lunascribbles

NaNomeme!

2008-11-12T00:41:55Z

BASIC STATS:

NaNo ID: thespindle
NaNo since: 2006

Working title: 'The Spindle'
WIP Genre: Sci-fi noir
Projected word count: 90-100,000 words

AT THE START: DO YOU...
Have an Outline? Yes, I did this time!
Scene-by-scene? Chapter by chapter.
Know how it starts? Only very vaguely until I started writing.
Know how it ends? Yes - I usually have the end first, when I write.
Have your climax in order? Blimey, I'm not sure it's that high-rated! But yes :)
Know your main characters yet? I know one of them fairly well and am getting to know the others.
Have a particular tone in mind? It involves much (deliberate) pov-switching. I like to experiment with different/experimental styles and structures.
Plan to Draw on your own experiences? Well now, I'd be arrested if I'd done the things my MCs get up to.

IS YOUR WORK GOING TO BE:
Funny? I can't not put a bit of satire/humour in, even when I write angst. The most angsty thing I ever wrote was a Harry Potter post-finale thing (before the final book was released, so it's now AU) where loads of people died or had breakdowns, and I just had to stick in a joke about Snape going off to raise bonsais after the war.
Serious? Yes, in its social commentary (ooh, aren't I pompous).
Sad? Maybe in parts.
Semi-Autobiographical? I wish!
Based on another story? I'm struggling not to end up stealing from Peter Hamilton. I'm trying to make it realistic, and his projections of the future are so realistic it's hard not to include the same kinds of technological developments. But I'm setting it further on and focussing on different ones.
Influenced by any authors/current publications? Yeah, I'm a sponge for writing styles. If I read Holmes I'll start using flowery Victorian language. If I read Michael Marshall Smith I get all tough and snarky. If I read Stephen King my characters will start rising from the dead and going to Vietnam.

HOW HAVE MUCH YOU PLANNED? HAVE YOU USED:
A paper journal? I used to make a lot more handwritten notes, but now I just take a small notebook with me if I know I won't have access to a computer.
Pens? Whatever's to hand.
Multicoloured pens?No, not for this one.
A computer? Yes.
Index cards? Nope.
Lists? I like a lot of lists, but this time I've refrained in favour of actual details :)
Bulleted lists? As above.
Plot Charts? Nope, just some random 'things to change' paragraphs.
Character Charts? Sort of, via memes and stuff. I usually do a lot more detailed character planning, but this time I'm discovering them mostly as I write.
Character formulas? What?
Favorite writing resource: To be honest I just tend to do whatever I think works for me.

ODDS AND ENDS
A line you would like to use: "If you publish anything, I will come after you."
A scene you would like to include: I have a scene planned where Sarah realises that the computer model her brother made is a better father than her real one.
A concept you would like to explore: The social effects of ubiquitous genetic modification.
A cliche you would like to avoid: Most of them?
A character you would like to use: I suddenly developed this person called Bex out of nowhere. Now she's one of the main supporting characters!

FORWARD THINKING
Do you expect to be able to complete it? I hope so, but my track record of finishing stuff is not good.
Do you intend to complete it? I don't start anything I don't *intend* to complete.
Would you ever try to publish it? Again, I wouldn't use my time writing it if I didn't hope to try to publish it - too busy to write *only* for fun!
What do you expect to get out of this month of frantic writing? Half a usable draft and a sense of personal achievement :)

Ahead!

2008-11-12T00:04:48Z

It's only very, very marginally, but I'm finally ahead on NaNo ^-^

Picked up a bit!

2008-11-08T01:11:29Z

Managed to catch up a bit - 3000 words today so far, but I may have a go at doing a bit more before bed. I think I've got to the end of a section, but it's sort of rambling on a bit in a very strange way. Might have to do a *lot* of editing, but still, that's for later :) Basically I'm not quite a day behind, which is okay. I'm hoping to to complete the day's quota tomorrow, interspersed with work, then take the day off work and try to at least catch up and hopefully get ahead on Sunday. This one's a bit like pulling teet

100 questions continued

2008-11-06T02:01:07Z

Since I have a few minutes to spare...I can recommend this character profiling technique, it's unexpectedly helpful! Again, website is here for anybody interested in using it.

Part 3: Past Influences

29. What do you consider the most important event of your life so far? The death of my wife.

30. Who has had the most influence on you? My mother, my wife, the chief superintendent, and Brody.

31. What do you consider your greatest achievement? Whatever I achieved is largely irrelevant now. Surviving, I suppose.

32. What is your greatest regret? I've given up on regrets.

33. What is the most evil thing you have ever done? Becoming a datarunner for the Operation.

34. Do you have a criminal record of any kind? My illegal activities remain unrecorded.

35. When was the time you were the most frightened? When my wife died; I haven't experienced fear since then.

36. What is the most embarrassing thing ever to happen to you? Believing I'd uncovered a conspiracy was pretty damn embarrassing when I realised the extent of it.

37. If you could change one thing from your past, what would it be, and why? No question - I wouldn't become a datarunner.

38. What is your best memory? Marrying Mary.

39. What is your worst memory? Losing Mary.

Part 4: Beliefs And Opinions

40. Are you basically optimistic or pessimistic? Basically a realist.

41. What is your greatest fear? As I said, nothing bothers me very much anymore.

42. What are your religious views? Atheist. Though sometimes I feel that there's something out there laughing at me.

43. What are your political views? Indifferent, these days. I used to be relatively right wing as a result of my mother's influence, but became more liberal at university and was slightly left of centre subsequent to that.

44. What are your views on sex? I used to enjoy it.

45. Are you able to kill? Under what circumstances do you find killing to be acceptable or unacceptable? Yes. As a police officer I was sometimes required to kill. As a datarunner I was often required to allow or cause death, though it has been many years since I killed with my own hands. In general I don't approve of killing people, but I accept that it can be necessary and even desirable.

46. In your opinion, what is the most evil thing any human being could do? Destroy a man's loved ones and leave him alive to suffer the consequences.

47. Do you believe in the existence of soul mates and/or true love? I can only go by my own experience: my wife was everything to me, a perfect match.

48. What do you believe makes a successful life? Luck.

49. How honest are you about your thoughts and feelings (i.e. do you hide your true self from others, and in what way)? I don't hide through fear or shame, only through pragmatism. I don't share my feelings much because for the most part I don't have any. I'm not cold, just hollow.

50. Do you have any biases or prejudices? I can be an etiquette snob, but otherwise I really don't care about people's backgrounds.

51. Is there anything you absolutely refuse to do under any circumstances? Why do you refuse to do it? No.

52. Who or what, if anything, would you die for (or otherwise go to extremes for)? I would have gladly died in Mary's place. I would probably die for Brody's sake, but nobody else. Except possibly my dog.

Stats

2008-11-05T23:27:31Z

Slightly behind, but going to spend a while writing tonight in the hope of catching up!

Sittin' all alone in the lab

2006-06-30T17:00:44Z

Updating from the office, woo...got the place to myself. I was within an inch of posting Spock/Chekov PWP erotica...maybe next time. Instead, this is...a song parody.

Song, rated PG-13 for references to sexual stuff, short, to the tune of 'Sitting on the Dock of the Bay'. (NB Germany versus Argentina(?), 4pm today)

Everybody else has gone
So I'm sittin' here all on my own
My supervisor won't come in
'Cause she's German and the football is on, yeah

I'm sittin' all alone in the lab
No one to talk with, ain't that sad
Ooo, I'm just sittin' on my own in the lab
Wastin' time

My trousers they were chafin'
So I undid the zip and sat chillin' there
My office-mate thought I was wankin'
But she's blonde and hot and so I don't care

I'm sittin' all alone in the lab
No one to talk with, ain't that sad
Ooo, I'm just sittin' on my own in the lab
Wastin' time

Looks like I'm procrastinating
Everything still remains the same
I don't do what my supervisor tells me to do
So my workload remains the same, yeah

Sittin' here waitin' to go
'Cos I've got some chicken curry at home
I hope it doesn't have any bones
But it's Birdseye so it's probably cloned

Now, I'm just gonna sit all alone in the lab
No one to talk with, ain't that sad
Ooo, I'm just sittin' on my own in the lab
Wastin' time

Monsters

2006-06-28T23:11:51Z

Sort of half-fanfic, half-original fiction snippet. Rated...PG, I guess, PG-13 at a stretch for implied violence? Again it's from a longer piece - one of my two major personal projects - and is the result of my brain writing scenes that aren't supposed to happen for a long long time. Again not mentioning all the names - it's a sort of copyright neurosis, to be honest ;) (it isn't Doctor Who...this doctor is something very different!)

The corridor was stifling, its clean, recycled air suffocating him, though he knew intellectually that it was artificially healthier than the air on any planet. Perhaps the Doctor was right; perhaps artificial was better. Artificial strength, artificial health, make-believe sanity in an artificial mind created and controlled by him, this old man who sat in his office in this forgotten, abandoned outpost, and spun his webs. A mysteriously forgotten hero, his name still spoken of with affection by a few. The even smaller number who knew him - knew him, rather than just remembering him as the idealistic young medic he had been - spoke his name with fear. Except the Captain. The Captain was derisive, scornful; he spoke of the Doctor with distaste, disgust, sometimes hatred. That hatred had been reinforced a hundredfold when the truth about what the Doctor had done to amiable Counsellor Draxh came to light. The Captain's rage was nothing compared to Draxh's own.

Draxh felt the pain of his artifice pounding through his body, in every cell, every chromosome, every atom. The enhancements...he did not want them, had never wanted or needed them. That the Doctor had used his broken mind to turn Draxh into this - thing - was an abomination. But Draxh wanted to live, and he wanted to be sane. Only the Doctor could do that, and still remove the enhancements, reverse the genetic manipulation.

Draxh turned a corner and walked directly into a group of the Doctor's personal security guards. They stopped in astonishment at the sight of him. He strode up to them, unconcerned. They drew their weapons.

"You won't fire," the counsellor replied calmly. "This area of the station is too unstable. The power setting you'd be able to use won't be enough to stop me, not even if you all fire together...and by the time you've managed to fire again, you'll all be dead." He paused, a few metres from them. He would spare the guards if he could; he had no real quarrel with them. Victims, just like him, more than likely. Those who were loyal to the Doctor by choice had been brainwashed too young to have much hope of having a choice. But they were loyal, for whatever reason; they would not allow him to pass.

He could not allow them to stop him. A flurry of movement and two guards lay motionless on the deck, one dead, the other limp and bleeding. Two remained. They fired their weapons; Draxh staggered, gasped, recovered, felled a third guard with a well-aimed kick. She stumbled back into the fourth, and Draxh took advantage; his small hands slid around her throat as his foot caught the last guard in the stomach.

The fight lasted less than two minutes. Draxh glanced at a security camera as he left the destroyed guards behind, feeling his his pocket for his own weapon, intended only for the Doctor.

The old man's office lay around the next corner; Draxh had never been here but the plans he had memorised had been accurate. The Doctor was in there, and he would have seen his guards being killed. It was surprising there weren't more. A sign of arrogance? Faltering judgement? Senility? No; the Doctor might be over 120 years old, but he had the body and brain of a man of sixty. Enhancements had allowed him outlived all those he had loved, those who had thought well of him. The last remaining friends from his former life he had abandoned. The work was all. Draxh knew this; it had been imprinted on him as part of his conditioning. The individual is nothing; the work is everything.

The Doctor's office was locked down, inevitably. Draxh wondered whether the man himself really lurked inside, or whether he would find a decoy, more guards, death within those walls. He had come this far. Taking out a small device he had bartered for with a race known for never asking questions, Draxh calmly hacked the door. More security people would come. He would deal with them when they did.

Half a dozen more came, and he dispatched them as easily as their predecessors; the door slid open, and the Doctor himself greeted Draxh as the counsellor slipped inside, and locked it behind him. There was no one else in the room, after all.

"Good afternoon, Draxh," the plummy voice was pleasant, smooth. No quiver showing his age or his fear. He seemed blithely unconcerned.

"Doctor," Draxh replied, striving for the same calm. His rage, which had burned like fire a few days before, had become white hot, freezing him, abstracting all feeling from this. That was good. He made his way slowly, steadily, to the large leather-bound desk in the corner of the room. Through the nearby window he saw the stars, glittering, as cold and distant as he felt to himself.

"You know why I'm here?" Draxh asked.

"Of course. You appear to have seperated yourself from your conditioning. Quite remarkable. In the circumstances, you understand of course that I cannot possibly allow you back into society. Your mind..."

"...is my own, doctor, and will stay that way."

"Your mind is fractured, damaged," the Doctor continued soothingly, ignoring the interruption. "This delusion of yours that I am your enemy is proof of that. Why would I, who fought so hard to return your health and strength following your terrible ordeal, do anything to hurt you? I don't blame you, Draxh. Your predisposition to psychosis is a fault of your race. Let me help you, and you can return to your ship and your friends with no harm done. A course of psychotherapy...some additional drug treatments..."

"That is not," Draxh replied evenly, "why I'm here."

The Doctor regarded him thoughtfully.

"You intend to kill me, then. How?"

Draxh took out the weapon from his pocket; something else he'd have to barter for.

"You won't be able to fire that in here," the Doctor said pleasantly, "the energy would..."

"This isn't an energy weapon, doctor." With a swift movement, Draxh crossed the room and placed the barrel of the antique gun against the Doctor's greying temple. "It fires bullets. Deadly bursts of hot metal that will blow your brain apart and end the disgrace of your existence."

The Doctor was rattled. He took an audible breath before he spoke.

"This is foolish, Draxh. Security will get through that door eventually, and even if they don't, you have to leave that way. You'll never get off this station alive if you kill me."

"That's my choice. Perhaps I don't want to live like this. Perhaps I'm here for you to remove the enhancements and give me back my life."

"Remove...! But you're so much better...so much stronger, smarter, more able. And you are sane. Remove the augmentations and your previous condition will return. The only alternative is death...and I don't believe you would seriously consider that an option. Not someone who loves life as much as you do."

"As much as I *did*." Draxh pressed the gun a little harder. "It's strange," he mused, thoughtfully. Any fear he had possessed was long since gone. "A doctor started all this...broke my mind...you took advantage of it and turned me into your creature, your prodigal child. All this is happening to tell me what I always suspected...never trust doctors..."

The Doctor twisted his head slightly, gazing up at Draxh over the barrel of the gun. "You can be whole again, Draxh. I won't re-implement the conditioning. Work with me by choice, and you can keep the enhancements. I simply won't believe you don't like them," he smiled warmly, a father offering his wayward child a treat to make him behave.

Draxh regarded him thoughtfully. He said quietly, pressing the gun tight, "do you know what killed Victor Frankenstein, doctor?" the Doctor stared at him, uncertain how to respond. Something in his captor's tone had drawn a bead of sweat that slipped down his cheek. "It wasn't his monster," Draxh continued, voice lowering to a hiss. "It was his own fear." He thumbed off the safety. "How's your blood pressure, doctor?"

And there it ends. Bit of a funny ending but it isn't a complete segement...I haven't decided which way to go for the remainder of it, so will leave it there. I've done my practice for today anyway! :)

Light: a parable

2006-06-27T22:22:33Z

Original poem, no rating, inspired by the moth I just saw.

Drawn from the darkness
To the brightness inside,
I circled, relentless,
Till defenceless, I died.

I wanted its kindness,
Its love and its grace.
Rewarded with blindness,
I saw not its face.

They lead us, these visions,
These beautiful things;
Their promises prisons,
Singeing our wings.

We are all of us led
To the bright divine light.
Wise are those who instead
Linger in so-called night.

In honour of the heat...

2006-06-26T18:21:48Z

Title: Humidity
Type: Fanfic...ish (unspecified fandom)
Length: Snippet
Genre: Drama, I guess
Rating: PG
Notes: Snippet from a novel-length fan story I'm planning. Bit strange taken out of context, but hey. I can't stand the hot weather; it's driving me crazy. Elements of this might not make sense, but there are no major references to stuff in the fandom. I'd appreciate any comments on the writing! N.B - this isn't actually meant to be a standalone piece; it would the end of a section or chapter.

Light falling on the irregular glass panel makes it shimmer almost like water; for a moment he could almost imagine sunlight reflecting on waves, but for the view through the glass. Illuminated by cold electric light - they are underground, after all - he sees them: his captors. She is there today, her dark hair neat and tidy, uniform crisp, eyeing a clipboard handed to her by one of the scientists with unemotional interest. The man in the glass cage is a specimen to her now, nothing more. Her interest in him no longer goes beyond that. He wonders if it ever did; if she ever saw him as anything other than a potential rat in her maze. He remembers how calmly she threatened him with this - it feels like a lifetime ago, but it comes to his mind clearly.

As clearly as anything can, in this atmosphere. Slowly, by degrees, the so-called scientist in charge of this particular 'experiment' reduce the humidity level of the air. Some machine they have, a de-humidifier on a grand scale, he imagines, dryly amused at the thought. Hardly the pinnacle of technology. After all their experiments, they've found an unnervingly easy way to damage his kind. He suspects that this is what they've been searching for: they don't want to know what makes him tick as much as what will make him stop ticking.

He's beginning to give up thoughts of a rescue; it has crossed his mind that many people would think he deserved this, for one reason or another, despite everything that's happened. He has regrets, he has made mistakes, there are things he wishes with all his heart he could change...but what's done is done, and when it comes to it, at the time he believed he was doing the right thing. All the right things. Perhaps, after all, this unbearably dry cage is a just punishment for his arrogance. No messiah he; no bringer of peace and understanding. At best, a bringer of justice; at worst, a harbinger of chaos. Whatever he was, here and now he is just a man, a man slowly dying in a glass prison while his captors watch with cold, military satisfaction. Even when their commander raises a cup of water to her lips, and stares directly into his eyes, he does not believe she is mocking him. Indifference...worse than hatred, worse than fear. She doesn't give a damn if he lives or dies.

His concern - his fear, which knots his stomach and turns his mouth even dryer - is that nobody else cares much, either. He had thought, in his heart, that someone would come for him. It seems as though they will be too late. He leans against the front panel of the box, staring back at them, the scientists who regard him with such insulting unconcern. He rests his palms upon the glass, smearing it; he can no longer stand unaided, but he won't give them the satisfaction of collapsing; not that it would give them any satisfaction. He remains on his feet because he will not submit, whether it would please them or not; he will hold himself together by force of will because it satisfies him to do so.

The strongest will in the world cannot keep him standing for long. He turns his buzzing head slowly, painfully, to look for the others of his people trapped here, in cages of water or ice, deprived of food, subjected to insupportably high or low temperatures...he tries to catch the attention of those whose gazes he can meet, tries to tell them without words that he is sorry, sorry for failing them just as he failed his friends and family. Trapped in their own private hells, none of them respond.

His knees buckle, finally, as his consciousness ebbs. As he falls, his last thoughts are of his daughter; his is grateful, in the end, that she can never be like him: that she can never know this fate.

FIrst post

2006-06-25T21:03:23Z

Title: Beginnings
Type: Original
Form: Freeform poetry
Length: Snippet

When we are young and strong,
We contemplate with joy our existence.
When we are old and frail,
We contemplate with fear our nonexistence.
When we are young,
We cannot conceive of our endings.
When we are old,
We cannot remember our beginnings.