Rather than slog through these last 56 days with nothing to be proud of, I’m going to take a purposeful break. I will be back for the last eight weeks on February 22.

This one is an odd duck of a book. It is a reprint of a book from the late 20s, and it is a Mechanical Turk for plot construction.

I’ve always been skeptical about learn-to-write books and software. Maybe it’s the too-good-to-be-true sense I get for the effort of writing. Maybe it’s the instinctual knowledge that writing is a gifted art. But since I still struggle with unloosening that gift from the packaging and finding the batteries, I rubber-neck these types of books. I’m sure all these books have at least one morsel of value, but the good books are the ones which have more morsels than gristle. I’ve read a few of those.

I think this new book, Plotto by William Wallace Cook, out-gimmicks all the gimmick riddled how-to-write books. The intriguing part, the characteristic which brings the value, though is that it is the grandaddy of such books. It is the how-to-write book that this generation of books forgot existed. I’m looking forward to finding out how this genre read for our grandparents.

So far, it seems genuine and lacking of self-awareness. And complicated.

229 words on day 935

He heard the waiter approach from behind. Thomas blocked his coffee cup with a hand and turned. “Could we switch me to just water?”

The waiter withdrew the coffee pot.

“With ice, please” Thomas added in practiced Bandeeian.

“My apologies, sir. We have no ice today.” Thomas peered into the main area. Only overcast sunlight from the wide entry arch illuminated the empty dining room next to his balcony spot. A double row of silhouetted four-tops seemed to barricade the exit. When he’d arrived it had been darker than usual, but he’d arrived earlier than usual as well. Hadn’t there been other diners then?

“You are having trouble in the kitchen. No electricity?”

“It should be back up soon. I came to tell you they are finishing up your breakfast. I’ll get you some water.”

“Make that two, Taniel.”

The waiter nodded to the man at the top of the steps and retreated to the kitchen. The newest and only other person in the Junko fingered back a spray of dark hair that may have been better groomed when he left the house. His moustache, however, was precisely trimmed. He wore a grey suit and black monk strap shoes, but no tie. He was a little person.

Thomas felt a bubble of mirth rise to his chest while the words ‘midget’ and ‘dwarf’ rose to his head. Fear chilled the feeling in his chest when it occured to him that one of those two words was the equivalent of nigger, but he wasn’t sure which. Not that he had plans to use either aloud.

The man’s arms seemed shorter and his head larger. He was standing at Thomas’ table when Thomas realized he’d been speaking as he came down the steps from the main floor to the balcony. His hand rested on the back of the empty second chair.

“Sure. Please,” Thomas gestured for the man to sit with him.

The man coaxed a polite smile from a stiff sigh. “I was saying ‘My name is Harry Whiteround.’ I believe you are Thomas North?”

“Yes. Yes, I am. Sorry for that. I don’t…I just…I…”

“Don’t get out very much?”

“Yeah. Thanks. Sorry.”

//

xxx words on day 932

Last night as I went to bed I employed a technique which I’ve known about for a long time. A trick to help me write the next morning. A thought game I neglect to use nearly all the time: think about what you want to write in the morning. Simple enough, but hard to accomplish effectively when the next twenty-five things through your head before falling asleep aren’t that one writing thing. This was the case last night.

Even before that, there was trouble. When I considered today’s writing, I couldn’t get my head out of the Hartwhile garage. I couldn’t imagine any other shops, bars, groceries, or tattoo parlors sharing the space carved out by Honey Farm Circle. I couldn’t jet out of Honey Farm Circle to imagine the clinic, or the RBG’s office, or the showdown locale. I couldn’t imagine what the constabulary (constablewick?) looked like. Where it was located or how far.

Today, as I write this, I’m wondering if having a defined setting isn’t one of those requirements I have for my writing, but hadn’t realized until now. A quick mental inventory of the things I’ve written here on 1000 Days seems to bear this likelihood out. Whether I convey that setting to the reader or not, I have one for my characters; even when they just talk on the page, they’ve got a place to talk in my head. Great.

Wait, non-sarcastic great. Could this mean I’ve unlocked a solution to some of my writing challenges? Could it mean that merely (ironic use here) coming up with a hut, street, mesa, corner, jungle, attic, or office in which to have my characters talk and act will keep me moving forward on the page? Surely such props are non-critical needs?

I know that some folks write by starting with maps. When I did that sort of thing before 1000 Days, I ended up spending a bit more time platting than plotting. I suspect I’d be able to rein that in a bit these days.

390 words on day 926

Now that I’ve got a plot of sorts, I’ve got to develop the theme a bit. What cream is rising through the milky bubbles of my poorly stirred plot is that ‘mothers will always protect their children’. However, nascent instinct tells me some catalytic element is missing from that theme. Maybe there should be a ‘because’ at the end? Ugh, I had a book which defined theme in a way that resonated with me—I can’t find it.

Found it!

And he, James N. Frey, in it, “How to Write a Damn Good Novel”, calls what I’m thinking about a premise. Maybe that’s what I was thinking too. Based on a quick re-read I’d amend my phrase above to ‘protecting your child ruins the status quo’. I should make that sound more fun to read. I’m not sure there is much drama in not maintaining the status quo.

271 words on day 923

“Hide it.” Narkkid handed the cylinder to Tjon. “Uma, get up out of there and get back to work on that Shortle’s flit. He wants it before noon.

Narkkid was scooping coffee grounds when the police landed…

[describe the pair of cops here]
“Good morning, officer. I’m just making coffee. Would you care…”

“Citizen, please address me as Constable Ock or just Constable.” The marquee on Constable Ock’s chest plate scrolled an echo of his declaration in the three most common languages of [the name of the city] , [Tjon’s native badger language], and MILSpec. Narkkid read each hoping the not impolite delay would give the girl a few more seconds to gain distance or hide.

“Constable Ock, would you like some coffee?” she asked in the [first most common of the three most common]—the same language they’d both used initially.

###

I’m clearly out of practice writing these days. I’m going to punt with a FANBOY …

for, and, nor, but, or, yet, (so, plus)

Uma toed the foot-shield back and stepped on the button to elevate the Shortle’s another few inches, and Tjon split his attention between a screen and a notepad transcribing the information on one to the other.

Narkkid tried to assure Constable Ock that none of them had a chance to speak to the girl, but she sensed he didn’t believe her.

Neither Uma nor Tjon nor Narkkid had spoken to the girl, for there wasn’t enough time.
Narkkid volunteered many details, but she didn’t mention the cylinder.

Tjon hid the cylinder in their best stash, plus he loaded the gimme-stash with a suitable bribe amount.

Mrs. Crown seemed anxious to interrupt the constable in a number of places, yet she remained quiet till the end.

The constable completed his questioning of Uma, so she returned to her work on the Shortle’s.

Eesh, I’ve even blown that with a couple repeats.

BBL

331 words on day 922

The girl thinks Narkkid is her mother due to a scrap of paper with her military service number printed on it next to “Mother”. There is a “Father” section, but she was unable to locate any information on him.

This is when it gets weird: I do a whole clone thing and devise a situation where clones caused some social issues in near past and now all cloning is done via deceased DNA. Except in this case, Narkkid’s DNA got used. I manufactured a transposed number in the id sort of thing so that it might seem accidental that hers got used.

I try to leave the government contractor blameless in the end, but still seemingly the bad guy for awhile—they want to get the girl back too since they realize she’s proof they broke the law (how they find out I’m not sure). Or the real bad guy kills the main doc and pins it on the girl. Not sure. The technique for cloning renders the clone sterile and the cells themselves ‘self-destructive’ so that the IP is preserved. Thus the only way to make more clones is to have the original donor’s DNA which the main doctor destroyed (or so he thought).

The trouble with the clone thing is working out how successful and prevalent it is. There’s got to be some reason why the girl is special above and beyond her cloneness. Maybe this is where her inlaid bionics and cyber come in to play. Must be she’s the first/best version to accept the wetware, so they’d like to do more of her.

Then comes the accident which is no accident part and the real bad guy. I’ve done such a great job obfuscating the start-up that I still don’t know much about the RBG. I’m thinking maybe this is just some fellow officer who was a bit pissed about Narkkid leaving the service that he somewhat on a lark posted her DNA out there via the transposition and serendipity turned it into a great thing for him. Big kudos he didn’t want to lose face on when people found out it was Narkkid, which they would since she was popular enough. He’d been planning on killing her in some garage ‘accident’ but then the doc spoiled the germ cells and he had to now keep Narkkid alive. Even if the dates didn’t work out, in the military forgiveness is easier than permission. If Narkkid gets dead at any point it retcons the cloning.

Ultimately they (start-up and military RFP) didn’t anticipate the clone to be as self-directed and sharp as she was. They thought they’d get a worker bee but they got a queen. Which is what queered the whole deal. Maybe at some point RBG decided to cut his losses and kill them both. Plus there’s got to be some dealing with the paperwork. You kill the doc, but he’s got papers somewhere, right? Files?

Upon seeing Narkkid, the girl immediately realizes she’s a clone and not a daughter. She splits to protect the woman, whom she thinks must be hiding out or something since she’s not dead yet (the girl knows a lot, but not everything).

That leaves me with the question of the father on the birth cert. Is that just pure sham? Or is that a red herring. It can’t be a red herring if the girl knows immediately unless the girl doesn’t get back in contact with Narkkid before she starts her own hunt.

621 words on day 914

Though she had been very good at what she’d done, she never liked it much. She’d have rather been a musician or a painter creating melodies or landscapes with her hands; being a flit mechanic was as close as she’d gotten in the ten years since she’d retired.

Knowing she wouldn’t utter the next number in her countdown, she went to her office and set the door near closed.

180 words on day 910

She set down a linen napkin triangle with the point shortly draped over the edge of the metal patio table. Next, she placed a white saucer on top of that napkin. And finally, Madrigar’s tea on top of that. The base of the glass was larger than the recess in the saucer which forced the glass to tilt. The awkwardness bothered here, but she had known it was coming.[initially that didnt seem pointless to me]

“Did you know when I applied for a stall here in Rundark I barely had enough money to buy one of the smallest licenses? I was going to use my mother’s tea service until I could afford better.”

Madrigar smoothed his napkin—one of her mother’s. “I like your mother’s settings.”

“Thank you.” She smiled. “When they told me I won the SA gate—the gate—I cried. It was four times the amount

164 words on day 909

Madrigar was difficult to indulge, but Musi tried every morning. If she offered him a thick slice from a still-warm loaf of Courthouse Rye he would only accept the crusty heel—”Unbuttered, please”. If, during the heat of the day, she walked over an insulated mug full of green apple flavored ice the mug would later be returned—cleaned—by one of his customers instead with great thanks for the wonderful refreshment. [One more example here]. [at first she thought he was being polite since he didnt have much money. But as the attempts wore on she treated it more like a game (also she became suspicious of his appearant lack of wealth)]

[when she first set up her stall she'd thought-arrogantly- that her business would boost Madrigar's but over the months as she watched the flow of traffic she realized he sent her more patrons than she ever sent his way.]

###

Finally, late one morning Musi leaned on the ironwork fence which defined the limits of her café and happened to border with Madrigar’s chappi stall. The second day of the week often ended early, so no one sat at her tables or leaned at her bar. Madrigar was tearing down his stall.

“Maddi,” she called out to his back. “Maddi, come join me for some Drangee Purple when you’re done. I have some things I’d like to talk about if you have time.”

“A moment only,” he said without turning. He held aloft a finger as if to illustrate his quiet comment. Musi wondered if he meant ‘In a moment’ or ‘For a moment’ or both, but she prepared his favorite tea as if he intended the former. She poured it into in an Old Fashioned glass just as he sat down at her worst table. She sighed.

“We could sit up front if you like. Where we can watch Diptuu set up his belts.” She pointed to one of her most requested tables.

“Someone may come.”

Musi laughed. “Not till after lunch they aren’t. I may not have been here for twenty years, but I know enough to know that.”

“Still,” he said. Musi recognized this single word as his final comment on many discussions they’d had over the spring and summer. Followed with nothing more than silence, it invariably brought their discussion to a conclusion with Madrigar getting his way.

She set down a linen napkin triangle with the point shortly draped over the edge of the metal patio table. Next, she placed a

416 words on day 908