Monthly Archives: February 2016

Reflections on Posting My Story

For the past few months I have been publishing a novel, Stealing Souls, in installments here on the blog. I had a vision of the book taking a form analogous to a TV show. I would publish weekly or bi-weekly chapters, like episodes, and take season breaks to work on the next installments. Every year I would publish somewhere between 9 and 12 installments, which would complete some subplot, sequence or act, as well as leaving threads open that would spill over to the next season.

I hoped to pick up a following and eventually move the story to its own site. Unfortunately, as I kept an eye on the stats, I didn’t see the chapters gaining much attention. They lag far behind my other posts in both views and likes. Like most writers, I struggle with a lot of anxiety about my own writing, and it didn’t take much for me to get discouraged.

Before I get into that, I would like to post some positives about this whole experience. There genuinely were quite a few.

  • The posting schedule kept me working. If I was frustrated with a chapter, I couldn’t bail on it. I had to tinker with it and make it work, because I had promises to keep. I have found this often; forcing myself to meet a particular deadline spurs productivity and leaves my negative self-talk little space to work in.
  • I did not have time to filter my work through close friends who could tell me whether the story was good or not. This forced me to practice relying more on my own judgment. It’s a skill I’m still working on, and this was good for that.
  • The absence of accolades did, in and of itself, force me to let go of that need for praise to keep going. I had to learn to see the posting itself as an end goal, and any positive attention as a bonus.
  • The tight schedule made me develop new tricks for keeping myself writing, no matter what else was going on in my life.

So, on the whole, it was not a bad experience, disappointments aside. And perhaps the real issue was that my hopes were too high in the first place. I might have expected more attention than was realistic. Right now, though, I can see three possibilities.

Number one; my story is not good. It’s tough for me to say whether that’s the issue or not. While I feel pretty confidant in my judgment of books or movies that other people made, my experience of stories I’m creating is so different, I can’t even compare the two. As I said, I’m working on developing that creator’s self-awareness, but it still seems that for everything I write, I have the same experience. I love some parts of it, I hate others.

Number two; my story is good, but my publishing plan was terrible. Prose just doesn’t work like TV, and putting it into installments like this will never be satisfying enough to sustain a readership. I need to finish the story and publish it all as one piece.

Number three; my plan was good, my story is good, my patience is lacking. I just need time to build up an audience.

What I’ve decided I really need to do is wait for a bit. If you’ve read my story, in part or in whole, please leave your thoughts in the comments. Positive and negative opinions are both welcome, subjective and objective. In the meantime, I’m going to give this project some distance, and, hopefully after I’ve gotten a little more feedback, I’ll decide what to do.

As always, thanks for reading.


Stealing Souls Chapter Nine; Merlin

This is the final chapter of my ongoing novel, before I take a break. Plans on further posting to be announced. See full archives here.

Most of the Metropiads who kept dogs liked to specialize. If they wanted to trade fur to the spinners, they bred long-haired dogs with solid coats. If they wanted to hunt, they bred terriers or greyhounds who could take down an animal on their own (hunting was a loophole around the injunction against killing, but only if the hound did the killing personally). A few took molossers to patrol the edges of the Potomac river that marked Metropiad territory.

Then there were packs like Merlin’s. He was a fixer. When a puppy was proving particularly difficult to train, or a stray had been found by someone who wanted to incorporate it into their pack, its keeper came to him for help. When their dogs were sick or injured, he kept them safe while they healed. His permanent pack consisted of the bad dogs; the useless mutts everyone else needed to discard, the ones too unruly for anyone else to handle and the ones too old to keep up with their own packs.

Despite the bleached, elderly feel of his name, he was a lithe, fresh-faced man. Some Asian ancestors had gifted him with glossy black hair and the ability to pass for twenty even though he was a closer to forty. He was tall, with most of his length in his arms and legs. When he rose from sitting, usually with one knee drawn easily toward his chest or both legs crossed, he seemed to unfold, in a smooth yet complex motion, like an umbrella opening.

He liked people, but spent much of his time alone by choice. His style of loving was an easy, detached one, but no less warm for it. He would treat a dog as his own for as long as he had it, but there would be no hesitation when it was time to give it back. He missed every dog he had surrendered, and greeted them gladly if he ever saw them again, but he knew the farewells were for the best. Besides, their passing made space and time for new troublesome puppies.

Currently, he was sitting on a large rock, fishing with Fifty-Seven. It was forbidden to give dogs human names, so some keepers, like Fifty-Seven’s former master, simply numbered them. Merlin didn’t like this practice, but he also felt guilty any time he renamed a dog. Names should stick once they were given, so Fifty-Seven stayed Fifty-Seven. He was a blind orange and cream bulldog. Ordinarily he stuck close to Merlin, so it was worth taking notice when Fifty-Seven stood up and waddled, as quickly as his cautious feet ever did, into a field of green ferns.

Merlin watched as the dog stopped in the middle, and a little brown hand reached up and patted his snout. A child’s head poked up, just long enough for Merlin to see the big black eyes and leaves stuck in her hair before she popped back down under the leaves.

“Interesting,” Merlin muttered.

He watched the rustling ferns for a moment, then called Fifty-Seven to him. He saw the trail of shaking ferns, signaling the dog’s approach. The dog emerged alone, trotting to Merlin’s arms for a rub on the head. Merlin lay down to see under the broad leaves. The girl had followed the dog partway through the foliage, but had frozen in place before where the shadows of the ferns were interrupted by sunlit dirt path. She crouched, staring back at him; a dark shadow surrounded by the green light that filtered through the foliage. She did not shrink away from his stare, but he could see that didn’t mean she was not afraid. It was paralyzed stillness, with focused, calculating eyes.

His heart stopped, then came to life again, in a rapid pounding. Thudthudthudthudthud. The desire to help her was so strong, it did not even feel generous. It felt like selfishness, because if that hungry, miserable thing disappeared into the underbrush part of him would die.

This feeling, powerful though it was, did not disorient him. He felt it every time someone brought a new dog to him. The only novelty was that he was feeling it for his own kind. He did what he always did; waited quietly until it settled, formed it in to a tight, silent little ball inside of him, and began to strategize.

Merlin rummaged through his rucksack until he found his packet of dried apple rings. He put one on his hand and held it out to her. He remained like that, waiting, but unfortunately his arm began to ache from being outstretched before she budged. The apple was returned to the packet, and he rubbed Fifty-Seven’s head while he thought. One option was to put the packet on the ground and walk away. Surely she would sneak out and steal it. However, as he considered that from her perspective, it seemed unsatisfying. She might not be able to distinguish between a gift he was offering and a forgotten thing she had stolen from him. She would be fed for today, and that would be good, but then she might run away, and that would be worse.

Fifty-Seven rolled over on his side, and Merlin scratched his belly. For a moment he saw her smile. She feared him, but liked his dog. That gave him an idea. He took the strings off the packet, but wrapped the waxed paper around it securely. He put the packet in Fifty-Seven’s mouth and sent it to her. She greeted the dog with happy, tickling fingers and giggled out loud when he dropped the present in front of her. Soon her cheeks were bulging with the fruit.

Casually, Merlin rolled onto his back, laced his hands behind his heads, and watched the pattern of leaves against the sky for a while. After a few moments, he glanced back at the child, smiled at her, then looked back up again. Everything about his body language said, “I see you, but I don’t really care what you’re doing. The sky is much more interesting.”

Fifty-Seven returned and sniffed around his face. Merlin patted his flanks and scratched under his jaw. Another glance back at the ferns, and he failed to find the girl. There was a moment of panic, and he wriggled slowly on his belly to get a closer look without startling her. A few feet and he saw her curled up, breathing softly. A full belly and an adventurous afternoon had made for a sleeping girl. This was good.

Merlin remained in that area, making a campfire as the day went on and calling his dogs back to him. Cloud, alpha of the pack when Merlin was not present, brought them in. He was small, with white tufted fur. He had been the runt from a litter of spinner’s dogs; too small to be of much use to them. The same was true of Sorrel, a lazy, yippy ball of perpetually burr-ridden orange fluff. Winter, a blue eyed merle, had a similar origin. Her body was larger, but her fur was too short and varigated. His two most recent acquisitions were Twigs and Buttercup. Twigs was like a greyhound shrunk to the size of a shoe. His keeper had hoped that if his temperament improved, he would be a good one to chase small, quick creatures like squirrels; Merlin intended to advise him to leave the dog alone. Twigs’ attitude had improved significantly, but his nervousness came from an intuitive understanding that his little bones were fragile, and he did not belong in the world of working dogs. His mutation was a practical dead end, but Merlin would be happy to keep him. Buttercup had been a yellow retriever who had turned skittish after an injury that took one of her ears. She was doing well, and he suspected that she had returned late because she had been running around for the sheer joy of it. He would return her to her keeper soon. Last came Saturday and Sunday, elderly former guardians who had been retired now that their gaits were slow and they slept most of the day. They were brother and sister, and resembled a mix of Great Dane and wolfhound.

Merlin’s plans to fish for dinner, as he usually did, had been disrupted by the little girl’s appearance. This was no worry of his. No doubt many of them had hunted a bit, and he broke into a few jars of preserved scraps for any who were hungry. They knew to wait until he distributed it among old clay bowls, and he praised them for their patience. For himself, there were walnuts and another packet of dried apples.

When he was finished, he looked below the ferns once again. The girl was still asleep. Could he pick her up, carry her to his camp, where there were blankets and a fire to keep her warm?

As soon as he began to crawl into the bed of ferns, she stirred. Her eyes slowly half opened, then snapped open all the way. She rolled onto her stomach and scrambled on all fours deep into the bed. Merlin rose to his feet and tried to chase after her, then stopped himself. His heart pounded and begged him to catch the girl, but experience reminded him that anyone being chased was likely to keep running.

He dropped back down, sat cross-legged, and began picking at the ferns. It was an old trick with skittish puppies. Chasing created fear, which drove humans and animals alike away, but minding one’s own business while doing something odd created curiosity, the best lure for any intelligent creature.

Out of the corner of his eye, he watched her. She reached the edge of the ferns, and he worried that his change had come too late. If she did not look back until she was deep into the forest, he might lose her completely. Luckily, a few feet into the forest was a young pine tree. She ducked under its branches and began to climb. When she ran out of branches that would support her, she stopped to watched him.

Another standoff. But he couldn’t afford to slowly bring her down this time. The sun was already setting.

While he plucked the ferns, he imagined the world from where she was perched.

The pine needles were pricking her skin from one side, the evening air from the other. The breeze was swaying her, gently like a cradle. He could see that from here. The air smelled cool and quiet and lovely, but there was no safety in it. She clung to the branches and stayed as still as possible to keep her perch. She was small. She needed to sleep, but not enough to come down.

He felt the answer without thinking it. He rose to his feet and returned to his camp, where he retrieved his blanket. It was soft, woven in stripes of black, white, and brown fur. He took it to her pine tree, spread it underneath the branches, and walked away. It would be a cold night, but not too cold, and he would have smelled rain if it was coming. The dogs would keep him warm enough.

With them for company, he watched the sunset, and tried not to watch the tree. When he looked, he looked out of the corner of his eyes. The thick southern branches obscured her, but he felt he could keep track of the right tree. He did not let the fact that she was hard to see tempt him into turning his head. It would be so much easier for her to see him through the needles than vice versa. After a while, when he had not seen her climb down in his glances, he began to doubt his ability to keep track of the correct tree. Maybe he should have been eyeing the tree just behind it. She couldn’t have climbed all the way down without him noticing. Or had she climbed down too stealthfully? Or maybe she had shimmied down while his back was turned, when he was returning to his own camp.

He did not sleep well. Every few hours, he woke up, wondering if the girl was still in her tree, or curled in the blanket, or had run away to some other hiding place where he would never find her. The urge to go check pulled at him, but he resisted. The worst thing he could do now was frighten her again.

Then, when the stars were high in the sky, he turned over and nearly jumped. Right across from him was the little girl, her cheek pressed against Fifty-Seven’s flank. She was so close that even in the moonlight, he could see the individual ringlets of her hair, dark and pussywillow soft. The blanket had been dragged along. It had dried leaves stuck to its surface, especially at the edges, where they clung like a bedraggled fringe. With one fist, she had it clutched under her chin, one corner drawn into a knot while the rest spread over her shoulders and back. Her nose twitched, and she sneezed, opening her eyes briefly. Their eyes met, and she blinked slowly at him. He expected to see her gather the blanket up again and run away, but instead she gave him a nonchalant, lazy look, as if she was seeing his surprise and thinking, “what? Isn’t this what you were hoping for? Silly man.”

Then she tucked her head back down and fell asleep again.

Merlin watched her for a while before returning to sleep himself. Inside the core of his chest, he felt that little knot of caring open up again. It had been latent all day, like a rosebud hiding in his core. Now it spilled out and unfolded, becoming bigger and more complex the more it opened. Like petal upon petal spilling out, each one somehow making space for still more to come out, like there was an abundant supply of love inside himself and each bit of love just made room for more.

Valentine’s Day Review: Roman Holiday

Roman Holiday is one of the great classic black and white romances, though I feel like you don’t hear about it as much these days. It was Audrey Hepburn’s first starring role; Gregory Peck famously insisted they be billed on equal footing, despite her inexperience, because he was convinced she was going places. It also has a rather unusual ending, which I will have to spoil, but I also happen to think its one of those stories that is even better when you know where it’s headed. Still, consider this your spoiler alert. Continue reading Valentine’s Day Review: Roman Holiday

Stealing Souls, Chapter Eight: The Odds of Escape

This is a continuation of my novel. A new chapter will be published every other Sunday until my first hiatus in March. The story is a work in progress and posting will resume in the fall. The full archives can be found here. Please feel free to leave me a comment with your thoughts, and thank you for reading!

Metropiads were not wasteful. When they had first discovered this vast parking lots abandoned under the city, they had seen treasures of metal, plastic and glass, of pre-made pistons and sockets ready to be scavaged. They had all done their best to protect them from rust, mice and the general forces of entropy. Secured deep underground, they had at least the advantage of stable temperature. Still, entropy would have its way. In Ainsel’s car, the engine had been removed decades ago, leaving a hollow space, and rust had slowly grown a hole between it and the driver’s seat. It only took some aimless plucking of the upholstery to reveal it. The hole was just Ainsel sized. The moment that she exposed it, she gingerly lowered herself past the jagged orange-brown edges, and dropped to the ground.

So far, Ainsel had not done anything unusual.

The Metropiads had done their best to secure the cars, but their inmates had always found ways to escape. An overlooked emergency release button in the trunk might be triggered, or the cord that had once run from the trunk to the button in the driver’s seat might be uncovered and tugged. Those larger and stronger than Ainsel occasionally broke windows. Their captors did not worry too much about these gaps in their security, for a very simple reason. There were more ways out of the cars than out of the garage.

Specifically, there were two real ways out, and one false way.

The false way out was the ramp to the surface, the one that the cars had once driven up. A boy called Abhorsen had gone that way two months ago. One of the handles on his car door had broken off, meaning that the chain locking it closed was useless, and he had wandered out. Abhorsen was not even thinking of escape. He had been locked up in the dark too long to remember that there was an outside to escape to. The Metropiad priests who attended to him believed he was happy, because he did not scream and sometimes, while working with the tiles, he smiled at them. They did not notice all the times he didn’t smile.

Abhorsen’s had wandered through the rows of cars, peeking in at first. Some of the faces he had seen were blank or sleeping, some absorbed in tearing up their surroundings or plucking their hair. But some had seen him, and lunged, slapping their windows, pleading with their eyes to be let out. He not only did not know how to do this, he did not quite understand what they wanted. He was not good at understanding facial expressions. Just because he didn’t understand them, though, did not mean he didn’t feel them. They pinched at his stomach, and drove him to run for the big empty space he saw.

He wandered up the smooth, curving ramp, skipping all the exits to more little prisons, until he came to the top. The Metropiads had discovered the simplest possible means to prevent escape. Their ancestors had a long, slatted descending door of metal, to keep people out when the garage was closed. The Metropiads had lowered it.

While it had no weaknesses that had promised escape, it did have cracks, holes, places that were bent. These let in a golden afternoon light that caught particles of dust and turned them into speck sized fairies. Along the bottom, blades of emerald glass poked through from outside. A coral ladybug had crawled through one opening a moment before Abhorsen’s arrival, and was flying around, trying to remember where the exit was. Abhorsen raised a finger, and the ladybug landed. He stood, transfixed and utterly sated by all the beauty in front of him. He stayed there, silently absorbing the perfection of the insect, until his captors found him and lead him back downstairs.

A week later, his heart stopped beating while he slept. He joined all those who had died of neglect and misery, and took with him the secret, beautiful moment.

So that was the deceptive exit. The first real one was the old gray door that lead to the stairs directly to the sidewalk above. It was next to the ramp, and the last person to take it was a girl named Piala. She was seven and angry. The Metropiads did not pretend that they loved her, like they did Abhorsen. They merely believed that she was a mean little thing, and thus impossible to love. She felt much the same about them.

Her mind was too active for its cage. It was too active for the world outside, and lead her to run around madly at anything that caught her attention. This, combined with an odd habit of staring at her hands and sing-songy speech that was hard to understand, had landed her in the garage at three. It then lead her to make her destruction more focused than Ainsel’s. Her car had avoided developing any structural weaknesses over the last century, but she made up for lost time. She kicked, clawed, tested every inch of the car methodically for weaknesses, until the cobweb scratches on the windows made them weak enough that she could shatter one.

She had ran for the door and charged up the stairs, only to meet a Metropiad guard. He had been startled and wrestled with her briefly, and knocked her down six flights of concrete steps. By the time her body reached the bottom, her neck had been broken.

The final way out was the door the Metropiads regularly took the children through. There wasn’t a single guard behind that one. There was no need, because behind it there was a long hallway with no hiding places and too many Metropiads for a scared, disoriented, conspicuous child to slip past.

Ainsel tried the ramp first. When she discovered the dead end, she doubled back and tried that second door. If she stretched her hands all the way up and jumped, her fingers could feel a brief tingle as the came in contact with the cold metal doorknob.

For the past year of her job, she had only had one job; to find ways to open doors for her pawed caretakers. She knew she could get through this door. For a moment she stood and looked, studying the door and its immediate surroundings, then she returned to her old prison of a car.

Once there, she began rooting through her own wreckage. She had previously played around with the organization of the debris, first scattering them across the floor and then sorting through the mess. Pieces of foam got chucked over the back seat into the hatchback’s trunk. They had settled like yellow-brown snow. Then pieces of plastic got stuck into the soft rubbery padding around the glass. It gave them nice jagged frames. The threads she had pulled out of the seats were deposited on top of the dashboard. She laid them all out lengthwise, because they were slightly silver tinted and if they were somewhat straight they all caught bits of light together. The effect was just shy of shiny.

She took a large handful of these long threads, and draped them around her neck before she went back down her hole. Once there, instead of heading for the door, she went to a large brown jeep that was parked next to a pillar.

She climbed from the floor to the rear bumper, the bumper to the tailgate, and from there she began to shimmy up, between the pillar and the supports for the now-absent canvas roof. From there, she had a jungle gym of pipes, joists and latticed supports. It was pure joy for her to maneuver through them, all the way to the doors. Ainsel got herself directly over the closed door. She waited a long time. The door swung open, and with careful timing, Ainsel dropped her handful of strings. Light, and soundless, they drifted to the closing door, where they draped like a towel or a bit of tinsel on a branch. There was just enough, just close enough to the hinge, to keep the door a crack open, barely enough to be noticed but perhaps, just enough for little fingers to reach in and push. Now she only had to crawl back down the way she came. Or so she thought. For all her cleverness, she still had a child’s mind, unable to notice calculate every variable. If she had been a little older, she would have thought about the fact that the door had only opened because a leather clad Metropiad had just come through.

At the same time Ainsel crawled overhead, the figure walked beneath her. Under the thick armor was a woman, a nurse named Nevada, carrying a little boy so emaciated he resembled a monkey. He was sleeping in her arms. She deposited him gently into the green Escapade that was his home, straightened up, and looked around to make sure all was well. As she turned, scanning, her eyes finally fell on the door, wedged open by silver cords.

As unique as the trick with the ceiling and the strings sounded, someone else had tried it before, with the slightest of variations. A slightly older boy named Othello had been able to strip away all the bits of rubber from the windows of his car. In this way he was able to maneuver the glass out as well, and smash it on the cement.

As he left, he had taken the rubber strips, tied into a long rope. He had also picked up a large shard of glass, for his own defense. The rest of his story went exactly as Ainsel’s had, except instead of crawling back, he had dropped directly from the ceiling to the floor, and run through. Sheer speed and determination had gotten him past many grasping hands, and when a hand finally caught hold of him, he began to use the glass shiv.

The Metropiad had that thick, hot leather armor on, but had taken the head covering off for comfort. That was where Othello had aimed; the face, the eyes, the nose. With every stab, the glass drove back into Othello’s hand as well as into the skin of his opponent. Soon it was too slippery to old; even so, he struggled so much that he returned with a broken rib. Both Othello and his captor had died of infection.

The woman had heard the story. Everyone heard it. It was The Cautionary Tale every new physician in this experiment needed to know. It was the ghost story that marked their initiation.

Under the leather and the sweat it had drenched her in, she turned pale. She had decide quickly whether the one who had done this was still here in the lot, or had already gone ahead.

She looked to the left, to the right, and saw no one. Then she raced ahead, grabbing every adult in sight. Did you see a child come this way? No, I was just with an Empty. I was just fetching some tiles. I needed some tea. If each one had taken the time to carefully compare their stories, they would realize that at no point had the long hall been empty, as it never was. Someone was always there. But, in their panic, each could think of a time in the last two or three minutes when they had not been looking. They assumed that all their gaps in attention had overlapped, and someone had already gotten past, out into the old lobby of a former hotel, where there were hiding places on the way to the great and sunny outdoors.

All who were not occupied with a child in the old restroom ran out to find this ghost, and so, when Ainsel made it to the hall, she stumbled along uninterrupted. She hid in the hiding places they had already checked, she inched forwards as they ran still further on, until she pushed open the grimy glass door that was the only remaining barrier between her and sunlight.

How to Not Write a Mary Sue

I’ve recently started Daughter of Smoke and Bone, by Laini Taylor. The protagonist has a mysterious past and was raised by a foster family of chimaera. Her foster father sells wishes, which means that her equivalent of an allowance lets her learn languages instantly, painlessly get rid of any tattoo she regrets and make her hair naturally grow peacock blue. She is exceedingly beautiful, and studies art in Prague. Oh, and her name is Karou.

And no, she’s not a Mary Sue. At least, as of halfway through the book, she does not have a remotely Sueish vibe. In fact, I quite like and identify with her. Continue reading How to Not Write a Mary Sue