New start

Starbirds got stalled long enough that I've lost track where I was with it and would have to start again.

Instead, I started to write ­– on my new Nokia E90 communicator – a short story in a similar, but not identical, setting. The working title is Beethoven's first murder.

"You fucking necrophile! Stop! I will kill you!" Boris shouted. Kimi was not inclined to comply. He biked down the Xxx fixme street, made a fast turn to the right with his heart in his throat and proceeded along the Yyy fixme street to his house. He looked backward and saw Boris race a couple of seconds behind. He left his bike on the street and ran fast inside the house. Once he got the door closed, he breathed deeply. Almost immediately Boris started pounding on the door and scream obscenities. It would not take long for Boris to realize that the windows would be a fast and simple way in. Kimi ran to his computer and plugged the camera in.

Today's wordcount: 793 (and I'm not done yet)

Progress

Wrote 1165 easy words in the last three hours. Wow. That's enough for the whole week. If I continue averaging this much each writing day, I'll have to up the target rate!

Week 1: total 1363 words
Week 2: currently at 2528 words (project cumulative total).

Snippet

They found a board in Engineering. The first thing Minea did was to check bow sensors. There werent't very many left, as the same catastrophe, whatever it had been, had taken out most of the forward section. She did have a short-range radar platform and a visible-spectrum telescope. Neither showed any big rocks in their immediate way.

She called up the flight plan and started matching it up with observed constellations to figure out where they were in relation to where they were supposed to be. She let the navcomp work on the problem on its own, but the answer it came to her was clearly impossible. She then did the proper observations on the telescopes, selected a number of reference stars, five to be on the safe side, laboriously matched by hand their star images with the corresponding stars on file and plotted their angular positions on the sky. She then pulled an earlier set of manual observations from the file, and noted that they had been made by the Captain herself a couple of moths earlier. She hoped they were accurate, but she didn't think she had months herself to wait for the ship to have moved far enough from its present position for her to be able to obtain a set of fresh observations. She compensated the redshift difference between the two sets caused by the ship's deceleration and calculated the parallaxes of her reference stars. Finally, she used these numbers to determine her location.

The computer had been right. They were light-seconds off course. The navcomp suggested a corrective maneuver. With considerable tredipation she accessed the propulsion system controls and noted the amount of deltavee she had on hand. It turned out to be just a bit too low.

She deflated on her wheelchair with a resigned sigh.

"Something wrong, Lieutenant?" Richard asked from her side. He had appropriated for himself the duty engineer's chair.

Minea turned her head to look at him. "You've spent decades on this ship and you can't read a piloting board?"

"Erya..." he said, referring to his late wife and the ship's deceased first mate, "Erya tried to talk me into learning. I was never interested."

"Oh," she said, feeling a bit guilty for having made him think of his too recent loss. She inhaled audibly, to gather strength. "Okay. We can't achieve orbit of the Neval moon."

"Oh."

An idea occurred. Maybe they could bleed enough speed by aerobraking on the Neval atmosphere. She put the question to the navcomp, which promptly gave a solution. She started to cheer, but then she remembered to check the resulting hull temperatures. Even with maximum deflector strength, the hull would breach and her remaining fuel would explode. So much for that idea.

She then asked the navcomp to run scenarios based on gravity assists on the six other planets on the system.

"What's happening?" Stress was clearly audible in Richard's voice.

She looked him in the eyes. "The computer is computing."

The sat in silence for an eternity. Finally the display changed. "No luck there," she said.

"We're not going to make it?"

"It looks like it." When she turned to look at Richard, she saw his face deformed by pain and wetted by tears.

"Last year," he said. "Last year, when we hadn't been killed yet by space, I figured that we'd be all right. That Erya and I could retire on that life-abundant rock. It has life, you know. We had suspected it when we launched, but we've actually been able to see that much on the telescope for the last decade."

She didn't know what else to do but reach for him and hold him, and let him cry his anguish. She herself didn't feel anything, and she wondered what that said of her.

They remained in that position, him crying on her shoulder, for what seemed like hours.

On NaNoWriMo

Today's total narrative word count is 1363, meaning that I wrote 713 words today. I'm glad.

I got recently mail from NaNoWriMo. They're preparing to start accepting registrations for this year's November. I've participated since 2003, and I won in 2005, but I'm not going to do it this year. There are two reasons: this "Starbirds" project is the only one far enough along that I could actually contemplate writing it in November, but I've already started the narrative and so it is disgualified from NaNoWriMo; and NaNoWriMo is too tight a deadline. I have, on occasion, written more than 1666 words a day, but I can't sustain it and still get anything resembling fictitious narrative on the file. I've dropped out each year after two weeks, at the point where I would have collapsed had I continued, and taken my health with me. The year I won I did it by a bit of a cheat. That story will never see the light of day.

This "Starbirds" project is sort of my own NaNoWriMo project, with the difference that I'm setting myself much more modest goals. My goal is to have at least 1000 words more in the total narrative at the end of a week than I had at the beginning of the same week. This allows me to set a realistic pace of 400–600 words a day while allowing several off-days each week. It gives me time to pursue my life at the same time without breaking me. Still, the 1000 words a week is enough that I actually have to work on the project often enough.

The "Starbirds" concept actually grew out of my last year's NaNo work. In the summer I started playing with the space colonisation concept I had in that project, and ended up with a (totally different) idea of humans on an alien planet who went there to colonise but found too much bad luck that they regressed to the stone age. Then, unrelated to this, I started playing with the concept of sapient birds. Put these two concepts on the same planet (or moon, in this case), and you have the world concept of "Starbirds".

"Starbirds", actually, is set a few hundred years prior to my original story. We start with the colonists on approach. We're (hopefully) going to see them crash and then find the birds. What happens then? I'll tell you when we get there.

Snippet (actually, today's verbiage)

Richard guided her to a wheelchair. The idea of being hauled around by someone three times her age didn't sit very well by her, but her gooey legs left her no choice. She sat down.

"The emergency?"

Richard did not answer. Instead, he moved behind the chair and started pushing. They exited the infirmiary to a long and narrow corridor, and turned right. The corridor curved upward rather fast, giving Minea a bit claustrophobic feeling. As they moved forward, the point where the floor seemed to hit the ceiling moved forward as well. This was all familiar to Minea, of course, as she had lived most of her adult life offplanet, and she had seen the corridors on launch day, as they were freezing the passengers, her included.

Richard didn't slow down a bit at the intersections with straight corridors but kept moving on. Their trek across the diameter of the ship seemed to take ages, but finally Richard slowed at another intersection, and turned, again, to the right. The corridor they entered was straight and had no curvature, thank God. The view at the
far far end, just barely at the edge of her visual acuity, was scary.

"What happened?"

Richard made no answer, just kept going keeping a brisk pace. As they slowly came closer, the details became gradually visible. There were scorch marks on the walls. What she had taken as the far end of the corridor turned out to actually be a blast door. It had deformed visibly.

"My God. What's in there?"

Richard stopped her chair a meter or so short of the blast door. "The bridge," he said in a toneless, fragile voice. "All officers were in there, in conference at the time."

"All dead?"

"All dead," Richard said. Minea could hear him at the brink of his tears.

"I'm sorry." It occurred her that she did not know if his marriage to the first mate had actually lasted, but it seemed such a rotten time to ask. So, time to go back to the problem. "Is there any immediate danger?"

"It's been sixteen hours since the accident. It took that long to get you thawed and awake. Nothing's happened since, but there is no-one on the staff who can tell if we're about to collide with an asteroid or something."

"So you woke me to pilot for you?"

"No, we woke you to take command."

Command? "Ah, so that's what the Lieutenant business was about. News for you, Medtech, I'm not a Lieutenant."

"You are."

"I was court-martialed, found quilty and cashiered."

"From the Terran forces. We are not in the Sol system anymore."

"Who cares?"

"The Captain did. You are a Lieutenant, and ranking officer on board, not counting the dead, but counting the frozen."

"The Captain gave me a warrant? What for?"

"The Captain commissioned you. He gave warrants for a dozen others with piloting training or experience. As to why..." Richard turned her chair around and started pushing it away from the lamented bridge compartment. "It was a long voyage, and we had lots of time to make contingency plans."

"Fine contingency planning from the Captain then, to have all her officers in the same room."

"Well, nobody really expected anything to happen."

"But you planned for it anyway?"

"Yes. In fact, one of the contingencies considered was the total destruction of the original officer corps. The Captain said ..." Pause. "You'd better read the log book yourself."

Minea sighed. It felt a bit like Richard was an angel bearing an order from God. You coudn't argue with God, and you couldn't argue with a dead Captain. Still, she felt it was a bad plan. She to take command? She, who had been broken by the brass, not just in a legal sense but emotionally. She could not trust her own judgment. It boggled her to think the Captain had trusted her with the ship and passengers.

It was useless trying to make a decision now, but she could pilot. "Richard, please find me a piloting console."

Writerly resources

Most of today's writing time was spent talking with a character. My original draft of the interview was 664 words (I made small edits when posting, so the word count won't match). I did write some story, too, but not much. Current project word count is 713, which means I wrote 219 words of the narrative today. Still, the day's total word count, including the interview, is almost 900 words. I'm happy with that.

I'm a compulsive theoretician. If I want to learn something, I read books. No surprise, then, that I have too many how-to-write books. Most of them are useless, but there are some worthy ones. The books I've found the most enlightening are

• Ansen Dibell: Plot (reprinted in "How to write a million", Robinson, London, 1995)
• Orson Scott Card: Characters & Viewpoint (reprinted in "How to write a million", ibid.)
• Orson Scott Card: How to write Science Fiction and Fantasy (Writer's Digest Books, 1990)
• Dwight V. Swain: Techniques of the selling writer (University of Oklahoma Press, 1965)
• For a different approach to Swain's teachings, look at Jack M. Bickham's Scene & Structure (Writer's Digest Books, 1993)

Also, a special mention goes to Ursula Le Guin's Steering the Craft (Eighth Mountain Press, 1998) which is so good I intend to do some of its exercises soon, and perhaps post some of my answers here.

But books are a finite resource: one read, you can only reread them. The best resources are online:

rec.arts.sf.composition

This is a Usenet newsgroup. I found to my surprise recently that I had participated in its founding vote (I had voted in favor, naturally). I started following it in 2000 and I have been on and off it ever since (mostly lurking, but I have posted there on occasion.

rasfc is full of professional and apprentice authors of science fiction and fantasy. What it, remarkably enough, lacks is spammers and trolls. This makes it a very rare thing, especially considering that it is unmoderated. Current contributors include authors Patricia C. Wrede, David Langford, Ryk Spoor, David Friedman, Dorothy J. Heydt and Alma Alexander.

If the group had a slogan, it would probably be "nine and sixty ways". As in, "there are nine and sixty ways of constructing tribal lays, and every single of them is right" (Rudyard Kipling, In the neolithic age). Point being, while it is useful to discuss ways writers do their stuff, it isn't right to claim that a particular way is wrong; if a particular way works for you, swell. (I recently lost sight of this wisdom in a private discussion. If my discussion partner happens to read this, my apologies.)

The group also coined the word cat-vacuuming, an essential part of any author's vocabulary.

The group's single most valuable resource is author Patricia Wrede. I believe she has been asked to compile a book of her wisdom, and she declined. The world suffers a great loss there; but then again, all one has to do is tune in to the newsgroup and pluck the grapes of her wisdom.


Baen's Universe Slush

This is a pair of web forums at Baen's Bar. It is the official method for submitting fiction for consideration for the Introducing slots of Jim Baen's Universe. It also doubles as a writer's workshop, as all submissions are available for critique by the magazine staff and other readers of the forums. It seems to be one of the most effective online workshops available.

I have started doing reqular critiques there, mainly to exercise my internal editor so that she'll be content to leave my first draft alone for the duration :) I also find that critting other people's stuff enhances my own understanding of story stuff.

I'm probably forgetting stuff I wanted to include in this post, but it's already hours past my bedtime.

Here snippet snippet snippet

"Richard?" That came out better; her vocal cords seemed to be recovering. "What... why are you old?"

The man... Richard... grimaced. He drew in breath as if preparing to tell a hideous truth.

She tried to smile. "Nobody gets old in a night." And then it hit her. "Damn."

Richard nodded, pain evident in his face. "It's Two Thousand One Hundred Twenty Six, Lieutenant. You've slept for a lifetime, as you should."

Sixty years. That made Richard almost eighty, looking at the end of his time in this universe. And it was a bit longer than it should have been, too, as the projected time en route was fifty years.

"That's too long."

Richard nodded. "Yes it is. Can you sit up?"

Getting any response from the muscles was difficult. So had been the first ten chinups they made her do in boot camp, and she survived that. Slowly her knees bent upward, slowly she pivoted herself on her hips so that her shins lay on thin air. Old Richard helped her to a sitting position, but she jerked him off her as soon as she dared without risking an immediate collapse. Oh, how she ached for that simple piece of exercise.

She dropped herself on her feet and promptly started to collapse. Richard caught her and nearly failed to stop the motion.

Opening sentence

It was not the sort of wakeup she had expected.

Thus starts my story. I don't know its length (short, novella, novel, series?), but I do know some of the key players, the scenery and some plot points, including several possible ending points.

The setting: a habitable moon of a gas giant somewhere in the galaxy

The key players: stranded humans and indigenous big birds. The "she" is one Minea Lintunen, a pilot. (And no, I didn't choose the name Lintunen 'a small bird'. She told me.)

Plot points: that would be telling.

I'm going to experiment with actually getting stories done by posting progress reports here. I intend to write at least 1000 words a week. Feel free to ping me if I don't report such progress.

Feel free to comment. Feel free to ask. Feel free to ignore me.

On second thought, strike that last.

Snippets are generally unedited first drafts. I know they suck :)

There was a slight smell of smoke. For some strange reason, the nose tends to recover first, but there should have been no smoke on a starship. Her ears rang; that at least was as they had warned her. Slowly she started to make out sound that was not made by the blood that was flowing inside her head. The sound was wailing. In the haze of the cryo drugs that still dominated her brain she grappled about for the handle that fit that sound.

The general alarm.

Word count for today: 494.
Word count for week 38/2007: 494.