How’d you do? I didn’t do so well myself. I couldn’t get over that 35k block fast enough (or indeed, at all), and when I looked around last week for the motivation to persevere, I just couldn’t find it. What I’d built so far felt so disconnected, it may as well have been 9 chapters from 5 different novels. It didn’t seem worth continuing just to prove that I could do it. So I didn’t.

But!

I did write over 31,000 words this month, which is considerable and much more than I’ve written in quite a while. While I’m not considering this a “win” by any means, it’s definitely progress, and at the end of the day, taking a step forward with your writing, no matter if it’s a thousand words or fifty thousand, is really what it’s all about.

So welcome to December! It’s time for chores and books and other writing projects you’ve been neglecting for the last 30 days!

Fuzzy Typewriter proudly presents The Deceptionists: Truth through Fiction!

In this episode Caroline, Kelly,  Jim and Dave talk about what happens when you get into a Cluster-F.U.C.! (That’s “Fiction Under Construction,” you know.)

Subscribe in iTunes.

Music on this episode:

Won’t Give Up without a Fight by Eli “Paperboy” Reed And The True Loves
Don’t Give Up on Me by Solomon Burke

And visit Dave’s comic book website: http://sparrowandcrowe.com.

I’ll even put up some fancy widgets once they come online. If you’d rather not see your word count on the leaderboard, just let me know and I’ll take you off. LIkewise, if you’ve buddied up with me and I haven’t added you to this list, don’t take it personally. I’m just dense. Shoot me an email or a tweet and I’ll get you added.

Have a great November and may the word count be ever in your favor!

The Deceptionists:
Kelly
Jim (who is probably doing it, but doesn’t want to be all public about it)
Dave?
(Caroline is sitting this one out, but still using the month to focus on writing goals)

The Peanut Gallery:
Mizzelle
CeeKayEll/Chris
(Special Guest Star) Sigrid
WeaklyRoll/Kyle
Shaun

Fuzzy Typewriter proudly presents The Deceptionists: Truth through Fiction!

In this episode Caroline, Kelly,  Jim and Dave discuss NaNoWriMo — National Novel Writing Month! Plus, Dave shares details on his new Kickstarter project and asks for your help!

Subscribe in iTunes.

Music on this episode:

Pledging My Time by Bob Dylan
There is No Time by Lou Reed

And visit Dave’s comic book website: http://sparrowandcrowe.com.

The book is an occult mystery centered around the possessed daughter of a Los Angeles mob boss. The story mixes crime noir with pulpy horror, as occult detective Doctor Xander Crowe and his assistant Sparrow find themselves caught between Hell and the mob, facing Crowe’s greatest failure… and worst enemy.

This is a creator-owned venture, and the comics market is a tricky one. So, to that end, we’ve launched a Kickstarter project to help us raise money for costs associated with the production and marketing of our comic book.

Click here to visit our Kickstarter site!

Click here to visit our Sparrow & Crowe comic website!

If you’re curious about our characters, they are two of the main protagonists from my audio drama, Wormwood: A Serialized Mystery, which ran from 2007-2010 — and is still available on iTunes. Visit wormwoodshow.com for more information.

In this episode Caroline, Kelly and Jim are joined by writer/editor Sigrid Ellis to discuss writing historical fiction. Also: Sigrid shows her work!

Subscribe in iTunes.

Music on this episode:

English Curse by Frank Turner
Ring of Fire by Social Distortion

And here’s some additional information and links with work from our special guest, Sigrid Ellis:

Sigrid’s blog: http://sigridellis.wordpress.com/

Sigrid’s short story, “No Return Address”: http://strangehorizons.com/2010/20101129/return-f.shtml

Whedonistas, a book Sigrid contributed to: http://madnorwegian.com/19/books/whedonistas-a-celebration-of-the-worlds-of-joss-whedon-by-the-women-who-love-them/

Cloudy with a Chance of MURDER

“Chip” Chapman opened his bleary eyes at the sound of the maid’s shrieks and—after several seconds too many—got around to realizing that he was wet.

The splash as he bolted upright informed him that he was more than just wet, in fact: until a second ago, Chip had been submerged up to his shoulders sound asleep in the hot tub of the Marriott Courtyard hotel. As his temples throbbed with hot agony and the maid continued trying to give him a heart attack, his eyes darted haphazardly around the courtyard and he struggled desperately to pinpoint the last thing he remembered.

It had all started in the hotel bar. Chip and his cameraman, Bill, had met downstairs for a few badly needed drinks after trying to cover the Overland Park Tornado for News Channel 7 and barely escaping with their lives. Going into meteorology, Chip had always seen himself spending his days staring at radar readings in a cushy office chair and spending his nights standing in front of a green screen, telling Kansas City whether it would be wise to bring a sweater to work. He’d never factored in those early years of his career, the years when he’d be the low man on the local news totem pole. He had a master’s degree in atmospheric physics, but until the chief weatherman got a better gig or retired, he would be the storm chasing shlub whose job was to take a camera out in the blizzard so people would know it was snowing outside. That night, this glamorous job had nearly gotten him impaled by a “No Parking” sign on live TV. This had rattled Bill a bit and rattled Chip a whole hell of a lot. “A few drinks” quickly became “quite a few drinks,” which became “telling the bartender to leave the bottle,” which apparently became “blacking out in a tepid hot tub.”

The chill of the air conditioning informed Chip that he was naked. His suit, tie, and telegenic yellow rain slicker were folded neatly on a lounge chair by the pool. At least he’d had that much sense.

Chip looked down. The opaque water was the color of rust. Across from him in the water sat Bill, his tongue bulging from his bloated, plum-colored face. Bill’s shocked, bug-eyed expression was no doubt due in large part to the red, studded dog collar buckled tightly around his windpipe.

This was an awful lot to take in all at once. Chip hurtled out of the water like it had been electrified.

“Wait wait wait! Hang on! It’s okay, it’s okay!” he called after the poor middle-aged maid, who had promptly abandoned her cart and bolted down the corridor upon taking in Chip’s nude, apparently bloodstained body. He meant his words to be reassuring, but they came out more like frantic screams.

He was starting to remember some kind of tussle after the bartender cut them off. Had they fought? Had they not fought? Had they actually started getting along very well indeed? And where the hell did Bill get a dog collar in the middle of a tornado? Was that just something he had on him at all times? Just in case?

One clear thought penetrated Chip’s mental fog: once the maid ran into someone or remembered she had a cell phone, his life would be coming to a spectacular end.

His eyes dashed from Bill to the lounge chair and back again, and he made a snap decision: he had worked too hard to lose his freedom and reputation over something he didn’t even remember doing. If he even did it at all! He was covered in cuts and bruises; for all he knew, that was his blood circulating through the jets.

Chip decided not to think about that for the time being.

He looked up. It was clear from the dark gray skylight that it was not yet dawn. Assuming Bill wasn’t as heavy as he looked, there was still a chance to get him out of there before anyone else happened by and recognized them. He just hoped to God that the keys to the news van were still in Bill’s pocket. Figuring out what had happened could wait until the Marriott was distant in the rearview mirror.

By midday, Chip would be back on Channel 7, only this time they would be filming him on the freeway from a helicopter.

In this episode Caroline, Dave and Jim are joined by crime novelist, blogger and podcaster, Jay Stringer, to discuss writing CRIME. Also: Jim shows his work!

Subscribe in iTunes.

Music on this episode:
Blue and Green by Miles Davis
Smooth Criminal by Michael Jackson

In this episode Caroline, Kelly and token male Dave are joined by guest Sarah Kuhn to discuss the Romance genre. We talk about Sarah’s book, One Con Glory, as well as the romance novel Compromised by Kate Noble. Also: Caroline shows her work!

Subscribe in iTunes.

Music on this episode:
A Fine Romance by Billie Holiday
Lovesong by Adele

In this episode Dave, Paul and Caroline are joined by scientist Ryan Haupt to discuss the science and the fiction of the genre we call SCI-FI. Also: Dave shows his work, and we answer a listener question from Twitter!

(Right click on icon and save to download to your desktop.)

Subscribe in iTunes.

Music on this episode:
Weird Science by Oingo Boingo
She Blinded Me with Science by Thomas Dolby
(C’mon, like we weren’t gonna use this slice of ’80s goodness?)

In this episode Kelly, Paul and Jim enter into a quest to discover the secrets of the FANTASY genre. And Kelly shows her work! Prepare thy swords and spellbooks, adventurers, and join our merry band!

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Subscribe in iTunes.

Music on this episode:
Immigrant Song by Led Zeppelin
The Beast and Dragon, Adored by Spoon

And it unspooled from there; a fully formed fairy tale about a tailor and a knight who meet in a bar. It’s one of the easiest things I’ve written recently—and I’m not talking about quality here, that’s another (ahem) story. I’m just talking about the ease with which the words tumbled out.

I’m not sure why this is, but I think it’s because I decided to write a fairy tale. Fairy tales are often the stories with which we are most familiar, having been inundated since childhood. In fact, in my case, I think a large part of this is due to the fact that my mom was an elementary school teacher.

My sister and I had a lot of children’s books growing up—many used in classes my mom taught before having kids. Once I learned to read, one of my absolute favorites, however, was a huge hardbound turquoise-colored tome that my mom had assigned as a textbook in college. I don’t recall the name of it, but it was a dictionary-sized anthology of myths and fairy tales and children’s stories. These stories ranged from Norse myths to Grimm’s fairy tales to segments of books like Bedknobs and Broomsticks.

I think I indirectly attribute this story to my fascination and familiarity with the many stories in that volume.

Enough preamble? Okay, let’s go.

—

The Tailor and The Knight

by David Accampo

Once there was a very small town, which had been named after a river or a large rock or the sound the wind makes as it blows through the trees in October. The town was very secluded, and having no reason to refer to the town as anything other than “home,” the inhabitants had long since forgotten its name.

The townsfolk did remember the name of the bar, as it was the only place to spend Saturday nights. It was called “The Bar,” which is what was written in large black letters on the wooden sign that hung over the door in case anyone forgot.

There was a tailor who lived in the town. He mended and sewed, and he was quite good at his job, though unremarkable in every other respect.  He was of average height, average weight, his eyes were colorless, and his hair never quite needed a haircut (but was always just on the verge).  He had a wife of whom he was fond, and a son upon whom he doted.

He had always assumed his business, which was appropriately called “The Tailor,” would one day be handed over to his son, and he had thus taught his son the tailor’s art from the moment he could hold a line of thread between his chubby thumb and forefinger.

But alas, the tailor’s son, whose name was Needle, had grown into a young man pained by a deep ache in his chest that suggested that life must have importance. He spent long hours staring out at the dense green trees that framed the single road leading in and out of town. The townsfolk hadn’t actually traveled very far down the road in as long as anyone could remember. The eldest (and therefore wisest) man in town recalled that the road lead to a bridge that crossed over a river, but after that his memory faded, and he stopped speaking, his gaze landing upon a ladybug that was at that moment traversing his fencepost. He decided to reflect upon the journey of the ladybug for a time, and the townsfolk understood that this was what wise old men were wont to do.

Thus, it came as quite a shock the day that the Knight arrived in town. Needle spied him first, the gleam of polished armor reflecting the dappled sunlight beneath the low-hanging elm trees.

“Someone’s coming!” he said, though no one believed him until they heard the horse whinny and saw the shining, metal-plated man emerge at the edge of town.

“In the name of the king,” shouted the Knight, lifting his visor with a clank, “I demand your attendance!”

“Do we have a king?” asked the butcher, who had emerged from his shop, bloody shank still in hand.

Everyone looked to the wise man, who sulked in his chair, the ladybug having flown away, leaving him with nothing upon which to contemplate. “I seem to recall something about a king,” he muttered. “I believe his name was Brick.”

“There is no king called Brick,” said the knight sharply.  “Your king’s name is Edmund.”

“I thought the river was called Edmund,” said the farmer, scratching his sun-beaten brow.

“When did they name the river?” asked the tailor, who liked to think he would have remembered such an event.

“Look,” said the knight, dismounting from his horse with a series of stiff clanging motions. “Could I get a little help here?”

Needle rushed to the Knight’s side and helped him.

Being a Saturday night, Needle took the knight to The Bar, which is where everyone was headed anyway. There they discovered that the knight quite liked the local ale, and that he was called Sir Mallory. They also learned the king was, in fact, called Edmund, and the king’s army had been fighting a war of Great Importance somewhere to the south of the town.

“I’ve never met anyone called ‘Sir’ before,” said Albert, the dour-faced barkeep.

“A war. Of all the luck,” said Alice, who was the miller’s daughter.

“A very important war,” said Needle. “Can you imagine it? Fighting for a noble cause!”

“The noblest,” said Sir Mallory.

‘What cause is that?” asked the tailor.

“Land,” said Sir Mallory.

“But we’ve got land,” said the tailor. It’s all around us.”

“Exactly,” said Sir Mallory. “That’s the king’s land, and he is happily allowing you use it.”

“We should send him a thank-you note,” said Alice.

“Can you tell us about fighting?” asked Needle.

“Nasty business,” said Sir Mallory, sucking ale from his large red mustache. “But it is in service to the greater good.”

“The greater good!” said Needle.

“Indeed,” said Sir Mallory, eyeing Needle. “You’re a fit young lad. Have you considered fighting for the honor of the king?”

“I’m the tailor’s son,” said Needle.

“I know young knights who are the sons of butchers and shop clerks and carpenters! Your youth is wasted here.”

A murmur ran through the crowd as the townsfolk, who had gathered close around Sir Mallory, contemplated the knight’s words.

The tailor coughed, and the crowd went silent. He said quietly and into his mug of ale, “A tailor’s work is never a waste.”

“Spoken like a peasant!” roared Sir Mallory. “You’d dare equate the importance of his majesty’s service with the sewing of needle and thread?”

“You’re wearing pants, ” said the tailor, still keeping his gaze focused on the white froth at the lip of his mug.

“And you work your craft in the safety of the king’s land,” snorted the knight, pounding his empty flagon on the table to punctuate his statement.

“It’s true we’re very safe,” said Alice, smiling at Needle.

Needle didn’t seem to notice Alice or her smile or the way she leaned toward him and ran her fingers through the thick curls of her red hair.

“And how did this land come to be the king’s land?” asked the tailor, emptying his own mug and setting it gently on the table.

The knight rose up in his chair, pulling down his leather tunic and puffing out his chest. “A tailor questioning the right and will of a king?” he stretched his arm out and wagged his index finger back and forth through the air, addressing the occupants of the tavern, “This is the talk that begins the wars… wars fought by knights!”

The townspeople gasped in unison, and all murmurs fell quiet.

“Oh father!” said Needle, shaking his head back and forth. Alice put her hand on his shoulder and patted it gently.

The tailor, seeing his son’s despair, stood up to his full, average height and stared across at the knight’s chin. “And you would go into battle naked if not for tailors and the blacksmiths!”

The knight paused for a moment, and then roared with laughter. The townsfolk began to softly chuckle along in relief. The knight stopped laughing. The townsfolk fell quiet again.

“I will not prattle on, arguing like a woman! Let us settle this as men do!” shouted Sir Mallory. “Tailor, I challenge you to a duel! Sword-arm to thimble-finger! Surely, in such a contest, you will acknowledge the importance and nobility of war!”

Needle looked at Sir Mallory. Then he looked at his father. His father met his gaze, and Needle, swallowed and looked down at the table.

“I accept,” murmured the tailor, and stepped aside to let the knight march out of The Bar.

The townsfolk gathered at the square at the center of town, which was focused around a fountain covered in grass and wildflowers. The wisest (and therefore eldest) man briefly recalled the creation of the fountain, which was supposed to be topped by a statue of the king. Unfortunately, no one knew what the king looked like, and the fountain was left unfinished. It looked quite beautiful in the spring, covered with orange, blue, and yellow blooms.

The tailor met the knight in the town square, surrounded by his townspeople, including his son, the miller’s daughter clinging to him in exaggerated fright.

The knight swaggered forward in leather tunic and leggings, his sword buckled around his waist. With a slow metallic rasp, the knight drew his sword from its scabbard and raised it in the lantern light, where it gleamed with purpose. A hush ran through the assembly.

The tailor stepped to the knight. He reached into his pocket and retrieved his needle and a spool of thread. He raised his needle, which was too small to catch the light of the lanterns. The crowd remained silent.

The knight laughed once more swiveling around, trying to encourage the laughter of his audience.  No one laughed.

“He is a very good tailor,” said the butcher.

The knight roared with laughter and was about to further insult the tailor, but the words never made it from his mouth as he tripped over his own boots, collapsing to the ground and losing his wind on the hard cobblestones of the town square. He looked at his feet; his boots had been sewn together.

The knight grunted in anger and cleaved the boots in two. He stood up.

“Clever,” said the knight, and then ran his sword through the tailor’s middle.

Needle gasped. The miller’s daughter cried out. The tailor stumbled back and away from the knight’s blade and fell to his knees.

“Very sorry, old chap,” said the knight, raising his sword.

“Quite all right,” mumbled the tailor, and when he looked up, the knight could see the tailor had sewn up the wound so tight it was as if the flesh had never been parted. Surprised, the knight took a half step backward, only to find his leggings had dropped to his ankles.

The crowd roared with laughter at the sight of the knight’s pale, exposed backside.

The knight grew red and began to howl, white spittle catching in his red mustache. He charged wildly and in a swooping arc, lopped off the tailor’s right arm, only to watch as the tailor stitched the limb back just as quickly as it had left.

The knight continued to attack for the better part of the next hour. He hacked, he cleaved, he thrust, and he swung – and with each cut, the tailor quickly sewed the wound tight again, as if nothing had happened at all.

Finally the knight collapsed, heaving, half-naked and slick with perspiration.  “I yield,” he said softly, and then fell asleep.

The next day, the knight left town, as lonely as he had arrived and rather more sullen. The tailor awoke to a clamor that rattled the walls. He threw on his clothes and tiptoed down the stairs. Someone was banging on the outside of the shop. He cautiously threw open the door, nearly knocking Needle from the ladder leaning just to the left of the door frame. The tailor peered upward, blinking in the bright morning light. Needle had hammered an additional plank of wood below the sign hanging above the front door.

It now read: “Tailor & Son.”

As always, we’re @deceptionists on the twitter and readily available by email at contact@thedeceptionists.org.

Our next genre-themed podcast should be up around 5/23 and will be all about Fantasy, including a Show-Your-Work segment from Kelly.

In this episode Dave and Kelly are joined by special guest Jeremy Rogers as they dig deep into the graveyard to talk HORROR. We also answer a listener question and read a writing submission by listener Shaun Richens!

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Subscribe in iTunes.

Music on this episode:
Suspiria (Originale) by Goblin

In this episode Paul, Dave and Caroline define and discuss “genre” fiction, sharing their own preconceptions and preferences. They also discuss last episode’s musical writing prompt and draw assignments for the next prompt!

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Music on this episode:
Tango Oscuro by Black Prairie

As mentioned on the show, I do use music, and I use it quite a bit. But I have certain rules. I use music to help me create tone and pace, and sometimes just to get my fingers moving on the keyboard.  Here’s a breakdown of a few of my favorites:

Jazz:

I’m a big fan of jazz, but when it comes to writing, I tend to favor a few different albums. I have used albums by Dave Brubeck, Sonny Clark, Hank Mobley, and Charles Mingus before, but there are a couple of albums that I continually return to:

Miles Davis – Kind of Blue – One of my all time favorite albums in general, this is a moody album that perfectly complements my writing. There’s something about this album that just has depth and dimension — it sets a place for me. It starts a conversation. As I write, the music will fade away from the foreground of my mind, but writing is often like diving into a pool… I can only hold my breath for so long. When I resurface, Freddie Freeloader is there waiting for me, prepping me for my next dive.

Miles Davis – In A Silent Way – a little later, but this album isn’t as experimental (to my mind) as Bitches Brew, and so it works better for writing.

There’s plenty more Miles I can play, but those two are the albums I tend to return to these days. Sketches of Spain also carries a lot of weight with me, but I haven’t been playing it as much lately.

Thelonius Monk with John Coltrane – I love this album. Monk’s piano just creates an image of rain sloshing on a windshield at night, blurring the neon signs of the city like an impressionist painting. This is romantic and noirish at the same time. Sets a great mood. I love Coltrane on his own, but albums like Giant Steps or A Love Supreme don’t work well for me when writing.

Charlie Hunter – Charlie Hunter - The lone modern jazz-man in my list, Charlie Hunter and his six-string guitar first came to my attention with his trio’s Bing, Bing, Bing! album, which covered Nirvana’s “Come As You Are,” but I’d say it’s his self-titled album that I return to most often. That said, I’d also recommend Longitude (Groundtruther) which features Hunter, Bobby Previte on electronic drums, and turntables by DJ Logic. There are loads of albums like this — Hunter’s quite prolific and works with lots of different artists. Check out his stuff, I’m sure you’ll find something you like.

Rock/World Music:

Not really sure exactly how to categorize this next batch, so I’m just going to call this Rock/World Music.

Peter Gabriel – Passion – This score for Martin Scorcese’s The Last Temptation of Christ probably got me through my 20′s with its unique atmospheres and and lush rhythmic landscapes. It’s at once energetic and contemplative.

Sigur Ros – ( ) - Mentioned on the podcast, this is a great album that just feels like sunrise across an icy landscape. If I have characters reflecting on their lives, experiencing some kind of sadness, or the burdensome weight of the world, I find this to be a great complement.

Electronica:

Nine Inch Nails – Ghosts I-IV – Also mentioned on the podcast, this is an immense album from Trent Reznor, and it really gives me a great, moody background — aggressive, angry, dark, mechanical… I tend to favor this for darker, more energetic passages… listening to this while a character walks into a dark underground parking garage… you can only imagine what he or she might experience…

Soundtracks/Scores:

I’ve already mentioned Peter Gabriel’s Passion, but I’d be remiss not to mention a few of the scores I’ve used over the years. Ennio Morricone is a great composer, and his Once Upon a Time in the West score is once that I like to use. Also, Trent Reznor’s recent Oscar winning score for The Social Network is coming in and replacing Ghosts I-IV lately.

And then there’s the Requiem for a Dream soundtrack with Clint Mansell and Kronos Quartet, which is another great, moody album. I also sometimes listen to Jon Brion’s Punch-Drunk Love score.

So, those are some basics from me. If you’re interested, I highly recommend checking them out. Not everything is for everyone, but I think any one of these artists could help push your characters into some very interesting and unexpected territory (assuming you can write with music playing).

– And now: over to Caroline! –

It’s common for writers to say that they don’t listen to music with lyrics while they work. I understand the logic here but I honestly don’t own music without lyrics. I have some instrumental jazz and classical albums in my CD collection, but they never made the transition to iTunes or the MP3 player, so as a result I don’t listen much.

So I generally go with things that are in my collection.

I don’t always listen to music while I write. If I’m home alone working intensely on a project, as I was most of this past Sunday, I work in total quiet. But I do tend to listen while stories are in the planning or early writing stage, or if I’m a coffee shop or other public place and want to drown out noise.

The most common type of music I listen to while writing has lush instrumental backgrounds and vocals that work in a particular way. I don’t have a good name for this vocal style, but it’s one in which the singer’s voice almost operates as another instrument. You can listen to the words, but it’s optional. The New Pornographers, Arcade Fire, and Wintersleep are a few bands that work for me like this.  My favorite example, though, is The National. Their album “Boxer” is a standby for me. I tend to use this when I want to be in a writing “zone”. I expect to tune out from the outside world, resurface, and discover I’m listening to a particular track for the third time.

Another category of music that I like (and one I’ve been getting a lot of mileage out of lately) is the album that seems to tell a story that has an emotional arc. These are songs that foreground lyrics more than the category I mentioned above. I tend to go to these when I’m in the planning phase of a story. A couple I’m relying on recently are “All Eternals Deck” by The Mountain Goats and “The Crane Wife” by The Decemberists.

Sometimes, though I want to write with a different kind of energy. When I was working on NaNoWriMo, it was all about speed and volume of production. I also happened to be writing a manuscript with a plot that revolved around rock bands in a particular music scene. When I wanted something upbeat with driving vocals, I kept coming back to “The ’59 Sound” by The Gaslight Anthem. For the general mood of the story (and some more, shall we say, nuanced emotions) I went with “Heaven is Whenever” by The Hold Steady. There’s a song on there with the chorus “I just can’t sympathize with your rock and roll problems,” which is probably a little on the nose for what I was writing, but it seemed to work.

Finally, during the NaNo period, I kept coming back to “Grievous Angel” by the late Gram Parsons. That’s more straight-up Country/Western than my record collection usually leans, and it was partly on the list just because I happened to have discovered it at that time. There’s a lot of personality to Gram’s voice, though, and a real clean forward motion to the songs. Listening to him while I wrote made me want to tell stories, and sometimes it’s as simple as that.

In this episode Paul, Dave and Jim discuss rituals and writing spaces. Where we work, and what we do when we sit down to write. Plus: A writing prompt!

Writing Prompt Music begins at 41:17. Good luck!

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Subscribe in iTunes.

Music on this episode:
Born With a Broken Heart by David Wax Museum

In this episode Paul, Kelly, and Caroline discuss Setting — the perfect time and place to hang your hat. Plus, another installment of Show Your Work!

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Music on this episode:
Mariner’s Revenge Song by The Decemberists

In this episode Caroline, Dave and Jim talk about Plot, referencing everything from Star Wars to Breakfast at Tiffany’s. Plus, another installment of Show Your Work!

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00:00:01 – Intro
00:02:13 – Show Your Work: Hallie’s Game
00:13:07 – Main Discussion: Plot
00:56:37 – Listener Questions on Plot
01:22:35 – What We’re Working On
01:26:07 – Outro

Music on this episode:
Intro – Murder by Numbers by The Police
Outro – A Simple Twist of Fate by Bob Dylan

In this episode Kelly, Dave and Jim talk about Voice and Perspective. Plus, another installment of Show Your Work!

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00:00:01 – Intro and Recap
00:01:45 – Show Your Work: One for the Road
00:07:05 – Main Discussion: Voice and Perspective
01:00:00 – What we’re working on!
01:03:58 – Outro

Music on this episode:
Intro/Outro – Screenwriters Blues by Soul Coughing

Naturally, my first reaction to this assignment was “How silly!” As we proceeded with the free write, though, I started to see its value. This was an assignment without any preconceived expectations, about a topic that I can pretty much guarantee none of us had ever given any thought to before. As it emerged, everybody in the class ended up putting a little bit of “write what you know” into our pickle exercises. I combined details about my personal shopping and housecleaning habits (I don’t buy pickles but if I did they’d end up hanging out in a jar for a pretty long time) together with an existential conversation I once had with a friend about what it must be like to be a fish in a fish bowl. The resulting exercise was the poor pickle’s cry for individuality in the face of certain doom. That’s a topic I would have dismissed as too pretentious in a “serious” piece, honestly, but those lectures on Camus that I did my best to sleep through back in the day seem to have made an impact after all.

That led all of us Deceptionists to the question, which we’ll now throw out to our audience: What would your pickle story be? You don’t have to do the exercise here, but how would you try to crack it? What’s the anchor of reality that you would grab onto in the face of such an apparently silly exercise?

Tell us!

In this episode Caroline, Kelly, Dave and Jim talk about that old piece of writing advice — write what you know. Plus, vampires, pickles, and the inaugural edition of Show Your Work!

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00:00:01 – Intro and Recap
00:01:17 – Main Discussion: Write What You Know
00:50:52 – Show Your Work: How Smitty Smokes a Cigarette
01:09:38 – Show Your Work Discussion
01:14:07 – What we’re working on!
01:18:31 – Outro and… pickles?

Music on this episode:
Intro – What I am by Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians
Show Your Work – Working on the Highway by Bruce Springsteen
Outro – I Know What I Know by Paul Simon

That said, we danced around a semantic argument in our second show, “Inspiration.” We talked about ideas and concepts, and Paul rightfully noted that I was referring more to concepts than the kernel of an idea.

Thus, it was of interest to me when I saw this pop up in my Twitter feed: Concept Defined.

This piece on the Writer’s Digest by author Larry Brooks clearly delineates what we talk about when we talk about an idea, a concept, and a premise.

Here’s a nice bit:

Now let’s put that notion in literary terms, looking at the initial seed of a story. An idea would be to write a story about raising the Titanic from the bottom on the sea. A great idea. A concept would be to suggest that there are secrets still hidden there that certain forces would kill to keep concealed. A premise would be to create an archetypical hero who is hired to do this job and in doing so saves his country from potential attack.

I don’t really find any fault in Mr. Brooks reasoning, and I think it serves to clarify our stances in that episode a bit more — I was definitely railing more against waiting for the concept and premise than the initial idea.

But again, this is just for those who take an interest in such things. In the end, theme, concept, premise, idea… these all take a backseat to just telling a bloody good story.

In this episode Paul, Jim and Caroline talk about writing characters — answering questions about building your character, how well you have to know them when you start a story, and much, much more!

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Music on this episode: The People in Your Neighborhood by Bob McGrath and the Anything Muppets.

The next round of NPR’s Three Minute Fiction Contest has been announced with a deadline of Sunday, January 23, 2011.  The goal is to write short stories of 600 words or less (i.e., that can be read out loud in about three minutes). Some of us have participated in these and found them worthwhile.  We may discuss this, or similar challenges on future podcasts.

In this episode Kelly, Paul and Dave return to talk about beginnings: that kernel of inspiration that gets you started, where we get our ideas, and when ideas can get in the way of a story.

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Music on this episode: Engine Driver by The Decemberists.

It doesn’t look like much on the surface. It’s just a quick list of 10 ways to create plot twists. But it’s insidious in the best way possible. It’s full of 10 ideas. 10 examples. It reminds me of 10 stories I’ve written and countless stories I want to write.

Read it, then go write some stories of your own.

Merry Christmas from The Deceptionists. See you in a couple of weeks.

Any guesses on which staff members agree with this zen approach and which ones aren’t going so gently? Chances are you’ll find the answers in our next podcast.

For my uncle Robert. For giants.

I had an uncle named Robert–my mother’s brother–who died of a heroin overdose some years ago. It is difficult not to define him in introducing him this way, but I hope you can look past the way his story ended when coming to a summation of his life. My uncle Robert’s final act that night was not the injection, but the effort to conceal the needle and his works within his large hands, a futile weaving of his fingers. He pressed those sad items to his belly as he slumped to the floor where his sister–my aunt–would find him in the morning. He died a large man in the same large house he’d grown up in or spent much of his time escaping, a small secret clutched tightly, hidden beneath himself. He had no children of his own and one marriage had ended years before. To say he didn’t have family would be a lie. Try all he might, he never could’ve disappeared.

Though he surely felt some sense of shame in what he’d done, I genuinely believe this act of concealment had something to do with shielding his family, hoping beyond reason that he could drag those things with him as he went. A last ditch effort at sleight of hand so his sisters would not know disappointment. Substance abuse had found my uncle early, and though I never knew him to be anything but a sweet, large-hearted man, he spent much of his life running from addiction. For much of my childhood I probably understood his only vice to be tardiness. When I think about him now, I think about this lie he tried to tell, a lie to keep his sisters from being mad at him even after he was gone. Or more importantly, that they not have to shoulder the full weight of this reality. It is true that he died that day because he was an addict and had made a selfish choice, but the truth also was that he loved my aunts and my mother and he wished he could’ve succumb to a simple heart attack for their sake. The fiction of a better man dying in his sleep. And though the stark reality of his overdoes was apparent as soon as the paramedics rolled my uncle’s body and found those things, his truth remains most important. Argue if you’d like that he was instinctively concealing illegal paraphernalia out of fear or cowardice, but I know the man better. We all suffer momentary weaknesses, and any could easily be our last.

There was a time before I knew I wanted to be a writer when I thought I might like to be an artist. I loved to draw and I loved to create characters. I wasn’t so critical of myself back then, so I was prolific. I drew constantly, fulling up sketch pads, carrying them with me wherever I went, including those days at my grandmother’s house that seemed to stretch on forever. It was during the time when Nan was hospitalized for breast cancer (that initial lump, a secret of her own for much too long, never wanting to be a bother) and I would spend whole afternoons on the third floor at my aunt Mary’s drawing table while the adults planned and worried downstairs. Uncle Robert approached me one day and he told me about a book he wanted to write. A picture book with rhymes and colorful characters. About animals he used to imagine living beyond the hedges of that big backyard. The animals that were truly the roaring trains passing just behind the property. He wondered if I could draw those animals. He had notes on scraps of paper he kept in the glove box of his tired old work van. Most of the stories would be about life lessons. About being good.

We only talked about this project once, and it was only after his death that I thought about his plan again. I remember making a whispered promise to him in that all-too familiar funeral home. That if I ever did get to write, I’d try my hand at a children’s book. Because it seemed like an important thing to do. And it still does.

I sit here with last year’s Crazy Heart on pause. Jeff Bridges won an Academy Award playing a man who reminds me of my uncle so acutely that I had to drum up these words. I felt very much the same watching Mickey Rourke in The Wrestler. These are big guys who think they’re doing themselves too many favors, but truthfully don’t love themselves nearly enough. Their finger are swollen, their bodies rebel against them. They look for temporary relief. My uncle was just such a large hearted giant. A character in search of a better story.

In this episode we introduce you to the Deceptionists and tackle the question of the amateur writer and whether or not our cast would still write if they knew they would never be published.

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Music on this episode: Shadow Stabbing by Cake.

Things of a recorded nature.

I’ve already said too much.