Writing about writing a book – Day 10

I’m back to writing, sitting at the desk, pad in front of me, pen in hand.
The only thing lacking, an idea

It’s 9:03 am, too early to start on a six-pack.

I need to try and concentrate on the job at hand, but it isn’t working.

Blogging, websites, Twitter and Facebook, all of these social media problems are swirling around in my mind.

The more I read the more it bothers me that if I don’t have the right social media presence if I do not start to build an email list, all of my efforts in writing a book will come to naught. And especially so, if I don’t hire a professional to do my cover. Another problem to add to the ever-growing list.

Then I start trawling the internet for information on marketing and found a plethora of people offering any amount of advice for anything between a ‘small amount’ to a rather large amount that gives comprehensive coverage of most social media platforms for periods of a day, a week or a month. I don’t have a book so it’s a bit early to be worrying about that.

I move onto the people who offer advice for a cost on how to build a following, how to build a web presence, how to get a thousand Twitter followers, how to get thousands of email followers before the launch.

The trouble is I’m writing a novel, not a nonfiction book, or have some marvelous 30-page ebook on how to do something, for free just to drive people to my site. I’m a novelist, not a handyman so those ideas while good is not going to help me. And there are enough people out there telling the rest of us how to be a writer, how to be a marketer and then some. The problem is, most of them are one long advertisement, offering the ‘real’ answers’ for money.

I’m not sure how many people have my email address, but I’m getting over a hundred emails a day, all asking me to buy some sort of guaranteed service.

Yet another problem to wrestle with along with actually creating a product to sell in the first place.

Except I’m supposed to be writing for the love of it without the premeditated idea of writing for gain or getting rich quick.

What am I missing here?

So should l be writing short stories and offering them for free to drive people to my site? These would have to be genre-specific so it needs time and effort and fit into a convenient size story that will highlight or showcase my talent.

Or should I create a website for the novel and set up pages for the characters and get some interaction going that way? It will be difficult without giving the whole plot away so if I do it will have to be carefully managed. And, in doing so, it will be taking me away from what I’m supposed to be doing, writing.

Of course, I could get someone else to set all this up for me, but I haven’t got fifty dollars, let along the $5,000 they are asking. Yes, I can create a free site, yes, I can find a cheaper option if I looked hard enough, but, again, it takes me away from my primary objective.

I don’t think I will have a good night’s sleep again with all of these social media problems I’m going to have.

Oh well, back to the book. It’s time to have a nightmare of a different sort!

When I opened my eyes I was in a room, not immediately recognizable, because it looked like my room, in my parent’s house where I grew up, when I was a young boy.

The curtains fluttered on the other side of the room, around the edges a muted light that could have been the moon or street lighting.

It was warm, the breeze pushing pas the curtain material and washing over me in gentle waves. I was hot and could feel the sweat on my brow.

It reminded me of the long summer days, the warmth stretching into the night, and the cool breezes that made the endless heat bearable, where the only covering you needed was a sheet, and then sometimes not.

There was movement, also, on the other side of the room, a figure curled up in a chair, the form of which was framed as a silhouette against the indistinct light, now a little brighter. My eyes were rapidly adjusting, and shapes were becoming clearer.

I turned my head slightly and saw a door with a window in it, slightly ajar. My bedroom door had never had a window,

I tried to speak but couldn’t, my throat dry, and made swallowing difficult. It felt like something was stuck in my throat.

I tried to think, but it made my head hurt, and, then, a thousand images flashed before my eyes, or what seemed like a thousand, of a time I’d never known about.

Not until now.

Of a past that I’d known was lurking somewhere in my mind. Of a missing period of my life that had been, up till now, locked away, and beyond my grasp.

And for a good reason.

It was awful.

No. It was horrendous.

No. It was worse than that. Words could not describe the images, the feelings, the despair, the hopelessness.

And then I screamed. Bound, in pain, feeling a charge of electric current run through me, trying to beg them to stop, only to find my mouth stuffed with a filthy, horrible tasting rag, making me gag.

Then it stopped, and I slumped back, easing the muscles that had tensed in pain, opening my eyes to see a man, Chinese, holding a knife over me, saying, “You will tell me what I want to know” over and over, then slowly pushing the knife near my shoulder, the pain unbearable as I screamed and begged for him to stop.

And as suddenly it started, it stopped.

It had to be a dream. It had to be.

Then nothing.

I’m not sure about the knife wound, what impact or damage it may have or cause so some investigation is needed.

And that’s not where it ends. More of the nightmare tomorrow!

NaNoWriMo 2021 – Day 16

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A score to settle

…

I still haven’t recovered from everything that went wrong yesterday. It was one of those days where you finally leave the room, and almost make a promise not to step in it again until the phase of the moon changes.

I’m sure it’s the moon out of phase, not me suffering the consequences of trying to fly at 30 thousand feet without oxygen.

No, I shouldn’t be using analogies…

Today the sky is blue and the promise of summer is just over the horizon, those long hot days with intense humidity that makes any thought of doing anything a chore.

How did I just turn what is a glorious day outside into something awful?

The truth is I want to get on with the revolution, but all this other stuff going on is getting in the way. Dancing with the police chief, checking out the spies, wannabe spies, security staff, security forces, people who are great and people who want to be great, all intermingling, all with an agenda, all going to play their part, however large or small, in the eventual calamity.

This can be a problem, you can’t just cut to the revolution, you have to make sure every participant is known to the reader, who they are and where they stand, and possibly what they’re going to do when push comes to shove.

Where is our main character?

In the middle of it all, as he should be, like standing on the deck of a sinking ship…

…

Today’s word count: 3,700 words, for the running total of 40,454.

That helicopter story that kept me awake – Episode 21

Our hero knows he’s in serious trouble.

The problem is, there are familiar faces and a question of who is a friend and who is foe made all the more difficult because of the enemy, if it was the enemy, simply because it didn’t look or sound or act like the enemy.

Now, it appears, his problems stem from another operation he participated in.

Lallo delivered that statement with deceptive calm, and I didn’t miss the inference. That is if he was trying to say that anyone associated with that operation was likely to end up dead sooner rather than later.

Food for thought indeed, and suddenly it explained the reason for this interrogation. And though I didn’t want to believe it, or even think it possible, Breeman might be in some way connected with that operation. Or someone involved in it.

Suddenly I found my mid connecting dots, real or imaginary, that led back to Breeman requesting my transfer, knowing who I was, and then becoming closer in a way that was not expected, or could be explained, which had consequences if it came to light.

That was what Bamfield was alluding to in the desert camp.

But even Lallo had to admit it would be stretch at best to tie what was a random event being selected for what was basically an off-book training flight to being shot down, and link to a failed operation, and a suspicious suicide by Treen.

Especially when it was Bamfield’s own men who shot the helicopter out of the sky because we had so-called encroached the no-fly zone. Yet, by extension, if those people knew the proximity of the helicopter to the ground, and how thorough my survival training had been, that posed a whole new raft of questions, which, right then, I didn’t want to think about.

No, it was utterly ridiculous. My thoughts were simply the manna which drove conspiracy theories. Lallo was jumping to conclusions, and even I was guilty of the same offence.

Time to put it out of my mind, and answer the question, even if it sounded rhetorical. “It was the Colonel who tried to kill me, not the person who sent me on that operation. Are you trying to tell me Bamfield is involved in more than one conspiracy?”

Lallo simply shook his head, made a note in his notebook, and turned the page.

“Let’s go back to the day you were assigned to the ill-fated exercise. How many of your number at that particular base, are available for helicopter duty?”

“Four.”

“Who assigns the missions?”

“Operations.”

“Not the commanding officer?”

“No.”

“And in this particular case, when you were sent on the fatal mission?”

“I had to countersign the order. I didn’t see her name on the form.”

“But she would know, or be able to make suggestions.”

There was a group who made those decisions, not any one person, and it was possible anyone of that group could make a suggestion. But, as for Breeman, I doubt she was interested in that level of micromanagement.

Yet there was a suggestion I’d been moved off the active roster, and that it was possibly on her orders. Perhaps it would be best not to say anything about that. It also begged the question of why. Had she known something might happen to me? Or did she have an idea what might happen for another reason?

“Anything is possible, but I’m not privy to the machinations of command. I just do as I’m ordered.”

He smiled thinly. “I’m sure you’d say that even if it wasn’t true.”

Lallo was becoming an annoying little gnat, so I decided to treat him like one. “Is there an actual point to these questions, other than to dredge up past history, make erroneous accusations, and base all your conclusions on conjecture?”

“I simply deal with the facts before me.” It was almost a childish response.

A face hovered outside the ward door, and he noticed it.

“Excuse me.” He put down the notebook and headed out the door. Monroe remained, looking menacing.

Was someone else listening, and didn’t like the turn of events?

“Trouble in Store” – Short stories my way: Editing becomes re-writing (2)

I have reworked the first part of the story with a few new elements about the characters and changed a few of the details of how the characters finish up in the shop before the policewoman makes her entrance.

This is part of the new first section is the one that involves Annalisa, and her boyfriend, Simmo:

Annalisa looked at the two men facing her.

Simmo, the boy on the floor, had told her that the shopkeeper would be a pushover, he was an old man who’d just hand over the drugs, rather than cause trouble for himself.

Where Simmo had discovered what the shopkeeper’s true vocation, dispensing drugs to the neighborhood addicts, she didn’t know, but it was not the first place like this they had visited.

She had always known Simmo had a problem, but he had assured her he had it under control. Until a month ago, when he had tried something new.

It had changed him.

The breaking point came earlier that day when, seeing how sick he was, she threatened to leave. It brought out the monster within him, and he threatened to kill her. Not long after he had changed into a whimpering child pleading with her to stay, that he hadn’t meant anything he’d said before.

All he needed was one more ‘score’ to get his ‘shit’ together, and he would do as she asked, and find help.

She believed him.

He said he knew a place not far from the apartment, a small shop where what he needed was available, and said he had the money.

That should have been the first sign he was not telling the truth because she had been funding his habit until her parents cut off the money supply. She suspected her father had put a private detective on to find her, had, and reported back, and rather than make a scene, just cut her off so she would have to come home or starve. Her father was no better than Simmo.

And, as soon as they stepped into the shop, Simmo pulled out the gun,

Instead of the shopkeeper cowered like Simmo said he would, he had laughed at them and told them to get out. Simmo started ranting and waving the gun around, then all of a sudden collapsed.

There was a race for the gun which spilled out of Simmo’s hand, and she won.

That was just before the customer burst into the shop.

It had been shortly before closing time. Simmo had said there would be no one else around.

Wrong again.

Now she had another problem to deal with, a man who was clearly as scared shitless as she was.

This was worse than any bad hair day, or getting out of the wrong side of bed day, this was, she was convinced, the last day of her life.

She heard a strange sound come from beside her and looked down. There was a trickle of blood coming out of his mouth and Simmo was making strange sounds like he was choking.

Any other time she might have been concerned, but the hard reality of it was, Simmo was never going to change. She was only surprised at the fact it took so long for her to realize it.

As for the man standing in front of her, she was safe from the shopkeeper with him around, so he would have to stay.

“No. Stay.”

Another glance at the shopkeeper told her she had made the right decision, his expression said it all. Gun or no gun, the moment she was alone with him, he would kill her.