huh.

It's funny what some story characters will do to get a room comped...

So she didn't get on the boat. Ok then, but what's she doing instead? Jumping into a case when she should have been digging her toes into the sand and trying to begin the forgetting, the letting go...

And now one of my characters wants to get on a boat?

Another day another day. Well, except for the part where the new story got underway. Those are good days, any day with writing in it is a good day. It's the rest of the things around it that, while always a little different, also have their chance to feel like a grind. The change in the day gig proceeds apace, assuming you allow me to define pace generously.

It goes well, just in a manner best described as piecewise continuous. Meaning, little steps. Which ain't half bad. I've had worse gigs, that's for sure. In this case, I'm hip deep in new systems new schedules new problems, the vast majority minor. Oh, and the travel, but for now I just have the notion that I'm swimming in place because there's a bit of overhead in learning the ropes.

This year, marching season has arrived a bit more comfortably. We're not carrying around any feelings of getting run over by a truck. Though that'll probably change when we load everyone up for the first game, which just happens to be an away gig. On a Friday. At rush hour. Oh, frabjous joy.

Could be worse, there's at least one stadium we have had occasion to visit where there's always a question of whether bits and pieces associated with the show will make it into the place, or whether we all get to stop and take everything apart. The entry was, shall we say, not designed to be accomodating for anyone or thing much taller than a hobbit. That's an adventure, hearing the game announcer behind you as everyone starts to wonder whether we're going to get the kids on the field for halftime or not...

It's that time of the year again, Marching Season!

The parents out there are nodding their heads; everyone else is wondering what on earth is going on. Basically, our daughter is in marching band, and pretty much all of our weekend energy and time is going to be committed to that endeavor for the next few months.

If you've ever been a busy teenager, or are or have been parent to a busy teenager, you've had the same sort of schedule.

Yesterday snuck up on me, it was outside work on some of the equipment the kids need for their roadshow. So I've chalked this weekend up to time served, I'm between stories anyway so I'm not going to beat myself up over it.

I am going to spend a little time thinking about where the next few months will go, though. There's a few publishing things, as well as words per day, that I need to remind myself of.

And To A Thief, my current story, is finished up today, at about 5500 words. It ended up being almost a straight mystery; there are some elements of it that would qualify as near-term scifi if I want to go that way, high-tech thriller if I got the other way. So when I get there I may have to consider a few things on the destinations, but otherwise I'm happy to finish.

No clue what tomorrow holds, if any, storywise. I'll know soon enough, no need to worry about it now.

The world puts planners to shame sometimes. Anywhere I fly, mostly I shut the window blind and fall asleep, unless I just can't get there. And except for landing and taking off. There're so many interesting things going on, so many things to look at.

Jackrabbits and roadrunners, chasing away through the scrub out in the badlands. Circular fields of green surrounded by brown, that's where the irrigation arms swing free and define what farming means. Octagonal fields, weird little things when I get a close look, I suspect there's a gps and programmable harvesters involved there.

The oil patch is so obvious as to need no explanation, pad after pad scattered beneath the wings, horseheads pumping pumping or just standing still. Tanks, ponds for the brine, cows probably wondering what the hell these iron beasts are doing, they never even move.

Closer in to the world, subdivision after subdivision, some ordered and neat little postage stamp worlds, most weird little curves and patches, the developers have to get in where they fit in.

Fields and lots and things doing who knows what. Ponds that are more than obviously some chemical ponds, but what? Carved out places hidden away from the world, well hidden but for the rail lines maybe.

Always intersting questions, trying to spot new ones and go "What's that for? Who lives/works there, and what do they do? What stories do they have down there in such an interesting place?"

Like yesterday. A fresh-harvested field of something, at this time of year, sticks out like a sore thumb. Especially when it looks like some farmer got stoned, lit up the harvester, and went for a joyride... that one leaves me all kinds of questions. I've been there, August haying season is brutal. We'd keep gallon jugs of ice in the freezer, and one of the jobs of whoever wasn't on the tractor (gather round children and hear a story of the beyond, when air-conditioning on a tractor was but a dream...) was to bring those ice jugs up to the driver every hour or so, because sitting behind a diesel engine in the middle of August down here is about as close to the mouth of Hell as humans get.

End of the day, when the sun was no longer deadly and the time for getting off the red beast was close, the last pass or three, instead of ice it was an ice cold beer or three.

No more than that, because hay is a deadly serious business, for those who need it. First time you scatter a few dry rows to the winds because you had a few too many, and we'll find you some other job to get done, one that doesn't need a little more sober hand at the wheel.

And I tell you reader, even at our worst, whether heat-struck or drunker than Cooter Brown with a pocketfull of gold dust, I never quite managed what this farmer whose field I flew over yesterday did. His/her field was positively psychedelic in execution. Like the Fool resurrected. And beautiful. These were purpose cut curves, gentle swirls and curves never quite forming or overlapping, always suggesting a purpose unseen. I salute you, random farmer, for putting a smile on my face. I just hope it was on purpose and that you had a ball doing it, because it suggested someone having fun, but not interested in the silly business of crop circles. Someone out there to bring in the harvest, just in a way that let the inner kindergardner break out and reign oe'r the fifty acres for a while...

I've reached a point with storytelling that's sort of like the best part of being a jazz improvisor. It's not just listening/hearing the last line, and saying "hey, where do I go now?"

That's the first part, the instinctual madness beneath that drives everything else. Trusting the words, loving the words the phrases and the way they knit together.

The second part is where I say, usually when I sit down to yesterday's work, and go "Hey, I'm not sure that's what I wanted to happen."

I've seen DWSmith say that he'd happily toss a few thousand words, whatever, and go back and start writing from the cut point. The urge is the same, the recognition of the way the mind sort of wandered off into space and the fingers followed along after.

I'm only occasionally up to that. I can see the path not taken; I'm enjoying saying to myself, "Ok, fine, the thing twisted. What are you going to do about it?" In other words, ok now it's a challenge. How do I take where the story went, regardless of what I might have thought about it, and take off from there. A writer's prompt, in other words, writ large and in charge. Here's the current, boyo, jump in and swim.

That's the other part of jazz, not just what's you've played that's led you here, but what the band is playing, the currents, the chords hidden away and driving you to... Where? The choice is always there, can you wrest it free and play along? It's always the conversation.

Random observation in an airport. Depending on timing, there's always a few people hanging around the Starbucks in any given airport terminal. The number of good places to eat has really jumped up, though. It's a good bet that there'll be something to find on the crawl to the next gate. But even with a good selection, there's always one or more other places with a line, no matter the time of day.

In the airport I'm hanging in today, it's the Whataburger. Every time I've passed them recently, they're the ones with a good line. It's different in other parts of the country, local variations in taste and so on. In the northeast, the deli counters are a good bet.

I don't know yet whether that falls into the category of "follow the locals". It's an airport, we're all just trying to cadge a last snack or whatever before getting on the next ride, so the rules are subtly different. Still, it is a good way to sort of gauge the way the river runs in any give part of the world.

a disappearing weekend, look how it flies away like a raven with a lizard. I.e., how to lose time and get away with doing a whole hell of a lot of nothing.

Not really nothing. We did this, and that, and the other thing. In bits and drabs. It's the last free time the daughter unit has before the Trump of Doom, aka the first day of the fall semester. So her Monday is spoken for, and I've a bit of traveling for the day gig tomorrow. So our brains weigh heavy on us in these parts, there is fate awaiting and the heart says Nay!

Or is that Nee? I occasionally get these things mixed up, i confess. Does anyone need a shrubbery? Asking for a friend...

Started another story today. Caught a Leon Russell tune on the way home yesterday, caught a line in my head, then sat down this afternoon, typed it in, and now I find myself returning to a world I've brushed against a couple times before.

It's a tomorrow world, a might-be place and time. And I didn't expect at all that I'd be setting foot there on this story. It's called To A Thief. I can't wait to see what it has to tell me.

And Lady Soul departs us. Goodbye, Aretha, and know that your music touched me, will do so always, in more ways than I can ever say.

And Soldiering On, my latest story, is complete at about 5800 words. As all of them are, I had a ball writing it.

This twisty little thing, though. I'm not sure yet what my publication schedule will look like over the next few months, so I can't say when/where it'll end up in the wider world, but I'm looking forward to when you get the opportunity to read it.

It's science fiction, darker, not quite a horror tale; yet it is a horror tale. Very much so, if you're of a mind that inclines in the right direction. Quiet.

Whispers in the Dark sort of thing, rather than screams of terror. The kind where I hope, when you get a chance to read it, that you'll think on it, two or three nights later, when you're staring at the ceiling wondering why you're awake inthe wee small hours...

Yesterday I had an interesting accidental writing exercise. I've done something similar before; basically, we had an extra hour to kill between dropping our daughter off for marching band practice, and then the volunteer shift where the parents come in to hand out the bits and pieces of gear necessary to the marching band's season. The way it worked out, we sat in the parking lot listening to them warm up and go through their initial setup.

And I dug out the laptop to get in another few words on the current story. It's a pleasant way to wile away an hour. I didn't have a book handy, I could have called up a few on my phone but digging back into the story sounded more immediate to the needs of the day. So I dove in and gave it a whirl.

It's a lot of fun, especially if you can get the angle of the sun right, compared to the screen. Though it is still August...

Midway? through the pass of fiction for the day; I'm playing with my schedule, something I'll be dealing with for a while yet. I'm back and forth with settling into the new position, and the schedules are roughed in so far, unfinished but broadly set out. Next week's a travel week, as well, so I'll be learning how to work that in.

There's a time in life where you reach the point that listening to That Voice is ill advised. You know That Voice. It's the one that urges for "One more beer" or "One more run down the mountain" or...

In ye olden days, I'd listen to That Voice as a matter of course. Perhaps not to the point of diving off bluffs into muddy dark water, or some of the other particularly ludicrous ideas that would bubble up. But certainly plenty of other ideas that led me to, on the occasion of my thirtieth birthday, complete surprise that I'd made it whole and sane. And, most of all, alive.

Now, I find myself in the curious position of being, if not olde, well able to see it from here.

The occasion of the moment was a momentary lapse of reason on the end of a water ski rope yesterday. The particulars aren't relevant; the result is. That's the part where, on listening to That Voice, the end of it was a face plant Of Epic Proportions.

My pride was happy to take into account the fact that, on probably the best water surface day we'd had in lo' these many years, I'd gone for it.

My ribs, on the other hand, have a different opinion on the matter. And they're happy to complain about it. No cracks, no breaks, likely no separation, but a for damned sure bone bruise, at the least. I'm fine once I've been up for a while and moving. Except for the occasional sneeze or cough.

(Those Who Know are wincing in sympathy at the moment)

The real painful part of the experience is that the dogs, and one of the cats, insist on sleeping in, around, or on top of me. And in order to accomodate them, plus my lovely bride, I am required to lay on the side with the sore ribs.

Sleeping, that's ok. It's the movement part, when I try and shift, or when I get up from the bed. And then spend an hour or two trying to remember not to move that way, or stretch that way, or for God's sake don't try and do that!

Such is life. I'm just glad, the same way I know when I've broken my nose yet again, that I've enough basic experience with these minor wounds to know when I need to go for x-rays or not. At the moment, I'm ok on that end. I just get to spend the next couple weeks running my fingers over the sore spot, and complaining (ok, cringing) every time I cough. Oy. 1

The weather's unsure of itself. A boundary layer has formed, a three way argument between weather systems, and the space between disturbed, moody. Lightning over the water, clouds on the horizon, and it has, as of yet, not built up the energy to storm down around me. The center of tonight's festivities lies just a bit too far away for us to get any of it.

That's bound to change, though. Tomorrow, the energy and the layers will conspire. Mayhem will spread farther, away and aside and bring in the moisture and the winds and, hopefully, some rain. Every drop a blessing, as my sad little dogwood, this year's planting project, can attest. It's more than a bit tired of all the current heat.

I began a new story today, the start of it was a delightful dive into something new. Which is the best part, except for all the other parts of writing.

Another day where I'm hip deep in new computer setups. Now, I'll be the first to say, setting up computers these days is a hell of a lot better than it used to be. So many many things just work. Rather than spend days getting all your drivers (and drivers and drivers...) set out, now you spend days and days and days remembering what software settings/passwords/....

And still it's so much better. Finding passwords, software you didn't remember using, and so on, is more like what happens when you move offices. Though there's still the occasional nasty little surprise waiting. I've yet to dig into the "compile-> Oh, crap, I forgot about that library" cycle. That's tomorrow!

It's hell when I can't really talk about how my day's going.

I'm still caught up in the brain jarring that occured with the day gig switches over the past few weeks. It's enough of a difference that it's thrown me off on my reading, my energy levels, and even what I can think up to write down here.

The fiction writing, that shifted just fine. There's a let go and follow the flow thing there, entertainment and the pure joy of the chase. But then I sit down here, and I type half a dozen false starts. It's a lot easier, at the moment, when I'm actually in the middle of a story.

Then, the blog entry feels more like a natural extension of what I'm doing on the fiction side.

Cold press, though, and I have to make the effort to get going. Today was a break from the fiction writing, tomorrow I'll be diving into whatever the next story is, and then we'll see where things go from there.

And First Glimpse is finished at about 17000 words. I was wondering for the past five thousand or so of those words what the thing's structure was shaping up to be. There were hints here and there that the story wanted to be longer.

Then the ending snuck up on me this morning.

Right before I realized that what it means is there's probably another novella waiting to follow it up. Or, that the story deliberately wants to leave me hanging, that's always a fun thing, like your undermind has reached out and thumped you on the back of the head.

Then again, now that I dig into it, A Wolf in Taos Valley ended up in that novella range, as well, and also had the same kind of propulsive ending.

I'm starting to think that my subconscious has a method behind these types of stories. Hmm....

With a few variations, this is the first week where I'll get an idea of what my schedule will play like under my new regime. Go into the office parts of the week, do my thing for the day, come back to the house. Then the other parts of the week devoted to work from home or travel, depending.

The time at home is my modeling time, my quiet space that's meant to allow me to not be in the midst of the day to day stuff that goes on in the office. Small protections, but a big part of my job in the current day gig setup is to look out and forward and consider what might happen. Plan ahead, pull streams of data together and map out the space between.

And then on my travel weeks, it's the time to recover and put what I learned in traveling into data form.

As you might also notice, yes there's space for fiction writing there. It's like things were for me in my previous schedule, but a bit less regimented. That schedule was much more one resembling 8 to 5, though the daily commute ate up a larger part of my time. The commute when I'm in the office will be about the same, with more overall flexibility.

The long and the short of it is that I feel comfortable committing to my word goals for the rest of the year. Assuming nothing else comes up, but that applies to any schedule.

It's a Saturday afternoon with a bit of rain chasing down outside. The dogs have wandered off to nap with my sleeping wife, and here I am putting in a thousand or so words in on a story.

I've been at about two thousand per day over the past week, this was supposed to be a rest day, but the "put in even a few, every day" when you're in the middle of the story thing kicked in, and here I am.

That two thousand per day has been my horizon goal this year. Roughly, I knew there'd be some ups and downs given my day gig stuff. I didn't know at the start of the year that things would work out there quite the way they did, but I knew that one way or another there'd be a fundamental shift in how I did things on that front.

But I also knew, from the fiction side of things, what I wanted, in terms of the daily sitdown. From last year, which was sort of a return to a thousand words per day, in a way that didn't put my wrists into meltdown mode, I knew that if I tried to just jump up and go for it, I'd have to give up on it after a month or so. That's the curse of the day gig, in practical terms there are only so many hours of keyboard time available.

I'll have to rest and recover, monitor myself a bit, over the next few months, pushing my word count up to this next level. But I'm about on the schedule of where I thought I'd be, the way the words catch me up and the way the stories demand more of me. I can't wait to find out what stories are out there waiting for me over the next few months.

There's a million stories... on the dirty streets, right? If you remember your noir.

I hear the "Just So" stories a lot. The explanation after the fact. That's the part where we are rationalizing, not rational. Meaning, we can explain what happened, but planning it ahead of time, now there's the rub.

Engineers know the feeling. Difference between operational, day to day engineering, and planning for what may come, or doing new things.

Writers have the just write part of our job, the one where it's sit down and do. I lump in all the various methods, whether you try and plot in advance, or dive in every day and follow your nose. Either way, there's the magic of the moment, of the just shut and write portion of your day.

Doing something in cold-blooded fashion requires a different... what does it require then? Depends on what it is you're tackling.

Engineers don't tella pipefitters or mechanics how to do their bit, though. They design, they map out, they estimate. But they don't detail schedule (depends on the situation, that's typically where the contractors get involved) and order and do the nuts and bolts part of getting the thing built.

Meaning? The cold blooded necessity of the business side of things has a different place and time than the immediate hot rush of writing. And there's likely to be less of that "Do A, then B, then C and D and" linear chaining than you might think. Sitting down to draw out a process, the design part?

Isn't cold-blooded either. That's the creation part. In fact, even the schedulers and the orderers and the other organization people have to fall in love with their job, have to get (if not the blood pounding, then) the little bit of head rush that accompanies the drawing forth, the calling, the summoning of something new into this world.

The trick then is to keep the steps finite, countable. Write-format-publish, and then the next level up, the promo and the... the other levels of the ladder. Here's where not only do we get to create ourselves, our careers. Here's where, just like the lust that drives paragraph and quick quip and the bleeding comma and the run-on sentence and the poetry of the thing, here's where we get to take our time and find the passion of the publish side of the thing. One bit at a time, one night at a time.

What does it for you? What keeps you coming back, to the blank page, to the blank cover, to the empty forms on the upload pages... what makes it so that this is fun? What you do when there's nothing else to do? Or in preference to anything else that might come along?

I'm showing both my age and my sense of humor. Every time I hear the name of the newest little royal across the pond, little Louis, my mind throws up the "Death... To King Louis" bit from Mel Brooks' History of the World, Part One.

Not really fair to the little prince, let's face it, if he's ever king something has gone tragically wrong. But the bit's too good, and I'm far too much of an anti-royalist to let the joke go by.

But at least I keep it to myself, I'm not a barbarian.

Well, except for the part where I just shared it with you, dear reader. And if you're of a mind such that your face grinned as soon as I told you, well. Welcome to the club!

Mentioning the day gig seems astonishingly repetitive. Of course, that's the daily routine for the vast majority of us, isn't it? That day to day stuff, piled up like it is, is almost always interesting in the moment. Even if all it does is pay the bills, it's always gotta be enough to get us through the day.

One way or another.

It's just that reading about it can be awful boring. I'm not in a position where I can reliably report what I do, either. If I'd gone the route of full-bore consultant, independent and at large in the world, maybe. But even then, I'd have owed my clients the benefits of silence in detail. That goes along with the prices, that confidentiality. And the best way to protect professionalism is never mention nothin'.

Same thing applies now I've walked the other path (the left hand path?) of working for someone else full time. Take their nickel, respect their boundaries. And this setup is golden, compared to what some confreres in the world have to say. My business away from the job, with the implication that I need to be professional. Which, see above comment about just keeping my mouth shut.

Not that I would tell any stories if I had any. It's technical work, in an interesting sub-field, and it tame. Necessary but tame. It's background.

In other words, there's no point in my trying to make it interesting enough, and obscure enough, to write up here. I don't have the interesting sorts of days that some other writers might; that's why I write fiction, it fills the imagination.

Careful. I find myself wondering if I'm working up to a story somewhere. Maybe when the current one's done.