Okay,
the other story that I've been working on lately (I believe I mentioned it last week) is taking a little longer than I expected. The plot is there, drafted out, and there are three or four different variations on the beginning sitting on my desktop... what I'm having with trouble with is deciding which one works best - the idea was to retell the story of an illegal immigrant (a child with his family - mother & brother) coming into Australia. Just having trouble combining the innocent/ignorant experience of the child with the seriousness of the topic. I am muddling through, but I want it to be good so I'm going to wait until it clicks.
Other than that things are pretty much the same where I am - though I am getting more writing in. The PDQ that I talked about last post is up and running properly and my character got in. So far the writing and the story are a little all over the place, both in terms of quality and coherency (we have yet to establish a pecking order and so for the moment everyone is doing everything at once - which, coupled with the differing levels of writing ability makes the whole thing a bit messy). I finding it stimulating however and it has been a good way to ease my way back into writing stuff semi-regularly and hopefully it will get better as it goes along.
On top of that I have managed to get another short story done which I will put up at the end of this post. Bear with me though. Have gone back to SF for a bit - but it is part of something that I have been thinking of doing for a while - one of several stories that show different interpretations of a single event.
Obviously this is the first. There will be more. As well as my immigrant story once it is ready/done and the stock broker when I get back to that. Have a pretty peaceful - stay at home/be on call - week ahead of me so looking to get plenty of reading and writing in.
Anywho, story:
Escape Velocity I
Trapped. Hurt. Alone.
The floor is littered with empty syrettes, stained red... used up. A hand (mine?) reaches for the box. It is heavier now, there is less in it. Only three now. Not enough. The splinter of pain returns, somewhere in my arm. Leaking red (why won't it stop?). The third last slides in easy. Brings warmth.
Two left.
I pop a stim (pill. Plenty of those left) and the world sharpens somewhat; grows bigger. Five feet by five by eight. Standard ceramic white, smeared in blood. Mine. Every now and then the lights flicker. Running out of power? Damaged? Don't know. Red fingers too slick on display to find out; wont dry, even on glass.
Pod gives a low hum. Cold air rushes in; took longer this time, lasts for less. Running out of air. Red splattered everywhere. Seeping out. Wont clot. Running out of blood. Running out of time.
Time passes. Pain returns (shit. Fuck. Getting worse. Syrettes supposed to last hours. Supposed to help clot. Help heal. Doing none of those things). Push in another; nothing else to do. Hardly feel it. I eye the last one anyway and ask the question: Would it be enough if I took it now? Enough to bump me over the edge? Military syrettes. Supposed to be strong... Should be dead already.
One left.
Good hand pulls back slide on pistol. Hundredth time. Still empty. Still useless. Still cant throw it away. Thinking is getting harder, like sifting through sand, or thick mud. Slips through fingers. Hard to keep track. The lights dim. It gets darker and the blood seeps out of the hole in my arm. Still wont clot.
Pain again. Syrette number three goes in. Fingers clumsy. Numb. Pins and needles everywhere. Feel sleepy but don't seem to die. Damn... have to think. Start to panic. Syrettes all gone. Same with bullets. Never had any to begin with. Can't overdose on stims... Crack the door?
A red lever sits behind a panel of glass designed to be shattered. Yellow and black stripes signal a warning, further explained by blurry scrawl of letters too small to see. Can only read those above, big and bold:
E.V. 19. Jötunn. New Helsinki.
Empty words, meaningless now. The Jötunn is dead, others scattered. Probably also dead.
Might be all that's left. Little me in a little box, trying to find the easiest way out.
Take more stims. Take most of them. Try to pull myself up. Bad arm fights like dead weight. Unmoving. Still bleeding dark red. I drag it with me. It hurts... God it hurts.
Fall twice in five feet. Pull my self back up, leave more red smears on stainless white. Good arm shoulders the glass. Once. Nothing. Twice. Cracks. Three... It shatters in a puff of safety glass. The pod beeps again. One last breathe. I pull the lever.
The bolts inside the door 'pop' and then cold nothing rushes in as the air rushes out.
I breathe the nothing in. Remember the old warnings.
9 Seconds left.
9 seconds. That's how long it's supposed to take.
8.
Pressure equalises. More 'pops'. The door falls away.
7.
The drive fails, the lights go dark. Blood shines in the darkness. Snap frozen. Floating.
6.
I push out, craving... space. The cold is shocking. Wakes me up more than the stims.
5.
Outside is endlessly dark and empty but all of me is bright. My hands. All that I can see glows.
4.
Down below (up?) I can see the Jötunn burn. Still alive but venting gasses, atmosphere. Burning.
3.
The other ship spits fire across her bow, breaking her back. Still she hurtles towards the gate. Towards home.
2.
Jötunn impacts. The gate spins down. Shatters. Implodes.
The light is blinding. Pure. White.
1.
Darkness.
Obviously falling back on the whole short sharp sentences things here, though I was hoping it would reflect the characters state of mind.
Have ideas planned out at least three other perspectives though so will try and alter style for each.
Other than that, can only build back up slowly.
Until the next one,
M.
Ok i just wrote huge rant that i just lost. FML.
ReplyDeleteBasically, the gist of it was this:
I thought the above as pretty limp. Not bad by any means, just not your best. I think it's also indicative of your treading water generally with your writing.
I think if you really wanna take the next step, you really need to face up to it and enter as many competitions as you can. Not only that but see if you can write for some publications, newspapers, etc, etc.
Where you are at now is essentially like me racing my bike against people who don't race. You have a comfortable niche, where you can't be called shit, cos you're pretty good compared to everyone else. To grow as a writer you need to face up to criticism from people who are better than you. Through that, you might get good too.
I know this sounds harsh but, this is your chance, when you have nothing else on, to really have a proper crack at this gig. Blink twice and you'll be forty with a decent normal job, and you'll be wondering how that fiction career might have gone. I know you don't want that. Sure, you're scared, as is normal, but once you have taken that step, who knows what kind of world is open to you?
Why no response ayeeee? I spent several minutes writing that!
ReplyDeleteSorry, have had a hectic week and wanted to give a proper response (ended working pretty much every day this week/haven't been home/been at the gym). I get what you mean - have sort of hit a slump as of late as I'm not really challenging myself - regardless of the genre that I am writing in at the time.
ReplyDeleteFound my self thinking the day about what it would be like to get paid to write sort of mediocre SF (as i will be honest the genre, apart from a few exclusions is not exactly known for being mind-blowing writers) sort of found it appealing at for a moment, but then i remembered that firstly that isn't exactly the likeliest thing to happen and secondly, fuck, i write because i enjoy it and it seems stupid to just sort of sit there and spin if I have even the vaguest chance to do something more with it.
Will look competitions in a bit and start drafting out some ideas.