Yes, it's true, I've discovered a new world for a story or two. Yes, it was loosely inspired by a book on the history of cotton and the science of lightning. Yes, I think it has real potential and that I'm starting out the right way in creating that world and following the story.
But.
I want to finish Accidental God and Lord of the Manor.
So I'm taking what I've been learning from this new world and I'm tackling the hard questions that I've been glossing over in my own mind for these other two books. I'm not far enough along that I feel paralyzed in trying to rework these books (like I do with Fat Tony and Pete and The Dog--the thought of trying to rewrite those substantially is terrifying), and I can go back and create the foundation I need for these two novels without too much difficulty or radical change to the manuscripts.
Okay, there will probably be some radical change. But I'm only thirty-thousand words into each of them, not even quite a third done! That's much better than seventy-thousand words in.
Back to work.
Tuesday, September 28, 2010
Wednesday, September 22, 2010
It's not working.
I thought Seven Cities was a good idea, but I'm not happy with it.
Trying to place The Accidental God in the Seven Cities is bringing me face-to-face with the flaws of my world building. Using any fantasy world--even (or especially) one based so closely on our own--requires consistency. Without a certain number of consistent rules, I am asking too much of my readers in expecting them to suspend disbelief. As charming as my characters might be, the world should be a support to those characters, and not a distraction.
So trying to force The Accidental God into a bit of a grab-bag, modern fantasy world is, I am becoming convinced, a disservice to the story. We don't need seven different cities to tell this story. We need one. We don't need three different kinds of magic. We need gods, angels, and demons. That's enough. Trying to crowd more in will just dilute the power of a story that can be very interesting.
I feel bad for making my few, faithful readers wait for the end of a story, but there are some things I need to learn as a writer if I want to successfully write the stories I aspire to (with complex plots set in interesting worlds):
I honestly can't tell you what I'm going to be writing next. It's going to take some prayer and some careful thinking and more writing. I am certainly not abandoning The Accidental God, and I'll be coming back to our friends out at the manor as well, but I feel a need to lay a more solid groundwork for both of those. I hate setting aside two projects at the 30,000 word mark, but I'm trying to do the hard thing, the right thing for these stories, and that means learning the skills I need to learn as an author to become better.
I need to imagine more clearly.
Trying to place The Accidental God in the Seven Cities is bringing me face-to-face with the flaws of my world building. Using any fantasy world--even (or especially) one based so closely on our own--requires consistency. Without a certain number of consistent rules, I am asking too much of my readers in expecting them to suspend disbelief. As charming as my characters might be, the world should be a support to those characters, and not a distraction.
So trying to force The Accidental God into a bit of a grab-bag, modern fantasy world is, I am becoming convinced, a disservice to the story. We don't need seven different cities to tell this story. We need one. We don't need three different kinds of magic. We need gods, angels, and demons. That's enough. Trying to crowd more in will just dilute the power of a story that can be very interesting.
I feel bad for making my few, faithful readers wait for the end of a story, but there are some things I need to learn as a writer if I want to successfully write the stories I aspire to (with complex plots set in interesting worlds):
- I need to learn to write and create background: a solid world with consistent rules. Now, I'm not necessarily talking about rules like you might find in a board game (e.g. sacrifice two cupcakes to advance your magic meter three steps toward ignominy). But I am talking about the kind of rules that I've somewhat ignored: Where does magic come from? Does everyone know about it? What are its real strengths and limitations? What kind of magical creatures exist in the world? Are there other worlds? How are we connected to them? And on and on.
- Also, I need to learn to outline. I've made good first steps in this direction, and I'm pleased with them, but I need to keep on with this. A body doesn't write a book like Holes without a good outline, and I would love to write a book like Holes. (Okay, I was wrong. You do write a book like Holes without outlining. See Louis Sachar's comments about writing toward the bottom of the page here.) Even so, I think that I should learn to outline. It would be good for what I want to do.
I honestly can't tell you what I'm going to be writing next. It's going to take some prayer and some careful thinking and more writing. I am certainly not abandoning The Accidental God, and I'll be coming back to our friends out at the manor as well, but I feel a need to lay a more solid groundwork for both of those. I hate setting aside two projects at the 30,000 word mark, but I'm trying to do the hard thing, the right thing for these stories, and that means learning the skills I need to learn as an author to become better.
I need to imagine more clearly.
Saturday, September 18, 2010
Accidental God -- Section 12a
[I just had a long conversation with some writer-friends, and I have discovered that I'm absolutely jealous of their rather inspired (and consistent) magic system. Sometimes I worry that Seven Cities is too much of a grab-bag of ideas and mythologies. Fortunately for Tuck and Paul, that didn't stop me from finishing this section. Something to think about more, but later.]
Tuck and Paul put on their sunglasses as they stepped out of the blockish and modern building that housed the medical examiner's office. Tuck timed his movements to be in unison with his partner. He was sure Paul noticed, and was sure Paul didn't exactly like it, but his partner was patient, and it was the little things that kept Tuck going from day to day. He had known from an early age that the world was a frightening and confusing place, and his routines helped Tuck make sense of it all. In other words, it was a good feeling to put sunglasses on in unison. Like synchronized swimming, but without the swimming. Or the smiling.
Except that Paul was smiling. "Dude, that was just like the scene from MEN IN BLACK," he said.
"From what?"
"The movie. You know, MEN IN BLACK? Where the two guys are like the police, but for aliens on Earth? Will Smith? That other guy?"
"I've never seen it," said Tuck.
"You haven't seen the part with the creepy, sexy medical examiner who flirts over dead bodies?"
"I don't watch movies often. You know that."
Paul's eyebrows were well above the tops of his mirrored lenses. "If you never saw MEN IN BLACK, why do you have us dress in the suits and shades? It wasn't inspired by THE MATRIX, was it? Because I don't want to be one of those Agents."
"When did we start talking about mathematics?"
Paul stared at him for a second, two, then turned and walked away.
"But aren't you glad," said Tuck, stepping out to catch up, "that we were polite in there? Imagine the hassle she could have given us, especially considering that the next body in line was in the same room."
"She wouldn't have given us trouble, because I could have done to her what we've been doing to everyone else who gets in our way: politely mesmerize them and move on. Sometimes that kind of politeness is exactly what we need."
"But that would have been rude. Magical manipulation of the human faculty isn't polite. Also, it makes sense for us to conserve our energies. Especially given what we've learned."
"Yes," said Paul, stopping abruptly. "What is up with your reading? The man was killed by three different people? At the same time?"
Tuck shook his head. "Not exactly. At least, I can't say definitively. It's just that the signature following from our John Doe has split into three different places."
"So which do we track down first?"
"The closest one?"
"And these guys didn't seem dead?"
"I don't think so. There's a different feel, and I didn't get any signal on my CPS."
"So how are you following them now?"
"Surfer Dude's High Five Tracker.”
"Am I supposed to know what that is?"
"It's a spell this guy worked out for keeping record of all the people he'd had significant contact with."
"Like a high five?"
"Exactly like a high five."
Paul grimaced. "Don't you just remember people? Wouldn't that work?"
"This is more complete."
"Right. So we're using that to get a bead on the people who killed our Nordic friend?"
"Exactly."
"Fine," said Paul, looking around. "Let’s hop that bus."
Tuck looked down at his smart phone and decided a bus sounded like a good idea. The pair had gone back and forth on the issue off a car. Paul had mixed feelings, since public transportation was always a rich way to meet new people, but hunting down creatures and baddies on the metro wasn't exactly the most dramatic way of doing things. Tuck was conflicted as the battle to preserve the environment and the battle to catch the right bus at the right time weren't always in agreement. In the end, the prevalence of bizarre beings and unexpected manifestations of malevolent magic on the Seven Cities Bus and Metro Lines was the deciding factor: just often enough to make it worthwhile, they could do extra work on their way to work.
They jogged a few steps to catch the driver's attention before he closed the doors, ran their passes through the reader, and stepped toward the back.
"Tuck," said Paul.
"What?"
"Does she look like a demon to you?"
Tuck looked where Paul's chin jerk indicated. Brown hair, plenty thick but not disturbingly so, surrounding a mostly symmetrical face and brown eyes. The blouse and jeans were form fitting enough that it was unlikely she was hiding any physical abnormalities, so she certainly LOOKED normal enough. Also--and this was a matter of professional pride for Tuck--she didn't FEEL unusual. Of course, he wasn't one-hundred percent on this 'feel' thing, but he trusted his subconscious mind to put together the logical pieces in such a way that, whether he consciously noticed clues or not, he could still typically recognize the supernatural in the midst of the mundane.
"No," he said. "She doesn't look like a demon."
"Then you answer this," said Paul, handing a vibrating phone to Tuck. "It's my turn to flirt." He slipped off his sunglasses and slipped into the empty seat next to the girl who was reading a book. Within two seconds, the girl was looking at Paul and smiling, and Tuck was yet again amazed at his partner. It was like watching one of those dancing Santa Claus decorations: you don't know how it works, you're not sure you want to see inside those gyrating red pants, but you can't take your eyes off the entire fascinating process.
The phone buzzed in his hand again, insistently, so Tuck looked at the caller ID, then sharply and somewhat desperately at his partner. Paul knew Tuck didn't like talking to the clients. Why, oh why, had he abandoned their implicit agreement now?
Tuck had no way of knowing how many rings he had before the call went to voicemail, and this was one that he really needed to take.
"This is Tuck," he said.
"Tuck, this is Belly." Surprisingly, the man's name actually WAS Belly. Porter M. Belly, head of the Divine Relations Division of the Fifth Agency. Why he had chosen to go by 'Belly' instead of using his first name was still a puzzle to Tuck, but he had valiantly resisted pointing out any of the possible wordplays. He had, once, nearly asked Mr. Porter Belly what his favorite kind of mushroom was, but he had squashed the impulse, only telling Paul later in their office, where he could laugh and laugh and laugh. Paul rolled his eyes, Alice, their kind secretary, had smiled indulgently, and Tuck had finally wiped his tears and gone back to work.
"Yes, Mr. Belly. What can I do for you?"
"You can tell me you're making progress." The man's voice sounded tired, maybe even a little desperate. "I'm getting serious pressure in here to cut you two loose. Someone wants the entire Agency to go agnostic about this god problem."
Tuck's eyebrows drew down. "They want things left in doubt?"
"At the very least, they don't want you two working on this. 'We should handle this internally,' they tell me. That, however, is the LAST thing I want. You know my concerns. It's why I hired you in the first place."
Tuck did know Belly's concerns. The Three Dark Men and Two Dark Women were on the move, and the head of Divine Relations was concerned that they'd infiltrated the Fifth Agency, and deeply. When you're dealing with power along the magnitude of Forgotten Zed, you don't want to take risks it will fall into the wrong hands.
So Belly had hired Tuck and Paul. It was understandable. Tuck wasn't sure he'd trust anyone else with the problem, either.
"Progress," said Tuck. "We've made some. I'm afraid things have become more complicated than we expected, though."
He could almost imagine Belly smacking his own thigh with a bunched fist, a nervous gesture he'd had for years. "Not the words I was hoping for, Tuck. Explain?"
"It seems that there's more than one killer involved." He counted quickly in his head. "Six, to be exact."
"Six? Six people killed the god at the SAME TIME?"
"No. Only one killed Zed. Then a woman killed him, and a man killed her, and, as best we can tell, three people were involved in that last man's death. A poisoning."
"You're not ginger, Tuck."
"Pardon?"
"The things you're telling me aren't calming my stomach."
"Does ginger do that?"
"Yes."
"I never knew."
"Now you do."
"Thank you."
"Tuck!"
"Yes?"
"Where are the three men?"
"We're following the first one now." He checked his phone. "Two more stops and we ought to be there." The bus rumbled to a stop, spitting out some passengers only to inhale a few more.
"You're on the bus?"
"Yes."
Thump, thump, thump went the fist on the thigh, Tuck was sure. "Give me some good news," said Belly, his voice strained.
Tuck thought hard. "The odds that someone could have followed the same track that we've followed are extremely small. The combination of skills and preparation that Paul and I bring to this sort of thing is, as far as I know, completely unique, and I doubt anyone could have tracked these patterns the way we have--at least not without leaving some signs that they'd been there. They may be behind us, but I can't imagine they're ahead."
Belly sighed. "That is something. They couldn't just track the divine energy, could they?" Tuck didn't bother to saying anything and Belly answered his own question. "No, of course not. Tracking magical energies in this city? It'd be like trying to pick out a tree in the forest when you don't know what tree you're supposed to be looking for. Good. We have a head start then. Keep me notified?"
"Of course."
"And ONLY me. In an emergency, you can call Janine--no, she's on vacation, starting today. I don't trust Brock's secretary. Lionel is a possibility...." There was silence for a moment. "In an emergency, call Ms. Nishimura."
"The security head?"
"She's on forced leave at the moment, but she's our best bet. Call me paranoid, but I don't know who else we can count on. You have her number?"
"I do," said Tuck. "Why is she on leave?"
"She's too much like you two," said Belly. "Works outside of the system when she has to. Makes her great to work with, but a nightmare on record keeping."
"We keep excellent records," said Tuck. "All encrypted, of course."
"Of course. Call me with news, and please MAKE it good."
"Absolutely."
They said goodbye and hung up. Tuck glanced at the little sign at the front of the bus, names and times chasing their way across, then looked back at Paul. The woman had entirely forgotten her book--it was closed, not even with a bookmark--and they were laughing.
"Paul," said Tuck, walking up next to them. His partner glanced up, a smile fighting with annoyance. "This is our stop."
"Got to go," said Paul, standing up. "I'll call you. Really, I'd love to see your work."
"It's a date, then," said the woman. "Come by the studio any time."
"Absolutely." Paul took her hand briefly, pressing her fingers, then they slid their way through the standing passengers to the door as the bus lurched to a stop.
"Did you know that we both end conversations the same way?" asked Tuck.
"Tell me that's not true." They stepped down onto the pavement and Tuck looked around.
"I think it is true. I said goodbye to Belly almost exactly how you said goodbye to that woman."
"You were talking to Belly?"
"I think you're missing the point. Also, you knew it was Belly, which is why you handed me the phone. Don't try to act innocent."
"Fine. I knew it was Belly. I hate talking to him when he's stressed. It's like he wants me to be just as concerned and sincere about everything as he is, and I can't live that way. What did mister painfully concerned want?"
"Good news."
"Did you give him any?"
Tuck held his hands up. "I told him what point we're at."
"So...no."
"I tried to put a positive spin on it. I've learned that from you."
"I don't 'spin' stuff."
"But you do talk about things with a positive perspective. That's what I meant."
"Sure, but don't call it spin. Call it optimism. Aren't we close to that restaurant you had us try last week? The Thai place?"
Tuck nodded, looking down at his phone. "It's just up ahead."
"Cool. So where are we going now?"
"Just up ahead."
"The Thai place?"
"Seems like it."
That's when they heard the roar and the crash. In his hand, the screen of his phone pulsed, flashed, hiccupped, and gave an error. Paul leaned in and looked.
"What does that error number mean?"
"The system wasn't designed to track multiple layers of contact."
"How do you mean?"
"It only keeps a record of the people that YOU high five, not any additional high fives from those high fivers."
"Confusing, but I think I get it."
"It was clearer in my head."
"So why 'Error 01221?' Why not just 'Error Two?'"
"It follows a standard error classification system."
Tuck and Paul were walking very quickly as they talked. Paul's hand was in his jacket, reaching for wherever he kept his large arsenal of offensive and very offensive weaponry. Tuck put away his phone and pulled out his toolkit. He flipped it open and pulled out three credit cards that he'd taken out in false names and under false pretenses, and slipped his case closed, hoping he wouldn't need anything more extreme. There was another crash and screams as customers and a handful of wait staff poured out the front door of the THAI FOR FIRST restaurant.
"I think," said Paul, as they broke into a run, "that someone gave our friend one heck of a high five."
Tuck and Paul put on their sunglasses as they stepped out of the blockish and modern building that housed the medical examiner's office. Tuck timed his movements to be in unison with his partner. He was sure Paul noticed, and was sure Paul didn't exactly like it, but his partner was patient, and it was the little things that kept Tuck going from day to day. He had known from an early age that the world was a frightening and confusing place, and his routines helped Tuck make sense of it all. In other words, it was a good feeling to put sunglasses on in unison. Like synchronized swimming, but without the swimming. Or the smiling.
Except that Paul was smiling. "Dude, that was just like the scene from MEN IN BLACK," he said.
"From what?"
"The movie. You know, MEN IN BLACK? Where the two guys are like the police, but for aliens on Earth? Will Smith? That other guy?"
"I've never seen it," said Tuck.
"You haven't seen the part with the creepy, sexy medical examiner who flirts over dead bodies?"
"I don't watch movies often. You know that."
Paul's eyebrows were well above the tops of his mirrored lenses. "If you never saw MEN IN BLACK, why do you have us dress in the suits and shades? It wasn't inspired by THE MATRIX, was it? Because I don't want to be one of those Agents."
"When did we start talking about mathematics?"
Paul stared at him for a second, two, then turned and walked away.
"But aren't you glad," said Tuck, stepping out to catch up, "that we were polite in there? Imagine the hassle she could have given us, especially considering that the next body in line was in the same room."
"She wouldn't have given us trouble, because I could have done to her what we've been doing to everyone else who gets in our way: politely mesmerize them and move on. Sometimes that kind of politeness is exactly what we need."
"But that would have been rude. Magical manipulation of the human faculty isn't polite. Also, it makes sense for us to conserve our energies. Especially given what we've learned."
"Yes," said Paul, stopping abruptly. "What is up with your reading? The man was killed by three different people? At the same time?"
Tuck shook his head. "Not exactly. At least, I can't say definitively. It's just that the signature following from our John Doe has split into three different places."
"So which do we track down first?"
"The closest one?"
"And these guys didn't seem dead?"
"I don't think so. There's a different feel, and I didn't get any signal on my CPS."
"So how are you following them now?"
"Surfer Dude's High Five Tracker.”
"Am I supposed to know what that is?"
"It's a spell this guy worked out for keeping record of all the people he'd had significant contact with."
"Like a high five?"
"Exactly like a high five."
Paul grimaced. "Don't you just remember people? Wouldn't that work?"
"This is more complete."
"Right. So we're using that to get a bead on the people who killed our Nordic friend?"
"Exactly."
"Fine," said Paul, looking around. "Let’s hop that bus."
Tuck looked down at his smart phone and decided a bus sounded like a good idea. The pair had gone back and forth on the issue off a car. Paul had mixed feelings, since public transportation was always a rich way to meet new people, but hunting down creatures and baddies on the metro wasn't exactly the most dramatic way of doing things. Tuck was conflicted as the battle to preserve the environment and the battle to catch the right bus at the right time weren't always in agreement. In the end, the prevalence of bizarre beings and unexpected manifestations of malevolent magic on the Seven Cities Bus and Metro Lines was the deciding factor: just often enough to make it worthwhile, they could do extra work on their way to work.
They jogged a few steps to catch the driver's attention before he closed the doors, ran their passes through the reader, and stepped toward the back.
"Tuck," said Paul.
"What?"
"Does she look like a demon to you?"
Tuck looked where Paul's chin jerk indicated. Brown hair, plenty thick but not disturbingly so, surrounding a mostly symmetrical face and brown eyes. The blouse and jeans were form fitting enough that it was unlikely she was hiding any physical abnormalities, so she certainly LOOKED normal enough. Also--and this was a matter of professional pride for Tuck--she didn't FEEL unusual. Of course, he wasn't one-hundred percent on this 'feel' thing, but he trusted his subconscious mind to put together the logical pieces in such a way that, whether he consciously noticed clues or not, he could still typically recognize the supernatural in the midst of the mundane.
"No," he said. "She doesn't look like a demon."
"Then you answer this," said Paul, handing a vibrating phone to Tuck. "It's my turn to flirt." He slipped off his sunglasses and slipped into the empty seat next to the girl who was reading a book. Within two seconds, the girl was looking at Paul and smiling, and Tuck was yet again amazed at his partner. It was like watching one of those dancing Santa Claus decorations: you don't know how it works, you're not sure you want to see inside those gyrating red pants, but you can't take your eyes off the entire fascinating process.
The phone buzzed in his hand again, insistently, so Tuck looked at the caller ID, then sharply and somewhat desperately at his partner. Paul knew Tuck didn't like talking to the clients. Why, oh why, had he abandoned their implicit agreement now?
Tuck had no way of knowing how many rings he had before the call went to voicemail, and this was one that he really needed to take.
"This is Tuck," he said.
"Tuck, this is Belly." Surprisingly, the man's name actually WAS Belly. Porter M. Belly, head of the Divine Relations Division of the Fifth Agency. Why he had chosen to go by 'Belly' instead of using his first name was still a puzzle to Tuck, but he had valiantly resisted pointing out any of the possible wordplays. He had, once, nearly asked Mr. Porter Belly what his favorite kind of mushroom was, but he had squashed the impulse, only telling Paul later in their office, where he could laugh and laugh and laugh. Paul rolled his eyes, Alice, their kind secretary, had smiled indulgently, and Tuck had finally wiped his tears and gone back to work.
"Yes, Mr. Belly. What can I do for you?"
"You can tell me you're making progress." The man's voice sounded tired, maybe even a little desperate. "I'm getting serious pressure in here to cut you two loose. Someone wants the entire Agency to go agnostic about this god problem."
Tuck's eyebrows drew down. "They want things left in doubt?"
"At the very least, they don't want you two working on this. 'We should handle this internally,' they tell me. That, however, is the LAST thing I want. You know my concerns. It's why I hired you in the first place."
Tuck did know Belly's concerns. The Three Dark Men and Two Dark Women were on the move, and the head of Divine Relations was concerned that they'd infiltrated the Fifth Agency, and deeply. When you're dealing with power along the magnitude of Forgotten Zed, you don't want to take risks it will fall into the wrong hands.
So Belly had hired Tuck and Paul. It was understandable. Tuck wasn't sure he'd trust anyone else with the problem, either.
"Progress," said Tuck. "We've made some. I'm afraid things have become more complicated than we expected, though."
He could almost imagine Belly smacking his own thigh with a bunched fist, a nervous gesture he'd had for years. "Not the words I was hoping for, Tuck. Explain?"
"It seems that there's more than one killer involved." He counted quickly in his head. "Six, to be exact."
"Six? Six people killed the god at the SAME TIME?"
"No. Only one killed Zed. Then a woman killed him, and a man killed her, and, as best we can tell, three people were involved in that last man's death. A poisoning."
"You're not ginger, Tuck."
"Pardon?"
"The things you're telling me aren't calming my stomach."
"Does ginger do that?"
"Yes."
"I never knew."
"Now you do."
"Thank you."
"Tuck!"
"Yes?"
"Where are the three men?"
"We're following the first one now." He checked his phone. "Two more stops and we ought to be there." The bus rumbled to a stop, spitting out some passengers only to inhale a few more.
"You're on the bus?"
"Yes."
Thump, thump, thump went the fist on the thigh, Tuck was sure. "Give me some good news," said Belly, his voice strained.
Tuck thought hard. "The odds that someone could have followed the same track that we've followed are extremely small. The combination of skills and preparation that Paul and I bring to this sort of thing is, as far as I know, completely unique, and I doubt anyone could have tracked these patterns the way we have--at least not without leaving some signs that they'd been there. They may be behind us, but I can't imagine they're ahead."
Belly sighed. "That is something. They couldn't just track the divine energy, could they?" Tuck didn't bother to saying anything and Belly answered his own question. "No, of course not. Tracking magical energies in this city? It'd be like trying to pick out a tree in the forest when you don't know what tree you're supposed to be looking for. Good. We have a head start then. Keep me notified?"
"Of course."
"And ONLY me. In an emergency, you can call Janine--no, she's on vacation, starting today. I don't trust Brock's secretary. Lionel is a possibility...." There was silence for a moment. "In an emergency, call Ms. Nishimura."
"The security head?"
"She's on forced leave at the moment, but she's our best bet. Call me paranoid, but I don't know who else we can count on. You have her number?"
"I do," said Tuck. "Why is she on leave?"
"She's too much like you two," said Belly. "Works outside of the system when she has to. Makes her great to work with, but a nightmare on record keeping."
"We keep excellent records," said Tuck. "All encrypted, of course."
"Of course. Call me with news, and please MAKE it good."
"Absolutely."
They said goodbye and hung up. Tuck glanced at the little sign at the front of the bus, names and times chasing their way across, then looked back at Paul. The woman had entirely forgotten her book--it was closed, not even with a bookmark--and they were laughing.
"Paul," said Tuck, walking up next to them. His partner glanced up, a smile fighting with annoyance. "This is our stop."
"Got to go," said Paul, standing up. "I'll call you. Really, I'd love to see your work."
"It's a date, then," said the woman. "Come by the studio any time."
"Absolutely." Paul took her hand briefly, pressing her fingers, then they slid their way through the standing passengers to the door as the bus lurched to a stop.
"Did you know that we both end conversations the same way?" asked Tuck.
"Tell me that's not true." They stepped down onto the pavement and Tuck looked around.
"I think it is true. I said goodbye to Belly almost exactly how you said goodbye to that woman."
"You were talking to Belly?"
"I think you're missing the point. Also, you knew it was Belly, which is why you handed me the phone. Don't try to act innocent."
"Fine. I knew it was Belly. I hate talking to him when he's stressed. It's like he wants me to be just as concerned and sincere about everything as he is, and I can't live that way. What did mister painfully concerned want?"
"Good news."
"Did you give him any?"
Tuck held his hands up. "I told him what point we're at."
"So...no."
"I tried to put a positive spin on it. I've learned that from you."
"I don't 'spin' stuff."
"But you do talk about things with a positive perspective. That's what I meant."
"Sure, but don't call it spin. Call it optimism. Aren't we close to that restaurant you had us try last week? The Thai place?"
Tuck nodded, looking down at his phone. "It's just up ahead."
"Cool. So where are we going now?"
"Just up ahead."
"The Thai place?"
"Seems like it."
That's when they heard the roar and the crash. In his hand, the screen of his phone pulsed, flashed, hiccupped, and gave an error. Paul leaned in and looked.
"What does that error number mean?"
"The system wasn't designed to track multiple layers of contact."
"How do you mean?"
"It only keeps a record of the people that YOU high five, not any additional high fives from those high fivers."
"Confusing, but I think I get it."
"It was clearer in my head."
"So why 'Error 01221?' Why not just 'Error Two?'"
"It follows a standard error classification system."
Tuck and Paul were walking very quickly as they talked. Paul's hand was in his jacket, reaching for wherever he kept his large arsenal of offensive and very offensive weaponry. Tuck put away his phone and pulled out his toolkit. He flipped it open and pulled out three credit cards that he'd taken out in false names and under false pretenses, and slipped his case closed, hoping he wouldn't need anything more extreme. There was another crash and screams as customers and a handful of wait staff poured out the front door of the THAI FOR FIRST restaurant.
"I think," said Paul, as they broke into a run, "that someone gave our friend one heck of a high five."
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Accidental God -- Section 11b
[Long weekend, long week, long delay. Here's hoping I get back on track. Also, you're going to have to read the end of the last section to remember what Olivia is answering. Or rather, not answering.]
“I have no answer for that,” said Olivia. “Whatever I say, you’ll just smile and say something else ridiculous.”
“Chuck does that,” said Atty, walking in with a tray that supported mostly full glasses and a bowl of ice. With tongs. Who actually serves ice with tongs? “Mango nectar?” asked Atty, the angel who served ice with tongs.
“Wow,” said Olivia, smiling. “Gods actually drink nectar.”
“I do,” said Chuck. “Standing Appointment lives off Coffee and Red Bull, not usually at the same time, but often enough. The Twins are on this thing about drinking milk to lose weight, and while Mr. O sells muffins, no one has ever actually seen him eat or drink anything.”
“Ever had ambrosia?” asked Bradley.
Chuck took his glass and added three cubes. “I don’t actually know what that is. Sometimes I think the Greeks made it up.”
“I’ve heard it’s real,” said the angel.
“What’s it made of?”
“It’s kind of like Nutella with biscotti.”
“You’re not serious.”
“It’s what I heard. Can’t blame me for rumors.”
“Actually,” said Chuck, looking thoughtful, “I often can.”
“I’m hurt, offended, and going to get doughnuts from your pantry.” And Atty was gone again.
"Bradley," said Divine Chuck.
"Yes, sir?"
"I gather from your comments that you've had a run-in with some unusual creatures."
Bradley found himself laughing a breathy laugh that was almost more cough than laugh. He reached out and snagged a glass from where the tray had settled onto the counter. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."
"I did say that."
"That's what...it was a metaphor."
"A figure of speech," corrected Olivia.
Chuck winked at Bradley and smiled, the way only old men who are astonishingly comfortable with themselves can wink. And gods, apparently. "I was messing with you. But back on track: seeing things now? Don't look at her, Bradley. Look at me. She thinks I'm crazy and you're on your way there, and nothing you're going to do now is going to change that."
Olivia pulled back. "I don't think you're crazy."
"Delusional, then."
"A very benign delusion, then," she said, shifting in her chair.
"She doesn't want to say it outright, but she thinks I'm crazy, and that's why she's here. You see," Chuck pulled his hat off and went on in a stage whisper, his ball cap blocking Olivia from view, "she doesn't believe in gods. Do you believe in gods?"
"I don't know," Bradley admitted.
"Excellent," said Chuck, putting his hat back on and sitting back. Somehow a glass had made its way into his hand, though Bradley couldn't remember the man reaching for one. "That's a great start. Ignorance is the start of all knowledge, right?"
"Knowledge leads to more knowledge," said Olivia. "Ignorance is never something to be proud of."
"I never said I was proud of it," said Bradley.
"Oh, but sometimes it is," went on the god, unperturbed. "Olivia, you have glasses on--metaphorical glasses, and I believe I'm using the term correctly--we all have these glasses on. They color how we see the world. They're the framework of belief that we all use to make sense of the rest of existence."
"You're preaching to the choir," muttered Olivia over her glass as she took a drink.
"I understand that, Miss Sociology Graduate Student, but this is important for Bradley to recognize, because while I have no illusions about ever converting you, I have no need to convert Bradley. He has Seen." The god said the last word with an arched eyebrow and a capital letter. It made Bradley want to squirm, but he didn't dare. The glass was just a little too full and the couch just a little too nice. No squirming until he got the mango nectar levels within safety parameters.
"Always so dramatic," said Atty, walking back in with another tray, this one covered in doughnuts. The doughnuts ended up on the table and Atty fell gracefully into the other end of the couch shared by his boss.
"Say what?" protested Chuck.
"You're dramatic."
"You are."
"No, you are."
"No, YOU are."
"Here's a pillow."
"Why do I need a pillow?"
"For crying on, since you’re so dramatic."
"Those jeans make you look fat."
"Your FACE is fat."
Bradley watched, somewhere between amusement and shock. Olivia drank her nectar and took notes. What could she possibly be writing down about this? Apparently, gods are something like teenagers: they think they are immortal and use really stupid insults.
"Anyway," said Chuck, laughing. "I got off track again. Glasses."
"Glasses?" asked Bradley.
"The ones you see the world through."
"Right. My world view."
"Yes."
"What about it?"
"You've lost your glasses."
"Oh." It made sense. He could see what Divine Chuck was getting at. When he'd gone to bed last night, the world was put together one way, with its usual complement of plants, animals, and laws of physics. When he'd woken up, he'd been without a stuffy nose, headache, or a really definite picture of how the world worked. Bagels were made with sunshine, his gut drove him around town, and gray scaly creatures tried to eat him. Apparently it wasn't the world that had changed; he'd simply lost his glasses.
Bradley realized he'd been staring at a doughnut and looked up and around. Atty was making solid headway on a chocolate with chocolate and chocolate sprinkles, Chuck was yawning, and Olivia was watching him expectantly.
"What's up?" he asked.
"That's it?" she said.
"I think so."
"This guy you've never met before tells you that the world is completely changed, and you just say 'oh?'"
"Was I supposed to say something else? And, um, that's not what he said."
"He's right," interjected Chuck. "That's not what I said. Besides, like I told you before, I don't have to convert Bradley. Want a doughnut?"
"Yeah. Maple?"
"I think there's one buried," said Atty through a mouthful, managing to make talking with a chocolate doughnut in your cheeks look suave. Bradley sighed and went digging.
Olivia took notes and shook her head. "I don't get you people. You seem so absolutely convinced, but no one will show me a single bit of evidence that you're actually gods or that these worlds you talk about truly exist."
Chuck jerked his head at Olivia, smiling at Bradley. "See?" he said. "She's still wearing glasses."
Olivia rolled her eyes. "Yes, I get it. Your metaphor is not lost on me."
The god leaned forward, looked at the doughnuts meditatively, then pushed the tray away slightly and sat back. "So how did you lose your glasses?"
Bradley chewed on his doughnut and shrugged. Why had he picked maple? He didn't like maple, not in comparison to that chocolate with chocolate and chocolate sprinkles, but he didn't feel he'd come off well in any comparison in Atty, so he chewed and swallowed. "I have no idea. I woke up, and they weren't there. Things were...different."
"Any unusual events? Resurgent childhood trauma? Visit from a maiden aunt who the family has always worried about? You inherited a ring from your short yet exceptionally long-lived uncle who shares your birthday?"
"I don't have an uncle."
Chuck waggled his moustache dismissively. "No maiden aunts, either?"
"All five are married."
"Trauma?"
"Not really. I lost my job. Almost killed a guy."
"On purpose?"
"No. Allergic reaction. It was my first night as a waiter. And my last."
"But the guy didn't die?"
"I don't think so. You know those old jokes where someone yells, 'Is there a doctor in the house?'"
"Yeah."
"There was a nurse. I think he was okay."
"Hmm. Nothing else?"
"Not that I can think of. I mean, there was this thing with my niece, but that was after, as far as I can tell."
"That wasn't traumatic?"
"No. She just had a cold or something." Bradley stopped talking. He was willing to say a lot of stuff, but he wasn't sure yet that he wanted to come out and tell Olivia that he might have healed a baby. First off, she'd probably think he was nuts--not just pathetic--and second, it might come off like he was trying too hard. YEAH, THAT GUY MAY BE AN ANGEL, BUT I HEAL BABIES. AND RESCUE WOUNDED, DWARF PANDAS FROM ANGRY POACHERS. ALSO, THE PANDAS ARE DIABETIC. He kept his mouth shut.
"I'm stumped," said Chuck.
"Me, too," said Atty. "Good doughnuts. Where'd you get them?"
"A place Mr. O recommended."
"Seriously? What did you have to pay for that recommendation?"
"He doesn't do that to other gods, Atty. Just to mortals."
"What did you pay?"
"You don't believe me?"
"I don't believe you."
"Fine. I gave him my third favorite hat."
"Forever?!"
"Just a loaner, but still. That's a good hat."
"No kidding, that's a good hat." Atty looked impressed. "I have to say, though, these doughnuts are worth it. At least the chocolate are." The angel reached for another, and Bradley silently regretted his maple bar yet again.
"Let this be a lesson to you, Bradley," said Chuck. "Gods trade hats for doughnuts. Yes, this world you're seeing for the first time--it's not much different from the world you've known, not in the ways that really matter. You know all the stories about how crazy and stupid and generous and HUMAN all the Greek gods were?"
Bradley nodded. "Some of those stories are nuts."
"Yeah," agreed the god. "Humans ARE nuts. We're all kinds of crazy, humans and gods and fairies, and demons, and all the creatures from all seven of the cities that crowd together and meet." He held out his arms. "Right here in Seven Cities, Wisconsin."
Suddenly it seemed to Bradley as if the walls of the apartment were blown away by a wind, and his eyes were an onion, and the layers were peeled away one at a time, and he could SEE. The world was laid out before him--well, a small part of the world--and he could see the pit of fire that was just next to the library on Third, the mushroom ring in Mrs. Parkington's garden, the slow procession of hungry catipillars weaving a silken trail behind them that stretched between worlds, the unremembered dreams that called out, pulling a small boy back into the city he'd visited before and that he would visit again but that wasn't THIS city--it was another city, in the exact same place, and it was too much to take in, too much detail, and--
Then it was gone. The walls were back, and Bradley was finally sitting all the way back on the couch, breathing heavily.
"We're all a bit crazy," said Divine Chuck, "but we're all a bit good, too. It makes it fun to stick around." The god looked down at his empty wrist. "Look at the time. I need to go. Atty, you'll take care of my guests? Stick around with Bradley a bit, until he's really stablized. Keep the beasties off him until his energies even out, okay?"
"No problem," said the angel.
"Mind if I come along?" asked Olivia. "I haven't had a chance to interview many angels. They always say they're busy."
"We usually are." Atty smiled. Olivia smiled back. Bradley tried to recover. Chuck stood up and walked over, until he was standing over the couch.
"I think you've got some surprises in store, Practicality Bradley Shupak." The god smiled, and Bradley found he could breathe deeply. It was a good feeling, but he didn't feel relieved. He felt intimidated. There was something in Divine Chuck's eyes that spoke of weight and care to come. "Don't stress, Bradley. From what I've seen of you, things are going to get better. You'll pull through. Also, you don't have to finish the maple bar. I don't especially like them either. See? We're all kinds of human, we gods."
Then he was down the hallway and calling goodbye. The door opened, closed, and Divine Chuck was gone.
“I have no answer for that,” said Olivia. “Whatever I say, you’ll just smile and say something else ridiculous.”
“Chuck does that,” said Atty, walking in with a tray that supported mostly full glasses and a bowl of ice. With tongs. Who actually serves ice with tongs? “Mango nectar?” asked Atty, the angel who served ice with tongs.
“Wow,” said Olivia, smiling. “Gods actually drink nectar.”
“I do,” said Chuck. “Standing Appointment lives off Coffee and Red Bull, not usually at the same time, but often enough. The Twins are on this thing about drinking milk to lose weight, and while Mr. O sells muffins, no one has ever actually seen him eat or drink anything.”
“Ever had ambrosia?” asked Bradley.
Chuck took his glass and added three cubes. “I don’t actually know what that is. Sometimes I think the Greeks made it up.”
“I’ve heard it’s real,” said the angel.
“What’s it made of?”
“It’s kind of like Nutella with biscotti.”
“You’re not serious.”
“It’s what I heard. Can’t blame me for rumors.”
“Actually,” said Chuck, looking thoughtful, “I often can.”
“I’m hurt, offended, and going to get doughnuts from your pantry.” And Atty was gone again.
"Bradley," said Divine Chuck.
"Yes, sir?"
"I gather from your comments that you've had a run-in with some unusual creatures."
Bradley found himself laughing a breathy laugh that was almost more cough than laugh. He reached out and snagged a glass from where the tray had settled onto the counter. "Yeah, I guess you could say that."
"I did say that."
"That's what...it was a metaphor."
"A figure of speech," corrected Olivia.
Chuck winked at Bradley and smiled, the way only old men who are astonishingly comfortable with themselves can wink. And gods, apparently. "I was messing with you. But back on track: seeing things now? Don't look at her, Bradley. Look at me. She thinks I'm crazy and you're on your way there, and nothing you're going to do now is going to change that."
Olivia pulled back. "I don't think you're crazy."
"Delusional, then."
"A very benign delusion, then," she said, shifting in her chair.
"She doesn't want to say it outright, but she thinks I'm crazy, and that's why she's here. You see," Chuck pulled his hat off and went on in a stage whisper, his ball cap blocking Olivia from view, "she doesn't believe in gods. Do you believe in gods?"
"I don't know," Bradley admitted.
"Excellent," said Chuck, putting his hat back on and sitting back. Somehow a glass had made its way into his hand, though Bradley couldn't remember the man reaching for one. "That's a great start. Ignorance is the start of all knowledge, right?"
"Knowledge leads to more knowledge," said Olivia. "Ignorance is never something to be proud of."
"I never said I was proud of it," said Bradley.
"Oh, but sometimes it is," went on the god, unperturbed. "Olivia, you have glasses on--metaphorical glasses, and I believe I'm using the term correctly--we all have these glasses on. They color how we see the world. They're the framework of belief that we all use to make sense of the rest of existence."
"You're preaching to the choir," muttered Olivia over her glass as she took a drink.
"I understand that, Miss Sociology Graduate Student, but this is important for Bradley to recognize, because while I have no illusions about ever converting you, I have no need to convert Bradley. He has Seen." The god said the last word with an arched eyebrow and a capital letter. It made Bradley want to squirm, but he didn't dare. The glass was just a little too full and the couch just a little too nice. No squirming until he got the mango nectar levels within safety parameters.
"Always so dramatic," said Atty, walking back in with another tray, this one covered in doughnuts. The doughnuts ended up on the table and Atty fell gracefully into the other end of the couch shared by his boss.
"Say what?" protested Chuck.
"You're dramatic."
"You are."
"No, you are."
"No, YOU are."
"Here's a pillow."
"Why do I need a pillow?"
"For crying on, since you’re so dramatic."
"Those jeans make you look fat."
"Your FACE is fat."
Bradley watched, somewhere between amusement and shock. Olivia drank her nectar and took notes. What could she possibly be writing down about this? Apparently, gods are something like teenagers: they think they are immortal and use really stupid insults.
"Anyway," said Chuck, laughing. "I got off track again. Glasses."
"Glasses?" asked Bradley.
"The ones you see the world through."
"Right. My world view."
"Yes."
"What about it?"
"You've lost your glasses."
"Oh." It made sense. He could see what Divine Chuck was getting at. When he'd gone to bed last night, the world was put together one way, with its usual complement of plants, animals, and laws of physics. When he'd woken up, he'd been without a stuffy nose, headache, or a really definite picture of how the world worked. Bagels were made with sunshine, his gut drove him around town, and gray scaly creatures tried to eat him. Apparently it wasn't the world that had changed; he'd simply lost his glasses.
Bradley realized he'd been staring at a doughnut and looked up and around. Atty was making solid headway on a chocolate with chocolate and chocolate sprinkles, Chuck was yawning, and Olivia was watching him expectantly.
"What's up?" he asked.
"That's it?" she said.
"I think so."
"This guy you've never met before tells you that the world is completely changed, and you just say 'oh?'"
"Was I supposed to say something else? And, um, that's not what he said."
"He's right," interjected Chuck. "That's not what I said. Besides, like I told you before, I don't have to convert Bradley. Want a doughnut?"
"Yeah. Maple?"
"I think there's one buried," said Atty through a mouthful, managing to make talking with a chocolate doughnut in your cheeks look suave. Bradley sighed and went digging.
Olivia took notes and shook her head. "I don't get you people. You seem so absolutely convinced, but no one will show me a single bit of evidence that you're actually gods or that these worlds you talk about truly exist."
Chuck jerked his head at Olivia, smiling at Bradley. "See?" he said. "She's still wearing glasses."
Olivia rolled her eyes. "Yes, I get it. Your metaphor is not lost on me."
The god leaned forward, looked at the doughnuts meditatively, then pushed the tray away slightly and sat back. "So how did you lose your glasses?"
Bradley chewed on his doughnut and shrugged. Why had he picked maple? He didn't like maple, not in comparison to that chocolate with chocolate and chocolate sprinkles, but he didn't feel he'd come off well in any comparison in Atty, so he chewed and swallowed. "I have no idea. I woke up, and they weren't there. Things were...different."
"Any unusual events? Resurgent childhood trauma? Visit from a maiden aunt who the family has always worried about? You inherited a ring from your short yet exceptionally long-lived uncle who shares your birthday?"
"I don't have an uncle."
Chuck waggled his moustache dismissively. "No maiden aunts, either?"
"All five are married."
"Trauma?"
"Not really. I lost my job. Almost killed a guy."
"On purpose?"
"No. Allergic reaction. It was my first night as a waiter. And my last."
"But the guy didn't die?"
"I don't think so. You know those old jokes where someone yells, 'Is there a doctor in the house?'"
"Yeah."
"There was a nurse. I think he was okay."
"Hmm. Nothing else?"
"Not that I can think of. I mean, there was this thing with my niece, but that was after, as far as I can tell."
"That wasn't traumatic?"
"No. She just had a cold or something." Bradley stopped talking. He was willing to say a lot of stuff, but he wasn't sure yet that he wanted to come out and tell Olivia that he might have healed a baby. First off, she'd probably think he was nuts--not just pathetic--and second, it might come off like he was trying too hard. YEAH, THAT GUY MAY BE AN ANGEL, BUT I HEAL BABIES. AND RESCUE WOUNDED, DWARF PANDAS FROM ANGRY POACHERS. ALSO, THE PANDAS ARE DIABETIC. He kept his mouth shut.
"I'm stumped," said Chuck.
"Me, too," said Atty. "Good doughnuts. Where'd you get them?"
"A place Mr. O recommended."
"Seriously? What did you have to pay for that recommendation?"
"He doesn't do that to other gods, Atty. Just to mortals."
"What did you pay?"
"You don't believe me?"
"I don't believe you."
"Fine. I gave him my third favorite hat."
"Forever?!"
"Just a loaner, but still. That's a good hat."
"No kidding, that's a good hat." Atty looked impressed. "I have to say, though, these doughnuts are worth it. At least the chocolate are." The angel reached for another, and Bradley silently regretted his maple bar yet again.
"Let this be a lesson to you, Bradley," said Chuck. "Gods trade hats for doughnuts. Yes, this world you're seeing for the first time--it's not much different from the world you've known, not in the ways that really matter. You know all the stories about how crazy and stupid and generous and HUMAN all the Greek gods were?"
Bradley nodded. "Some of those stories are nuts."
"Yeah," agreed the god. "Humans ARE nuts. We're all kinds of crazy, humans and gods and fairies, and demons, and all the creatures from all seven of the cities that crowd together and meet." He held out his arms. "Right here in Seven Cities, Wisconsin."
Suddenly it seemed to Bradley as if the walls of the apartment were blown away by a wind, and his eyes were an onion, and the layers were peeled away one at a time, and he could SEE. The world was laid out before him--well, a small part of the world--and he could see the pit of fire that was just next to the library on Third, the mushroom ring in Mrs. Parkington's garden, the slow procession of hungry catipillars weaving a silken trail behind them that stretched between worlds, the unremembered dreams that called out, pulling a small boy back into the city he'd visited before and that he would visit again but that wasn't THIS city--it was another city, in the exact same place, and it was too much to take in, too much detail, and--
Then it was gone. The walls were back, and Bradley was finally sitting all the way back on the couch, breathing heavily.
"We're all a bit crazy," said Divine Chuck, "but we're all a bit good, too. It makes it fun to stick around." The god looked down at his empty wrist. "Look at the time. I need to go. Atty, you'll take care of my guests? Stick around with Bradley a bit, until he's really stablized. Keep the beasties off him until his energies even out, okay?"
"No problem," said the angel.
"Mind if I come along?" asked Olivia. "I haven't had a chance to interview many angels. They always say they're busy."
"We usually are." Atty smiled. Olivia smiled back. Bradley tried to recover. Chuck stood up and walked over, until he was standing over the couch.
"I think you've got some surprises in store, Practicality Bradley Shupak." The god smiled, and Bradley found he could breathe deeply. It was a good feeling, but he didn't feel relieved. He felt intimidated. There was something in Divine Chuck's eyes that spoke of weight and care to come. "Don't stress, Bradley. From what I've seen of you, things are going to get better. You'll pull through. Also, you don't have to finish the maple bar. I don't especially like them either. See? We're all kinds of human, we gods."
Then he was down the hallway and calling goodbye. The door opened, closed, and Divine Chuck was gone.
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