Fingers Crossed for June (#IWSG)

The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Writers post their thoughts on their blogs, talking about their doubts and the fears they have conquered. It's a chance for writers to commiserate and offer a word of encouragement to each other. Check out the group here.

May was the first time I missed a IWSG post in a year. I would love to say it was because I was busy celebrating my 36th birthday, but actually it was just a shitty week and I didn't feel like writing anything, not even bitching online.

On Monday I had some major computer glitches and lost 2 months worth of work on my current WIP.  Usually I'm pretty obsessive about backing up my work, but for whatever reason I hadn't made a copy (at least off the laptop) since I had started my final round of major edits and revisions. I guess we all need that reminder every now and then to back-up, back-up, back-up.

On Tuesday my wife got into a car accident with our one-year old in the vehicle. Fortunately they were both okay, but the car was messed up pretty badly. The other driver was charged with reckless driving and our insurance covered everything, but it was still a pretty scary couple of hours while I was stuck home with our other kid, unable to do anything while my wife was dealing with the police on the side of the road somewhere. Not to mention the weeks of dealing with the insurance company that has followed.

Oh and did I also mention an absolutely atrocious meeting I had with my boss in there, too? I won't go into the details on that one, but here's a visual copy of the minutes:

The good news is we've mostly recovered from all those hiccups. I've pretty much finished redoing all the work I lost on my WIP, and I think it's even better this time around. We just got the car back and insurance took care of everything. Except for the over $1000 that we're still waiting for them to pay us back for various things, but whatever, we will get it back eventually. And by then it will come as a pleasant surprise. And work has settled back into a reasonable routine without too much weirdness.

So yeah, May started pretty rough but we're past it now and we're looking forward to the summer (and to finally releasing my new book!) It's a new month, a new page and all that. Onwards and upwards! Huzzah!

Now please enjoy this hypnotic GIF for hours...

E is for Exposed (#IWSG)

The first Wednesday of every month is officially Insecure Writer’s Support Group day. Writers post their thoughts on their blogs, talking about their doubts and the fears they have conquered. It's a chance for writers to commiserate and offer a word of encouragement to each other. Check out the group here.

I shouldn't have publicly said I would be done by the end of March. I know I didn't commit to any particular release dates, but the fact that I said I would do something and then didn't follow through grates me to no end. It's bad enough when I blow the deadlines I set for myself. It's much worse when I keep telling people it's coming soon and then it never comes out.

I've pushed the new book back several times. I originally wanted to have it out by the end of October (it's a horror book, I thought a Halloween release date would be fitting). In retrospect this was staggeringly overzealous on my part. The book needed a lot of work and has gone through several rounds of revision which I think has made huge improvements. But I just keep underestimating how long these revisions will take (for some reason I repeatedly forget that I have a life).

After I missed Halloween, then I thought I could have it out for Christmas... then Valentine's Day... then April Fool's (I like to keep my deadlines around holidays, makes it easier to remember them). Still nada. It's very close, but it's not quite there. Even though I know the work I'm doing is necessary, I'm still disappointed and I'm mad at myself.

I'm going to shut up talking about it because I feel like I'm just digging myself a bigger hole. I hate it when people keep talking about something they're working on but it never comes out. In my case I don't think I'm disappointing anyone by pushing back my release (my book is hardly The Winds of Winter) but it still feels like making excuses to me. Either put it out or shut up. That's my new motto.

Seriously, I don't even watch football. What's my excuse?

So yeah, no more talk about Hell Comes to Hogtown until it's actually available on Amazon for purchase. I may still talk about Star Wars, roleplaying games and wrestling (I know that's why all of you are here, anyway), but no more news about the book until I actually have something to say.

Okay?

Okay.

(This is not an A-to-Z Challenge post)

How Do You Write?

No, I'm actually asking: How - and where, and when - do you write?

Everyone has their favourite setups. Some people like to monopolize space at their local Starbucks. I heard of one writer who had a special desk built so she could walk at a leisurely pace on a treadmill while typing (I actually like the sound of that). Some authors like to write in a home office with the lights dimmed and Mozart playing. Still others prefer to write by oil lamp on parchment made of human flesh, their quill dipped in the blood of virgins with the screams of their next victim ringing in the background.

I'm not quite so fancy.

I used to write on a desk in our office/den on my own snazzy computer. That was where I wrote my first five or six books, including Ten Thousand Days. That was before my computer caught fire, and we moved to a house and had two kids. We no longer have an office or den (every inch of the floor is carpeted with toys). I don't even have a proper desk anymore, not that I would have time to sit at it anyway. See two kids, above.

What DO I have though? An hour and half commute to work every day. EACH WAY.

I used to use this time to watch TV shows or play video games on my iPhone. Or sleep. But I recently discovered I could put this time to much more productive use.

I tried watching Game of Thrones, but it was too embarrassing with all the gratuitous sex and boobs and people watching over my shoulder.

I wrote the first draft of my next book entirely on the bus, scribbling in this notebook by as we bounced along and people elbowed me in the face. It was painful and invigorating at the same time. It also has a neat side effect.

Behold! A very special sneak peek. Good luck reading it, even I can't make out most of these scribbles.

Now that I'm typing up the first draft, I'm revising and editing as I go, and because my handwriting is so awful and because it was basically written as stream of consciousness drivel, I'm forced to make updates and changes as I re-type on my second draft. It's adding in a whole extra pass that I would't usually get. Which I'm also doing on the bus, on my handy-dandy Toshiba Netbook balanced precariously on my lap.

The computer is pretty old and a piece of crap, so I have to use WordPad as Word crashes all the time. I'm discovering some interesting functions of the program. Did you know that if you hit "Undo" on WordPad, it undoes ALL the typing you did since the last time you saved? And did you know that WordPad doesn't have a "Re-do" button? Yeah, I learned that one the hard way.

I've wanted to throw this bastard on the floor a couple of times, but really it's not his fault. It's Microsoft's fault. Screw you, Bill Gates and your philanthropy.

I also learned that just because I started using my bus time for writing doesn't mean I no longer need the nap time. If I'm not careful, I often find myself waking up after my bus trip and my only writing contribution for the day is "lllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllllll."

So I've started drinking a lot more coffee.

At least two of these per day, plus two more regular-sized mugs at my desk at my real job.

So yeah, it's a lot of work, but I'm making it happen. I have to write. I often say I write for the same reason I jog - not because it makes me feel good, but because if I don't do it, I feel terrible.

So I will finish this book, even if if kills me.

At least I had a nice office, right?

I'm serious. I'm writing my book entirely in this seat. This is my Iron Throne.

So where DO YOU write? Please tell me it's somewhere more comfortable...

Characters You've Never Heard Of: K.D. BACCHUS

FATHER ROBERT: What in the world...

[The "nun" whips off her habit, revealing the battered, bruised K.D. Bacchus beneath.  He's still shirtless, dressed in his black tights and wrestling boots.  His blond hair is matted with blood, but he's smiling like an idiot.  He grabs the priest's hand and shakes it vigorously.]

BACCHUS: Father Bob! Pleasure to meet you!  The sisters told me so much about you.

FATHER ROBERT: What is the meaning of this!?

MOTHER SARAH: He was a kind, lost soul we picked up in the chaos of the mob, Father.  It was only Christian for us to lend him a helping hand.

FATHER ROBERT: Don't you think it's rather unseemly for a bus full of sisters to be traveling with a... [He looks Bacchus up and down, appraising him.] handsome, sweaty half-naked man?

MOTHER SARAH: But Father, he is the guardian angel I told you about it!  He helped protect us more than once as we made our way through the riot.  We only dressed him in the habit to sneak him across the border, as he lost his belongings and identification in the chaos.

BACCHUS: Don't worry, Padre, I repaid the sister's Christian charity ten fold, believe me.

[The nuns shuffle their feet.  Someone giggles.]

FATHER ROBERT: Son, we do not expect repayment for... wait, what are you talking about?

BACCHUS: Don't judge them too harshly, Bobby. Most of these women haven't been with a man in years, if ever.  After being stuck on a bus with such a fine specimen as myself for hours, I'm sure even big J.C. would approve of what happened.

[The nuns look really embarrassed now.  One of them hides her face.  All of them look down at the ground.  Several are praying, but the giggles are now growing louder, too.]

FATHER ROBERT:  Are you... are you implying you had relations with the sisters?

BACCHUS: I know you might find it hard to believe, but there are real women under those shapeless dresses.  You've probably forgotten what to do with them after all these years, but if you just pretend they're altar boys...

FATHER ROBERT:  ALL OF THEM??

BACCHUS: No, no, not quite.  Sister Nicola isn't into sausage, but fortunately Sister Eleanor swings both ways, so she took care of her and I just watched.

* * * 

Two fake wrestlers in a row, but that's just the way the letters fell.

K.D. Bacchus is one of my favourite characters, period. He's another classic example of "asshole done good," but he's played the range from villain to hero depending on the situation. No matter what the incarnation though, he's always a self-centered, oblivious, narcissistic drug- and sex-addict. He's over the top and self-destructive, but he has a good side that makes him lovable in a frustrating way.

He's the kinda guy you either want to f*ck or punch in the face.

He can go either way.

The excerpt above if when he snuck aboard a bus full of nuns to escape a riot after a wrestling show. He's had a violent, mortal feud with another wrestler when Bacchus left his dog with the other guy's girlfriend and then the guy gave it to his grandmother to take care of. Bacchus got the dog back but was incensed that it smelled like old lady. He also went through a phase where he was obsessed with bedding Kate Middleton, and may or may not be the father of Prince George.

His issues seem to stem from his family problems. His mother died when he was young and his father kicked him out of the house. He traveled the world learning his trade as a wrestler but eventually returned home penniless, and still his father wouldn't let him back. He lived on the street for awhile until he was picked up by a kindly old man named Pete, who tried to put the wild young man back on the straight and narrow. Bacchus took advantage of his generosity but still came to respect Pete as he was the only father figure he had. That didn't mean he listened to him any better than a real father, but at least Pete was there to bail him out of jail and to keep him from getting himself killed.

Bacchus is very much the inspiration for the Fitz' best friend Dee in my current work in progress. In that version he's not a famous, world traveled superstar but just a lowly wannabe who is really good  in the ring but held back by his own bad decisions and zeppelin-sized ego.  He's just as much of a screw-up as Fitz if not more so, but the difference is that Fitz recognizes he's a loser while Dee thinks he's the shit. He's an idiot and a jerk but he's so much fun to write.

Characters You've Never Heard Of: FITZ

No one would have mistaken Fitz for a successful man, nor a handsome man, nor a particularly smart man. Hell, there were some idle afternoons he even wondered if he was a man, or if somehow a pile of lint from the corner of his living room had become sentient and started coming to work at the comic shop one day.

Obviously that wasn't true. He knew he had been around longer than that because he was still paying off the student loans from the half-finished visual arts degree he had abandoned eight years ago. On his current repayment schedule he should be done somewhere around 2050, but the joke was on the National Student Loan Service: At the rate he was going there was no fucking way he was going to live that long.

Fitz is the main character in my current WIP. He's a painfully average and hopeless loser surrounded by people and supernatural beings with fantastic powers and abilities. He works in a dead-end job, can't find a girlfriend, his only friend is a drugged-out-of-his-mind professional wrestler who keeps getting them in trouble, and he's crushing on a women who is so far out of his league that I can't even make a joke about it because it's too ridiculous.

I'm having a ton of fun writing this story. I've gone in with little planning outside of the opening scene and the ending and a handful of rough character ideas. The main drive of the story is the relationship between Fitz and his buddy Dee, the wrestler. They are so abusive and terrible to each other, it's awesome. I could see this story (if I can stick with it) spinning off sequels and further tales.

So far the story reads like the script of a Seth Rogen/James Franco or Jay Baruchel movie. I don't know if I'll keep it that way or not, but it's really the introduction of a couple of loser stoners to the world of the supernatural. Their reaction to it is ridiculous and over the top. I don't know if anyone else will find it amusing, but I'm having a lot of fun with it, so even if it doesn't go anywhere, at least I have that.

Yeah, basically it's about these guys.

There's some other weird characters in the story that I don't think I'll use for posts this month, so I'll run through them now. There's the owner of the comic shop, a conspiracy theorist nutjob who claims to be the descendant of a famous vampire hunter and a wizard. There's the disabled fortune teller who can talk to dead people, who Dee is obsessed with sleeping with because she's a lesbian. There's a pair of government agents investigating weird phenomenon who are like the competent version of Fitz and Dee - they're actually skilled and get to do cool shit, but they have the same dysfunctional relationship. And of course there's the baddy, who is purely and unabashedly evil for the sake of being evil. I didn't want a nuanced, sympathetic villain, but a homicidal monster of comic-book level villainy, so far above the level of the "heroes" that they have no chance whatsoever of stopping him.

Hooked you yet? I'll let you know how it goes. Cause I don't have a clue where this is going.