elfs | Dec. 8th, 2004

I've been writing a bit today. As you may have guessed, the last ten days have been hectic and I've needed a break from my usual stresses, and yes, writing is a stress even as it is a pleasure. It's something I feel compelled to do, something I must hold at bay while my family needs me, but when I have a moment it comes back.

I've been reading James Smith's book on being a writer. Smith is not particularly spectacular as writers go: he's mostly known for a long-running series of hairy-chested he-man novels, books for guys who'd wank over Tom Clancy's work if only Clancy's books weren't so damned big and wordy. Still, he has a number of good ideas that I'm mulling over in my head, and I'm realizing that many of the books I admire have followed at least part of his formula:

( Writing formulae. )

Of course, anyone who writes "formulae" rather than "formulas" must be suspect, right? Anyway, I've been thinking about the whole "first hundred words" thing, the hook, and how I work that into my stories. For examples:

From JE/Conspiracy Theory:

When Lilly met Zemery, he was going through the motions of applying suntan lotion to his entertainingly massive body on the beach where no sun had shone for a decade. She had chosen to walk out here among the withered flowers and frosted ponds because she had wanted to be alone. Instead, she had met Zemery and the first blurt out of her was, "Why?"

I like this one. All the details about the de facto statement of an "entertainingly massive body," a man applying suntan lotion amongst "frosted ponds" on a beach where "no sun had shone for a decade."

From Aimee: Darrynwhore:

She tried to look at anything but the man who stood before the door. She saw the dirty white radiator, the whitewashed, finger-grimed walls, the square of sunlight, mottled by greasy oilpapered windows, illuminating the scuffed wooden slat floor. Anything but the man in the tailored, pinstriped suit with the elegant cane. If not for the mage's knob on the cane, he might have been mistaken for a banker.

"Your friend, Bud, says you'll do it for money."

C'mon. You know you want know what happens next.

From Bloody Beth:

"For broadside! Fire!"

Six cannon spoke at once, the thunder of their voices making the deck beneath Beth's boots shudder with violence. Six balls of hot iron smashed into the opposing vessel, gouging a painful wound in the ship's once-sleek side. An explosion from within the corsair ripped open the deck and hurled wood, debris and soldiers into the ocean.

This one was challenging because it opens with such a movie bang that ratcheting it down to get Beth laid was actually a problem.

From JE/The Lost Crew of the Palantir:

Silicon Intelligences, or AIs (the difference being a holdover from when these beings were called "Artificial" Intelligences), have always been exemplary at predicting the future. Capable of serial and parallel thought processes without any organic sentimentality or biological limitations, AIs track the stars, organize micro-economies, plan strategic-level military operations, and predict the weather, among a myriad other things. AIs do much of the "dirty work" of living, organizing other people's lives as easily as they would organize their own closets. Sometimes, these people even ask that the AI organize closets.

Charles Nelson Seccor predicted her own destruction eleven thousandths of a second before it happened.

From Gloria Mundi:

The steps of the curving stone stairway leading downwards to the pens were worn with three centuries of human traffic and colored a foul green by those reluctant to descend where he went willingly. For the sixth time in ten years, he found himself staving off a peculiar sense of self-execration that the better part of him found peculiar. It was not, after all, as if he were going to murder the one he chose tonight. Quite the opposite, after all.

And this next one is, well, it's 153 words. From Sarah's Reason:

"You have a phone call from Ai," her display announced calmly in bright yellow letters. Ai somtimes had the worst timing in all of space, and this was more evidence of that fact. "Accept," she told the machine calmly.

"Hi, Sarah!" said the beaming human on the other side of the screen.. "The graduation party is going to begin in ten minutes, and from the looks of things, you're not even dressed!"

"Not going," Sarah said. "Just gonna sit here."

"That thing with Suddayam getting you down?"

"No, not really." Sarah gathered up her courage. She had never lied to Ai, and didn't think she should start now. She recognized the feelings coursing within her and decided to take the course of action recommended. "Ai? Could you come up and... talk to me? Because if someone doesn't, I'm going to follow Sudda right out a damned airlock."

Note the word "evidence." It's setting up part of the premise: this is a mystery novel, with Sarah discovering her own place in the universe while going about it.

And this one's a bit obvious. From Toby and Kasserine:

Kasserine had waited on too many balconies like this one recently, wrapped in her robe, breathing the mist and the smell of gas lamps. Through doors elegant in their heavy oaken frame and lead-lined glass panes she could hear Gerard holding forth, but on what subject she could not quite make out. She was pleased to be alone again, by herself. She wished she could lick herself clean, but Gerard would not be happy with her if someone caught her doing so in public. He had tried to teach her the necessities of being a woman in elegant circles, but instincts were hard to overcome.

The "mist and smell of gas lamps" puts us in a Holmesian mood, although it will turn out she's in 19th century Vienna, not London. Still, the setting is clear. It's night. She's a companion to someone named Gerard, and... she wants to lick herself clean. Hmm.

I wish I had more time to get all my stories organized. There's so much in the pending directory I think I'm drowning. No wonder they call it "the hopper" in the writing groups.

On the other hand, I recall one publisher saying at a convention that "Everyone has a book in him. Not everyone has two." I think I have a library hidden away.