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Hi. I have been absent from the Den for over a year and just managed to get myself logged back in. I hope everyone has been well. My short story entry is only loosely adversity-based, but it’s very tongue-in-cheek and not very serious. Readers sensitive to bad language and poop should read no further. I spent 2021 getting the kick up my writing butt that I needed after doing the Jericho Writers Self Edit course which was incredible. It’s allowed me to write, write, write and not think too much and pushed me to do NaNoWriMo for the first time (my WIP is now at over 80k). So, with all of that in mind, here is…
The Toddling Dead
Brad’s shotgun was rock steady. Each cell got a a quick ninety degree spin, Brad to the left and Jack to the right.
‘Clear.’ said Jack.
Two cells left at the end and a smashed vending machine.
‘Dude, can you smell that?’ Jack said.
‘Of course I can smell it.’
They both swung quickly around at the last two cells. On the right, Jack could see an empty cell; one metal bed with a plastic mattress and a metal toilet. ‘Clear!’ He said.
’Shit!’ Brad shouted. Jack shot round.
“What is it?’
‘No. Shit. Look!’ Brad pointed into the cell. A man was on the floor, slumped with his head on the metal toilet. Opposite him was a mound of poop the size of small dog. It reminded Jack of a working model of Vesuvius he had made for his school science fair back in fourth grade. There were even rivulets of brown lava coming from the summit.
‘Why the fuck didn’t he use the toilet?’ Said Brad.
‘Paaaaaaaarrrrp.’ Jack tilted his head.
‘Brad, I think the corpse farted.’ Whispered Jack.
‘No shi…’
‘Ffffeeeeeeeeep………’
‘Holy cr…’
‘fut…futfutfutfutfut…’ Brad made the sign of the cross and lifted his shirt over his nose. They took a step back.
‘Dude I think he’s…’
‘….meeeep.’
The man’s eyes opened and he scrambled to his feet as the two men raised their weapons.
‘Thank God!’ He shouted ‘I thought I’d die in here…’ Brad stopped him.
‘Did you lock yourself in here?’ The man was at the bars and both Jack and Brad took a step back; he stank in a way only a mother could ignore.
‘Are you fucking crazy!’ He shouted. ‘I crashed my car into a tree and the cops locked me up to sleep it off. Next thing I know, I wake up, everyone’s gone and there’s a vending machine outside my cell.’
‘So you have no idea what’s happened?’ Asked Jack.
‘They took my phone. Now get me out of here!’
Jack shook his head.
‘Listen.’ Said Brad. ‘On the day you got drunk and crashed, a three year old in Maryland started biting the teachers in his school. Real zombie shit. Kid gets sedated, three teachers bleed out and die.’ He paused. Jack continued.
‘Soon there are reports coming in all over. Three year olds, sprinting round biting people, only the bit don’t turn. They just die.’ Brad took over.
‘Now I don’t know if you have kids, but three year old zombies are the worst there is.’
‘They’ve got speed.’ Jack said. ‘They’ll climb anything and just drop on you before you know it.’
‘They’re stupid strong.’ Added Brad.
‘No sense of danger.’ The guy’s head was going back and forth.
‘You can’t reason with them.’
’They don’t sleep.’ Said Jack. ‘They went for their older siblings first.’ Brad lowered his head.
’Nobody thought a crayon could be weaponised.’
‘We can let you out.’ Said Brad. ‘But understand this. It’s their world now.’Once again thank you to all of you for giving your thoughts on this. I feel immediately guilty as I have close to no experience and not much to offer by way of my own conclusions.
I agree with those of you who say that the shape of your various elements (character arcs, plot lines etc.) needs revision between drafts, and it reminds me that the idea is to do as much as you can in draft one but be ready (and expect) to do a shed-load of work to put certain things right in draft 2 and subsequent drafts. I suppose I’m still under the glittering, impossible illusion that nailing every possible element in draft one is possible…but at the same time I know it’s not.
I liked the 7 c’s as it reinforced some things I have heard and read recently (I am a little way through Debi Alper’s mini-course on the webinar at the moment and the triangle looks interesting Squidge) which are telling me that the three main acts have a rough structure (short act 1 and 3 with act 2 doing the heavy lifting plot-wise). It’s already helped me to think of certain scenes in my writing which can fit the ‘inciting incident’ or ‘rug-pull’ and has thrown up new opportunities or ways to structure scenes and rearrange them that I had been struggling to do before.
I crave the structure in a way so it can free me up to be creative and hang the bits in the correct. places. I have been reassured by everything people have said so far about the feelings they have regarding this process, and it ha taught me that my ideas are probably roughly in the shape of a story if I can only just make sure I juggle several other writing balls (psychic distance, POV, show/tell etc.).
The more I speak with people such as yourselves the better I feel about the process and it seems more likely that I will be able to finish a first draft, which seemed very unlikely a few months ago.
Thank you again everyone.
Now I need to think of another stupid question.
I’m a bit late for the response to all this but I totally agree Squidge nailed the theme. I still get a thrill when an idea is taken in a direction I would never have imagined myself; it constantly reminds me of the infinite variety of perspectives and possibilities that this writing lark affords us.
I enjoyed reading them all.
Thank ‘insert deity here’ you have wrestled with the same issues I’m facing. It’s wonderful to feel that others have toyed with the various types of writing and that I can see some of my own struggles being described in almost the same way I view them.
I love the ‘plantsing’ because it goes some way to alleviate my fears that I’m caught between two awesome pillars of truth whereas now I feel I’m able to enjoy both pillars and not risk falling off either of them. I am becoming more and more aware of the need to re-write my entire novel and I’m even starting to become less frightened of the idea of shelving it completely. The only reason I’m not too keen on shelving it is that it may serve as an excellent vehicle for playing with plot, character, show, tell, hide, warble, waffle and regurgitate.
Having listened to Philippa East’s webinar recently (and having read her book now – nice nod to the Den in the back I see) I can see her journey a little more clearly and how my own lexical garbage compares in many different ways. I can see the value of the structure in the novel and that will be the subject of my next forum question I think.
I am absolutely loving how honest and open and generous you all are with your thoughts on this. It is keeping me motivated and I’m enthused to try out new things and take some risks with what had become a sacred text (the unfinished half-draft of my directionless dark comedy about male depression) but is now a play-thing I can use for my own amusement and which, one day, may lead to something that I can safely polish without it smelling as if I have trodden in something.
I am grateful to Philippa not only for her webinar but for mentioning the Den. I am delighted to be a few paces further along my journey than a few weeks ago. Thank you all.
That’s all completely amazing. I managed to forget my password and have been locked out for ages so it’s lovely to see responses. I will digest as much as I can. I liked the show/tell examples, very useful. Thank you.
I still haven’t figured out how the replies work so whilst I thought I was starting to respond to one person it appears that I’m just adding something at the bottom. SO be it.
Just from that flurry of answers, I feel I understand a little more about this which is truly motivating. I have taken the decision to completely start again with my novel, going through a planning process beforehand so I can finally put the plot to bed and not worry about where I’m heading…and then I can throw away the plan if I need to.
I will continue to struggle with the balance of telling as I continue, but I think I may be able to spot it a little better from this point forward.
Hi all, I’m not yet fully versed in the ways of the craft and have wavered between perfectionism and writing tens of thousands of words without any edits. I certainly prefer the latter, but the former seems to bring something to the table.
I started a novel back in 2013 as I managed a hotel in the Peruvian Andes, and all these years later I’m finally going to have a crack at finishing it. At various points, over the past 7 years, I have tinkered and have managed to get a lot written, but I’ve found that inspiration dried up as soon as I started doing edits seriously. I foolishly started editing things before I had completely finished the first draft and I think that completely wrecked my concentration. I have been too scared to finish it since.
I am now ready for some brutal writing and then some brutal editing. So I don’t think (with my work-rate) that I’ll be anywhere near to flirting with perfectionism this time.
Midsummer madness
The queue was going nowhere. He gave up wiping the sweat; it poured in carefree torrents down his forehead, around his nose and dripped from his lips and chin onto the white, cotton shirt his wife had bought him for his birthday back in November.
‘It will look great on you in the summer when we’re in Greece!’ she had said. I thought I’d get something I could use now he had thought as he smiled back and kissed her hard on the lips.
The rotating fan at the till sparked and died, dutifully finishing its arc before hanging its head in shame. The five people in front of him tutted in unison, but that was the full extent of their rebellion and the air got ever-so-slightly hotter, hanging heavily and flatly around them. He glanced at his watch. Thirty-five degrees.
A summer spent in Florida as a student had taught him something about the heat, but there, air-conditioning was everywhere and when customer service fell below outstanding, people started reaching for their handguns. He had wanted to order everything online, but this had been violently opposed and had brought into question his commitment to their situation.
His armpit started to itch. It was an itch that had no chance of being satisfied. The delicate balance of commodities he had jammed under his arms was a mix of soft fabrics and breakable electronic goods he barely recognised but which had been on the list. His fingers tingled, they had turned blue with the weight of the two large bags cutting off their circulation and his bent neck held the top of the stack with just enough pressure to prevent the boxes from slipping out between the fabrics. He was sure his face suggested he was suffering from extreme IBS, but everyone else looked like he did and he was ten minutes past caring. The banner above the till read Midsummer Madness – everything 50% off! Well, they had it half right.
His birthday came to mind once more, the wine, the fire in the tiny rental cottage and that kiss. Midwinter madness had been utterly wonderful, and on return to work and with the build-up to Christmas, that little white stick with blue lines had changed everything. The queue moved a pace forwards. He rubbed himself against the display cabinet and dropped the bottle-steriliser, which smashed noisily on the concrete floor.[400 words excluding title]
