For my third year running, I am taking part in the 3 Day Novel Contest.  The goal is to write a short novel (a novella really) of about 100 pages in 36 hours.  My first year I shortlisted.  My second year I did what I consider a better book, but did not.  This year I have no idea what may happen.  None.

My progress will be recorded here.

Gayleen, my best pal, and housemate is also doing the thing this year.  This is after swearing never to do it again.  Her first time was as part of a reality show on national TV. 

This way should be relatively stress free for her.

I’m looking forward, and freaking out.

Still undecided about my 3-day.  I don’t do much in the way of an outline for these things.  I’m not sure why.  It’s just not myprocess.

   What is my process?  Hey, look over there.

   I don’t know what my process is.  Making it up as I go is my process.  Is that shameful?  it seems to be.  Many pepple have said the only key to success is an outline.

  I shortlisted without one, so I guess it’s not a universal rule or I got very lucky.

  Nonetheless, I always have a vague feeling I’m an impostor as a writer, because I don’t have a “process” like everyone seems to talk about.

  I turn up my tunes, get in the headspace and from there out it’s a rollercoaster.

  As always, I am fucking terrified as the day approaches.

Sorry for the dearth of postings here of late.  Writing goes well, and I’ve had some interesting life twists lately.  I will be leaving my current job at the end of September and starting a new job with the provincial government in October.  This job is the kind of job I’ve been after for a long time, and it feels like far more of an achievement than it probably is.

Next weekend is the 3-day novel contest.  I’ve participated for the last two years, and this year I will do it again.  I’ll be checking in here to discuss the book as I work on it.  I STILL haven’t decided which book I’m doing.  Once again, I wasn’t really sure if my work situation would allow it.

So, I have a few notions for books.  I’m open to suggestions.

1) Frankenstein vs. the Lone Ranger–Basically the third in a series.  The first year I did Silver Bullets which was sort of a goof on The Lone Ranger.  The second year I did Somebody Else’s Story, which featured the Frankenstein monster as the antagonist.    This third book would be about Harry being dispatched to deal with William S. Frankenstein to basically save the world.  It would be a pretty big apocalyptic story, all tied into Sel Souris.

2) The Murder at the End of this Book–A noir mystery in a world where puppets and people work side by side.  The world is obsessed with the alphabet, and W, the letter W is in his second term as president.  I’ve tried this three times.  The 3-day might be my way of actually doing it, starting over from scratch.

3) Lost Boys in Neverland–A story about an abortionist obsessed with Peter Pan.  This is my least fleshed out idea, but it’s very vividly imagined.  Thanks to Mr. Wade Lahoda for the article which inspired.

4) Strange Visitor–The story of an alien rocketed to Earth from a doomed planet, with powers and abilities far beyond those of mortal men and the wrong colour of skin.

Please vote.  Feel free to suggest other ideas.

n

I’m writing, today, about regret.  I have a character in this piece who is pretty much consumed with horror and guilt every time he remembers this one moment from his late childhood.  It’s not an incident that most people who observed it would even think noteworthy.  It’s just the way he chose his words, and the look on the face of the guy he said them to.  It haunts him.  He loses sleep.  It’s not reasonable to have so much regret for such a small thing, but it keeps coming back to him.

To be clear, it’s not the central issue of his life or anything, it’s just this odd little thing that sometime crawls up from the deep and tasks him with some suffering.

I think we all have a few things like that, these little moments of deep shame or deep horror that come back upon us again and again as we move through life.  Those of us with consciences, any way.  We’ve all done shameful things.  Some of them have hurt other people.  Some of them have been completely forgotten.

I remember one summer coming home from the Ex in Saskatoon, I was holding my stuff, and my little brother’s helium balloon, so he could get his seat belt unfastened.  He might have been six.  As I was getting out of the car, my hand slipped and I lost his balloon.  I saw it trailing off into the sky.

Sometimes, in the dead of night, I wake up, and I hear the sounds of his crying, and the look of loss on his tiny face, and it shakes me, physically.  I know it was an accident.  I know I meant no harm, but there it is.

I also know that Devon, my brother, does not remember the incident at all.  I know this because, in a fit of sentimentality and tears one bad bad night, I called him to apologize.  I’m not a drinker, so I don’t have the drunk dialing excuse, but it was the same impulse.

He had literally NO idea what I was talking about.

This is, in some dark way, very funny.

I cannot let it go.  It’s one of many, of course.  It’s painful beyond the telling of it to even write about it, and so this passage in the thing I’m working on is no fun either.

I suppose it’s a noble thing that we have this capacity to feel this shame at causing pain.  I wouldn’t, surely, give it up.  I wouldn’t mind, however, if it were a little less hardwired into my reptile brain.

I’d sleep better.

I’m back from a two week vacation from work.  During this vacation, I accomplished very little, but I do have a good idea of what my 3 Day Novel will be this year.  I also have a good idea what to do with the Siegel story, and how to make a novel of it.  So there’s that.

A lot of my time of late has been taken up in preparing my latest RPG campaign.  The Siegel story was a bit of prep for that to set up some background, and give me a sense of the feel I was after.  RPGs are very immediately rewarding, and I could use that right now.

Writing a novel is lonely work, but shopping one is a constant exercise in humiliation and defeat.  It wearies the spirit, even when you have a good attitude.  So, I’m hoping the game provides me the reward factor I need to keep from becoming discouraged.

Stuff about the game is visible here.

Feel free to have a peruse.  I’m currently re-writing the Siegel story, expanding some of the early parts a bit and fixing the end.  When it’s done, I’ll post it over there and let you know here.

My mood is good, though a bit discouraged to be back at work.  I find myself with no profound things to say.  So, let me throw it out there.  Any questions or topics you’d like me to hold forth upon.  I don’t do this often. 

So, I didn’t like the way that ended.  Perhaps I should have just left off at section nine.  Characters rarely behave as I expect them to, and that undermined the ending I originally conceived.

I’m about to rewrite this, and try to make it less bad.  I see some tiny bits of good here and there, but mostly not.

Here’s the deal.  I am super good with criticism.  Give me some.  Please tell me how you’d end this.  Tell me what you want to see that you didn’t see, and tell me what can go.  Help me.

Thanks.

Siegel was in his office, waiting for the final counts for the day, and to take a look at the skim.  He’d been smoking since noon.  It had been days since he’d seen her fly off, days he’d spent in a cold sweat, wanting to say the word.  He took a sip of scotch, and rubbed his eyes with heels of his palms.  She was coming.  He knew she was coming.  He could feel the wind on her face.

There was a tapping on the window by his desk.  His heart leapt into his throat, and he turned to look.  The Eagle was standing outside the window.  His eyes were focused straight at him.  His cowl was pushed back, and his hair was wet.  Siegel came over and opened the window.  The Eagle lifted slightly and hovered for a second before coming in feet first through the window.

The Eagle set down lightly on the rug, and Siegel could see he was damp from head to toe, though it didn’t seem to be raining outside.  It never rained here.  He had some vague memory, or idea that he’d been in the clouds.  She was damp from the clouds.  The two of them looked at each other.

“We need to talk,” he–she said.”

“We do,” Siegel said.  “Can I get you a drink?”

“No.  I think I’m done drinking.”

“Suit yourself.”

The Eagle shut the window, and sat himself in the chair in front of the desk and looked at him, as he sat down.

“Can you say the word, for Christ’s sake.  I want to talk to the real you.”

“This is the real me,” she said.  “This is the only me I want to be anymore.”

“Liberty,” Siegel said, and it happened very quickly.  She was dressed as she’d been the night she fell, but the blood was gone, the buttons fixed.

She scowled, and opened her mouth to speak.  He moved, so quickly, and put his hand around her mouth.  He’d planned this for days, and he was very careful not to squeeze too tightly.

“Don’t,” he said, “Don’t try to say it.”

Her eyes were wide, angry.  She tried to shake her head side to side, but he held her head in place.  He was strong.  He was so strong.    He could just snap her neck without trying, but he didn’t know what would happen if he did.  He was tempted to, more from curiosity than anything, and he hated that.  He didn’t want to hurt her.

“Liberty,” he said.  She winced, and he could see her pupils contract and expand in the strange light, and he was himself again, his hand still wrapped around her mouth.  He let go.

“You’re a son of a bitch, Mr. Siegel,” she said.

He shrugged and leaned back in the chair, and placed his hands on his belly.

“You’re alive.”

“That’s why you’re a son of a bitch,” she said.  “Why do you think I came here?”

“So I could kill you and take the power all to myself?  Thought about it, doll.  I don’t think he’d have it, do you?  Besides.  I don’t want to hurt you.  I don’t.”

“Well, bully for you, Bugsy.”

She leaned back in her chair and mimicked his body language.

“Look.  Michelle…can I call you Michelle?” he said, but didn’t wait for her to reply, enjoying the look in her eyes as she bristled.  “You don’t have to like me.  That’s okay.  I don’t like me.  I’m not a likeable guy.”  His voice caught in his throat.  “But I’m working on it.”

“I don’t care.”

He looked at the ceiling.

“Dammit, honey, what do we do now?  How do we live?”

“I don’t care.  Are we done?”

He shrugged.

“Liberty,” she said, and he covered his eyes with his hands.

“Lib…” he nearly said, as she lifted him up roughly by the jaw.

“What keeps me from killing you?” the Eagle said.

He raised his eyebrows, looked down at her hands.  The Eagle rolled her eyes, and let him drop.

“Morals,” Siegel said, rubbing his jaw.  “You have ‘em.”

The Eagle grabbed a chair and threw it at the wall.  It shattered against the wall and made a hole in the plaster, and screamed that damned raptor’s shriek again, and said the Word again.  She looked like an angry little girl in the middle of a tantrum.  He walked over to her.

“Listen,” he said, “I don’t know why the fuck I care what happens to you, but I do.  I’m not going to let you hurt yourself.  You will get better.”

She looked at him, her head set obstinately, her jaw canted to one side.

“Go to hell, you thug.   You murdering, raping thug.”

He didn’t bat an eye.

“What happens,” he said softly, “if we say the word at the same time?”

She looked at him, and he smiled because he could see the gears stop.  Whatever she’d been expecting him to say or do, he hadn’t done that.  Now she was thinking, actually thinking.  She shook her head.

“I don’t know,” she said, “how could I know?”

“Me either,” he said, “and he didn’t tell us.  Aren’t you curious?”

She sighed, and it was like the wind had left her rage.

“No, Mr. Siegel,” she said quietly, “I’m not.  I’m sad and I’m tired, and I just want to go to my room and sleep.”

“So go.  You know where it is.”

She stared at him.  “And what,” she said, “leave you to wreak havoc in his body?  Kill your enemies?”

“I’ll do what I want to,” he said.  “And I’ll hope I don’t want to.”

She laughed, and it was the coldest laugh he’d ever heard.  He’d seen an icepick in the eye that was less sharp.

“You’ll see,” he said, then “Liberty.”

She didn’t look at him, and didn’t want to.  She left the room.

He looked at his hands.

“Chicago,” he said.  “Time to clean up the mob.”

An hour later he was in the air, flying like an angel.  She was lying in her bed.  He could feel her there, the emptiness in her heart.  He could feel her looking back, hating him.   The wind in his face was like something out of a dream.

He plowed through the roof and his fists shattered the marble floor.  Men with guns shot at him, and the bullets felt no more substantial than raindrops.  He swung at the first man, and felt the jaw shatter.  On the second man, he pulled his punch, feeling her stomach clench.

He was staring now at the man who’d ordered his death, and smiling at the sight of him squirming in his seat and nearly wetting himself.

“Vegas,” the Eagle said, “Stay out.  One whisper of trouble for Siegel or his crew, and I’ll be back.”

He flew straight up through the roof and arced slow and lazy back toward the desert and the one there waiting, hating.  She fell asleep as he crossed over the mountains, and saw the neon of a new world.

    I am now on vacation for sixteen days.  You will probably see more postings here.  Including the last part of Siegel.

    Thanks.

Siegel shoved his way past his own guys and ran down the fire stairs, not willing to wait for the elevator.   By the time he hit the street, he expected to be able to follow the sirens.  When he’d last seen her, she was falling on the strip.  The night air was still and the street unusually quiet.

His own guy caught up beside him, and put a hand on his shoulder.

“Boss,” the guy said, his voice sounding slightly slowed and liquid.  He turned to see which one it was, but he couldn’t tell.  The light was strange and the face blurred.  He felt slightly dizzy as he tried to find her.  He felt like he was struggling against the tides, and then everything snapped into easy motion.  A ribbon striped red white and blue was tied around Siegel’s wrist and led out across the street.  Everything else was frozen solid, and utterly still.

Siegel followed the ribbon past a small puddle, the foot of a shrimp in a cheap suit having raised drops of water an inch above the ground where they hung like dirty jewels, each reflecting the slow light.  He could hear a sound like a violin being slowly bowed.

He followed it to a quiet alley behind a bar and she was lying beside a trash can.  Her fall had knocked it on its side, and leftover mashed potatoes were stuck to the blood on her face.  She was broken like the dial on a cheap Mexican watch, her arms and legs at unnatural angles.  Her posture said it was fifteen minutes after forever.

Siegel was no stranger to death.  He’d brought enough, and he knew there was no glory in it, no beauty at all.  It wasn’t like the movies.  Her belly was covered in blood, her shirt torn open.  He didn’t want to look.

He’d been terrified of the Eagle when he was a guy.  Siegel had no idea why no he felt sorrow, pity, disgust at her end.  He didn’t know what it said about him.  Nothing good, he figured.  Not really.

He noticed that a tear had been knocked off of her face and hung there, time still frozen.  He knelt down beside her and plucked it from where it hung, and held it up before his eyes.

“Hello, son,” said a voice from behind him.  It was the warmest voice he’d ever heard, old, and infinitely wise.  The owner of that voice put a hand on his shoulder.  He could see the cuff of the shirt sleeve, pristine white with shiny red buttons.  The buttons had an eagle on them.

He turned to see his Uncle Sam, in his blue jacket with white stars, his red and white striped vest.  The top hat, the little white goatee.  Everything.

“It’s nice to see you face to face, son.  I never thought you were a bad boy.  Just troubled.”

Siegel’s eyes got wet, and he didn’t know why.  Sam looked at Michelle where she lay down, and took off his hat.

“What do we do now, Bugsy?” he said.

“What are you asking me for?  I’m…I’m,” Siegel choked on the words and leaned against the brick wall to put his wet eyes on his shirt sleeve.  His had was still bleeding from putting his fist through the glass and he was feeling it now.

“You’re what,” Uncle Sam asked.

“I’m a thug.  A killer.  An operator.”

“That’s what you did, son.  It’s not what you are.  You’re a man like anyone else.  If you’re not happy with your life, change.”

Siegel turned around and looked at him.

“Easy to say,” Siegel said, “Hard to do.  I let my guard down now, and I have a hundred guys out to kill me.  Without the Eagle, I’m probably done for anyhow.  I’m on borrowed time.”

“Pay it back,” Uncle Sam said.

Siegel blinked.

“I don’t even know what you mean.”

“I think you do,” Sam said, and he bent to one knee and picked her up as if she weighed nothing.

“Say the word, son.”

“What happens then?”

“You get to change, if you want it.”

“Liberty,” he said, his lips feeling like sandpaper.

Michelle coughed, and choked on breath, and Siegel looked at his hands, so much biggger, younger than his.  Looked at the ground, and he saw his boots, the costume.  He was in the Eagle.  He was the Eagle, and he could hear Michelle’s heart beat against her chest.  Sam set her down, and she was staring at him with wide eyes.

“What is this?” Siegel said, afraid to move.

“Do only good works, son,” Sam said, and then put a finger on Michelle’s chin and tweaked her nose.  “And you, missy.  You need to spend more time in your own skin.  Life is hard, and I’m sorry as all get out what happened to you, but I can’t let you throw away your life.”

She was shaky, looking at what had happened to her body, and what had healed.

“Liberty,” she said.

The light flashed in the alley, the same strange light, and Siegel was back in his own body.  The relief was astonishing.  He’d thought he’d like that kind of power.  He’d been wrong.  He blinked and Michelle was gone.  The Eagle was looking down at him, confused.

“I think,” Sam said, “that between the two of you, you have the making of a really excellent person.  You take care now.”

The sound returned to the world, the drone of traffic and the wind off the mountain.  His guy was shouting for him somewhere blocks away

Siegel looked into the eyes of the Bald Eagle, and she looked back at him from behind them.  Nobody said anything, and then she flew away.

He knew he could say the word, and she’d fall.

He didn’t.

Circumstances have lead to a day’s delay in posting.  See you tomorrow.