Antaria: Amalthea, Illustrated

It appears that the "Amalthea" fiction inspired an illustration, and a darn fine one at that.

From David:



Looks like David's vision of Thorngarde Keep's facade was right on the money. And I love the shading.

If you're interested in more of David's art, he's at http://kanal.deviantart.com . Yes, he's really good, in case you're one of the few people who haven't noticed.

I owe Faye Tan credit for the creation of Amalthea, by the way. If you're reading this, Faye, thank you very much.

The Archie Method

Addendum.

The comics may seem corny to me now, yes, but I did get at least one valuable lesson from Archie.

A little background first: You'd think that, after thousands of stories spanning almost sixty years, the writers would eventually run out of plots for the comics.

Well, in a way, they do. Usually the changing times fuel quite a few plots (you couldn't write a story about Archie and the Internet back in 1957, for example), and lately they've created a few new characters (Sassy Thrasher, to name one), but every now and then the writers just get stumped. What happens then?

It turns out that they have a technique for when that happens. When a writer can't think up a story, he simply takes any two characters who don't normally hang out with each other - say, Veronica and Jughead - and puts them together. The unlikely association invariably churns up something from the depths of the imagination.

Admit it - the notion of Veronica and Jughead being involved in the same story is a curious idea. What would each of them have to do with the other? How does each of them react to the situation? How and why does Archie show up in the episode, if he ever does in the first place?

Questions that inspire answers that inspire questions that inspire answers.

Imagination has an odd habit of tying any two things together, I suppose. What results is usually some sort of creative plot handling. You can have a finite number of concepts, yes, but if you start working with combinations of those concepts, then the number of possibilities become well-nigh infinite.

Very, very nice method.

Very, very nice.

Archie

There are a few publications floating around that are essentially predecessors to hardcore reading; that is to say, these books induce people to read in copious amounts. My sister would probably testify that the Sweet Valley Twins series is one of these, but I'm inclined to point out the old Choose Your Own Adventure series, as well as the Hardy Boys / Nancy Drew books.

Of these publications, the Archie Comics series is probably the only one that spans the generational gap. I read them, my parents and elders read them, and chances are good that if I ever settle down and have a few kids, then they're going to be reading them as well. Nevertheless, although I believe that every reader out there is bound to have been enchanted by Archie comics at some point in their lives, the books do start to get corny if you read them for too long.

That's not a bad thing, though. In fact, that's the whole point. Archie comics (and its counterparts) get you fixated on a reading habit. It's a little like smoking in that, if you stop reading, you'll probably end up looking for something that can replace them. At the point where you think you've outgrown Dan DeCarlo, Edward Packard or Carolyn Keene, that's when you start exploring J.K. Rowling, Sidney Sheldon, or Judith McNaught. Take it a little farther, and you're in J.R.R. Tolkien, Michael Crichton, and Danielle Steele territory.*

Admit it, everyone. You owe your reading habits to these books.

That is, even if they do seem corny now that you've grown up.


* Yes, Ankh-Morpork fans, Terry Pratchett's in there somewhere, too. It's just that he defies categorization for me. If all the authors in the world ran a circus together, then Pratchett would be the guy with the accordion and the monkey. Not that I have anything against accordions, mind you. I just say this because monkeys are creepy.

Ook.

Heading Up

Yup, it took me this long to recover.

And to think I'm heading back to the gym tonight.

...

Moving on...

Finally, the local Oliver's Super Sandwiches has updated its reading material. Among the selections is an issue of Time Magazine whose main articles involve the rebirth of cultural Shanghai and the media partisanship of the recent US elections. Among the topics covered by the latter feature: The use of blogs as a means of political promotion and argument.

It appears that the notion of blogging has gotten a lot more respect as of late. The more popular blogs, I must point out, pull in thousands of readers. The writers of such blogs therefore usually find themselves in a position that influences a significant part of the Internet population. I wouldn't be surprised if I found that they devote good time and effort towards raising or maintaining the quality of their articles as a result.

In the end, we're all happy. The crowds get some quality articles to read, the writers get the attention they so sorely crave, and the general media gets an informal forum discussing current events and points of view.

It's odd, seeing how a concept that's little more than an online journal can be elevated into one of the great motivators for both personal opinion and social awareness.

But that's good, right?

It Only Hurts When I Type

Still aching from my recent visit to the gym.

I haven't done any serious exercise in four years, so I suppose it stands to reason that I've accumulated a ton of flab, and that some of the unused muscle groups have atrophied in that period of time.

And to think that I've got three more months of this. I'd better look good when everything's over.

Cinderella Story

It was a veritable Cinderella story.

Young student and her mom travel from Manila to Brisbane for an international scholastic competition. Along the way, they get absolutely no support from the Philippine government, and they get robbed of their passports and money by a fellow Filipino. Despite facing these and other potentially overwhelming circumstances, she wins the competition over stronger opponents from more-developed countries, and returns home tired but happy.

Events like these aren't kept secret for long, of course. What little fanfare she receives eventually becomes a significant torrent of public attention. Readers across the nation celebrate her victory. Well-wishers send their congratulations. Representatives slam the government's indifference towards their ordeal.

Indeed, it was a veritable Cinderella story.

But then, as with all Cinderella stories, the clock finally struck midnight.

Last week, Faye San Juan and her mother admitted that the entire story was untrue. There was no victory. There was no scholastic competition. There was no trip to Brisbane, and there was no person who stole their documents and money. The only thing that was true was that there was no government support - and naturally, that was because the contest and its representation did not exist.

Why would they do such a thing? Why would they lie to a public that revels in any success of the Philippines against the rest of the world?

"We lied because no one loved us," they said.

Many reasons told in a long litany of sobs. Faye's father leaving them for another woman, and the depression that followed. They felt they had to do something that got peoples' attention. They felt that they had to do something that would get back at him for what he did.

So they made up a story. A Cinderella story. A story where dreams came true, even for a little while.

...

...

I don't presume to pass judgement on them, and I'll be damned if I do so right now. I'm neither judge, jury, executioner, nor handsome Prince Charming. I'm just a writer.

Earlier today, alongside the news of the hoax, I received word that the Ateneo de Manila University team just bagged second place in the recently-concluded ACM ICTC Regionals.

I had a bit of a personal stake in this, as did a lot of other Computer Science alumni. The department asked us for donations that would send the team to the contest, after all. And, up until the dying moments of the contest, it was almost certain that we were going to come home empty-handed.

So why am I not happy that we won?

Because it was a long shot. It was one of the longest of long shots. It was a story where the underdog won. It was a story where the seeming losers became winners.

In other words, it was an almost perfect Cinderella story.

Sitting in the darkness in front of a glowing monitor, I wonder how much I really know about everything.

Who was on the team that took second place? I don't know.

What does ACM ICTC stand for? I don't know.

What was the contest about? I don't know.

...

I don't know anything about them. I don't know anything about what they did, and I don't know anything about how they won.

All I know is that they won second place, and that it was the unlikeliest of victories.

All I knew was that Faye San Juan won an international scholastic competition, and that it was against overwhelming odds.

How can I trust what they tell me now?

All I can think of now are the Cinderella stories... the ones where the dreams come true, right up until the clock strikes midnight, and the last glass slipper falls.

With all this in mind, I offer my congratulations and best wishes to the Ateneo team. I marvel at their achievement, and I smile when I tell people the good news.

I only wish that I can be more sincere about it.

The Vonnegut-Dangerfield Scenario

One of my favorite anecdotes involves American novelist Kurt Vonnegut and American stand-up comic Rodney Dangerfield. It outlines one of the first lessons I learned about writing and literary criticism, and it came from a very unexpected source.

You see, Rodney Dangerfield once starred in this 1980s movie called "Back to School". There, he played Thornton Melon, a grown-up rich kid who decides to return to college in order to get the degree that he missed the first time he was there. Early on in the movie, Thornton thinks that, just because he's rich, he can breeze through everything with minimal effort.

Assigned to write a paper on Kurt Vonnegut, Thornton takes the easy way out and hires Kurt Vonnegut himself to write the paper.

The next thing we know, Thornton's teacher is handing back the paper, and it's got a huge "F" scribbled in the margin. "Whoever wrote this paper," she declares to a surprised Thornton, "knew absolutely nothing about Kurt Vonnegut."

Classic.

One More Flip of the Coin

Oh, irony, irony, irony.

After extolling the virtues of extensive preparation for writing a short story (namely, six installments of "The Writing Process"), I plan out and write one in less than 30 minutes and get rave reviews from a little circle of novice writers.

I'd be happy right now if it weren't for the fact that I'm puzzled as to what went right. A hastily-written short story isn't supposed to be all that good, especially when I'm the one writing it.

Add to that the fact that I was supposed to write a sex scene into the short story (something that I've never done before), and I find myself really wondering about what went right.

Short story follows. Post your comments if you will. I need them.

...

...

UNTITLED
-----

Creak.

"You all right?"

"Yes."

Long silence. Soft movement.

"We don't do it much anymore, do we?"

"No."

Creaking.

Sharp breath. "Why not?"

"I don't know. Are you seeing someone else?"

"No. Are you seeing someone else?"

Gentle probing. "Not really."

Fast breaths.

"You didn't... say no."

"I didn't?"

"You said, 'not really'."

Lips to neck. Skin against skin. "Yeah. So."

"So what?"

"So... I asked her already."

Stop. Pregnant pause.

"...Seriously?"

Slow motion. "Yeah. Seriously."

"She said yes?"

"She said yes."

"Oh, God."

"Yeah."

Long silence.

"I, ah..."

"Yeah..."

Thought. Glance into each others' eyes.

"Oh, God."

"Yeah, well..."

"God. I... I... I think..."

"Yeah."

"It's not... the same. Not... anymore."

Rustle of cloth.

"Look, I'm sorry."

Rumpled shirt against naked breasts. "Don't be."

"It's just that, you know..."

"Yes."

Hands through sleeves.

"I... I don't know."

Gentle smile. "It was fun while it lasted."

"Yeah."

Forlorn expression. Hand caresses the cheek.

"I won't forget."

Long sigh. "Yeah."

"Yes."

"Sometime?"

Frozen. Shoes half-picked up. "No."

"No?"

"It'll never work."

Head nods. Understanding smile.

Lightest of kisses.

"I'll be seeing you."

"Yeah."

"Maybe in our dreams."

"Yeah."

Light from the open door. Slender form silhouetted in light and shadow.

One last look before the light goes out.

-----

Obtenebration

n. Outlying darkness.

From the Late Latin ob- ("in front"), from the Latin ob- ("dusk"); and the Latin -tenebrae ("darkness").

Thought Process

Been trolling around quite a few blogs on the Net lately (Work? What's that?), and I've noticed quite a few things.

First off, I have no idea what the word "troll" (the verb) means. I use it under a context that implies aimless wandering, but I suspect that it has a more negative meaning associated with the use of the term "troll" in internet chatrooms and discussion forums.

Interestingly enough, "Deck the Halls" has a single line that goes "Troll the ancient Yuletide carol", so maybe it has something to do with singing? I'm not really sure about that.

I know I have a slight reputation either for using words in the wrong context, or for making up words entirely from scratch, so it's definitely not beyond me to use "troll" in an incorrect manner. I'd look it up, only I'm a little lazy at the moment.

Second, most of the blogs I've read recently seem to be full of angst. Admittedly, it's difficult for me to define angst, but for the moment I can tell you that it's a pent-up emotional response to unexpressed rage, despair, or simply life in general. You generally know it when you see it.

I would say that blogs are therapeutic in this way if it weren't for the fact that I'm not exactly sure if it's healthy to release angst. I'm sure that it's definitely not healthy for any of the listeners, though - too much exposure to angst will have you questioning your own life and happiness.

Come to think of it, writing one's thoughts down might not be the best thing to do when one is feeling particularly angsty. Sooner or later - presumably once you've recovered - you're bound to read them again, and when that happens... bam, you're full of angst again. Better to write them down on paper and then burn the paper.

I'm not feeling lazy anymore, so I guess I'll look up "troll" now.

...

...

...I guess I was right on both sides. It legitimately means both "to sing loudly" and "to move around".

It appears that, if you go around making up new meanings for words, you're probably going to get something correct sooner or later.

Antaria: Profile: Gallos

Gallos, Grandmaster of the Masquers

Gallos is only the third person to wear the mantle of the Masquer Grandmaster, and is perhaps the most mysterious of all influential personages in Antaria.

As with all Masquer Grandmasters, he was secretly chosen for the position by his predecessor, the ineffectual Hyde Pathwarden. Upon Pathwarden's death, the Masquer Court of Truth and Lies was surprised by the arrival of an unknown young man claiming the leader's legacy.

Gallos wore a mask then... he continues wearing masks even now, almost twenty years after his ascension. Some claim that he wears them for days at a time; No one has claimed to know what his face looks like underneath.

Despite the mystery surrounding Gallos and his masks, none can dispute the fact that he is one of the greater leaders of contemporary times. A veritable storehouse of secrets lies at his disposal, brought to him by a network of spies and information-gatherers. Gallos does not merely hold massive amounts of influence; He knows when to use it, where to use it, and exactly how much of it to use. Gallos is well aware that the stability of the continent depends on a balance of internal politics, and is not above reprimanding even Masquers who play their games in too rough a fashion.

The Masquers themselves may be illusionists and deceivers, but Gallos's political arsenal goes far beyond mere secrets and lies. He may be quite literally the most dangerous man on the continent.

Antaria: The Masquers

The Masquers are the youngest of the mage classes in Antaria. Their domain lies in illusion and deception, and many an unsuspecting, unfortunate person has found themselves the focus of their complex plots. While the Masquers would normally be reviled for such doings, however, they have found a fine niche in Antarian society by offering their services to those willing to accept them.

Illusion, after all, exists to fool the common observer... and what better use for the Masquer magics than to enhance beauty? As a result, the vast majority of handsome nobles and attactive heiresses owe much to the illusionists. In addition, deception has its own uses... because of their mastery of face and feature, the Masquers have the ability to infiltrate virtually every house, every palace, and every guild in Antaria.

The Masquers have consequently amassed large amounts of inside knowledge in such a small amount of time, and adding to this are the many favors they carry with most or all of the high-ranked personages who care to keep up their appearances. Few trust them for their deception, and yet many come to them for their wanton needs. It is an irony that the Masquers revel in.

Deep inside the Masquers' private courts, falsehood is only part of the great game that they play. Despite their skill with illusion, the one other thing that the Masquers truly understand is how to shatter resolve and part the veils... for they find the true self to be delicious indeed.

Disclaimer: November 2004

Another month, another disclaimer. This is kind of fun, in a way. You get to cut loose and come up with the most creative threats you can manage. In a way, it's like the Bush-Kerry debates. :)

This site chronicles the concepts, musings and wastebasket rakings of Sean Uy. All items here are entirely original except where noted. By reading through this weblog, you agree not to claim any items from this site as yours. In return, Sean agrees to give credit where credit is due, and to remove any offensive or derogatory content from the site upon submission of valid argument via e-mail.

If you are found to believe otherwise, you get to meet my lawyer. Believe me, you don't want to meet my lawyer. Your lawyer may wear glasses and have a nice briefcase, but my lawyer is bald, sounds a lot like Mike Myers, and only just recently made a clone of himself, which he shall call... ... ...Mini-Me.

Antaria: Lies

Dusk descended upon Lorendheim, the last vestiges of sunlight falling upon the city. The Fist and Blade tavern sat between the marketplaces and the slums, patiently awaiting patrons both respectable and not-so-respectable.

The man lowered his hood slightly, obscuring his face to the point where his eyes could not be seen, yet not to a level where the Galenic patrols would become immediately suspicious of him. Calmly he stepped past the waning crowds and into the tavern.

The Fist and Blade was unusually sedate at this time. A number of early regulars sat at their tables discussing the day's events. Tough-looking mercenaries lounged in the farthest tables, perhaps negotiating for work or taking leave off their most recent jobs. In a corner of the room, the tavern owner and two of his massive hires were in the process of 'convincing' a young man about paying his overdue tab.

The hooded man walked towards a table near the center of the room, where a short, reed-thin man sat waiting for him.

"Lord Berris," the thin-looking man said.

The hooded man nodded. "You are Tydings, then, I presume."

"Yes," Tydings said. "Please, sit."

The hooded man pulled up an ancient chair. "You must forgive me if I do not remove my cloak, Tydings. This is hardly an appropriate place."

"Certainly not," Tydings answered, "for a noble such as you are."

There was a moment of silence between the two men.

"I'm very disappointed in you, Tydings," Berris finally said.

"Not as much as I am in you, Lord Berris. Let's cut the formalities, shall we? How much is my silence worth to you?"

"You know perfectly well that I would not partake of such... beastly acts."

"Oh, I know more than you think, Lord Berris," Tydings said with a nervous smile.

Berris straightened, although he still refused to lift the hood. "Your allegations are not true," he said.

"If they were not true," Tydings said, "then why would you have agreed to our little meeting in the first place? Surely a noble would not worry himself over mere rumors of his... extreme liking for little boys."

Berris clenched his fists.

"And even if you manage to hold the trust of the other nobles," Tydings said, "the rumor will still be there, twisting its way into the hearts of all who know you. I am certain that you know that words are infinitely powerful in this way, Lord Berris."

"This is extortion, Tydings."

"I am just a simple man making a simple profit, Lord Berris. The question would be whether or not you would be willing to pay."

Lord Berris glowered from underneath his hood. Then, grudgingly, he pulled a small bag from his belt and tossed it on the table.

Tydings opened the bag slightly and glanced at the contents in the fading light. "Diamonds," he said in a satisfied tone. "I was expecting gold crowns, but I must say that you are an interesting person to deal with, Lord Berris."

Berris merely scowled at him. "I've paid you, you blasted thief. Now never darken my sight again."

Tydings slowly stood up. "It's been a pleasure doing business with you, Lord Berris." The reed-thin man glanced around to make sure that no one was watching, then casually sauntered out the door.

Berris continued to sit at the table, tapping his fingers in a steady rhythm. He turned his head slowly, glancing at the tavern owner. The barman caught the noble's eye, gesturing slightly towards the back of the tavern.

Berris got up, nudging past the other patrons and walking in the direction that the barman indicated. There was a small door at the back of the tavern - a door that Berris opened into a private room with a large table. The Fist and Blade catered to many different clients, after all.

A stately-looking man sat at the table, his robes cut and trimmed with the expensive linings that only the rich could afford. "How did it go?" he asked.

"Quite well, Lord Berris," the first Berris said, pulling the hood back and removing his cloak.

The second Berris paused, staring into a face so well-defined that it could have been his identical twin. "Aran's light," he whistled, "you Masquers are as skilled as they say you are."

The first Berris laughed, and it was a strange-sounding laugh that had no trace of Berris's voice at all. On the contrary, anyone hearing the laugh would have sworn that it belonged to a woman.

As the true Berris watched from his seat, the features of the first Berris shifted and melted, until only the form of a slightly shorter, more handsome woman were revealed.

Berris shuddered. "That is truly a discomforting sight, Lady Lorelei," he said.

"That's what most people say," Lorelei answered, shaking her head to free her long, wavy hair.

"You met the blackmailer, then?"

"Tydings? Of course, Lord Berris," Lorelei said.

"And?"

"He knows nothing," Lorelei said. "He has the faintest of suspicions, but in reality has nothing to work with. He made everything up."

"Yes," Berris said, "but an accusation such as his would stain the honor of any noble."

Lorelei nodded. "I gave him the diamonds, and the fool was as smitten with them as I expected."

"They're... not real, I expect?"

"Naturally, Lord Berris. I wouldn't give the man a copper coin. The bag, however, is enchanted. Your should be able to track him down at your leisure."

"Excellent, Lady Lorelei. Your skill is as paramount as your beauty."

"Thank you, Lord Berris," Lorelei said, hiding her smile with one hand.

Berris slid a small bag across the table. "A gratuity," he said, "for services rendered."

"You have my thanks, Lord Berris, but I could not accept your... charity."

A confused look appeared on Berris's face. "Surely there is something I can offer you as thanks..."

Lorelei smiled. "Of course there is, Lord Berris."

"Then name your price," Berris said, "and I shall gladly pay."

"Well," Lorelei said in a slow, seductive voice, "there's the matter of your... activities."

Berris stared at her. "What... activites?"

"I can read your mind, Lord Berris," Lorelei said, staring intently at him. "You do like children a lot, don't you?"

Berris's face blanched. "I... don't know what you're talking about."

"Especially little boys?"

"That's not true," Berris said nervously. "You found that out yourself."

"I found out that Tydings didn't have a shred of evidence to work with," Lorelei said, "but judging from the thoughts going through your mind at the moment, he must have had many, many occasions to observe you."

Berris said nothing, although his forehead was wet with the coldness of sweat.

Lorelei laughed. "Be still, Lord Berris. Your secret is safe with me."

Berris did not relax. His fingers dug into the crevices of the wooden table.

"As long as you are amenable to future favors, of course," Lorelei said, "then I guarantee you, Lord Berris, that your secret will remain safe with me."

How Long Does It Take to Write a Short Story?

It depends.

I'm not one of those writers skilled enough to pound out bestselling novels at whim, so I most certainly can't say that it's easy.

The short answer is, "one or two hours". I sit down, I write, I edit, and I leave. This assumes that I've gathered enough material for the story before I even turn on the computer, as well as a number of other things (e.g. my train of thought doesn't get interrupted, my Windows XP cooperates, and certain combinations of stars and planets align.)

Yes, I write my short stories on a computer. Notebooks tend to take up a good amount of storage space after a time, after all.

The idea takes up most of my attention, though.

I get ideas all the time, and I can't put them all down on paper (or on Microsoft Word, as the case may be). So I hold them in my head and let them ferment. Sometimes I fill out holes in the plot. Sometimes I marry other wandering concepts to the main idea. Sometimes I pluck out one of these abstract thoughts and just let it die.

Sometimes I just forget. When this happens, it's as though the ideas never were. All I'm left with is a fleeting thought of "I thought of something interesting a couple of minutes ago, but it's gone now."

Retrieving lost ideas seems like such a futile effort to me, so I usually don't bother. If an idea is forgotten, then I invariably feel that it probably wasn't worth remembering in the first place. When I try to ferment them, they laugh and escape into the confines of the outer world. That's gratitude for you.

On average, an idea stays in my head for about three or four weeks, after which it gets written into a story and I decide whether or not it was really worth my time. I've only "force-developed" a story - added plot and setting elements to it in a wholly conscious manner - once, and that was because I was running late on a deadline. The story turned out well, but the experience was one that I would rather not repeat.

I don't use outlines. Once the story's on paper, it's on paper. I'm no longer its writer - I'm just another reader. I can't afford to waste a perfectly good short story on a mere summary of plot points and end twists - if I'm supposed to write a story, I'm supposed to write a story.

The drafts usually take a short time. Usually I get it on the first try.

If the draft doesn't take, I usually start over. Another one or two hours of writing time, but only if I either want to make the story work, or if I have a sadistic editor on my back.

So... how long does it take to write a short story?

Depends.

The Writing Process 6: Regeneration

Dark Fate (Rich-text format)

And there's the final version, as submitted for the Ficathon. By starting at a point when the story was reaching its climax, I ended up avoiding my previous problems regarding the long exposition time.

I made some reference to the previous drafts when writing this, most notably stealing a few lines from the third draft. Good writing should never go to waste, I suppose.

Nishi disappeared from this draft, but halfway through the beginning I realized that I needed a third supporting name, and thus came up with Tetsu on the fly. I'd call him a new supporting character, only he starts out dead already, so I guess he doesn't really count. A similar fate happened to Seiki, although at least she gets quite a few references here.

The bandit's (technically Goro's) death could have been written a little better. I mean, all that happens is that Kazuo runs him through with a sword within the space of a couple of paragraphs. On the other hand, I didn't want to write an extended fight scene because I was afraid that it would have shifted the atmosphere around too much.

The same doesn't hold true about the oni, though. I figure that it would have been best to let a reader imagine what the demon was and what it looked like, rather than strain the atmosphere by adding a few more descriptions. I also wanted the story to end there, emphasizing the fact that Kazuo had effectively failed, and coinciding the end of the story with what looked to be the end of his life.

Learned quite a few things from this one, and I'll be sure to put them into effect the next time a Ficathon rolls around. Maybe by then I'll be able to analyze exactly what makes L5R fiction, L5R fiction.

The Writing Process 5: Paradigm Shift

Ficathon, fourth draft (Rich-text file)
Ficathon, fifth draft (Rich-text file)

The more astute observers will note that my fourth draft looks almost exactly the same as my second draft. At that point, I believed that it was still possible to salvage the earlier versions by making alterations to the general atmosphere.

The fourth draft went as far as to directly record Kazuo's perceptions of the box, giving the reader an idea that whatever was in the box would eventually be important to the story. The added atmosphere didn't seem to change the story's quality, though, and I found myself still stuck at exactly the same point I encountered in the earlier drafts.

So when the time for the fifth draft rolled around, I figured that, if I was going to go for a change in atmosphere, I was going to try taking it to the extreme. I shifted gears and set the story in a more modern-world L5R setting as opposed to a medieval-Japanese-like universe.

It seemed to work for a while - what interested me was the fact that Kazuo's personally seemed to come out in the course of the draft. The fact that the package had now been replaced by a sixteen-wheeler cargo truck being driven by a non-union driver was icing on the cake. There's just something that feels good about converting aspects of fantsy literature into other worlds in this way.

Nishi (a bit player in the original drafts) became an interesting character to write, mostly because his mannerisms came out very well. He didn't make it past this draft, unfortunately, but I'll probably see if I can write him into some other story in the future. A samurai trucker is too weird a concept to waste. :)

Around the time I hit page three of the fifth draft, I realized that I hadn't even gotten to the main story yet. I went back, read through the long expository introduction, and decided to speed things up a little. So at that precise moment in the middle of the story, Kazuo, Seiki and Nishi run into the abandoned car that's blocking the road.

The doubts were creeping into my mind already, though. If I wanted to write a short story, why would I bother spending three pages on exposition, only to dive into the climactic ending all too suddenly? The quickest solution to this, of course, was to cut some of the opening story, but I respected the character conversations too much to touch it.

The final straw came when I did a wordcount. Of the recommended 500- to 2000-word limit, the exposition alone took up over a thousand words. Too much for my taste, and it was obvious that I was spending waaaaay too much time on the story setup.

For the next draft, then, the goals were pretty clear. I wanted to shorten the exposition to such a point where the climax would take up most of the reader's attention, and yet not cut it so hard that one wouldn't flow smoothly into the other.

As with a number of measures I take with rewrites, I took it to the extreme:

What if the story started near the ending?

The Writing Process 4: Flipping the Coin

Ficathon, third draft (Rich-text file)

The notion of making the story more interesting for the reader started with another what-if question - "What if I told the story from the bandits' point of view?"

It felt like an odd idea, since most L5R fiction is centered heavily on the actual samurai class. On the other hand, I believed that telling an L5R story from a non-samurai point of view would stand a good chance of getting people's attention because of this, so I ran with the idea.

The story was written according to the bare bones of the original plot I sketched out, but I produced no preparation for the names and personalities involved. In a sense, it was a play-it-by-ear story where I just got the characters together and watched them act naturally.

The result was a fairly long draft that had some nice story development and even better lines of conversation. There's just this satisfying feeling about writing dialogue between two people from totally different backgrounds.

While it was fun writing the loudmouthed bandit lord Goro and the surly ronin shugenja Wataru, I noticed early on that the story was running a tad longer than I would have liked. Most of the story is focused on character development for Goro and Wataru, with the unopened box in the background - and it was taking me too long to get to the box.

Granted, it sounds okay at first - choosing not to focus on the box beforehand makes it all the more a surprise once the oni comes out in the end. The problem is that such a story places a lot of emphasis on timing. Cutting to the big climax too suddenly makes the ending abrupt, perhaps even deus ex machina-type.

For the uninitiated, a deus ex machina setup is the equivalent of a literary cop-out. The phrase describes a scenario where a story raises multiple plot points and loose ends, and then resolves everything using a single development that is totally unrelated to everything so far. Any story with a lot of exciting events that resolves them by saying "...and it was all a dream", for example, is a deus ex machina setup.

See? Reading this blog is educational.

Aside from the timing issue, my other big problem with the draft was that I didn't know what should have happened once the captive samurai escaped and Goro and Wataru went along with opening the box. Telling the story at that point felt as though it were highly unplausible, especially considering that the samurai had to be both badly wounded and fighting sheer numbers of bandits at the same time.

That, and the fact that, by telling the story from Goro's point of view, I feared that it may have compromised the original story seed. I anticipated the audience reading about a samurai who runs across an unexpected form of danger, and I didn't think they deserved to get a naive, sadistic bandit who gets into something that he shouldn't have gotten into in the first place.

The story had some nice lines, though, and I could salvage a few. Regretfully, I had to set the rest of the draft aside and go back down to earth.

The Writing Process 3: Weather Conditions

Ficathon, first draft (Rich-text file)
Ficathon, second draft (Rich-text file)

The first two works mirror each other because the second one is merely a simple rewrite. Sometimes, when I feel that a story just isn't going as well as I like, I just save the file, put it aside, and reach for a brand new document.

With short stories, I usually don't get too attached to the characters. That, in addition to the fact that I was probably going to kill off most of them anyway, didn't get me thinking seriously about the names. I just plucked some stuff from an online book of Japanese names, and I tweaked from there.

I was basing this off L5R traditions, though, so all the samurai had to be of the Shiba family, and all the shugenja (magic-users) had to be of the Isawa and Asako families. (L5R players, do note - they're the only noble families who would probably pull off something as foolhardy as trapping and transporting an oni.)

Kazuo's name was constant throughout the process, but his female companion went through a bit of development. At first she was a fellow samurai named Shina, the name quickly discarded once I realized that "Shiba Shina" sounded pretty stupid. She then became Natsumi (also discarded because it kept reminding me of the "You're Under Arrest" anime), and finally Seiki.

Right away the italics appeared to play a distinct role in the story. In these drafts, I needed them to represent the oni's whispers to Kazuo and his companions. In a sense, all of them are tired, haggard and sleepless because they have to be constantly on their guard from the voices in their heads.

For the first draft, the voice-in-the-head angle was pretty vague - it's easy to read it and assume that maybe Kazuo's just the sort who talks to himself. In a sense, I was planning an ending where Kazuo wakes up from the bandit attack and realizes - to his horror - that the voice that's been whispering to him is gone.

When the first draft didn't gel, however, I assumed that it was because the pace was slow and boring. In order to pick it up a bit, I made the voice a lot more obvious in its intentions, altering the atmosphere but keeping the possibility of the ending I originally planned. In the second draft, the reader should most likely pick up on the fact that something's amiss early on.

The trouble was that the second draft ran into the same problem as the first - I didn't feel that it held my interest well enough to get me moving past the first few paragraphs. Having a clear setting is nice and all, but the key to establishing good setting is that you shouldn't bore people by doing so.

Knowing that, I walked into the third draft with an express purpose in mind - to make the general setting and story significantly more interesting.

The Writing Process 2: Skeletons (Closet and Otherwise)

Out of the two seeds given, only the first one fired up my imagination to some extent.

"While guarding a caravan for his lord, a samurai is faced with an unexpected form of danger."

Danger? What kind of danger are we talking about here?

If you're a samurai guarding a caravan, you have a number of obvious threats to deal with. Bandits would probably be number one on the list. If you're slogging through foreign territory, you'd probably be watching for enemy patrols. And in the twisted world of L5R, there's always the chance that you'll run into a monstrous oni (big, nasty demon) or somesuch.

All of them are hardly "unexpected" forms of danger. So the first major question I ended up asking myself was, if you're a samurai guarding a caravan, where would you least expect the threat to come from?

And the first answer that came to mind was, "the package". But how in the world could the contents of your caravan be a threat? And to that, my sadistic mind answered, "Because it carries something dangerous inside it. Something that the box is supposed to contain. Something with huge, ravening teeth."

So the samurai in the story is guarding a caravan tasked to deliver a box... a box that contains a captured oni. There's the threat right there.

How to make it unexpected, then? Maybe the box looks like an ordinary box. That should be safe enough to assume, because if you've captured an oni, then you don't want to panic the entire countryside or draw attention to yourselves in the process. Of course, any samurai tasked with such a duty would be required to know what the box contains, only the sheer beauty of the idea was that the reader didn't have to know what was inside until the closing moments of the story. Unexpected, indeed.

So you have a samurai guarding a caravan, and he's doing his job with a particular degree of vigilance. Bandits suddenly attack the caravan, slaughtering the samurai's party but leaving him alive for some reason. The bandit leader laughs at the samurai's desperate attempts to convince him not to open the box. And when the package is finally opened despite all the samurai's efforts, it is revealed to contain a powerful oni, much to the horror and final understanding of the reader.

Little details now. The samurai has doubts about his current position (he's transporting an oni, after all), but his loyalty to his lord suppresses any instinct he has to fear the creature inside. The party is composed of both samurai and shugenja (magic-users), because only shugenja can make sure that the oni is contained. The box is enchanted with a set of magical wards for added security. The oni may be stuck in the box, but his whispers for freedom are still heard by the samurai and his friends, and they must constantly watch each other for signs that any of them may be corrupted by the oni's wishes.

Good skeleton there. The next step was to actually start writing the story.