Character Sheets and Waiting: Week Three

Remember those marbled Composition notebooks we used as kids?

You know the ones. Teachers used to make us write 'Journals' during High School. Half way through my junior year I got a pass on writing in mine--as my homeroom teacher Dr. Saltzman said, "I just don't need to know the details of your exploits. I weep for those girls' parents."

But I digress.

I have one of those old-style notebooks for EACH of the main characters for the series.

Part of the fun in making up new stories is character development. I'll give you an example.

Symon Bryson, my lead character and whose point of view the series is told from, lost his parents when he was younger. In fact, they were killed right in front of him. But his character doesn't remember anything from that horrible incident.

Ah. But I do. I've written that entire sequence of events. And what happened during that time will have a profound impact on Symon's psyche in the first few books.

But more then hidden scenes that allow me to play 'I know something you don't know,' the character books keep me from forgetting details.

For example. Symon's old girl friend, Janice, is part Narragansett Indian. Symon's best friend, Aaron, wears glasses. Father Bill Duncan, another friend of Symon's, has a dark secret (to be explored in the second book).

I could go on, but that might spoil the fun. Besides, I reserve the right to change things around in the back histories willy-nilly should the story dictate such a change or if I'm in a bad mood that day.

As long as it's consistent with the story (or, hopefully stories) as presented to the reader.

Consistency. That's also the key to the business of writing.

I was perusing the blog of the agent I submitted my work too, and noticed that she has only gotten up to submissions dated to the 12th of April. Well, that means mine hasn't been read as of yet as I submitted electronically on the 22nd.

You might be wondering what takes so long. And if it weren't for the updates posted on this particular agents blog, I'd be wondering the same thing. And pulling out my hair more then I am.

She receives HUNDREDS of queries. Each one is (or SHOULD be) the same:

1) Professional Query Letter
2) Summary of the book
3) First five pages

Now, assume it takes five minutes for each query. And assume 400 queries a week (which is actually a low number). That's 2000 minutes (or 33.3 hours) a week. That's just READING queries.

This doesn't take into consideration existing clients' needs, publishers, editors, writing conferences and all the other things an agent does during the work week.

So what does this have to do with anything?

Consistency.

The character sheets I've developed allow me to keep the characters consistent from chapter to chapter and from book to book.

The agent's blog updates provide me (as a potential client) with consistent business facts that work across any agency and updates on her progress. Consistent following of the guidelines will get you noticed faster.

Bottom line is consistency leads to better writing for me. My characters are individuals who will develop and grow. The only way that happens is if I keep the core facts straight. The consistent blog reporting by professionals helps me to understand the business of writing. Not to mention keeping me informed as to where my submission is in the queue.

Which keeps the hair on my head consistently in place.

Research Part One: Scouting Locations

It's the weekend....which means time to work on my own little projects as opposed to the job-related ones.

I've been fortunate enough to have done a lot of traveling in my life. When I lived in Europe, I spent a lot of time on planes heading anywhere from South Africa and Dubai to Uruguay and Iceland. It was a crazy time in my life.

And I HATE to fly. But sometimes you suck it up for the opportunity.

What I never realized back then is that all those experiences would be useful to me above and beyond the consulting I was doing at the time.

As planned at the moment, the first three books of the Symon Bryson series will take place primarily in the Boston area. As the dangers and conflicts slowly ramp up, the locations will expand on par with the action.

There are a ton of religions and mythologies out there I want the play with as a part of the arcana chronicles.

Now, like any modern writer (or 'wannabe' writer in my case) Wikipedia (and the Internet in general) is a veritable cornucopia for research material. But eResearch has credibility issues sometimes. A twelve year old posting a Wikipedia entry on particle physics, for example, should probably be fact-checked.

Anyway, I like to do online research backed up by 'pounding the pavement' research. Especially when it comes to locales.

There are too many nuances---smells, culture, foods, etc.-- that need to be experienced to be written about properly.

And I love research.

So I have a few scenes in books two and three that will take place in certain areas of Boston. My partner Tina and I will spend the weekend playing in local neighborhoods, eateries and little corners of the city I want to use later. She's a true sport.

And it's spooky-gloomy outside with misty rain. Peeeeerfect.

Sometimes, I just love my life.

EDIT at 18:30 A few shots that might come in handy:

Thoughts on Fatherhood

Today my son, Brendan, turns fourteen.

FOURTEEN. How the Hell did THAT happen?

Brendan is possibly the sweetest human being on this earth. He is entering his second teenage year and he's still sweet to this very day. Long may his disposition last, although I worry a bit about him being walked over by people. Real life has a way of smacking you in the face sometimes.

Not to be cliche about it, but I remember the day he was born as clear as if it happened yesterday. He was six minutes old when I held him for the first time. I looked into his blue eyes (and scrunched up little face) and said "Hi! I'm your dad. Ready for me to buy you a baseball glove or some Lego?"

I was up all night his first day on this planet and was a little weirded out by the fact that I now had this little eight pound human who totally depended on me.

Fast-forward fourteen years. It's been a pretty cool ride. My son (and daughter who is nine going on 25 and will get her own blog mention on her birthday later this month) has taught me so many amazing things.

That's right. The kids taught ME.

Being a dad taught me patience, responsibility, tenderness, humor, and love. And so many other things.

In essence, being a Dad taught me to be a man.

"I thought this blog was about you trying to become an author, Rich?"

Yeah, yeah. I'm getting to that. Allow an old man to gush over his first born for a bit.

One of my biggest issues when I was younger was the 'Big Idea --Poor Execution' syndrome. I would have all these ideas in my head and never finish them before moving to the next thing. "Oooo! Shiny!"

See, that sort of thing just doesn't work when you have kids. You HAVE to finish what you start for them. There is no other option. Unconditional love is sorta like that.

For many years I put aside writing. Oh the ideas came and went, but the 'new me' knew I couldn't finish what I started (between putting food on the table, school runs, practices etc.) so I didn't write for a long time.

Then, about a year ago my son said to me "Dad, you tell really good stories. You should write them down."

I thought about that for a while. I blogged earlier about books that influenced the concept of the series. But it wasn't until Brendan told me to write stuff down (well that and ongoing support from my partner) that I actually started to 'put fingers to keyboard.'

Now, one year later I'm shopping the first book around and working on more. Will it go anywhere? I don't know.

But what I do know is that I finished a 100,000 word novel. All because a boy who is rapidly approaching manhood taught me to do it.

Thanks son. And happy birthday.

I hope you're not too old for Lego.

Were-roaches and Social Media

The Internet is a funny place. You can find anything out there from the freakish to the geek-ish.

As a part of my foray into writing, I've discovered an entire online world dedicated to the craft. Twitter, Facebook, blogs....they are all out there filled with e-savvy folk at the other end of a computer typing away very happily.

But sometimes it gets pretty strange.

Which leads me to 'Were-roaches.'

Someone in the World Wide Web of insanity, connected to the writing industry, tweeted about Were-roaches. Not Werewolves. Not Were-goats.

Were-roaches.

I thought it was hysterical. So as a bit of a challenge to myself, I decided to write a quick 'n' dirty short story. About,--you guessed it. Were-roaches.

Have a laugh and enjoy. And if you are reading this at night, you might want to keep the light on.

"...THERE Roaches!"

Janet Mercer sat nervously sipping her black and tan in McSorley’s Old Ale house on 7th Street in the East Village of Manhattan a few doors from her cheap apartment house. The famous pub was filled with old trinkets from decades past. There were a pair of handcuffs attached to the bar rail--said to have belonged to the great Houdini. There were wishbones hanging above the bar. Young soldiers heading off to World War One supposedly placed them there. Those ‘dough-boys’ who had come home safely had collected their wishbones back. Far too many remained unclaimed.

Although the history of the ale house had always fascinated the young aspiring actress from Wisconsin, tonight the normally chatty and inquisitive Janet sat alone in a dark corner nursing her half-pints aimlessly running her fingers over decades-old graffiti carved into the thick butcher-block table.

Janet ignored the hellos that normally led to hours of conversation and laughter. She even didn’t react in the normal mock-indignation she feigned to the delight of the elderly regulars when they booed every woman coming out of the ladies restroom. New York had made McSorley’s put in a ladies room back in the seventies much to the chagrin of it’s all male clientele.

The history, the conversations, the good-natured needling didn’t matter. Not this evening. Not when a full moon was only a few hours away.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, the door to the old pub opened and the ancient brass bell tinkled signaling the arrival of another customer.

A heavy-set man wearing greenish-gray dirty cover-alls walked into the pub. He was about five foot six, wore coke bottle glasses and had long thin greasy hair tied in a ponytail. He was unshaven and a bit grimy, with dark stains scattered sporadically over his one piece. He looked like a sanitation worker who’d gotten off a long shift. A filty, sewed on name tag said ‘Dinklespot.’

The man looked around the room, his dark beady eyes adjusting to the dim light of the ale house. His gaze found Janet, and he walked over to her and sat down without an invitation.

“Ms. Mercer?” he said in a high-whiney sort of voice.

“Yes,” Janet replied tentatively.

“Dinklespot,” he said. “I understand you have a problem.”

Janet looked over the man and her resolve waned a bit. She’d been in her little apartment for almost three months and had experience the strangeness of two full moons. Janet had been dreading a third experience due this evening, when she had come across a little flyer that had been posted on the street lamp outside her building:

SCARED OF THE FULL MOON?

I CAN HELP

LEAVE WHERE AND WHEN

(212) 555-2847

She had rang the number and left a message to meet her at McSorley’s. She might be from a little town in Wisconsin, but she wasn’t stupid. A public place was always the best place to meet up with strangers.

Janet looked over Dinklespot a second time. “I think this might have been a mistake. I’m sorry to have wasted your time...” she began to stand when the strange man grasped her arm.

“When the moon is full it happens,” whispered Dinklespot intensely. You hear strange noises after midnight. You’re afraid to leave your bedroom. The next morning, your things are strewn about the apartment and all your food; even what’s in the refrigerator, is gone. Am I right?”

Janet slowly sat down.

“Is there a problem, lassie?” called an Irish brogue from behind the bar.

“No, it’s fine, Seamus,” Janet called back.

In a lower voice she said to the man, “Everyone at the restaurant thinks I’m crazy. But I’ve never been so scared in my life.”

Dinklespot nodded knowingly and released Janet’s arm.

“Every full moon for the last couple of months, it’s happened,” began Janet rapidly, throwing the explanation out there as if an auction caller. “I can’t sleep, I can’t eat. Oh Mr. Dinklespot, what’s happening?”

“Were-roaches,” he said simply.

“What?” asked Janet confused.

“Scourge of the city,” said Dinklespot. “Were-roaches.”

“What the Hell are ware-roaches?” sputtered Janet out loud. Patrons at the surrounding tables turned to look at her.

“Shhh!” Hissed Dinklespot. “You’ve heard of werewolves?”

“Sure,” Janet said, her voice breaking slightly. “I have an audition for a werewolf musical tomorrow, in fact. But I’ve never heard of where...where...”

“Were-roaches,” said Dinklespot seriously. “Same concept as werewolves, only smaller with more legs. I’ve made it my mission to take care of them.” Dinklespot shook his head.

“It’s personal, so don’t ask,” he added.

“Can you help me?” Janet asked miserably.

“The moon is almost up and it will be midnight soon. Let’s get my gear,” said Dinklespot in reply.

* * *

Janet fumbled nervously with the key to her apartment building. She and Dinklespot had retrieved a large, black gym bag from the back of a dilapidated white Ford van parked on seventh.

“I’m sorry, I’m just... ya know...just really nervous,” said Janet as she finally got the key into the lock and turned. The front door opened with an ominous creak.

“No problem, ma’am. Happens all the time in my line of work,” said Dinklespot as they entered the converted brownstone.

They made there way up two flights of stairs. The building smelled musty and the dim glow of a single bare light bulb threw shadows that seemed to follow the two mockingly as they made their way to Janet’s apartment.

Fumbling again with her keys, she finally let them inside. Janet’s little apartment was typical of an East Village conversion. The entryway opened into a small living room/dining room combo with beat up hardwood floors. A galley kitchen with cheap wood paneled cabinets and avocado-colored appliances was off to the right. The place was sparsely furnished with a rickety card table with folding chairs and a paisley-patterned couch. A small television sat on top of a plastic milk case in the corner.

“It’s not much,” Janet said. “But the price was right. Can you really help me Mr. Dinklespot?”

The little man smiled. “I’m a professional, ma’am.”

He sat his gym bag down in the center of the room, unzipped it and pulled out two cans of what looked like bug spray. They were black with no labeling with silver plastic tops.

“What’s that?” asked Janet.

“My own concoction,” said Dinklespot. “Silver nitrate mixed with RAID.”

“And that will kill these...were-roaches?”

“Oh heavens no,” said Dinklespot as if speaking to a slow child. “They don’t like the stuff so they’ll go around it. I’ll spray it around the baseboards of the place, leaving open a spot in the living room here. Then we’ll bait the trap.”

The man went about his work, humming tunelessly to himself as he sprayed the silver RAID around the apartment. While he was in her bedroom, Janet took a peak in Dinklespot’s gym bag. It seemed to contain more cans of the were-roach spray and a white plastic garbage bag that smelled slightly foul. Before she could investigate further, the man came back into the living room.

“Right,” he said. “That should do it. Now for the bait, and then we wait for midnight.” Dinklespot reached into his gym bag and pulled out the white plastic. He unwrapped it and plopped a large piece of raw meat right in the center of the floor.

Janet wrinkled her nose in disgust.

“Is that really necessary?” she asked choking back a bit of bile from the now overwhelming stench.

“Only the best will get them all out,” said Dinklespot. “And I want all of them tonight.”

Trying to only breath from her mouth, Janet said, “We really haven’t talked about your fee, Mr. Dinklespot. Maybe if you could tell me what you charge I can head out to an ATM to get you cash...?”

“Oh no,” he said. “There is no charge. I told you. This is my passion. I’ve been looking for the nest in this area for a while.”

Janet coughed as she mistakenly used her nose to breathe. “Then maybe I should leave you to it and come back when the job is...”

“Please stay,” said Dinlespot. “After all, you want to be sure the job is done right, don’t you?”

Janet thought about the last two full moons and shuddered. “Yeah, I guess so.”

The two fell into silence for the next three-quarters of an hour. As midnight approached, Janet asked. “So. If the bug spray doesn’t kill them, how do you get rid of the were-roaches? Cut their little heads off?”

“No,” said Dinklespot. “That would just leave a bunch of headless were-roaches running around. You’ll see.” And with that, the man fell silent once more.

The church bells down the street began to chime. Midnight of the full moon was finally here. Janet suddenly felt cold, and goose flesh popped up and down her arms. She moved closer to Dinklespot.

“Do you hear it?” he whispered.

Janet cocked her head to one side and listened. A ‘scritch-scritch’ sound was coming from behind the baseboards. The sound was all around them.

“I left a little open spot right over there,” Dinklespot said pointing near Janet’s TV.

The apartment lights were off, only the moonlight that streamed in through the dusty window illuminated the apartment. But even through the dim gloom, Janet could make out movement in the corner Dinklespot had indicated.

A cockroach came out from behind the TV. Hesitant at first, then with more confidence it skittered across the floor toward the raw feast in the center of the room. The bug crossed into the windowpane-shaped moonlight reflection on the floor and stopped dead in its tracks.

Antennae twitching, the bug began to shake. Then there was a light ‘crack’ sound as it’s hard, brown shell-like body split from head to thorax. The little creature let out a tiny howl.

“Oh God...that’s what I heard!” stammered Janet.

The exoskeleton of the roach split even wider, and the little creature seemed to expand in size. Crawling out of the shattered roach was something that looked like a cross between a tarantula and a nightmare. A hairy, six-legged creature easily three times the size of the original roach slowly made it’s way out of the ruins of the bug. The transformation complete, the were-roach reared up on its hind legs and gave a high-pitched howl, snapping its fangs hungrily.

From behind the baseboard, hundreds of tiny muffled howls answered the cry.

“Jesus Christ!” exclaimed Jane. “Do something Dinklespot!”

“Patience, ma’am,” said the man quietly. “We want them all, remember?”

There was a deeper, somehow more menacing scuttling from behind the baseboards and the creatures made there way to the only exit provided by Dinklespot. The little TV fell off it’s egg crate as the baseboard exploded behind it and hundreds of the little fury monsters poured into the apartment. Janet screamed.

The creatures, howling and snarling as they went, made a beeline toward the trap Dinklespot had set. Within seconds the meat was devoured.

“Dinklespot!” screamed Janet.

“Oh, you’ve been very bold,” said Dinklespot in a cooing voice. “It’s time to go home.”

“What are you talking about?” shouted Janet in horror. “Kill them!”

“Kill them?” said Dinklespot. “What are you, some sort of monster? You don’t kill children!”

With that, the little man opened the zipper on his overalls. He let out a little grunt as his bare chest began to pulsate. The skin on his sternum split bloodlessly and large, hairy insect like limbs began to rip apart Dinklespot’s flesh from the inside.

“Come my children!” hissed a voice from the chest cavity. “First you may feast on the female, then we will go home!”

“Fuck this,” spat Janet as the little horrors turned toward her. She dove for the gym bag. Grabbing cans of silver RAID in each hand she prayed. Then sprayed.

Squeals of pain came from the little were-roaches as silvery foam touched their skin. Janet sprayed at anything that moved.

“No!” Hissed the Dinklespot-bug, still only halfway out of it’s human flesh cocoon. “Don’t hurt them! Bitch!”

The larger were-roach struggled frantically to extract itself from its human form. Tossing away the now empty cans, Janet scooped up two more and walked over to Dinklespot, stepping over its squealing off-spring. She flipped the silver tops off both cans and emptied the contents right into the face of the the Dinkle-were-roach.

A loud howl of pain was followed immediately by the were-roach flopping out from Dinklespot’s chest. The human body fell to the floor with a sickly thud as a bug the size of a small dog; now covered in bubbling welts, also fell twitching to the hardwood. For each loud bellow the large were-roach gave, the smaller creatures mimicked the sound with their higher-pitched voices.

Janet, realizing the hoard of smaller were-roaches were connected to their parent, dropped the second set of bug spray cans to the ground and ran into her little kitchen. She grabbed a large butcher knife from the counter and raced back into the living room.

Lifting the knife high over her head, Janet brought the blade down and cut off the Dinklespot-were-roaches’ head with one stroke.

The hundreds of smaller creatures let out a simultaneous screech, then went silent. Hundreds of little bodies twitched all over Janet’s apartment.

The head of the large were-roach rolled around for a moment and settled in front of the would-be actress, six eyes staring at Janet.

It laughed.

“I told you cutting heads off wouldn’t help!” it hissed.

The headless body of the Dinkle-were-roach began to move. Janet didn’t hesitate. With one big leap, she jumped and landed both feet on the large body. Guts splashed everywhere.

She stepped out of the disgusting mess, breathing heavy and looked around. None of the smaller were-roaches were moving. They were all dead.

Janet wiped sweat off her brow, breathing heavily. “How am I going to explain this to the landlord?” she panted.

A weak hiss answered her. “I’d worry more about the were-queen when she finds out what you’ve done,” said Dinklespot-bug as it died.

END

One of those nights...

Sometimes when I get on a roll, I can't 'switch off.' I've gotten much better over the years, but every once in a while I have a night like last night...Wrote and brainstormed (brain tinkle?) for a few hours last night...fell into bed for a few fitful hours of sleep, then up after a lot of processing and subconscious musings with only the glow of the laptop and one of the cats for company.

Oh. And coffee. Lots and lots of coffee.

While I go put another pot on, here is the next chapter of the book. Sorry for the formatting...but at 3:16 AM, I'm not as concerned for some reason as I normally would be. ;-)

CHAPTER TWO

I thought it was interesting that Peter had sent away our two bodyguards with the police presence in front of St. Ignatius. It confirmed my suspicion that the bodyguards were around for more then conventional protection...which in turn meant they could probably take care of themselves in situations outside the norm. I’ll have to take a closer look at those two later. I wonder how Charles found them?

I followed Peter at a slight jog toward the church, spotting a cluster of three of Cambridge’s finest near the main entrance. As we got closer I could see that the large oak doors that lead directly into the sanctuary had been damaged, with one hanging at a strange angle off of one hinge and the other seemingly missing altogether. There was nothing easy about kicking in two fourteen-foot-high five hundred pound doors. Trust me. I tried to do that very thing many years ago. My foot still hurts every time it’s about to rain.

As we reached the steps, Peter said calmly, “Good evening officers,” to the uniformed men who were quietly conversing near the vandalized front entrance as he reached the main steps. “I’m Father Fine. What seems to be the problem?”

Oh I don’t know Peter, I thought really loudly. Something large and strong beat down the freakin’ front doors of the church. I must be getting mature in my old age as I didn’t actually say it out loud. Peter, on the other hand, had always been the consummate diplomat.

One of the cops, a guy with the sergeant stripes on his shoulder, muttered something to the other two and they chuckled softly. The hairs on the back of my neck bristled. What was so funny about a vandalized church, bub? Again, I kept my mouth shut. The officer that had made a comment to his compatriots came down the steps toward us. He was wearing one of those fake smiles that showed everything but mirth.

“Good evening Father,” he said with a silky, accusing voice that made me want to hit him. But I’m mature, so I just sent daggers toward him via a withering glare. “A few of the neighbor’s called in a disturbance.” He continued as he thumbed behind him at the entranceway. “We responded a few minutes ago and discovered the mess with the doors and were waiting for permission to enter from our commanding officer. He went in alone as no one from the church responded to our calls.” The cop paused. “Father.” As if adding the title made his sarcastic tone acceptable. The officer looked down his nose at Peter. The cop was a big guy, six feet or so, maybe fortyish. He had the graying temples and slight paunch of a man that used to work out, but has gone to seed as he approached middle age. He looked quizzically at Peter. “Mind telling me why no one seems to be here? And while you’re at it, mind telling me where you’ve been and who your companion is?” I could hear the camel howl in pain as the final straw broke his back.

Now I know I’m a bit disrespectful. And I haven’t been the best Catholic in a very long time. And Peter is particularly fun to take the piss out of, as they say in my current home city of Dublin. And, did I mention? I have a real issue with disrespectful, piss-taking authority figures?

So that’s when my brain heard my mouth say, “We’ve been at the Policeman’s charity ball. We’re raising money to buy you a pair.” I guess I’m not as mature as I thought.

The next thing my brain registered was pain as the middle-aged sergeant--who without missing a beat--spun me around, pinned my arms to my back and slammed my face down on the hood of one of the patrol cars. I guess I need to work on my delivery.

As I was playing astronomy by watching the stars dance across my vision, and tried to catch a bit of drool that was about to fall out of my mouth, Peter continued the conversation as if I hadn’t just been jacked onto the hood of a police cruiser.

“Well, Sergeant,” he said calmly. “I was coming back from the airport having picked up my guest whom you currently have…at a disadvantage. The Monsignor is inside, so I’m sure he could have…”

That’s when I heard another voice, one I hadn’t heard in a long time. One that made my head ache even more then it already did.

“That’s enough sergeant,” said a calm almost bored voice. I’ll take it from here. Please go round up the rest of the men and tell them to pack it in. I want reports on my desk by morning.”

“Yes sir!” said the officer behind me. He tightened his grip a bit more, causing a numbing feeling to spread from my shoulders to my fingertips.

“You can let Mr. Bryson up, sergeant.” That same maddening calm voice again. “I think I can handle him.”

I stood up, rubbing my jaw and nonchalantly wiping a bit of spittle from my lip. I was slightly surprised to see that my head hadn’t left a dent in the hood of the patrol car. My back creaked as I’d stood. I waited a moment, and realizing the man wasn’t going to just go away as I had hoped, I turned to stare at him.

He was tall, taller then I had remembered, and rail thin. Clean shaven with a short slightly spiked haircut the officer...no, detective I corrected myself as I saw the color of the badge... was dressed in a grey two-piece suit with the gold badge clipped to his jacket pocket. He shifted a pair of Benjamin Franklin styled specs up the bridge of his nose absent-mindedly. He’d been doing that since age seven. “Hey.” I said, meeting his steady gaze.

“Hey,” he replied. We stood in silence for a moment.

“Congrats on making detective,” I said looking him in the eyes. Aaron North, my best friend from childhood, my right hand man as a young adult and complete bastard-- and I meant that literally as well as figuratively-- stood with his hands on his hips looking me over with that prissy ‘I don’t approve’ look. Hated that. Broke his nose when we were thirteen for that same look.

“Symon. I didn’t think you’d actually come. I heard you were doing major good works in Dublin, tending bar and running minor cons. How the mighty have fallen.” He said matter-of-factly. Prick.

“I see you are still playing Cops ‘n Robbers,” I said as I turned toward him. “But now you have the cheap suit to go with it.” I pride myself on my witty repartee.

Peter, probably sensing that things might be heading rapidly down a rabbit hole, leaned into me and whispered loud enough for Aaron to hear, “Symon, you’ve been here for less then an hour. Please don’t get yourself arrested your first night in town. That would be a record, even for you.”

I laughed. I couldn’t help myself. Peter had the exact same look on his face now as when he’d caught Aaron and I trying to sneak back into our dormitory at four in the morning having spent an evening with Harvard co-eds. We’d been fourteen at the time.

Aaron laughed too and I could see the tension leaving his face. It didn’t mean we were all right, mind you. It just meant we weren’t going to beat the Hell out of each other. For now.

“Aaron, what’s happening here? I’ve only been gone for a couple of hours to bring Symon back from the airport. And where is the Monsignor?” Peter asked.

“Father,” Aaron said, shifting back to a more formal tone, “We received a call that St. Ignatius was being vandalized. But by the time we got here, the person or persons responsible were gone. We found the main doors to the sanctuary knocked almost completely off their hinges and I found some minor damage inside. We haven’t seen the Monsignor. In fact, we haven’t seen anyone associated with the church until you walked up. Come, let me show you.”

We headed up the stairs, Aaron, now all business. Our moment of shared jocularity gone. And I was Ok with that. We walked together through the ruined threshold of the Sanctuary and stopped dead. Peter was looking around with a curious expression on his face, but Aaron was now looking at me. I shivered as a chill had gone up and down my spine as soon as we had entered.

“You felt it too then,” he said simply. There was something dirty surrounding us, something old. There was a stagnant, musty feel to the air and the stench of sulfur and decay. I may have been out of the game for a while, but once trained in the arts, you can miss signs of magic. Whatever had desecrated the church was still here.

“Aaron,” I said, still looking around. The choir loft, maybe? “Aaron, make sure your people are out of the area. Now.”

As calm as could be, Aaron popped on his little radio. “This is Detective North. All units head back to the precinct. I’ll meet you there shortly.” Acknowledgements could be heard from the little speaker of the radio. I could hear the sound of cars pulling away through the gaping hole left when the doors had been ripped off. The three of us didn’t move.

Peter, Aaron and I continued to search the church with our senses, barely breathing as if any movement would draw attention to ourselves. Low-level evening lighting and the flickering glow of candles made the shadows dance and move in a foreboding way.

“I have him.” A scratchy inhuman voice said simply. All three of us jumped back, me crashing into Aaron. Mirthless laughter rang throughout the sanctuary. Whatever it was had sounded like it was standing next to me, whispering in my ear like some sort of demented lover. “He left himself open to me and he is mine.” There was a sound like the flapping of large, leathery wings and then nothing. The smell began to dissipate.

“Jesus Christ!” Aaron exclaimed. “What the Hell was that?”

It was all happening too fast. I’d given up this life a decade ago, yet less then two hours after getting off a plane I was knee-deep in ghoulies, ghosties and all manner of beasties.

Thinking furiously, I tried to put the pieces together in my head. Charles had been in trouble. So much so, that he’d had Peter contact the only people he could trust that would help him despite the years of estrangement. Something evil had entered a church, which, knowing the rules of the demon shadow-world I’d been involved in most of my adolescence and early adulthood, should have been impossible.

There was an audible series of echoing clicks and the church lit up in all its glory. Peter had thankfully found the lights and flipped on. Aaron hadn’t left my side and I just noticed he’d drawn his automatic. I blinked in the sudden light and began to survey the church in detail. With the evil sensation gone, I could focus on our surroundings. Other then the front doors, nothing in the main hall looked out of place or disturbed. I noticed much of the interior hadn’t changed since I’d last stepped inside. But something was bugging me. It took me a jet-lagged moment, then it hit me. I’d never seen the place quite so empty before. Usually at anytime of the day or night, there were both parishioners and church staff of varying degrees and numbers inside.

Aaron turned to me and said, “Stay here Symon. I’m going to take a look around.”

“Like Hell,” I responded. No way he was going anywhere by himself, gun or no gun. We made our way toward the alter down the center isle. As Aaron respectfully genuflected and made the sign of the cross, I glanced around to see where Peter had gotten to. For the moment he was out of sight and that worried me a bit.

I looked over to Aaron about to ask him if he’d seen our priest friend, when Peter’s voice, a half an octave higher then normal, rang out.

“Boys! Come back here. There is something you need to see.”

His voice came off from our right and Aaron and I went behind the alter through the door that lead to the choir room and the church offices.

We hurried down the corridor and saw that the door at the end of the hall was open. Charles’ sanctum sanctorum. We both got to the doorway at the same time and I slowed down long enough to let Aaron go through first. What? He’s the one with the gun!

Entering Charles’ study I came to a complete stop. Peter was there, standing speechless and I could immediately see why. The room had been torn apart. Not a single piece of furniture was left intact. And inscribed in what looked like blood on the walls, ceiling and floor were symbols that were unintelligible to me. But instinct told me that whatever had taunted us in the church had written the cryptic letters and symbols. There were a lot of them. And a lot of blood (if that’s indeed what it was) had been used.

Quietly, Peter said, “What, in all that is holy does it mean?”

I looked again at all the foul writing and said just as quietly, “Well I’m no expert, Peter. But I’m guessing it means Charles has been taken. The Monsignor’s gone.”

Rigid Structure Vs. Creativity (Or "Man vs. Himself")

Now that the water "crisis" is over and caffeinated goodness flows freely again, I'll get back to the writing process.

There is a lot of pre-work I do before the actually writing part begins. There is 'The Idea'--that moment that happens and you stop everything, usually followed by me saying "Oh Sh--!"

Sometimes the ideas are good, sometimes not. But I DO love that feeling. Unfortunately for my dog Jack, it usually occurs when I'm walking him and it happens five feet from his favorite fire hydrant. He's such a patient pooch.

Anyhoo--Then there is research and fiddling with the idea (or ideas) to flesh them out. Which brings me to today's topic of structure vs. creativity.

Your standard outline taught in school never worked for me. You know the one--Start with Capital Roman numerals, then letters and numbers and lower case roman numerals and...so on. Boring stuff really.

My training and schooling was based on engineering, math and architecture. I'm a very visual type of guy, so I needed to find something to use that would work for me. I needed a brainstorming method that would allow me to play with structure, yet provide the framework to fully flesh out a story.

During my 'research writers I like' phase, I came across Jim Butcher's blog (http://jimbutcher.livejournal.com/). Now if you haven't read his 'Dresden Files' series, I highly recommend it. But his outline method to organize his writing was more visual in nature. And I liked it.

But I'm also a geek...so using a computer with the sort of visual Approach Jim uses seemed to be the way to go. So I looked for an application for my trusty Macbook Pro that would combine what Mr. Butcher suggested with what I wanted to see.

Enter a program called 'Mindmapper' by Mind Jet, introduced to me by a colleague at my day job. I'm able to put in quickly where I want to go, what I want the characters to accomplish. I can even put together a few scenes I have in my head. Like I said, I'm trained as an engineer, so seeing a 'visual' construct of the story is important to me. And that's what Mindmapper does.

Ahhhh. But do I STICK to the outline?

Sorta. Sometimes when I'm actually filling in the details, something changes. Maybe a character steps up in my head and says "Yeah....I should do abc vs xyz." Or the monster ends up having a heart of gold. With Mindmapper, I can switch ideas and scenes around quickly to see the impact to the overall story. And that works for me.

Yes, I love structure. But I also love when the unexpected creativity happens. That's why I say it's Man vs Himself. It's my two loves (when it comes to writing) colliding. Sometimes the result is a train wreck.

But sometimes...sometimes a whole new idea manifests. And Jack will wait patiently once again to get to his hydrant.

Tomorrow-Chapter Two.

Do a little rant, write a little love, get down tonight...

People suck.

Cynical? Maybe. But true nonetheless.

Thirty towns, including Boston where I live, are under a 'boil water' order due to a major break in the main water supply that feeds the area. So ok, it's a little inconvenient, but T and I are boiling water for our use etc. So why do people suck?

We have a home-bound elderly neighbor who is the sweetest person in the world. But at 95, she's a bit frail and occasionally needs help. She's far too stubborn to ask for it so we just do what we do and check in with her.

So, knowing there is a water issue, T and I went out to get her a couple of cases of water.

Well, we got to Costco and I swear to God you'd have thought the Apocalypse was upon us. People were hoarding water at a disgusting rate. Thirty-forty cases were being hauled out at a time. In most instances, these cases were being loaded into a BMW SUV or an Escalade.

Now granted, a couple people we ran into were getting water for a daycare they ran, or (like us) were stocking up for neighbors who couldn't get out. At least that's what they told us. It was a very small minority.

But most of the water hogs were wealthy--or at least middle class-- folks who 'couldn't be bothered' boiling their own water.

"All for one, and one for me."

Imagine if there was a really big crisis...it just goes to show you that despite our civilized trappings, most people are feral by nature.

You can bet your sweet bottom my observations and sense of disgust from this experience will make it into my writing.

Yes I'm speaking to YOU Mister Ed Hardy wearing, fake tan, capped teeth bastard. I've already got a name for you picked out for my next book. And yes. You suck.