Novel #2 is complete

 2020 was a different kind of year. My goal is to write every day, with weekends off unless I find myself with free time. But in the middle of the year, as the pandemic was spreading more rapidly than our understanding of it, I just stopped writing for three months. And I didn't expect to ever get back to it. 

Every time I've taken more than two days off from writing, over the past decade-plus, there's always been this gnawing in my core urging me to get back to writing, making me irritable and quick tempered. There was none of that. I was happy to be able to just read whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted, and not think about when to carve out time for writing. 

BUT, I had a novel waiting for one final pass. And my friend, Matt, had taken the time to read it and give me some notes on it. I couldn't leave it to just lay fallow on my hard drive, and I couldn't let Matt down. So, eventually, I got back to it. And now, 93,000 words, and a few years and five drafts later, I have a final draft of my second novel. Now, I need to distill those 93,000 words down to 200 and begin querying agents. (the first novel went nowhere, as far as querying, though I did have one agent ask for a full manuscript, which led me to believe I was on the right track)

So, it's time to get that summary done and begin throwing this story out into the world. Because I already know what is next in the queue, and I would like to have that completed by the end of 2021. 

I'm writing a New Story

Day #10 of the return to the writing habit, and a byproduct of getting back to work and writing all those blogposts is that the fiction side of my brain has turned back on. During the three-plus months of my writing drought, this was the most frustrating and unfamiliar aspect. Typically, when I've gone through a spell of no writing, my mind was still working on story ideas. But nothing like that occurred. Now that I'm making the time to write again, though, it seems The Muse TM has returned. Which isn't that surprising. I already wrote about that, here. 

So, to offer something other than self-congratulations, here's the opening sentence for the new story (I hope it does the job I stated it should in this recent piece):

Andre Johnson was seven years old when he stepped into another world.   

Thanks for indulging me. I mean, it is my blog, so I suppose I'm entitled. 

__wink_emoji__ 

-chris

ON WRITING: Why the Habit?

 

Day 5 of getting back into the writing habit (looking at the title, seems like I'm taking the "write what you know" saw a bit too seriously; ah, well):

The most obvious benefit from making your writing a habit is the fact that you actually get some writing done. Working every day, the words build up until you have pages of your work, which becomes dozens of pages, and, eventually, hundreds of pages. From that, one ends up with stories and articles and analytical essays, for submission. After that, it's just a matter of aiming well and firing off your shot (in this metaphor, the aiming represents...oh, forget it; moving on).

All through school, I excelled at my studies. Writing was no different -- straight A student, all the way down the line. I was the cream of the crop, baby. 

And I had no effing idea what the hell I was doing.

This is the biggest frustration, I've discovered, since I set on this journey of actually writing fiction for possible publication. My teachers didn't give me the tools that I needed, in order to do this work with the facility necessary to get published. I've had to learn a lot -- often aspects of writing of which I was aware but had no idea how to recognize them, or fix them if I found them in my work -- as I've written stories and articles and blog posts over the course of these 15 - 20 years. These are issues I know were a part of my writing in high school and college, when I was getting excellent grades. I don't want to dwell on this, or take the time to try and investigate why this occurred (that would be one helluva research hole to fall into), but I do want to make it clear:  even though I did extremely well in my written pieces for academic classes, all of that writing was sloppy and unprofessional and in need of some serious revising. 

And that's the other -- and I'd say, far more important -- thing that will come from a writing habit that has you in the chair, tapping the keys on a daily basis. You actually do get better at your writing (people like to make the comparison of writing daily with a physical workout at the gym, and I never bought into that, but it's true, writing daily strengthens the "muscles" necessary for making good work). I found it easier to get the word I was looking for, found it easier to craft metaphors and comparisons, found descriptions to come more easily (all things being relative; this is a weakness in my writing, I think). Maybe it's a better focus, or just years of checking the online thesaurus and working to come up with a pithy description, I don't know, but there are definite benefits. 

Also, and more to the point in my mind, is the fact that, having written, examined, considered, and revised, thousands and thousands of pages of my own fiction, I've come to discover what people meant by keeping your tenses consistent and not writing in a passive voice, among other literary offenses. I know, for a fact, that I committed both of these stated errors, on a regular basis. 

In the first case, I think that's just how I tell a story, aloud, and I don't believe I'm alone in that regard (maybe I'm wrong, but I'd like to think I'm not a complete dimwit). When speaking off the cuff, it's easy to switch from present to past tense and back. And it wouldn't be uncommon in a first draft of a story, especially from an inexperienced writer, as I was. But, at some point along the way, I became aware of what I was doing, how I was flip-flopping around in those drafts, and I worked to fix that. Soon after I first started to notice it, it became a glaring red light, whenever I would read through some bit where I'd fallen back into that hole. It was a matter of living with this writing every day that had allowed that major lesson to seep into my brain. 

It's a similar thing with the second idea -- not writing passively -- that I mention above. Stephen King, in his great memoir ON WRITING, states that passive writing is a sign of a lack of confidence. Check! This is completely spot-on. Being definitive in your writing, especially when you're just starting out or haven't had all that much success, feels wrong somehow. There's a built-in guilt complex because you're completely making up a story and then expecting others to find it worthy enough of publication, of being read, and of being enjoyed and appreciated. That's pretty heavy. So, it's natural to fall into a passive voice; it's not as obtrusive, not as in-your-face, not as demanding of notice. The word 'seem' is a common culprit. Instead of writing that something happened, you will write that it seemed to happen. There's a bit of romanticization in the use of the word seem; it sounds like something from a very proper fairy tale, like the ones we were fed as children, but it's wishy-washy and it doesn't engender confidence from an audience. This was something I wasn't overly conscious of in my writing, and I can't say when it finally clicked (I do know it was many years after I read On Writing), but when it hit, it hit like a hammer. And now, I excise it whenever I find it. Strut like a peacock, I say, because anything less isn't your best.

[and keep that habit going, because good things will come of it.]

-chris

ON WRITING: The Habit's the Thing

Day 3 of working to get back into the habit of writing. Here we go:

I've written about this before, but you can't allow yourself, if you want to write, to fall into the trap of waiting for the muse. That's a mug's game, a romantic notion that sounds lofty and artistic but will only hamper you, if you truly want to be a writer. [And note, being a writer is many things, but at its core, as Harlan Ellison stated and I will paraphrase: if you write, then you're a writer, full stop. Other good advice, from Neil Gaiman:  finish what you begin.]

But it's an easy trap to fall into. I did, when I first had the idea of writing. Of course, I have a tendency to romanticize things, which is probably why my reading and entertainment choices have leaned toward fantasy and the fantastical -- Star Wars being the prime example of this, with comic books a close second. So, when I first considered writing as something I could do, I though it was necessary to just wait for the ideas to come, to allow the muse to fill me up with creativity and direct me on the proper path. I had this one story idea that I believe was a good one. I would work on that, whenever I felt like it, with days and weeks and months passing in between writing spurts, those gaps expanding once I got into the revising phase. And here, as well, I had no idea what I was doing. I thought you needed to revise the fuck [sorry, Mom] out of a story before submitting it. I was into my 13th or 14th revision, at which point I am certain I was just changing words back to ones I'd had in previous drafts, when I finally stopped, put it aside, and tried to figure out what I was doing, and, more importantly, what I was doing wrong. 

Writing is work. Harlan Ellison, my favorite author, famously would write stories in bookstore windows, from ideas offered by friends or attendees, without any foreknowledge of the subject. He wanted to prove that writing was just like plumbing or teaching or any other job. You worked at it, you became better, it was something you were able to do with some facility, But, like any job, you had to work at it, otherwise, what was the point? 

If you want to be a writer, you need to write. That's advice #1 from any author. You have to write. Every day. It's not easy, because there are plenty of distractions calling out for our attention. You have to sit down, in the chair, spark up the computer, and begin smacking those keys. You have to do it regularly, every single day (though I like to take weekends off to be with my family), and, most importantly, you need to have a goal in mind toward which you're working. This goal will keep you honest, and it will allow you to forge ahead and finish those stories you start. Your goal can be a timed one, or a quantity one, whatever works for you -- write for an hour, write until you've gotten 500 words down, write until you have a full scene completed. Anything that gives you something to shoot for and keeps you moving forward. Consider:  if you write 1,000 words a day, after three months you will have written 90,000 words, roughly, which equates to a standard sized novel. Of course, there would still be revising to finish, but once you have a rough draft to work from, the writing is a bit easier. 

The most important thing about making your writing a habit -- and this is probably obvious, but bear with me -- is to make it a regular thing, within your personal schedule. Set a time, the same time, every day, for when you're going to write. Set up a writing space, dedicated to just that, and it can be at the dining room table, in a home office, on your porch, wherever, but utilize the same space very day. Your mind, and your body, will come to recognize this as the writing space, and when you sit down to the keyboard you will know, subconsciously, that it is your writing time. Patterns can be important, especially when beginning a habit. Choose some music, something that will relax you and focus you, that won't be distracting. I prefer to use soundtracks or classical music or jazz, something without lyrics. Currently I'm listening to the John Wick soundtracks. The music energizes me, and it drowns out distractions (I used to do this in high school, when I did my homework); it keeps me focused on the task at hand and allows me to work toward my goal, which has changed over time. Used to be I would try to write for 2 hours a day, then I worked to a 1000 words a day goal, now I've taken on something Joe Hill does, which is to work on a single scene and finish that scene, during my writing time. It's not always doable, but it does give me something to aspire to. 

In the end, the only person who can make you write is you, and whatever means you utilize to get to that place, I applaud you. Just remember, you need to write on a daily (regular) basis, and you need to finish what you begin. Other than that, everything else is fair game. 

-chris

Succeeding (or Failing) in public

So, this is the week where I am working to get back into the habit of writing. And my plan is to do it in public (at least, as public as this blog may be . . . not overly public, though technically it's totally public, but one must take into account one). 

It's not enough just to spit out something onto a screen, as it were, though that's apparently where I'm heading with this. I had a few ideas of what I could do:  write about something I'd recently read or maybe craft a scene or a setting just as an exercise; of course, I could be doing THE WORK -- revising one of my stories, or going through that novel manuscript on a final pass, or working on the synopsis I need for that (87,000 summed up in less than 200, please). Any of these would be good. 

But I also considered writing extemporaneously . . . like I'm doing right (write?) now. Annnnnnnnnd, I'm not feeling it (most especially because it just feels like an exercise in futility with nothing to gain, either for you the reader [singular for multiple reasons, hahaha!] or for me.  So, a scene or a setting. Let's see if I can do that. 

Cue music: 

And, let's begin.

Antoine opened his eyes. Darkness. 

He could feel a chill on the back of his neck, a soft breeze licking the skin just below his hairline, coming from . . . somewhere. Sitting in a wooden chair, his arms were pulled back; he tried to move his hands, found they were bound. Rope or wire or plastic cut into his wrists, he couldn't help but let out a tiny scream. Eyes pinched closed with the pain, Antoine took a breath, tried to fill his lungs with air, but found it impossible. 

On his left, a sound, something moving. He turned, looked. 

The darkness looked back. 

"Who's there?" Antoine's voice cracked, was weak. Questions tumbled through his mind, refused to congeal into anything coherent. He opened his mouth again:  "What do you want?" 

Nothing. 

Antoine sucked at the air again, tried to regain some control of the situation. His breaths were quick, shallow, unfulfilled. He could feel himself panicking, worked to push that thought down, continued to grasp for oxygen and finally managed to calm down his lungs. He took three long, slow breaths, then opened his eyes wide. 

A slight glimmer on his right. An outline -- tall, square, a window(?), maybe. 

A thicker shadow to his left. Heavy. Solid. A piece of furniture -- a bookcase or a dresser. 

The chair he was in. Wood, with delicately carved decorations on its back (he could feel the empty spaces scattered across his shoulder blades, down the rest of his back; he could almost picture a similar chair from his childhood, in his grandmother's apartment). The legs were narrow, the seat solid. Antoine felt like he should be able to break it if he could get the right leverage to lift it from the floor and topple it over. Of course, this thought led to the discovery that his legs were bound as well, at the ankles and the knees. 

FUCK!

"What are doing?" 

A soft laugh, so low Antoine thought it might be his imagination. 

The female voice following it told him it was genuine. "Isn't it obvious?" the voice said. "We want to kill you. But first, we want to play." 

So, roughly 350 words. Not bad for a first draft. At least, I hope it's not too bad. I only had an image, of someone locked in a room, when I started. I didn't know it was pitch black until I began writing. In my mind, I wanted to write something that might elicit the anxiety one would experience if in this situation. I don't know that I succeeded in that regard. I would need to know what I'm doing in order to achieve that with a quick first draft. I'm not even sure if could achieve it on a third pass. But I feel like I may have crafted something that is, at the very least, interesting. And, given the opportunity to revise it and flesh out a larger narrative around it, I believe I could come up with something worthwhile. Maybe I'll try that someday. But, for now, I got a chance to flex the "fictive" muscles for the first time in a long time. 

I'll be back tomorrow with something else. Not sure what it'll be, but hopefully it will be engaging. 

-chris

You're either in the game . . .

On May 22, 2020, I completed the first draft of a new short story (looking in my files it might be "Life Giver," though I'm not one hundred percent certain). The next day, I started a string of 108 consecutive days of no writing. I haven't had a drought like that for at least a decade and a half. And that might be the problem. 

Sure, we are all dealing with the COVID pandemic, and it has turned everything inside out. Maybe that contributed to this dry spell. But I think, more likely, it's the fact that I've been writing on a fairly regular basis for at least 15 years now, and it's tiring pushing against that tide and finding that the weight of water can be overwhelming (if I may be allowed to extend that metaphor). 

Always before, when I would put off writing for a short while -- a few days up to a week -- there would be an anxiety that would churn in my gut, telling me to get back to the keyboard, urging me not to waste all the time I've put into this by just giving up. I would become irritable, though at a low level, because of this urge to write. And eventually, I would sit back down and start that habit all over again. Because that's the key:  you have to make it a habit, and you can only do that by sitting down to do the work. That's how the muse comes to you, how the words get written, how inspiration sparks in your brain -- not through divine intervention but through sitting in your chair banging away at the keys. I know this; I've experienced it, and I know how simple it can be to get back into that habit (for me, the threshold tends to be 3 days; once I've "done the work" for three days straight, then it becomes easier and the sitting down isn't such a chore, BUT the ugly flipside is:  it only takes one days to break that habit, and easing into that as a new habit is way too easy). 

I'm a full-time dad, full-time husband, full-time employee, which means carving out time to write is a challenge. But that doesn't mean it's impossible. I just need to take time from other aspects of my life, aspects revolving around my free time (put that in scare quotes, because free time is at a premium in this game of life), and during these past few months, I've really enjoyed reading some old comics, reading Alan Moore's JERUSALEM (what a beast, and brilliant!), watching baseball on TV now that it's back, and generally just appreciating my free time. It's been good, especially since I haven't experienced any of that anxiety I would, when I stopped writing before. 

But now, I am hoping to get back on that horse. It won't be easy (I know that) because I've really enjoyed grabbing comics from my longboxes and creating stacks of books to cycle through. But I have a novel just about ready for querying, and I'm halfway through the first draft of another novel (I'm looking at you, Dan; we're gonna finish this, and maybe I'll take on the balance of this initial draft, once I set up my synopsis and stuff for contacting agents), and there are any number of short stories I want to write or revise or just submit. There's plenty on my plate. I just need to get cracking. 

Like I've noted many times before in my writing posts, if you want to write you need to write. 

Just. 

Do. 

It.

-chris

You Gotta Give Good...

Here's one of the first stories I had published (of the very small number I can say that about). I saw a call for submissions that Greg Rucka had retweeted, seeking stories of the steampunk genre set in Civil War-era New Orleans, and thought that sounded promising. I chose to include voudou in my story, and knowing little of that subject -- while also wanting to depict it in a serious manner -- or steampunk, I set to work doing my research. Luckily, I work at Fogler Library at the University of Maine. Reading furiously while taking notes, I eventually came up with a spine for my story, and once I'd completed my reading, I went to work writing. 

When it was accepted for publication in the New Orleans by Gaslight anthology, I was surprised along with being excited. It always feels good to get validation on something you've put a lot of work into. I'm quite proud of this story. I hope you enjoy it.  

 

 

 

YOU GOTTA GIVE GOOD...

 

By C.M. Beckett

Shadows rippled across the page of Charlotte Lacroix’s book as the flame of the gaslamp fluttered above her head.  Outside, she could hear a clamor of voices.  Charlotte closed her book and got up to investigate.  As she did, a spring released and clockwork gears churned to life in the corner of the room. 

“It’s okay T.O.M.A.S.  There’s no need for you to get up,” said Charlotte, and she stepped outside.

The heavy air pressed against her dark flesh, popping beads of sweat down the backs of her arms.  The surrounding homes were quiet, Charlotte’s neighbors more forgiving of the hot New Orleans nights than she. 

A few minutes later Charlotte came to the edge of town where a small mob had formed – as many men holding pints of beer as pitchforks and torches.  Charlotte – lean and wiry with long braids and sharp, piercing eyes – approached the men, who were focused toward the middle of their circle. 

Edmand Renaud, a large, pale man with bushy white hair and piercing eyes, turned to address Ms. Lacroix.  “We don’t need your kind here,” he said, as he moved to block her path. 

“I be goin’ through you if I cain’t go around,” said Charlotte. 

The large man hesitated, but quickly relented.  Charlotte pushed to the edge of the mob and all eyes turned to her – the vigor draining from their faces. 

Jacques Renaud – Chief Constable, younger brother to Edmand, taller and leaner than his elder sibling – stood in the middle of the group, his truncheon swinging ominously over a black man wearing a frayed Confederate uniform. 

Charlotte stepped into the middle of the circle and glared at the constable.  “I see,” she said.  “This man be some great and powerful threat, all beat and bloodied as he is.”

“You have no right being here,” said Jacques.

“I gots every right,” said Charlotte.  “We a free city and ain’t nobody turned away if they need help.”

Charlotte pushed past the younger Renaud and knelt by the soldier.  Close up, she could see welts covering his bare arms and dried blood caked on his face.  The man was haggard, struggling for breath.  She ran her fingers over his shoulders.

“He gots a hex on him,” said Charlotte.  She turned to the crowd, found a friendly face.  “Isaac.  Bring some o’ dem peaches,” she said to an older man, nodding to the tree behind him.  “Hurry.”

Jacques Renaud stepped closer, glaring down at Charlotte.  “Do not act in a manner you may regret later.”

“I gots no worries, Constable,” said Charlotte.  “What your conscience tellin’ you?”

Jacques Renaud raised his truncheon and held it for a long moment, but chose not to act on his rage.

Isaac knelt down beside Charlotte and handed her the fruit.  “Thank Papa you come,” he said.

“We see if Papa watchin’ over us tonight,” said Charlotte.  She took the peaches and passed them over the soldier’s body. 

When she finished, Charlotte threw the peaches into the tall grass, disposing of the evil spirits that now clung to the fruit.  Then she leaned in close to the beaten soldier.  “You hear me, son?” she said.

The man nodded and opened his eyes.

“What your name?” she said.

“Abram.”  His voice was hardly a whisper. 

“Okay, Abram.  We gonna take care o’ ya, all right?”

He nodded and let his eyes fall shut again.

“Isaac,” Charlotte said.  “Take this one ta my place.  He need rest.”

Isaac lifted the man onto his back. 

“And be quick,” Charlotte said.  “There’s somethin’ on the wind I don’t like.”

 

***

Captain Seward rode to the front of the company, which had stopped without explanation.  “Sergeant Major!” he bellowed.

The clattering of steel rippled through the blackness as Sergeant Major Campbell raced to where Captain Seward sat on his horse. 

“Yes, Captain,” said the Sergeant Major, out of breath.

“Why are we not moving forward, Sergeant Major?” said the Captain.

The Sergeant Major hesitated.

“Don’t stand there like some imbecile.   What is keeping us from our duty?” said the Captain.

“The city is a haven for magicks,” said the Sergeant Major.  “The men are scared.”

“Are they sucklings still in need of their Mama’s teat?”

“No,” said the Sergeant Major.

“No!” said Captain Seward.  “They are soldiers of the Confederacy.  And I want them moving now, or by God, I’ll know why not.” 

 “There is another problem,” said Sergeant Major Campbell.

Captain Seward could only stare at his Sergeant Major.

“New Orleans is a free city,” he said.  “We cannot just march in there without provocation.”

“Without provocation?” bellowed Captain Seward.  “They have my property, and I aim to get it back or receive reparations.”

“Yes, Captain,” said the Sergeant Major.  “But I expect Colonel Radcliffe would relish an opportunity to cite you for insubordination if we circumvented the free city ordinance.”

The Captain was silent.  He stared across the black fields to New Orleans, torches like pinpricks on the dark canvass. 

“We could send in Corporal Butters to parlay with city elders,” said the Sergeant Major.

The Captain looked down from his horse, his teeth clenched.  “You have one day, Sergeant Major.  One day.  Then we do it my way.”

***

Charlotte Lacroix stood off to one side, arms crossed, as Corporal Butters entered the clearing on his horse.  Jacques Renaud was at the head of the group, while his brother stood back in the shadows. 

“Ho!  I speak for Captain John G. Seward of the Second Virginia Army. Who speaks for this crowd?” said the Corporal.

“Jacques Renaud.  Constable,” said the younger Renaud.  “I speak for this group.  And what might your name be?”

“That be no need of yours,” said the Corporal.

“But it be mine,” said Charlotte, stepping over to the center of the group.  “’Spect you lookin’ for that poor man come runnin’ in earlier.” 

“Who might you be?” said the Corporal.

“Charlotte Lacroix.   And you be the one needs ta explain how that man come to be as sickly as he is,” said Charlotte. 

“He’s a deserter,” said the Corporal.  “His health means little to me.”

“He may be a deserter, but I don’t imagine he signed up hisself,” said Charlotte.  “’Spect he had nothin’ to say in the matter.”

 “You impudent bitch!”  Corporal Butters rose up in his saddle.  “How dare you address your betters in that manner.”

“New Orleans a free city,” said Charlotte.  “We don’ answer to you.”

The Corporal threw one leg over his saddle and made to jump down, but Jacques Renaud stepped between the soldier and Charlotte.  “Now, now,” he said.  “No need for violence.  I expect we can all come to some agreement.”

“Only agreement the Captain’ll grant you is one sees his property returned,” said the Corporal.

“She has a point,” said Edmand, his soft voice wending through the tiny crowd.  “We are a free city.” 

“What?”  Jacques turned on his brother, grabbing the older Renaud by his lapels.  “What is wrong with you?” 

Charlotte stepped over to the brothers.   “Jacques.”  Her voice was soft but firm as she placed a hand on his shoulder.  He turned to look at Charlotte and eased his grip on Edmand.  “Don’t try to work your magicks on me, witch,” he said. 

“I do no such thing,” said Charlotte.  “I put out good causes, good feelings.  I no wanna hurt you, Jacques.” 

Charlotte turned back to the corporal.  “That your camp?” she said, pointing past him to the fires along the tree line. 

Corporal Butters said nothing.

“I be there in an hour,” said Charlotte.

“Not without me,” said Jacques.

“You free to go where you want,” said Charlotte.

The Corporal nodded in Renaud’s direction, then turned his steed and slipped back into the night.

Jacques moved up behind Charlotte.  “I hope you don’t believe that soldier will be getting out of this city alive,” he said.

“We see ‘bout that,” said Charlotte.  “We see.  I best go get T.O.M.A.S.  Then we head out.”

***

Captain Seward strode through the tall grass with Corporal Butters at his side.  “Well, what do we have here?” he said.  “A man of worth and…”  His voice trailed off as he eyed Charlotte and the large automaton by her side.  T.O.M.A.S. was a collection of gears, springs, and formed sheet metal that resembled a seven-foot-man in the abstract.  He (it) was Charlotte’s assistant and her confidant – one for which loyalty was never a question.

“Sir,” said Corporal Butters.  “These are the two who have come to speak on behalf of the city.”

“That is quaint,” said the Captain.  “But I see no reason to negotiate for what is rightly mine.”

“Cain’t own a man ‘ceptin when he wants ta be,” said Charlotte, taking a step forward. 

“Is that so?” said the Captain.  “You are an uppity one.”

“Captain,” said Jacques.  “I believe there is a way for us all to prosper here.”

“You do?” said the Captain.  “I find that almost humorous.”

“You aims ta kill that boy, don’t ya?” said Charlotte. 

“What?” said the Captain.

“I know what you be,” said Charlotte.  “How you treat us.”

“What exactly do you mean?” said the Captain.  “What am I?”

“A killer,” said Charlotte. 

“But isn’t that a soldier’s job?” said Captain Seward. 

“Yes,” said Jacques, trying to wedge himself into the conversation.

“I din’t know we was the enemy,” said Charlotte.  “Unless you ain’t got the courage ta go North.”

Captain Seward stepped right up to Charlotte, his breath hot on her face.  “You overstep your bounds,” said the Captain, resting a hand on the hilt of his saber.

T.O.M.A.S.’s gears screeched to action beside Charlotte, startling many of the soldiers.  The clockwork automaton raised its arms and aimed the miniature steam cannons housed there at the Captain and his corporal.  Seward took a step back.  “Do you truly believe a single tin man can stand against an entire company of Confederate soldiers?”

“What I believe is that you plan ta kill that boy,” said Charlotte.  She stared hard at the Captain, as she squeezed the gris-gris in her hand.  The small pouch was filled with secret herbs, and it radiated a warmth across Charlotte’s palm.  The silence built for a long minute before Charlotte finally reached out to T.O.M.A.S.  The automaton lowered its arms and powered down. 

Captain Seward looked from Charlotte to the clockwork man and back.  “You do a disservice to the honor of the uniform I wear,” he said.  “As much as I might like to be rid of my problem immediately, there are protocols to follow.  A deserter may speak on his own behalf.  For whatever good it will do.”

“That don’t reassure me none,” said Charlotte.

“I care little about your reassurances,” said the Captain.  “But,” he continued, “You’d be foolish not to consider the persuasive quality of a hundred armed soldiers who would do whatever their captain ordered.” 

“You plan to kill him, yes?” said Charlotte.

“Will you stop,” said Jacques.  “That slave belongs to the Captain.  It is his, by right, to do with as he wants.”

Captain Seward acted as if he didn’t hear Jacques.  “I expect I will kill him,” he said to Charlotte. 

“Why you so venomous?” said Charlotte.

“I only want what’s mine,” he said.

“And then you’ll leave us be?” said Charlotte.

Captain Seward nodded, his eyes twinkling in the firelight.

“Let me give the boy some comfort first,” said Charlotte. 

“If you try to whisk him away, I will bring my company of men down on your head,” said Captain Seward.

“We be back at first light,” said Charlotte. 

“No later,” said the captain.

“Don’t you worry.  You get what’s yours come sunup,” Charlotte said.  Then she turned and, with T.O.M.A.S., headed back across the dark field to the city.  Jacques hesitated but soon followed.

None of the soldiers noticed the gris-gris she dropped into one of the campfires as they left.

***

“How you feelin?” said Charlotte.

Abram sat up a little straighter on the simple bench in Charlotte’s front room.  “Better,” he said.

“Good,” said Charlotte.  “Cuz we got some work to do.”  She opened her front door and motioned for him to join her.

Ten minutes later they returned to the clearing where they first met hours before.  A group of citizens, larger than earlier with more women than men, was already gathered – some faces familiar to Abram, ones who had watched Jacques Renaud beat him. 

Abram stopped short of the circle, shunning the illumination of the torches.   

“What is it?” said Charlotte.

“I won’t do this again,” he said.  “You offered help.  This ain’t no help.”

“These my people” said Charlotte.  “You gots nothin’ to fear.”

Abram refused to move.  Charlotte waited before continuing into the circle, where a simple altar became visible beyond the parting crowd.

Charlotte nodded to the darkness beyond the altar.  Jacques Renaud was led into the circle by T.O.M.A.S. – the clockwork man’s metal arms holding the struggling man with little effort. 

Charlotte reached behind the altar and produced a rooster.  She turned toward Abram and nodded in his direction.  A shiver ran up the man’s back, and Abram walked over to the altar.

Charlotte held the bird like a chalice, its red crest a stain of blood in the flickering light, and ran it over Abram’s body, drawing away the evil spirits. 

Jacques strained against the automaton.  “You witch!  You’ll pay for this!  My brother will see to that.”

“Your brother done seen to this already,” said Charlotte.  “You want good, you gotta give good in this world.” 

She turned to the altar and began to chant, raising the chicken high above her head as she prayed in Yoruba to Elegba, Ogun, Obatala, and Oshund.  Others joined in, a soft chorus that sailed into the darkness.  And then…

Charlotte held the rooster away from her body with one hand and twisted the bird’s neck with the other, followed by a second quick motion that ripped its head from its body. 

Charlotte dropped the head and held the body above the altar, blood pouring over it all. 

Then Charlotte turned and walked to Abram, the decapitated rooster in her left hand.  She dipped the middle finger of her right into the neck socket and placed the bloody finger onto the soldier’s brow, tracing a line all the way around his head.  Dipping the finger again, she knelt down to mark each of Abram’s big toes with the rooster’s blood. 

Charlotte rose, turned on Jacques Renaud, and did the same to him.  Renaud struggled, spitting in Charlotte’s face multiple times, but he couldn’t hope to break from T.O.M.A.S. 

When she finished, Charlotte laid the carcass on the altar, offered more prayers to the spirits, then plucked some feathers and scattered them over the altar.  Next, she took up a jug of homemade gin – the favored libation of Elegba – sucked deeply from its neck and spattered that across the altar.  Charlotte took another long draught of the gin and misted that over Abram’s feet and the top of his head.  She did the same to Jacques, who continued to struggle as he spat expletives at the voudou priestess. 

Charlotte set the gin down and washed her hands in a small bucket off to the side.  In the water were floating four coconut shells – divination implements known as obi – which she retrieved and threw.  The first throw was black – all four husk side up, Oyekun – a bad omen.  She threw them again.  And again.  And again.  These next three times, they came up ejife – two black and two white – a very good sign.  Charlotte was pleased. 

She rose and placed the rooster into a small gunnysack in front of the altar.  She then poured palm oil and honey into the sack and spit another mouthful of gin over the rooster.  Charlotte brought the sack to Abram.

“Seal it,” she said. 

Then she walked back to the altar and retrieved a small bucket filled with a thick grayish liquid.  Charlotte handed it to Abram.  “Take this,” she said.  “You bring it back to my place, where you be staying tonight, and you clean yourself with it.  Pour it all over your naked body and don’t wash it off until just before dawn.  And make sure you throw away that gunnysack on your way back to be rid of them bad spirits.”

Abram nodded.

“Now scoot,” said Charlotte.  She turned and looked at Jacques Renaud.  “We got other business to finish here.” 

***

Mist burned off the grasses as Charlotte and her two companions – T.O.M.A.S. and Abram, whose face was hidden by a gunnysack as he struggled against the grip of the clockwork man – approached the soldiers.  The sun, a deep orange that burned the eyes, broke over the tree line – dawn, when the spirits are most restless. The trio stopped a hundred yards from the edge of the Confederate camp. 

Charlotte stepped over to Abram and placed a gris-gris in his shirt pocket as she leaned up and whispered through the gunnysack, “I sorry for this.  But to get good you need to give good.”  She kissed the rough cloth and then turned for the encampment. 

Charlotte searched the faces, but did not see Captain Seward.  One of the soldiers, working to get his suspenders over his shoulders, locked eyes with her and immediately took off into the woods. 

Shortly, Captain Seward arrived in full uniform, clean-shaven, and more alert than any of his company.

“I must admit,” he said, “I am mighty surprised.”  The Captain looked as if he’d just screwed a two-dollar whore and then gotten her to return the money on his way out. 

“We all get what we deserve,” said Charlotte.  “And I ‘spect that’s as should be.” 

“That’s wiser thinking than I would have given your kind credit for,” said Captain Seward.

Charlotte, ignoring the knot forming in her stomach, said, “You be killin’ him this morning?”

“If that were your business, I might feel obliged to share,” said the Captain.  “But…” 

He let the word trail off as he turned his attention to the bound refugee in the automaton’s steel arms.  “I do not mean to cast aspersions,” he said, “but might I be able to see the face of that which you brought?  Just to make certain this is indeed the one I seek.” 

Charlotte turned and nodded to T.O.M.A.S.  The clockwork man lifted the sack, revealing the bloodied visage of Abram.  A thick stitch of cloth was tied around his mouth, stifling protests.

“That be him?” said Charlotte. 

“Indeed it is,” said Captain Seward.  He walked over and punched Abram hard across his face. 

Blood trickled from the slave’s nose as he pulled his head back up, eyes wide, fear trying to claw its way out. 

“Corporal Butters!”  The young soldier came running, his saber rattling against his leg as he worked to keep his balance through the tall grass.  “Yes, sir,” he said. 

“Take this and prepare for the ceremony.  We need to meet up with Captain Jackson’s company in Baton Rouge by mid-afternoon, so we haven’t much time.”

“Yes, sir.”  The corporal motioned for two soldiers to take the deserter away. 

Abram shook his head fiercely, eyes pleading with Charlotte as he disappeared into the forest shadows. 

“You best leave now, before I forget my manners,” said Captain Seward, and he turned and walked away.

 “’Spect you’ll hang him,” said Charlotte.  “’Spect that’s right.” 

***

That afternoon, Charlotte Lacroix returned with a handful of others to the soldiers’ deserted encampment.  She peered into the shadows as she cautiously stepped into the forest.  Soon enough, Charlotte found what she was looking for.

The creaking of an oak branch shuddered across the silence, a limp body a pendulum at the end of a thick noose.

“Damn.”  The muted exclamation came from just over Charlotte’s left shoulder.  She turned and looked at Abram.

“Yes,” she said.  “But you give good to get good in this world.”

“How will Edmand feel about this?” said another of the group.

“He knows,” said Charlotte. 

“Yeah, but –” 

Charlotte cut off the statement with a searing look that urged the rest of the group back a step.  Then she turned back to Jacques Renaud, in a tattered Confederate uniform, hanging above her.

“Someone hoist me up so we’n cut him down,” she said.

“Why?” said Abram, the venom obvious in his voice.

“Cuz,” said Charlotte, “every man deserve a proper burial.”

 

ON WRITING: Keeping your characters in character

Interesting fiction involves interactions with multiple characters, all of whom need to be individualized, to feel true, to be distinct from one another.  Crafting compelling characters (what is going on with all this alliteration?) is a big challenge, maybe the big challenge, of any writing endeavor.  They are the engine that propels your narrative, the choices made and the conflicts that arise are what create the ebb and flow of the drama, ratcheting up the tension with an unexpected decision that cascades through a dramatic turn of events, pulling along the reader to see what happens next.  Characters are the lifeblood of your story. 

But, keeping your characters consistent (more alliteration?!?) can be difficult, especially if you're in the opening pages of your first draft.  At that point, you're still trying to figure out who these people are, trying different things, pushing them into situations, feeling them out, learning about them.  Eventually, they do become more solidified, more real, and, at times, as you're writing you'll find the choices made by your characters come almost naturally, as if they are writing themselves.  It's a pretty cool feeling when you get to that point where the people on the page act as naturally as your neighbor or your family.  But you need to write a bit to get to that point. 

Which brings me to a recent example.  My buddy, Dan (his name's up there, to the right), and I are currently writing the first draft of a YA horror novel.  I'm currently in the middle of chapter 6, and though we have pretty good descriptions for our main characters, they're still evolving and I am still not at a point where the characterizations are lodged in my brain.  I'm still learning they are while trying to remember, fully, who they've been up to now. 

A bit of context:  The setting is a small string of three islands, off the coast of Maine.  The island population barely boasts a couple hundred people, between the three.  Our main characters are two 12-year-olds, one from away, one a local.  The one from away has gone to the library to try and find some information.  He gets there, and the librarian is busy with a family, so his friend takes him to the second floor to look around, while they wait.  This second floor is surround, all the way around without a break, with windows, allowing for a 360 degree view around the building, including a straight shot to the harbor, which is about a half-mile away. 
End contextual infodump

So, our protagonist walks over to the window looking out to the harbor.  It's a pretty amazing view, and I wanted to get this across in the scene, so I had our main character thinking about what a cool view it was from there. 
And all was good, I thought.  I'd described the interior of the library fairly well, and I'd gotten some cool aspects included, with the view of the harbor from the second floor as the big piece. 

Except, our protagonist, Jim, wouldn't react this way.  (something I figured out later, while lying in bed)  He was brought to this island by his father, even though he didn't want to move.  His father has been gone for a couple of weeks, at this point, in order to work on a big fishing vessel so that they can make ends meet.  Add to this all the anxiety and frustration that comes from moving to a new place and starting at a new school, and you can imagine how much pent-up anger Jim has inside.  He's mad.  He doesn't care about some great view from the library.  He wants to go back home, where he grew up.  He wants his father back.  He wants to be anywhere but here. 

So, why would he react in such a positive, almost awestruck fashion?  Answer:  he wouldn't. 

The next day, I rewrote the end of that scene.  I had Carrie, our other main character, remark on how cool a view it was to Jim, and then he turned away, saying, "Yeah, sure," and commented on how it only made him think of how small this island was and how far away home was.  It was a good rewrite that evoked what epitomizes each of these characters.  And it felt good to catch that and keep these two people consistent. 

chris

ON WRITING: Finding Luck (hint--you need to write)

There are a few things you need, in order to find some success writing (or with any creative endeavor):  talent, perseverance, and luck. 

One of the earliest pieces of advice that I took to heart, when I finally began to take my writing seriously, was to seek out any venue for publication of my (your) work, even if said venue might not be within the genre or format to which one aspires, i.e. if you want to write novels you may need to start small--write short stories and try to get them published, or you could even try to write a regular column for an online or print publication.  In 2007, I did the latter and landed a weekly column for a now-defunct online pop culture and comic book website, The Pulse.  I wanted to write fiction, at the time focusing on short stories with a plan to move up to novels eventually, but I also took to heart the advice above, understanding that seeing my words in print would allow me to view them differently, hopefully leading to an improvement in my writing, while also knowing the more I wrote, the better I would get, as well. 

For the next year, I wrote my column, "For Your Consideration," which offered a quick synopsis and analysis of a recent(ish) comic not published by the larger entities--Marvel or DC, as examples--along with a short Q&A with the creator(s) or other involved party, such as an editor or publisher.  Each column ran about 2,000 words, and having a weekly deadline really pushed me to ramp up my writing and get past the need for inspiration to strike, because your editor doesn't care if you were inspired or not, they just need the work at the time you promised it.  I also got to interview a number amazing creators:  Warren Ellis, Garth Ennis, Jason, Gilbert Hernandez, Paul Pope, Steve Rude, and P. Craig Russell, among others [and I still lament the fact that my assumptions led to Matt Fraction, rightfully, chewing me out over email, after I held onto a "Casanova" FYC too long].  I wrote a lot for the Pulse that year, and it was a good time.

I have also sought out a variety of avenues for publication of my short stories, while managing to land a few with various anthologies.  But, as I seem to harp on about, you have to do the work.  Not just the writing, though that should be obvious, but also the work in finding places where your stories can be published, landing at these publications during an open submissions window, then following the guidelines needed to get your story in front of the reader who will ultimately accept or reject your story.

Do.  The.  Work.

Of course, there are plenty who don't do the work and don't appear to want to do the work.  They just drop into comments sections to make themselves known.  [attention:  Pet Peeve (TM) territory ahead, proceed with caution]  On more than one occasion, I've discovered either a call for writers (at CBR, another comic-centric site) or found a call for submissions of short fiction (Needle: a Magazine of Noir, for one) and discovered a bunch of comments, in the thread that followed, that made me bristle.  Maybe that was too strong a reaction, but what can I say, I'm human, and I've been working at this writing thing for quite some time, so I was irritated with the responses and the respondents.

In the first instance, there were a number of people proclaiming how excited they would be to have the opportunity to write for CBR . . . if only they had some writing to share . . . and why did you need examples, anyway?  (I had examples -- over 50 -- which could demonstrate how I would approach the subject matter upon which CBR focused; and as an aside, when I applied to the UMaine magazine for a writing position, I wrote a mock article to include with my application, as an example of what they could expect from me ---- do the work!) 

In the latter instance, I found comments left after submissions had closed, asking for the editor to contact them when the next submission window came open.  What?!?  (Needle was a magazine I greatly wanted to be a part of, and eventually was, so I regularly checked in at the website to see if submissions were open.  I also had a story ready and waiting, for when submissions did become open.  Going further, I had a short story rejected by Needle, but Steve Weddle [the editor] included comments stating there was a lot to like in my story, but that maybe I should consider expanding it to take away any of the coincidental aspects of the narrative.  I not only took his advice, but I also signed up for an online class about writing and submitting short stories through LitReactor, which Weddle moderated, so that I could not only learn more about my craft but also get my name in front of Weddle again.  In the end, that expanded story was published in the last issue of Needle.   Do. The. Damn. Work!) 

This is what people mean when they say you need to "make your own luck."  Sitting around, hoping that luck will strike (or inspiration, as I note in this previous piece), takes all the agency, all the responsibility, out of your hands.  It's nice in that relying on luck, a capricious facet of the universe, absolves you of any of the responsibility for your shortcomings or your rejections.  Hell, you won't even get rejected, because you won't send anything in, because you won't have done the work . . . but at least you can ponder how sorry they must be that they didn't get a story from you, because that would have been the best and could have really helped the publication with the popularity it would have generated.  Not writing means no rejections, and it also means you're allowed to continue to live in your fantasy world, where, if only luck had fallen your way, you would have been the greatest. 

Yeah, I'm harping on this one thing:  Do The Work.  But it's important.  And just stating it once certainly won't -- for most people -- allow it to stick in the front of your brain, festering there until you accept its inherent truth.  So, I harp, like the harpingest harpy that ever harped.

• I wrote a story specifically for Needle.  I submitted it.  It was rejected, but with some insightful notes.  I went back.  Rewrote it.  Re-submitted it.  It was published in Needle #10.  
• I wrote a comic review column for a fledgling site -- Independent Propaganda.  It went under, but I had examples to share with Jen Contino at the Pulse.  She allowed me to write a weekly comic review/interview column for the Pulse, for a year.  
• I saw a call for submissions to a steampunk anthology, centered around Civil War-era New Orleans.  I read up on steampunk.  I wrote a story.  I submitted it.  It was published in New Orleans by Gaslight.  
• There was a call for comic stories based on Mary Shelley's Frankenstein.  I read Frankenstein.  I made notes.  I conceived a story.  Wrote an outline.  Wrote a script.  Took the editor's suggestions and incorporated them into a revised script.  It was accepted and published in Unfashioned Creatures.

I've done the work.  I've had some small bit of success in getting things published [to this point I've had 20 accepted pieces (some of which were not published due to funds dissolving or other aspects out of my control), I've withdrawn 25 submissions for a variety of reasons, and I've been rejected 224 times].  I've gotten lucky.  But that luck would not have materialized had I not already been doing the work, doing the writing, doing the revising, doing the daily grind of sitting at a computer and typing away at the keyboard.  Luck has a lot to do with how successful you might be as a writer, but you'll never find that luck if you don't first work hard.

-chris

ON WRITING: Luring the Muse (hint--make it a habit)

Luck.  Inspiration.  The Muse.

When discussing writing . . . it's all drivel.  An anthropomorphizing of human ideas that romanticizes writing to an almost divine plane, while also diminishing it by ignoring the amount of work that goes into the act of writing.  You can wait until inspiration strikes.  Wait for the muse to land on your shoulder.  Hope for a lucky break.  But if you're focusing on this, you're probably not writing, and that's the key to it all.

The biggest problem with this romanticization is the fact that it takes a writer's success out of their hands, relegating it to some outside force.  Now, this may be well and good if the writer in question wants to deflect the harsh feeling of rejection away from themselves--it can be a coping mechanism, sure.  But it also means they needn't take any responsibility for their shortcomings (and all of us who write have those; it's just a matter of being self-reflective enough to recognize them).  You have to be proactive if you want to write and be successful.  You need to put in the work.  You need to read.  You need to analyze.  You need to write.  And you need to submit.  Do the damn work, if you want to be a writer.

And even then, there's no guarantee you will find success.

If you want The Muse (TM) to visit, to inspire you, to make the words flow from your fingers like golden skeins of thread being woven by the ancient Gods, there is something you can do.  Make your writing a habit.



It's not an easy thing to sit down with a blank page and start to write.  It takes a bit of ego, a bit of talent, a bit of delusion.  Most importantly, though, it takes persistence.  So, make writing a habit, and make it as regular a thing as you can.  When you sit to write (especially if you're starting out), do it at the same time of day, in the same spot, with (as near as possible) the same circumstances, every single day.  Writing is like working out, except it's using different muscles--if we want to think of the brain as a muscle, especially.  And, like working out or practicing with your teammates, you can develop a muscle memory with writing, as well.  Writing at the same time of day in the same place allows it to become familiar, taking away some of the anxiety that can cause writer's block.  Eventually, it just becomes part of your routine.  It will feel natural to sit down and write, something as familiar as brushing your teeth when you wake in the morning or slipping on your silk pajamas before watching "This Is Us" (because we all have silk PJs, right?).

Once you're comfortably in the habit, you'll be less anxious about it, just a natural part of your day.  And, you'll find that the words come to you more easily, that inspiration arrives more often and without as much struggle, that your fingers just seem to get away from you, racing to keep up with your imagination.  Keep in mind, also, that it behooves you to set a daily goal for your writing, so that you're always moving forward.  This can be whatever works best for you--a timed goal like an hour of writing, or a quantifiable word count: 500, 1000, 3000.  We're all different, so we have to find what's most comfortable for us.  But having that daily goal allows you to achieve one of the most important rules of writing I can think of, as stated by Neil Gaiman, "finish what you're writing."

And if you finish what you write, then you can begin to make your own luck, which, as with The Muse (TM), comes with making your writing a habit.