Category: Fiction

[NANOWRIMO] Day 8, 9, and 10

On By Cullen M. M. WatersIn NaNoWriMoLeave a comment

Never fear. Though I haven’t been updating here, I haven’t missed a day in the contest. The count is as follows:

  • Day 08: 2105 words
  • Day 09: 1864 words
  • Day 10: 2209 words

According to NaNo, I reach the 50,000 word mark on November 25.

But is the novel going to be finished by then?

I’m going to let you in on a little inside secret. I’m using a novel writing plan. Specifically, The Lester Dent Pulp Paper Master Fiction Plot. Lester Dent being a pulp writer whose claim to fame is coming up with Doc Savage.

Now should you read this short missive to the world, you’ll see just how glorious this thing is. I’ve spent my life looking for some magic bullet solution. So many How To books, it’s not even funny.

This is what clicked.

If you haven’t checked the link, after coming up with a unique story angle, Dent divided his story into four quarters. In his essay, he deals with a 6000 word story, but the length doesn’t matter. Author Michael Moorcock said he used the Master Fiction Plot when writing about Elric of Melniboné, a character that’s up there with Conan the Barbarian in some circles.

With the first quarter he started as soon as possible with his hero in a jam. He introduces the main mystery, the other characters, and has the protagonist (Dent calls him the hero) try to deal with the problem. At the end of the quarter, the hero gets himself into a physical altercation. Then there’s a Big Surprise.

The next three quarters are basically the same. More problems for the hero, the hero struggles, he gets into a fight, twist. End of the third quarter, the hero makes headway, only for the fourth quarter to have things hit him in a bad way. All is dark, but he manages to escape using his own ingenuity. There’s a wrap up and a final twist.

If all this sounds like formula fiction, then, yeah, it is. And what I’ve given is a vastly simplified version.

What matters is how this is done. Because Dent is vague enough in what he’s talking about, you can write a lot of stories with it as a guide.

Let’s move back to me for a second. Dent says in his essay that he’s used his plan  for “adventure, detective, western and war-air.” Right?

The story I’m using it for is a horror/comedy/cozy mystery.

I know, these are words that aren’t strung together very often.

When I started, I was going for a chapter a day. 1700 words sounded good. Seven or eight chapters would make a quarter. Easy peasy.

And for a while it was.

Then the chapters got longer. And suddenly here I was, at 20,453 words.

I’d introduced all the other characters.

I had the central problem: not only had his uncle died under mysterious circumstances, but the hero got a letter telling him his uncle’s death wasn’t an accident a week before he died. Which is odd to say the least.

I had my hero struggle to learn what happened, a big twist in the end, and a glorious fight. Quarter done.

Which meant my novel will be 80,000 words. Nine chapters down, that meant 36 chapters total.

I wasn’t sure it could make it that far.

What to do?

Well, I went about where the quarter mark should be. That was at the end of chapter 5.

You know what I found?

Central Problem done. While I had other characters coming, all the important characters had appeared and were (after a fashion) helping the hero. The hero, being inexperienced in investigation, gets himself in a physical conflict: he recreates his Uncle’s accident and almost kills himself in the process. He then gets a Surprising piece of information that makes no sense at the time but will by the time everything is said and done.

All baked into the story without me noticing I was doing it.

So right now I’m a wee bit before the halfway mark. Tomorrow’s chapter, chapter 10, will hit half way chapterwise. To make the whole thing hit 50,000 words, I’ll thinking it will be 40 chapters plus an epilogue to wrap up a few loose ends.

No matter what you think of Lester Dent’s Master Plan, whether it’s formula fiction or not, using its guidance has been a huge help. This is literally the best thing I’ve written. With luck, it’ll work again with my next attempt.

This one (for the curious) is called either And Then There Was Frankenstein or Last of the Frankensteins. Just to show you how wild it is.

It’s going to be great.

[NANOWRIMO] Day 7 and an Overview of the Week

On By Cullen M. M. WatersIn NaNoWriMo1 Comment

Well THAT was a bust.

Only 1907 words today. What was I doing with my time?

I reworked Chapter 6, touched up Chapter 5, and started Chapter 7. By rights that one should have been finished today. It’s the quarter mark point and needs to have something special happen in the end. Let’s see if I can manage.

Just for fun, here are a couple of charts detailing my progress. Look how the second one dips and raises. It’s positively a roller coaster. If I can swing it, the second quarter begins tomorrow.

[NANOWRIMO] Day 2

On By Cullen M. M. WatersIn NaNoWriMoLeave a comment

1822 words today. I now sit at 3715 words. I keep this up I should be at 50,000 by the 27th.

This also marks the end of what might be the second chapter. I sometimes do a dance back and forth rewriting, but not this time.

I might have found my silver bullet here. I’ll make mention of it later.

[NaNoWriMo] Day One

On By Cullen M. M. WatersIn NaNoWriMoLeave a comment

it’s been a while since I’ve tried this. Right now I’m at 1,893 words, where I need at least 1,667 words a day to win the contest. I might be at the end of the first chapter.

The goal this time isn’t really 50,000 words in a month, as I know I can do that. I want a finished novel.

Fingers cross

[SILLY STUFF] Some Get Freddy Kruger, I Get…

On By Cullen M. M. WatersIn Annoying Autobiography, Fiction, Silly StuffLeave a comment

I never met comedian Don Rickles in my life, but I did have a dream about him once. And, as I have nothing better to write about, I intend to tell you about it.

For the hopefully depraved, I’m sorry. This is was a G rated dream. Though I have always felt like I owed Mr. Rickles an apology.

Why will become apparent in due course.

The dream begins in the middle of the Arizona desert. I’m at a gas station, pumping gas into a hulking Seventies car. What I’m doing there, I don’t know. Maybe I’m on a trip, it’s not important.

I’ve almost finished when this other hulking Seventies car pulls up to the same pump. Out pops Don Rickles. This, I should say, isn’t Old Rickles. This is Rickles in the prime of his life. Dressed for success. He might be heading to the Jonny Carson show. He wasn’t, but that only becomes important later.

The instant I see Rickles, I start insulting him. Nothing mean, just joking around, like he was famous for in his act. Sort of showing my stuff. Young punk sort of thing, right?

What I said escapes me now, but it doesn’t go over as well as I like. Rickles gets this insulted look on his face, and I suddenly realize this is how everyone who meets him reacts. Like they’re as good as he was at this.

Now I’m embarrassed. I want to make it up to him. I offer to buy the man lunch. It doesn’t take much. Maybe Rickles was hungry.

We head inside, and, remember, this is the middle of the desert. As far as you can get from civilization. And yet there’s a line there from counter to door. I take a place at the end and suggest to Rickles he go up front, check out the menu, see what he wants. Which he does.

Nothing untowards. Nothing sketchy. I, in good faith, was doing the right thing.

Thing is, we do not dream continuously. Every so often the mind moves from one subject to the next. It is the way of the subconsious.

So the next thing I know, I’m in a school gymnasium filled with people. I’m sitting on a rickety folding chair in the middle of everything. I know no one there save my Mother, who sits to my right.

Up in front, performing, is a ventriloquist with a dragon puppet. The man is dying. He and his puppet go through their routine and no one laughs. The heart breaks to see it. If I remembered his name I wouldn’t tell it to you, just out of pity for the guy. Though that was probably the best part of his act.

The ventriloquist is about halfway through his act (God help him if he wasn’t, he was so bad) when a man in a suit comes walking in front of the audience. He might be the principal of the school, I dunno. Whoever he is, he’s the savior of the night, as he whispers a few in the ventriloquist’s ear. With a great deal of relief, alleged performer and puppet leave for parts unknown.

The audience doesn’t cheer. It just feels like they should.

The man in the suit steps in front of the microphone and says, “Let’s all give thanks to,” insert name here, “for entertaining us while we waited. Now, thankfully, our real guest has finally arrived. Let’s give a big, warm welcome to Mr. Don Rickles!“

From the back of the gym comes Rickles. Same suit he had on before, bright smile on his face, the perfect entertainer.

He trots to the front and shakes hands with the man in the suit, most thankful to be invited. While the man makes tracks to one side, Rickles takes the microphone and surveys the audience.

All at once I know, I know, that the smile on Rickles’s face is false. He’s furious. He really wanted that sandwich, and he thinks that punk kid at the station welched on him.

Worse, he knows I’m here. Absolutely certain. And in a few moments he’s going to spot me and tear into me like he’s never torn into anyone before.

Right in front of my mom.

So I’m sinking in my seat, hoping my movement doesn’t draw his attention, hoping that I can get on the floor, on my belly, knowing that it’s too late, no matter what I do, I’m getting publicly humiliated.

Which is where I woke from the dream. Thankfully.

Like I said at the start, though, I always felt like I owed Rickles an apology. Never managed to give him one while he was alive, and since he’s passed on it’s probably too late to try. Which also makes me feel a little guilty.

Honestly, though, I don’t know why. Sure, I never fulfilled my promise and bought him lunch. But when you think about it, I’m the real victim here.

I mean, I could have dreamed of anyone. The most gorgeous woman in the world, say. Someone who’d have made Helen of Troy look like Medusa.

And who’d I get? Don Rickles.