NaNoWriMo stands for National Novel Writing Month, and you can read more about it here.  After two years of coming up with various excuses (actually, there’s a JulNoWriMo, too, every July, so I’ve had make excuses 4 times now), I’ve realized a very important life truth…  you will not have time for something unless you make it.

So this year it’s all or nothing:  either I prove to myself I can write, or I give up that dream.  Even though I am purchasing a house and moving this month–which would actually have been a good excuse–I’ve comitted to this.

The graph below updates automatically so you can track my progress, if you choose.  The yellow bars are my word count for the day and the blue bars are the daily goals, all the way up to 50,000.  It will be humiliating to have said all that and then crash and burn in the middle of the month, so part of the reason I post this is to keep myself motivated.

See you at the end of the month!

What’s the novel about?  Well, I have a rough idea.  So far I’ve put together this little blurb, recognizing it may change as the story develops.

After years of pestering her boyfriend to propose, when the day comes Bethany Kibler says no.  She immediately regrets her decision but when her boyfriend fails to come home from work the next day and doesn’t return any of her phone calls, she is forced to accept the fact that he has moved on and she should, too.

Except he hasn’t.  Clayton Ross would love nothing more than to go home.  But he is stuck, trapped in the elevator on his way out of the office.  He can’t get out–and it’s a holiday weekend, with no scheduled building activity.

Both are forced to evaluate the kind of relationship they have with one another and themselves, while confronting their very worst fear: belong alone.

Until, after a failed escape attempt that leaves a hole in the ceiling of the elevator, Clayton starts to convince himself that he’s not alone–not really.

Because in the darkness above, something keeps looking at him.

Got me?

Basically:  you can call yourself black but if everyone else see’s a white guy when they look at you… then you just look foolish.

Anyway, I’ll reserve calling myself a writer until I publish something… that’s my own little rule, and it’s fair.  But I’ve been thinking a lot recently about what kind of writer I might end up being, and what I’ve written so far, and through the course of that have made some interesting discoveries.

For example, a few weeks ago I set out to really define what exactly the difference is between science-fiction and fantasy, and more broadly what exactly the difference is between “fiction” and “literature” and what it means for me.

Here’s what I’ve come up with, without actually citing any sources:

A science-fiction story incorporates something fantastic and extraordinary, something that doesn’t exist or doesn’t exist yet but could in theory, and explains it rationally and scientifically or, if it doesn’t, the reader can infer enough to have it make sense in his head.

Fantasy also incorporates something fantastic and extraordinary but instead of explaining it, simply wraps it up into “laws of the universe,” or some other explanation that, as long as it’s consistant with the story, the reader accepts as truth.

Example:  A Unicorn appears in a field.  A science-fiction story would go on to say that the Unicorn was the result of gene-splicing between a horse, donkey, a house fly, and the flu virus, or something.  A fantasy story would say that the Unicorn exists because Unicorns have always existed, and that’s all you need to know about it.

Kind of obvious, but there’s enough overlap–something extraordinary that doesn’t exist (yet?)–that I see why they are lumped together, and honestly I appreciate fantasy a lot more because I branched out and actually read some of it.

As for what makes something “fiction” and what makes something “literature,” well, the difference I’ve been able to identify is that if a Professor at some Literary Elite University (or Oprah) says it’s good, then it’s literature.  If it’s just something entertaining, it’s fiction.  If it teaches you a life lesson and makes you see the world differently (or you at least pretend that it does), it’s literature.  If you can study the author and what he was going through in his life at the particular time he wrote the story and spend time deciphering all the metaphors–it’s literature.  If you can’t, “it’s fiction.”

Not all fiction is literature, but I think all literature is fiction.  I, for one, don’t go into the “Literature” section much, but don’t necessarily have anything against it.  I enjoy “fiction” more than literature, because the stories I enjoy most and the stories I enjoy writing the most are meant to entertain, and that’s it.  Any life lessons I might derive from it are an added bonus and, I think, a natural consequence of studying other fictional people going through life.

As a side-note, I know someone out there is reading this and is thinking about making the comment, “If you have a rule as to when you can call yourself a writer, you might add as a prerequisite that you actually venture into the literature section because that is the only true form of writing.”  To them, I say, go and continue to be a member of the Literary Elite and let the rest of us enjoy the guilty pleasures of Twilight.  (And I can feel your blood pressure rising.)

Anyway — this is all a long winded way of saying that most of my life I’ve considered myself a science-fiction guy, and so as an extension I’ve classified most of my stories as science-fiction and even at some points forced the stories to be science-fiction because it’s where I think I’m most comfortable.

However, as I study the distinctions between genres more, I’d actually hope to call myself–when the day comes–a horror writer.  And I didn’t see that coming.

The stories I’ve written that I’m most proud of would all be classified as horror, and most have nothing to do with science-fiction.  Two great examples are Foundations* and Heartbreakers*–and they are great examples because I don’t cringe as much when I think of people reading them like I do when I re-read other things I’ve written.  There’s a third example, Monsters in the Closet* , which I thought was science-fiction when I was writing it but now know is not, since it only happens to feature what you’re led to believe is an alien but could actually be a demon, shadow walker, human in the last throws of radiation sickness… even Unicorn. (That particular story has a more subtle twin in Ground Level*, which I wrote knowing full well it was not science-fiction.)

All three of these stories feature something necessary for a story to be classified as horror:  the unraveling of the norm to expose the gritty reality behind ordinary things.  What you thought was truth is not–and maybe you knew it all along!

Steven King says there are three subsets to the Horror genre:  terror (that feeling you get that immobilizes you), horror (the escaped murderer is coming to get you!), and revulsion/gross-out (worms coming out of your eye sockets, or bugs eating you alive).  I’d like to think those four stories above fit somewhere between the first two.  And if I can pull off this NaNoWriMo project next month the way I want–I’ll have another doozy for ya.

All of this also has the added benefit of explaining why the movie Signs is my favorite… yeah, it’s about aliens, and that’s maybe why I thought I liked it so much–but ultimately we’re not even really sure it was aliens.  And it’s not necessarily a science-fiction movie.  Most of it’s draw was the spooky aspect of it, the horror.

People poo-poo all over the God-Did-It ending, but I’ve always thought maybe we called the creatures in the movie aliens because they fit the stereotype so well–but perhaps they were actually demons, and, yes, God turned the water into holy water and it corrupted their essence and so they dissolved back into the Netherrealm, or whatever.  And don’t bother telling me you’re sure it was aliens because M. Night Shyamalan told you it was on the back of the DVD, because that doesn’t matter.  It’s a story and his interpretation is just as valid as mine–he just happened to write it.

Anyway, that’s all.  Just wanted to get some of my thoughts down.

“My belief [is that] no one is exactly sure of what they mean on any given subject until they have written their thoughts down; similarly, I believe that we have very little understanding of what we have thought until we have submitted those thoughts to others who are at least as intelligent as ourselves.” -Stephen King

* = These were all written at various points in the past few years and are first drafts, never revised, and may even end up being excerpts from longer stories, so take them for what they are.  Also, two of the stories have an “afterward” that appear on the last page, so even if it looks like the story is over be sure to scroll down to the bottom to be sure.

If FlashForward wants to be the next Lost (which, according to them, they don’t, but c’mon… who wouldn’t?), they need to stop and recognize what makes Lost so successful.  It’s not just mysteries, it’s great writing and above-average acting.  FlashForward has great potential, but they should make the characters a tad more in-touch with reality and tone down on the cheese-o-rama, like having the main guy get upset with his wife for being with another man in the future?  That’s just not believable.

“Hey bro, you ever realize it might be you that fucks up?”

But with Brannon Braga as executive producer, being in-touch and avoiding cheese-o-rama is difficult… this is the guy who created Star Trek: Voyager, which officially out-cheesed the cheesiest Star Trek joke.  (It’s ironic that Voyager happens to be my favorite of the Star Treks, but it’s not necessarily because of the stories, rather the characters–which Braga did not create–were so human.)

As of right now it’s feeling like it’s going to go the Heroes route.  I think I’ll give it another week or two to find out for sure.

For it’s epic, world spanning and world changing story seen through the eyes of a massive ensemble cast.  For it’s subtle use of science fiction and even fantasy (the antagonist is a thousand year old sorcerer).  For the realized characters and their little quirks (M-O-O-N, and that spells quirks).  For the classic battle of good vs. evil, redemption, and fate… much like Lost.

#2 The Name of the Wind – Patrick Rothfuss

My first fantasy story, found by pure chance while browsing Borders, and changed my opinion about the genre overnight.  A story about a boy growing up in a different kind of world than our own.  Without question the most well written story I’ve ever read.  The scenes were so well translated in my imagination I can picture it as a movie in my head, complete with sound.  The characters are real, you can see and hear young Kvothe and his always out of reach girlfriend Denna, and you can feel the desire, strain, tragedy and hope of their perhaps-not-so-unique relationship.  This story has realistic situations with realistic consequences, and even features a battle with a dragon and makes it believable, which I never thought possible.

#3 Company – Max Berry

For making fun of the corporate office world, much like the first half of Office Space.  Had me laughing at some points, until mid-way through when the story changes to something almost resembling science fiction.  What’s on the thirteenth floor, and just who is the CEO?  By the end, you realize the story you thought you were going to read is not at all what you expected.

#4 Apathy, and Other Small Victories – Paul Neilan

Who cares?  Eh, this books speaks to me — and should speak to any Larry David or George Costanza fan.  It’s a story about nothing… a guy living his life pointing out the absurdity of it all.  Funniest book I’ve read, without question.  Making me laugh out loud is a hard thing for a book to do, and I was laughing pretty much every other page.  Also the main character sleeps on the toilet, which, well, like I said… speaks to me.

#5 Millennium – John Varley

This book’s narrative takes place in modern times — at least, that’s how it starts.  The story is more about the Earth as it is thousands of years from now, and how they are surviving:  taking soon-to-be victims split-seconds before major fatal accidents in the past (like airplane crashes) to sustain the population, as the human race has gone infertile.  As they get more desperate, they get sloppy, so we start to catch on.  And at the end, a household appliance completely blows your mind as everything comes full circle.

Honorable Mention, as it’s more of a philosophical essay disguised as a novel so not really a novel in the traditional sense:

#6 Ishmael – Daniel Quinn

Even when I’m done reading this, I’m not done reading this.  Each repeat reading changes my view of the world and how we fit into it.  Reminds me what it means, or should mean, to be human.  Is there a universal law, as observable as the laws of physics, that tells mankind how we should live?  Why yes, yes there is, and it’s pretty simple and obvious but nobody in the industrialized world seems to see it.  You wouldn’t think you are flying if you jump off a cliff and just haven’t hit the ground yet… you would think you are tumbling toward disaster.  Yet we seem to think we’re flying.  That, and a lot of other things.

EDIT: Can’t believe I forgot to mention Life of Pi, which fits in there somewhere.  I liked the adventure, and Pi’s musings on religion.  And the twisty, turny, ambiguous ending.

* = As of September 2009.  I’m never done.

Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible, without surrender, be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly; and listen to others,
even to the dull and ignorant; they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons, they are vexations to the spirit.

If you compare yourself with others, you may become vain and bitter,
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.

Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.

Exercise caution in your business affairs, for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals, and everywhere life is full of heroism.

Be yourself. Especially do not feign affection. Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment it is as perennial as the grass.

Take kindly the counsel of the years, gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.

Beyond a wholesome discipline, be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here. And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.

Therefore be at peace with God, whatever you conceive Him to be.
And whatever your labors and aspirations, in the noisy confusion of life,
keep peace with your soul. With all its sham, drudgery and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world. Be cheerful. Strive to be happy.

“There are all kinds of dream interpretations, but I have always believed they serve a simple eliminatory function, and not much more–that dreams are the psyche’s way of taking a good dump now and then.  And that people who don’t dream—or don’t dream in a way they can often remember when they wake up–are mentally constipated in some way.”

–Glen Bateman, “The Stand”  (finally got back into the book, and am savoring each delicious page)

Here are a few things about Wednesday’s episode, “The Variable,” that are kind of indicative of the problems I’ve been having with the show all together this season.  Obviously, you should consider this a spoiler warning, too.

First, why did Daniel Faraday have a gun? The man has about as much business holding a gun as I do.  The “do you have anything for a beginner?” line was cute, but not much of an excuse for his out-of-character behavior a short while later.  I get that he was out of his element and freaking out about the timeline, but to go with guns blazing into Other territory?  It was semi-believable until he fired the two warning shots.  And to give Richard Alpert to the count of 3 before shooting him in the face?  Who was that?

It was very un-Faraday.  He has always been the pressure-release, trying to get everyone talking and to calm down.  When the four freighter people were released, I even said Daniel Faraday was the one out of all of them that I felt we could explicitly trust and for the most part he lived up to that… until he lost his damn mind and got shot.

Secondly, whatever happened… happened, and you can’t change the past, right? I mean, that’s what people have been telling us since the time travel concept was introduced.  Even the producers themselves have said so.  But with Daniel Faraday suddenly coming up with this plan to change the past, everything we’ve been told could not be true.  It’s the grandfather paradox, just dressed up a little.

The grandfather paradox is that old story about you going into the past and killing your own grandfather.  If your grandfather is dead, he can’t produce your father, who in turn could not produce you.  So if you don’t exist, you can’t go back in time to kill your own grandfather in the first place… which would mean he would be safe and alive, and able to produce your father, who in turn would produce you.

This gives you a headache if you think about it, and is why it’s a paradox.

So if Daniel’s plan is to erase the Swan Incident, so that Desmond doesn’t not have to hang out in the hatch and press the button and Ocean 815 never crashes and Faraday himself is never brought to the Island as a result, how would he go back in time in the first place to erase the Swan Incident?  Look at it this way:  Event 1 caused Event 2, Event 3, and Event 4.  Event 4 enabled Faraday to travel into the past, where he decides to stop Event 1 from ever happening.  If Event 1 never happens, neither can 2, 3, or 4… which is how he is able to stop Event 1.

Time paradox, feedback loop, and as Doc Brown would say, “the results of which could cause a chain reaction that would unravel the very fabric of the space time continuum, and destroy the entire universe!”

I suppose it’s entirely possible that Faraday’s plan isn’t going to happen so this whole thing is moot.  Or, that “course correction” would prevent it from happening and this “whatever happened, happened” thing really is true.  Even so, this is no good, because it would mean Daniel came up with a faulty plan, which, as we’ve seen, he would be extremely unlikely to do, especially because someone like me can see it’s faults and I’m just some guy who makes Vulcan cartoons of himself and likes to eat.  So not only have we witnessed another un-Faraday, every episode we’ve seen so far (unless you watch it purely for the characters) have been a waste of time, since it’s all pre-determined and “whatever happened, happened and there’s no sense in trying to change it.”

Also, if Charles Widmore and Elouise Hawking are Daniel Faraday’s parents, and he grew up with his mother, why 3 different last names?  And why would he not speak with an English accent, if he presumably grew up in England with his mother and attended Oxford?  I’ll tell you why… they wanted to put some drama in the script and took a cue from Heroes, and, instead of real development, just said, “what if he was CHARLES WIDMORE’s SON zOMG!!!!!!”  At least, that’s the impression I got.

I know there are other interpretations out there, these are just mine.  I just can’t help but feeling the quality of Lost has been lost (I swear I don’t mean that as a pun).

Some of the scientific stuff in this one may be way implausible or totally impossible. I’ll ask you to bear with me and, in the future, if and when I develop this more, I’ll be sure to do more research. Other than that, I’m always interested in constructive criticism, or things you noticed or think would have made the story better.

And as always, if this is your first visit, part 1, part 2, and part 3 should be read before this.

***

You hesitate, then shuffle a bit in your seat. Unsure of what you just heard, you are dumbfounded. “Sorry, did you say… a bomb?”

“Nuclear bomb.” Channing nods but has a smug look.

“Ah,” you start to catch on. “I see. Clever, clever. Testing my unconditional loyalty, huh? Well, I suppose I’ll have to—“

“—no, this is not a test.” He grabs the bag from Beth and opens it. He reaches in, and pulls out a rectangular box about the size of his palm. He gently opens it, and a small tube filled with blue liquid falls out. He handles it carefully. “This is real.”

“Stop playing with him,” Beth says as she checks the progression of her bloody nose. “It’s not a real nuclear bomb,” she tells him.

“The reaction is nuclear, and it’s a bomb,” Channing says. “I never said it would do any damage.”

You nod. “What do you mean?”

“Do you accept the position?”

“I do.”

“Instead of uranium, we’ll use this,” he studies it carefully, holding it up to the window and letting the light shine through it. “It doesn’t have a scientific name so in the interim we’ve been calling it the Treble Clef to our… little symphony.”

“We like music,” Beth says, and Channing looks at her.

“Anyway, when you split an atom of this stuff,” he explains, “energy is released, but it’s much different than if you had used uranium, as in a traditional nuclear bomb.”

“Wow,” you suddenly come to your senses, and even shake your head as if to clear it. “I knew Omega Integrity was a leader in scientific innovation, but not this. I hope this doesn’t affect anything, but I have no idea what you’re talking about, and I’m a little embarrassed because I have a great sense of humor, but can’t tell if you’re joking or not about… well, detonating a bomb over the city.”

“I shouldn’t be so dramatic,” Channing says. “I’m sorry. It’s not a bomb in the conventional sense, but the reaction is quite explosive. And since we’ll be doing it from a safe altitude, there should be no casualties.”

“I still don’t understand what it is you’re talking about, though. And why am I so special? I’m literally the guy off the street, why are you so willing to pay me half a million dollars to join your team?”

Beth, Channing, and the two strangers exchange glances, and after an awkward silence you apologize, then mutter, “just wondering,” as if dropping it and prodding for an answer all at the same time.

“You are a…” Channing pauses, and sighs. “…match. Something we’re looking for. I was bullshitting you just as much as you were bullshitting me during our first meeting. You’re actually quite prominent on the Omega map, and, well, have been in our sights for some time.”

“Today only made that much clearer,” Beth chimes in, finally content that her nose has stopped bleeding. She tucks the bloody cloth into a trash receptacle under her seat and one of the strangers hands her another clean one, moist in order to wipe her face clean.

The male stranger on the opposite end of your seat finally talks. “You have no idea what it was that you chased down in the park. The fact that you caught up with it is…”

“…incredible,” the female speaks.

You suddenly realize your quick pulse has returned, and there is a steady pulsing in your ears. You put out your hands in mock surrender. “Okay. I’m getting more and more weirded out by the minute.”

“It’ll get worse. But I suppose we are being unnecessarily cryptic,” Channing admits. “I’ll put it quite simply: you are an Omega constant in the golden ratio.”

He smiles, as if that makes things clearer for you.

You bury your face in your hands.

“Well, in a manner of speaking,” Beth adds.

“Are you familiar with the golden ratio?” Channing asks.

You look up, and rest your elbows on your knees. “No. I’m not.”

“The golden ratio, essentially, is the blueprint for everything. It is in… everything. Anything that is aesthetically pleasing in our world—and even those that are not, because aesthetics are very subjective—can be analyzed and measured in terms of the golden ratio.”

“The ratio is one point six one eight.” Beth says.

“Thank you,” Channing waves her away. “Look, our reality was created according to that ratio. But it is breaking down. Reality is breaking down. We don’t know it, because it’s all we’ve ever known, since it’s happening at such a slow pace. But this,” he energetically gestures his hands around the limo, “is not the reality that existed at the beginning of our creation, and it’s our company’s primary goal to restore that reality. We plan to do that by using certain components of the ratio… the pure constants that are still around in everyday life, that, when used properly, can help to give the ratio the structure it needs to sustain itself. At least, for another billion years or so.”

“And I’m one of these… constants?”

“You.”

“Why?”

“I don’t have an answer to that question. All I can offer you is something you already know… you feel something when you run, don’t you?”

You shake your head. “I don’t know.”

Channing nods. “You feel it. Beth does, too. You are both runners, and…” he glances at Beth, and invites her to finish his thought.

“We get the runners high, that rush of adrenaline, right?” She says. “But you know that feeling that you get when you go beyond that? That doesn’t happen to everyone.”

You nod, remembering your track days at college. The first time it happened, you collapsed. Your team mates surrounded you and convinced you it was exhaustion and you had passed out. Going back to your dorm, though, and confirming your physical reaction with the results in the front of your shorts, you knew something else had happened. So you ran with passion. Not just for the incredible physical release but the feeling of utter serenity, peace, and…

“When you run, you speak to God,” Channing says.

You stifle an involuntary laugh.

Beth gets up and moves into the space next to you. You try to maintain eye contact but find it difficult. “Let us take you to our Music Room,” she says, and puts a hand on your knee. “It’s a room we have at HQ that has been restored according to the ratio, thanks to people like us. I think everything will become much, much clearer.”

Everyone is silent for a moment, and you can feel their stares burning into you. The limo stops at a red light. You feel an urge to jump out, to get away from these people. But at the same time, a part of you is lured to them, eager to know if what they are saying is true, and even if it’s not—just what the hell they are talking about.

“Out of curiosity,” you finally say, very slowly, “if I had declined your offer, would you really have just let me walk away?”

Channing nods. “Of course. Though we would have shot you in the back.”

You look around. “Again, I have a great sense of humor, but I’m reading dead here.”

“I’m only kidding. If you declined, we would have sent you on your way.” Channing relaxes back into his chair. “But good luck dealing with the police and the Shadow Being you chased into the park… which has you marked now, by the way.”

Voting ends Saturday at 9pm, EST.

I interpret this to mean that the music you are hearing is inside the Swine flu.  Each note that you hear is an integral part of it, just made into sound.  Granted, the composer could have used any sound to represent it, so there could be many versions of this that all sound widely different, but this is just as relevant as any other.  It is amazing to me that something so oddly beautiful could come from a deadly virus.

I keep thinking that if the Swine flu really is the next “plague,” this would kind of be the Song of the Apocalypse, gently playing in the background, orchestrating millions of deaths.

Update:  The more I think about this, the more I think what is creeping me out the most is that a human did not write this music.  All the composer did was assign an instrument to the notes, but the notes were already there.  Who, or what, wrote them?–and if they’re there, they’re in everything.  Heavy.

I am endlessly fascinated by things like this, or when music becomes so… physical.  There are other examples, all of which have blown my mind equally.

The first is an Alien book, called Music of the Spears.  In it, a twisted composer wants to harness the sounds of a screaming alien to compose a “Symphony of Hate.”  As you can imagine, with an Alien involved, death, chaos, and all around weirdness ensue.

The next is another book, a 6-issue arc in the “Umbrella Academy” series called “The Apocalypse Suite,” where the main villain–The Conductor–wants to compose a symphony that when played in the right key would unravel the fabric of reality in much the same way as a high pitched noise can unravel, or break, glass.

Lastly would be Battlestar Galactica, of course, when the music that has been in our characters heads for the past two seasons comes to a climax when Starbuck’s attempt at decoding it results in giving her the coordinates to jump the ship to the fabled Earth.  (Even if you are not a BSG fan, check this out):

A coincidence here is that the next part of the ongoing story I’m posting will have a lot to do with this concept.  If you read it you might think it was inspired by this post but it’s actually the other way around.  The reason it’s taking so long for me to write between segments is that I’m finding writing stuff like this is extremely difficult to do well, and you kind of have to know a bit about music in order to put it into language, which I am still learning about.