Writing about writing a book – a novel twist

I have decided to write about the process for me to write a book, working on the book at the same time. The character writing the book is fictional and bears no relation to me, well, mostly not.

You will join me on the rollercoaster.

It will be appearing a bit at a time over the coming months, with the first instalment below.

Day One

I woke to a day where the sun was shining through the crack in the curtains. It was not so much the brightness, but the fact it was moving, the gentle breeze moving the curtains and creating a strobing effect.

It was the first day of the rest of my life.

I was about to start the next Pulitzer Prize for literature. Or something like that.

For so many years now my life had been weighed down by the monotony of a job I hated, a life that was going nowhere, and the pursuit of that no existent fortune that I believed was the answer to all my problems.

Those prayers to the great God Money were never heeded.

So, contrary to the well-meaning advice everyone gave me, I ignored them all, sold off the albatross around my neck, a house with a gigantic mortgage attached, and moved into a small but comfortable garret in a picturesque part of town.

It was called a ‘renovators’ delight. What did it matter the wallpaper was peeling the paint fading and the carpet had seen better days.

It was mine.

Whether or not in the coming days, weeks, or months, I was a ‘renovator’ would be interesting.

My wife, Anne, had often said I wouldn’t know which end of the hammer to use.

Oh, and did I tell you, I moved on from her, or probably it was the other way around. I’d let her down one too many times, she said, and found someone else more ‘reliable’.

Good for her, my brother had always said she deserved someone better, and it surprised me the marriage lasted as long as it did. I still loved her, I always would.

I sprung out of bed and opened the curtains. Spread out in front of me was a blue sky, bright sunshine casting its glow over the park and gardens opposite.

On my darkest days, I used to sit on a bench and watch the ducks swimming in the pond. I wanted a carefree life like they had, and that was my dream.

Now I was living the dream.

Or would be till the money ran out.

I had enough for a year.

The second bedroom was the writing room. The walls were lined with shelves, books by my favourite authors, books on writing, all dog-eared and well-read.

The typewriter was sitting on the desk waiting for the first words to be written.

I had a computer, but I was not going to use it for the second draft.

I had a supply of writing pads. Like the great authors, I was going to write the first draft by hand, revise, and then type it.

I was going to be old school.

I sat down, picked up a pen, and scratched my head.

I began writing, ‘It was a dark and stormy night’.

That was a far as I got.

Maybe this was going to be harder than I thought.

Perhaps after coffee and toast …

NaNoWriMo 2021 – Day 2

A score to settle

…

The story, in the planning stages, has a secondary theme running, that of the players involved in the events leading up to the assault on our main character, one that his handler was not aware of.

Why was he marked for execution, along with his previous partner?

That’s another story, one that will be teased out in this secondary theme and will run full circle and have some bearing on what happens at the end of the story.

Or not.

I’m not sure I will include any of this, and it might just become part of a novella that will stand on its own. For the most part, a lot of this story is about, and driven by, people he’s never met, but know of him, and his work.

It would be too easy to say he saw something he shouldn’t, because that’s not the case. It has to do with people he has worked with and been responsible for in the past, and whether or not there had been a conversation, without understanding the relevance of what might have discussed at the time.

That part is nebulous at best, and you can see why it might not make the final cut.

It simply depends on how the main story goes, and the word count at the end. The rough plan calls for about 80 chapters and about 70,000 words, but I’m not one for sticking to plans.

Today’s work centers around the partner his handler has chosen for him, one that he’s not going to like when he finds out, and the target he’s been tasked to watch over, and the location of the conference.

Of course, getting back to work after what happened to him is not as easy as saying he’s fine, but getting him to admit it’s anything but fine will be like getting proverbial blood from a stone.

…

Today’s word count: 1,990 words, for the running total of 4.164.

That helicopter story that kept me awake – Part 7

Alone, and awaiting your fate, minutes become hours, hours become a lifetime

Now that I’ve gone down the rabbit hole, it’s time to find out what sort of trouble is waiting. It might be hot in the desert, but I think it’s going to get hotter in the underground lair.

…

“We can do this the easy way or the hard way, your choice.”

There was always a choice, I’m sure, but at the end of the day, it always ended up bring the hard way.

It had been a long, and somewhat sleepless, night, pondering the whys and wherefores of what just happened.

I’m guessing I was supposed to die, like the pilot, now I was a thorn in their side.

The two men sent to collect me were purposefully selected for terror value, a sign that if I was contemplating anything other than full co-operation, these were the sort of men I would have to deal with.

The reality, on the other hand, was sometimes completely different.

I still hadn’t got proof that this was an enemy, or rogue, unit, so no point panicking yet.

“Let’s try the easy way first,” I said, getting off the stretcher and standing.

One remained outside the room, the other, after unlocking the door, ventured as far as the doorway. He seemed disappointed at my choice.

I walked between them further into the labyrinth until we reached another doorway, this with an opaque glass window, and though it I could see there was someone already in the room.

He opened the door, ushered me in, giving that little push in the back that was to remind me of the controlled force he had and would unleash. A nod in the direction of the room’s occupant, he withdrew and closed the door.

The occupant was an older man, in his 60s, the sort one would mistake as a university professor, but on reality was a master torturer in the guise of an interrogator.

We had them, I’d heard about them, but this was a first.

“Sit, Mr. James.”

All this politeness was a front, it had to be, designed perhaps to take me off my guard.

There was a table on one side with two chairs opposite each other. It wasn’t much of a table and the chairs looked cheap and uncomfortable, for both of us.

There was nothing else in the room and nothing on the table. The discussion no doubt would be recorded, or perhaps the man had a very good memory.

To make a good first impression, I sat.

For five minutes I could feel him looking at me, trying to make me feel uncomfortable. It was disconcerting, but I had decided to speak when spoken to.

And wait.

…

What happens next, not even I know.

Yet.