks being scared by chapter two character, keep them on edge and paranoid, then go BOO! at them....
Huh, put like that, it doesn't sound so hard.
...
I fell ill. Rather suddenly, at eight seventeen on Tuesday evening. Just a sort of cold, which began as a pesky soreness of the throat, but--through, no doubt, growth stimulants, steroids, and a community college course on being ugly--it soon became a rather detrimental sort of ailment with an unlagging will to make me feel bad.
It's not the soreness or the runny nose or the bleary vision or the weakened grip or the constant fatigue or the lack of focus which really gets me down. It's the loss of short term memory.
I'm sure I had a point.
It's not the soreness or the runny nose or the bleary vision or the weakened grip or the constant fatigue or the lack of focus which really gets me down. It's the loss of short term memory.
I'm sure I had a point.
Wednesday, August 29, 2007
fourteen, sixteen, sewenteen...
"It's not a caterpiller, it's a mermaid."--Nike, my four-year-old brother
I think about tiny children and their method of thought a lot. My Mom says there's an age, thirteen or fourteen, when kids actual develop the capacity for "rational" thought, and before that logic literally escapes them. My godfather--a wise fellow--says, "Babies are just as smart as anyone else, they just don't know anything."
Kids always seem to skip fifteen when they're learning to count. And I think I may have figured out why. (I may be deluding myself, but here we go.)
Fifteen and sixteen sound quite similar, especially from a distance. We make a lot of errors in speech, which we'll correct without preamble or pause. I think that small children are assuming that fifteen is an error in speech. And, therefore, logically, ought to be omitted.
An example of a child imitating for their behavior: the sound of R, as in round trip, and road kill, is a flaw in speech. It's a back of the throat sound, which started as a more front of the mouth sound; trilled, quick, or almost left out. W, as in wyvvern and wiley coyote, looks externally like R. So kids say, "wode wunner," "twiple play," "you pwetentious pwig." R is an unintuitive bad habit which must be learned.
Maybe fifteen is too.
Okay, that's sort of a stretch.
Other studies say that a child younger than nine months can be shown an object and two holes--hole 1, hole 2. The object is placed in hole one, and the child goes and gets it there. Then the object is taken away from the child. When they've quieted down, the object is placed, while they're watching, in hole 2. They go and look for it in hole 1, and don't find it. No matter how many times you show them that you put it in hole 2, they look in hole 1. There's only a period of about a month when kids are nine months old when this phenomenon is true. After that, they can reason out that a thing is where it gets put when it's moved around, and not merely where they found it the first time.... I'm not sure what, if anything, this says about the human animal in general. Except maybe that hope springs eternal. If we find twenty dollars in our jacket pocket one day, we'll keep looking even if we know for certain we didn't put a twenty in there recently.
Nike has just asked me if I could play with him. I said, "No. I'm busy." He said, "Awe, darn. Oh well." Almost verbatum.... I then said, "I can in a little bit, after I finish what I'm doing." He said, "Yay. Let's go now." I said, "No, I have to finish this." He said, "No, come now."
...
Yeah.
I think about tiny children and their method of thought a lot. My Mom says there's an age, thirteen or fourteen, when kids actual develop the capacity for "rational" thought, and before that logic literally escapes them. My godfather--a wise fellow--says, "Babies are just as smart as anyone else, they just don't know anything."
Kids always seem to skip fifteen when they're learning to count. And I think I may have figured out why. (I may be deluding myself, but here we go.)
Fifteen and sixteen sound quite similar, especially from a distance. We make a lot of errors in speech, which we'll correct without preamble or pause. I think that small children are assuming that fifteen is an error in speech. And, therefore, logically, ought to be omitted.
An example of a child imitating for their behavior: the sound of R, as in round trip, and road kill, is a flaw in speech. It's a back of the throat sound, which started as a more front of the mouth sound; trilled, quick, or almost left out. W, as in wyvvern and wiley coyote, looks externally like R. So kids say, "wode wunner," "twiple play," "you pwetentious pwig." R is an unintuitive bad habit which must be learned.
Maybe fifteen is too.
Okay, that's sort of a stretch.
Other studies say that a child younger than nine months can be shown an object and two holes--hole 1, hole 2. The object is placed in hole one, and the child goes and gets it there. Then the object is taken away from the child. When they've quieted down, the object is placed, while they're watching, in hole 2. They go and look for it in hole 1, and don't find it. No matter how many times you show them that you put it in hole 2, they look in hole 1. There's only a period of about a month when kids are nine months old when this phenomenon is true. After that, they can reason out that a thing is where it gets put when it's moved around, and not merely where they found it the first time.... I'm not sure what, if anything, this says about the human animal in general. Except maybe that hope springs eternal. If we find twenty dollars in our jacket pocket one day, we'll keep looking even if we know for certain we didn't put a twenty in there recently.
Nike has just asked me if I could play with him. I said, "No. I'm busy." He said, "Awe, darn. Oh well." Almost verbatum.... I then said, "I can in a little bit, after I finish what I'm doing." He said, "Yay. Let's go now." I said, "No, I have to finish this." He said, "No, come now."
...
Yeah.
Friday, August 24, 2007
The Liver
In Shakespearean times, the liver, not the heart, was the place where emotion sprung from. Which strikes me as funny. By that logic, James Bond would be an emotional wreck from too many unstirred martinis.
Yesterday was my birthday. Today I had a party. I chose as my way to celebrate it that I would be serenely cheerful all day long, and all day yesterday, no matter what happened. I wouldn't rise to any baiting, I would dodge all arguments, I would be unavailable for questioning when stressful subjects of conversation arose, and I would just all around keep my blood pressure down and be not annoyed. At all. So when my sister starts saying, "Hey, host guy, the pan cookie/cake that you planned is undercooked." I just said, hey, whatever, I'm not the host nor the cook today.
I don't know how smooth that was on everyone elses' nerves.... Although...none of them are mad at me. Everyone seems pretty happy, pretty groovy. And, what's more, all the important things happened. The meal I decided I wanted got cooked and eaten. All my guests appeared, grinned for a while, gave me presents, and left, as I wanted them to. Got a pretty good haul too. Better than some of the last few years.
Getting presents is an odd sort of thing. One's possessions obviously don't define one. But they are a tangible expression of one's tastes, desires, ideas, their coloration more or less. And gifts are, more or less, a tangible expression of the feelings others have toward one. Or an expression of how they perceive one's tastes, desires, ideas, and, more or less, their color.
But a gift is more than that, because it's a representation of time spent by the presenter thinking about the receiver. So it gets me wondering why some years you might get better gifts than other years. Is it trully the gifts that are better? Or do you just feel better about the stuff sometimes? Are you getting quantifiably better stuff, or have they just caught you on a good day?
This year, I have a feeling that my gifts have reflected a level of comfort and confidence I have in my own opinions of my life and who I am. I sort of had no idea what I wanted, so when people asked me I'd say, "something cool." And everything I got fell into that categorie--lookit, English. But the pretty crazy thing was that only a few of my invitees even asked what I wanted. Yet I got great stuff anyway. Which could possibly be my perspective.
As an example: I got this sheeve--sheef?--big stack of paper. Three holed paper, blank, no lines, not blindingly bleach white but sort of grainy a bit. Just this stack of paper in its original plastic wrapping. It didn't look brand new, and it wasn't in any wrapping paper. It said to me that my aunt was beginning to leave her house, when she realized she had no present for me. So she looked around, said to herself that I might like that, and picked it up.
It was one of my favorite presents, even taking all that into consideration. I just liked it. Nice stack of paper. A novel that just needs to be written down. A big fuck off novel. It'll be a beautiful book. She even gave me a champagne pen which looked as if it'd been sitting around in its original wrapper for five or six years.
I got the first two Bourne movies and Monty Python and the Holy Grail too, and three wicked awesome CDs. And some other stuff, including, but not limited to, tee-shirts with subtle political messages.
So the two days of whateverness are quite completed. I'm pretty frakking tired, feeling fly and swank and a bit older. And I'm thinking on my stress level, and on everyone else's. There was a great deal of trust that went into this operation. I said, "As celebration, I shall invite mine chums over, and we shallt cook mine family victual upon which to sup. Mine family and mine extended family." To give me an excuse to have a party with my chums, and another with the oldsters. And to give my Mom a night off. So right from the beginning, there was everyone trusting that a bunch of spazzy teenagers would be able to make a meal. And no one said that we needed a backup plan for if/when we spazzed out and didn't deliver. No one said that. I did plan for a lot of extra time for the spazzes. Which proved uncapitalized upon and unnecessary.
Then, when I sociably stopped helping in the cooking operation, I trusted the food would get ready. And it did. I trusted my guests would arrive--I was in charge of invites, so it was touch and go from the get and get--and they did. A lot of little things, like the above mention pan cookie/cake. There was no exchange of instructions, no expectations. Just a sort of trust that important things would come to pass.
And I don't know if that's a postulation into the void: why is not the world always like this? Or if it's a hippy/anarchical/commie strain in me that's coming out of the closet just while I'm sleep deprived.
Anyway, good couple days. I didn't tolerate ill humor, and I didn't notice much for more than a few seconds. Got good gifts. Got older. Decided I might begin pretending to be grown up some of the time, so I never get this: "When are you going to grow up?" And chilled with my home folks.
Good night, and oogidy-booker.
Yesterday was my birthday. Today I had a party. I chose as my way to celebrate it that I would be serenely cheerful all day long, and all day yesterday, no matter what happened. I wouldn't rise to any baiting, I would dodge all arguments, I would be unavailable for questioning when stressful subjects of conversation arose, and I would just all around keep my blood pressure down and be not annoyed. At all. So when my sister starts saying, "Hey, host guy, the pan cookie/cake that you planned is undercooked." I just said, hey, whatever, I'm not the host nor the cook today.
I don't know how smooth that was on everyone elses' nerves.... Although...none of them are mad at me. Everyone seems pretty happy, pretty groovy. And, what's more, all the important things happened. The meal I decided I wanted got cooked and eaten. All my guests appeared, grinned for a while, gave me presents, and left, as I wanted them to. Got a pretty good haul too. Better than some of the last few years.
Getting presents is an odd sort of thing. One's possessions obviously don't define one. But they are a tangible expression of one's tastes, desires, ideas, their coloration more or less. And gifts are, more or less, a tangible expression of the feelings others have toward one. Or an expression of how they perceive one's tastes, desires, ideas, and, more or less, their color.
But a gift is more than that, because it's a representation of time spent by the presenter thinking about the receiver. So it gets me wondering why some years you might get better gifts than other years. Is it trully the gifts that are better? Or do you just feel better about the stuff sometimes? Are you getting quantifiably better stuff, or have they just caught you on a good day?
This year, I have a feeling that my gifts have reflected a level of comfort and confidence I have in my own opinions of my life and who I am. I sort of had no idea what I wanted, so when people asked me I'd say, "something cool." And everything I got fell into that categorie--lookit, English. But the pretty crazy thing was that only a few of my invitees even asked what I wanted. Yet I got great stuff anyway. Which could possibly be my perspective.
As an example: I got this sheeve--sheef?--big stack of paper. Three holed paper, blank, no lines, not blindingly bleach white but sort of grainy a bit. Just this stack of paper in its original plastic wrapping. It didn't look brand new, and it wasn't in any wrapping paper. It said to me that my aunt was beginning to leave her house, when she realized she had no present for me. So she looked around, said to herself that I might like that, and picked it up.
It was one of my favorite presents, even taking all that into consideration. I just liked it. Nice stack of paper. A novel that just needs to be written down. A big fuck off novel. It'll be a beautiful book. She even gave me a champagne pen which looked as if it'd been sitting around in its original wrapper for five or six years.
I got the first two Bourne movies and Monty Python and the Holy Grail too, and three wicked awesome CDs. And some other stuff, including, but not limited to, tee-shirts with subtle political messages.
So the two days of whateverness are quite completed. I'm pretty frakking tired, feeling fly and swank and a bit older. And I'm thinking on my stress level, and on everyone else's. There was a great deal of trust that went into this operation. I said, "As celebration, I shall invite mine chums over, and we shallt cook mine family victual upon which to sup. Mine family and mine extended family." To give me an excuse to have a party with my chums, and another with the oldsters. And to give my Mom a night off. So right from the beginning, there was everyone trusting that a bunch of spazzy teenagers would be able to make a meal. And no one said that we needed a backup plan for if/when we spazzed out and didn't deliver. No one said that. I did plan for a lot of extra time for the spazzes. Which proved uncapitalized upon and unnecessary.
Then, when I sociably stopped helping in the cooking operation, I trusted the food would get ready. And it did. I trusted my guests would arrive--I was in charge of invites, so it was touch and go from the get and get--and they did. A lot of little things, like the above mention pan cookie/cake. There was no exchange of instructions, no expectations. Just a sort of trust that important things would come to pass.
And I don't know if that's a postulation into the void: why is not the world always like this? Or if it's a hippy/anarchical/commie strain in me that's coming out of the closet just while I'm sleep deprived.
Anyway, good couple days. I didn't tolerate ill humor, and I didn't notice much for more than a few seconds. Got good gifts. Got older. Decided I might begin pretending to be grown up some of the time, so I never get this: "When are you going to grow up?" And chilled with my home folks.
Good night, and oogidy-booker.
Thursday, August 23, 2007
The Occupational Woes of a Twenty-First Century Pirate
Arr. No exclamation point. Just arr. I have to you my inside voice. This is one of the many woes that face a pirate in this new millenium.
Sailing is a sport now. No longer a means of transportation. And the boats haven't got gunports. They're so "scientific" and "balanced" that they'd keel over if you get a decient amount of cannon aboard. Not that it matters, since there aren't many cannon to be had, except in museums. Admittedly, stealing them, then putting them on a boat, which I would probably also have to steal, would be a pretty Pirate thing to do. But then I'd have to deal with the Coast Guard. Getting out past them might not be a problem, out into open ocean. Sacking a port like Manhattan is potentially problematic. I couldn't even get close enough to their boats to start shooting. Even being my own loony self, I see the impossibility.
Piracy still exists, though. You don't need a boat for it. Which would certainly be a comforting thought, if it weren't. You see, the most successful Pirate that I know, firstly doesn't dress the part, and more chiefly spends every spare minute on the internet, where he conducts his piracy.
I have the outfit. But so far, modern society has thwarted my efforts at otherwise becoming a Pirate.
Sailing is a sport now. No longer a means of transportation. And the boats haven't got gunports. They're so "scientific" and "balanced" that they'd keel over if you get a decient amount of cannon aboard. Not that it matters, since there aren't many cannon to be had, except in museums. Admittedly, stealing them, then putting them on a boat, which I would probably also have to steal, would be a pretty Pirate thing to do. But then I'd have to deal with the Coast Guard. Getting out past them might not be a problem, out into open ocean. Sacking a port like Manhattan is potentially problematic. I couldn't even get close enough to their boats to start shooting. Even being my own loony self, I see the impossibility.
Piracy still exists, though. You don't need a boat for it. Which would certainly be a comforting thought, if it weren't. You see, the most successful Pirate that I know, firstly doesn't dress the part, and more chiefly spends every spare minute on the internet, where he conducts his piracy.
I have the outfit. But so far, modern society has thwarted my efforts at otherwise becoming a Pirate.
Tuesday, August 21, 2007
Demon of Air: inspired by a fright
I had this series of dreams about this dude. A green dude, not too big, who wore brown pants and nothing else. He was hairless, and had bitty horns sticking out his head, like a devil dude. He could fly around, had a huge sword, and like to terrorize nearby yokels. I don't know if he ate their cattle or stole their virgins or what, because I woke up pumping adrenaline before I saw the end. Scared me frightened.
Over the next few weeks I have some more dreams about this same guy. The Demon of Air felt like his name, although I thought it a pretty dumb name. More characters were introduced: an older guy in a suit who was chasing the Demon of Air for some reason, who had this younger woman with him. I figured it was his daughted, but I don't know just yet.
These two people chased the Demon of Air around, in a sort of Van Helsing, vampire hunt type deal, and I kept waking up with a start before the dreams ended, so I don't know why they were. I watched the action from trees, mostly, sitting on branches and looking down and things, so I guess I was like a fourth character. There was this one scene where the Demon sat in a white, plastic chair, in the middle of an outdoor basketball court--I don't know what that was all about--and the old guy and young woman caught up to him, and they talked. I sat in a tree nearby. I can't remember what they said, but I'm sure it was good.
These dreams woke me up in the middle of the night--scared me. It was the Demon of Air who did. And yet, I dreamed up in these dreams a scarier, feral version of the guy. Same size, same shape, but like...red and slimy.
Dreams are weird.
I want to write this story out as a story. So this blog is meant to get the juices flowing on this Demon of Air.
Over the next few weeks I have some more dreams about this same guy. The Demon of Air felt like his name, although I thought it a pretty dumb name. More characters were introduced: an older guy in a suit who was chasing the Demon of Air for some reason, who had this younger woman with him. I figured it was his daughted, but I don't know just yet.
These two people chased the Demon of Air around, in a sort of Van Helsing, vampire hunt type deal, and I kept waking up with a start before the dreams ended, so I don't know why they were. I watched the action from trees, mostly, sitting on branches and looking down and things, so I guess I was like a fourth character. There was this one scene where the Demon sat in a white, plastic chair, in the middle of an outdoor basketball court--I don't know what that was all about--and the old guy and young woman caught up to him, and they talked. I sat in a tree nearby. I can't remember what they said, but I'm sure it was good.
These dreams woke me up in the middle of the night--scared me. It was the Demon of Air who did. And yet, I dreamed up in these dreams a scarier, feral version of the guy. Same size, same shape, but like...red and slimy.
Dreams are weird.
I want to write this story out as a story. So this blog is meant to get the juices flowing on this Demon of Air.
Monday, August 20, 2007
"Undermine All the Atheists," that's my motto, or it would be if I started having a motto
I like subverting people's minds.
I'm a Christian, with a capital C--important thingie, means I think about how everything goes into getting me into Heaven--and I'm here to tell you a little story, of something I did.
There's this very sweet and pretty girl who I'm trying to catch. She's darling, and good natured, and well mannered. One day I says to her, "I'm a pirate," because I decided a while ago that I am. And she comes back with, "I'm a director. I like to help people know where to go."
That's a nice and polite and kind and sweet sort of thing to say. Unless run through the moi filter.
I send back to her, "You know, everyone I've ever known who said that meant it subversively to put me off my guard because they were secretly plotting to take over the world." Not strictly true, because most of those in my acquaint don't tend to hide that they're trying to take over the world. I certainly don't try to hide that I am, except in strategic ways. It's too early yet for China to be in the know, but there will come a day.
Then, this lovely, kindly, relatively innocent girl, comes back with this: "I hope I'm not trying to take over the world. That would be mean."
She goes on to say, though, "Actually, that is my plan. You're the first person to have me figured out."
I felt good about that. It's remained a sort of running joke twixt us. I felt sort of proud, and still okay with God.
The moral of the story: Christians are fun.
I'm a Christian, with a capital C--important thingie, means I think about how everything goes into getting me into Heaven--and I'm here to tell you a little story, of something I did.
There's this very sweet and pretty girl who I'm trying to catch. She's darling, and good natured, and well mannered. One day I says to her, "I'm a pirate," because I decided a while ago that I am. And she comes back with, "I'm a director. I like to help people know where to go."
That's a nice and polite and kind and sweet sort of thing to say. Unless run through the moi filter.
I send back to her, "You know, everyone I've ever known who said that meant it subversively to put me off my guard because they were secretly plotting to take over the world." Not strictly true, because most of those in my acquaint don't tend to hide that they're trying to take over the world. I certainly don't try to hide that I am, except in strategic ways. It's too early yet for China to be in the know, but there will come a day.
Then, this lovely, kindly, relatively innocent girl, comes back with this: "I hope I'm not trying to take over the world. That would be mean."
She goes on to say, though, "Actually, that is my plan. You're the first person to have me figured out."
I felt good about that. It's remained a sort of running joke twixt us. I felt sort of proud, and still okay with God.
The moral of the story: Christians are fun.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Codename: Edgy
So I have this story. It evolved from a not-quite-vanilla flavored short story--maybe cinnamon flavored--into something rather more gritty. Something which I don't think could be likened to any sort of food. Something much larger, which if you tried to eat it, you'd get lacerations up and down your throat.
It evolved from being one short story, to two short stories, to a series of short stories, to a short story cycle. And now it's meant to be a sort of novel. Except I've been having the dickens of a time making it longer than about forty or fifty or sixty pages, because I couldn't figure out the plot. I had, for a while, a plot which I liked because I thought it original, unexpected, and altogether interesting. It would not, however, have worked real good in the story, simply because...uh, it wouldn't have. To pull it off, I would have needed to rearrange the beginning a good deal, and have some infodump passages, and some random conversations. All bad stuff.
But I figured it out! Like two days ago. I figured a plot which is a few steps down in oddballness, sadly. But a whole plot. A whole plot, and it fits in with the stuff that I don't want to change, and it fits in with my good ideas. And, what's more, the plot I liked from before could be put in as a sub-plot in this new plot, and I think it would be more powerful as such.
So this is a story which, taken all together, I have written perhaps four hundred pages of. Thats including old drafts, removed/replaced sections, and the hundred some odd pages in the main manuscript probably won't end up in the finished piece. So all taken, I'm only like forty pages into it...
But hey, I have huge hopes right now. Watch for updates on "Edgy."
It evolved from being one short story, to two short stories, to a series of short stories, to a short story cycle. And now it's meant to be a sort of novel. Except I've been having the dickens of a time making it longer than about forty or fifty or sixty pages, because I couldn't figure out the plot. I had, for a while, a plot which I liked because I thought it original, unexpected, and altogether interesting. It would not, however, have worked real good in the story, simply because...uh, it wouldn't have. To pull it off, I would have needed to rearrange the beginning a good deal, and have some infodump passages, and some random conversations. All bad stuff.
But I figured it out! Like two days ago. I figured a plot which is a few steps down in oddballness, sadly. But a whole plot. A whole plot, and it fits in with the stuff that I don't want to change, and it fits in with my good ideas. And, what's more, the plot I liked from before could be put in as a sub-plot in this new plot, and I think it would be more powerful as such.
So this is a story which, taken all together, I have written perhaps four hundred pages of. Thats including old drafts, removed/replaced sections, and the hundred some odd pages in the main manuscript probably won't end up in the finished piece. So all taken, I'm only like forty pages into it...
But hey, I have huge hopes right now. Watch for updates on "Edgy."
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