Author: terribleminds (page 421 of 466)

WORDMONKEY

November 16, 2011 / 36 Comments

25 Reasons Readers Will Keep Reading Your Story

I want to be clear: what this should really be titled is, “What Keeps Chuck Reading.” Your mileage may vary, and as such, you should drop down into the comments and tell us: what is it about a book that keeps you reading? I wanna know. All writers everywhere want to know. We hang on your every word. Like spider monkeys from a banana tree.

1. Bait, Set Hook, Reel In The Reader-Fish

Every story’s got a hook. Maybe that hook is an idea or a conceit. Maybe it’s a character. Might be a driving question or a fundamental piece of the plot. Might be all of those things swaddled together and tucked away in a delicious narrative burrito. Whatever it is, it is a thing that grabs the reader by the nipple rings and refuses to let go. The hook alone is never enough to keep a reader reading, but it’s what often puts them on the path — a great hook lives in the first couple pages. Fail to hook ’em and you’ve already given them the excuse to stop reading. And I assure you, every reader unconsciously seeks a reason to ditch your story and move onto the next one. (But that’s a list for next week, innit?)

2. Why Who What Where Wuzza Wooza?

A good story should always be raising questions — not asking them directly, but instead forcing the reader to ask them. “Wait, what’s that weird symbol they keep seeing on the walls? What was that sound? Something’s up with that top hat-wearing fox that keeps following them, too. Where the crap are they going?” This is why too much exposition is a story-squasher: exposition provides answers and answers rob the reader. Answers must come, yes, but only at the right time — and, if the answers come before the end, it helps to raise further questions to replace those we lost. It’s a cruel game the storyteller players, like teasing a kitty-cat with a laser pointer. “Go here! Now here! Now back over here! Ha ha ha ha stupid cat you’re so adorable the way you chase an insubstantial red dot on the floor like it means something. Silly jerk.”

3. The Deeper Ever-Deepening Depths Of Mystery

Building on that last one, you can have small questions peppered throughout a story (and, quite seriously, they do best when they lurk on every page), but you can also keep the attention of readers by introducing a single large mystery — in this way every story is an equation with some numerals replaced with variables, and the audience hungers to fill in the variables and complete the equation. Your best example of this are the questions put forth by murder mysteries: “Ye Gods! Who killed Professor Jingleberry?” Further, the mystery there is rarely as simple as one assumes: the mystery evades answer and as it does so mutates and swells and swallows whole new questions. The mystery must evolve, you see, sure as a beast in the wild must adapt to stay alive. Memetics over genetics. An evolving persistent mystery is another way to set your hooks in the mindflesh of the reader.

4. Characters About Whom We Give Not One, But Many Shits

Give me a great character and I am like Yoda on Luke Skywalker’s back — I will cling to that character even as he does flips over fallen Dagobah logs and Jefi-kicks over R2D2 and quietly relieves his bowels in a murky well of swamp mud. That was in the deleted scenes, by the way. Shut up. What I’m saying is, a great character is one reason (and for me perhaps the best reason) I will keep reading.

5. Damaged Goods And Broken Toys

We stop and lolly-gag at train wrecks, car crashes, and any episode of Jerry Springer where spurned Baby Daddies are chucking chairs into the audience. We love damaged people. We are fascinated by them. Don Draper? Tony Soprano? The Golden Girls? (Okay, never mind that last one.) We are like the one half of a relationship that wants to fix our damaged other half: it’ll never happen, but oh do we persist…

6. Unpredictability!

Let’s say you see a guy over by the salad bar. He’s wearing a trenchcoat and sunglasses inside. Hands in pockets. He keeps shifting nervously from foot to foot. He eyes up the door, the employees, the security camera. You’re not going to take your eyes off that guy. Because you don’t know what he’s going to do. Is he going to cram a mouthful of lettuce in his mouth and run for the door? Is he going to pour Thousand Island dressing down his pants? Is he going to scream, “THE BEES, THE BEES” and then fling Baco-Bits in some old lady’s eyes before stabbing her with an olive fork? You can’t take your eyes off the guy because he’s unpredictable. So too with a storyteller and his story: the less a reader trusts the story, the more the reader is inclined to keep his gaze unswerving.

7. And Also, Predictability!

And yet, some measure of predictability will keep us hooked, too. We sometimes read to experience expected outcomes — in the romance genre, the audience remains with the story to see how the couple finally hooks up. The mechanics of the romance remain unpredictable (in theory — the romance genre is often quite rigid), but the aspect of the romantic culmination is entirely known. In certain horror films, we want to see how the victims are going to die, but that they die is not a fact we question. Unpredictability leads into predictability, walking a weird tightrope between the two. And over alligators. Because fuck yeah, alligators. Am I right? I’m totally right.

8. The Shifty-Eyed Serpent-Tongued Narrator

The unreliable narrator is a combination of the aspects of mystery and unpredictability I’m talking about — if I can’t be quite sure what he’s telling me is “true” in the context of the larger narrative, I’m compelled to follow along and try to suss out the truth, to sniff out the lie like it’s a great big game of Balderdash.

9. Of Pebbles And Boots

Psychologically, we humans crave safety and stability — really, we don’t like conflict. Sweeping blanket statement, I know, but I think most folks want to make it through their day without the shit hitting the fan. That’s something you can capitalize on as a storyteller because, of course, good storytellers are dicks. Engineering constant conflict in the story keeps the readers chugging along because they want to get to that point of safety and sanity — they want to make it through the bad stuff and discover an oasis of good (palm fronds, mojitos, Tastykakes). It’s like they’ll do anything to get that pebble out of their boot. Use that! Be a dick! Put a pebble in the reader’s boot and watch how he’ll dance to shake it out.

10. A Larger (And Also Unresolved) Struggle

Just as your book may contain many small questions and one large one, so too can it contain many small conflicts and — say it with me — one large one. Big, sweeping conflict — whether it’s a family falling apart or a galactic struggle between the forces of order and chaos — has a way of pulling us all into it the way a tornado eats barns and cows.

11. Prose Like The Hum Of Angel Wings

If you write in your own voice and the prose sings — meaning, it goes beyond utilitarian language (and I’ve nothing against utilitarian language) — then that is one way you’ll keep me entrenched in your fiction.

12. Hey, Doctor Jones, No Time For Love!

I like a story that moves. A story that has ice skates and a rocket up its poopchute and it has no interest in looking back to see if I’m playing catch-up. A story that moves swiftly doesn’t have to promise to me that things are going to happen because, ta-da, things are already happening. A book like The Hunger Games doesn’t waste much time before getting us into the action — yes, it takes time to get us to the actual games, but the interim is chock-a-block with event and movement and strong motivation. Time is at a premium for most adult human beings. A story that wastes our time is a story that gets wasted.

13. The Snap Crackle Pop Of Strong Dialogue

I also like dialogue that doesn’t waste time: I don’t mean to suggest that dialogue should be quippy and filled with constant “wit,” but it also shouldn’t take up massive real estate on the page. Dialogue that’s sharp and zips along like a coke-addled jackalope is the kind of dialogue that’s so easy to digest you find yourself sliding along the prose fast as a fat guy shooting down a zip-line.

14. The Big Bad

A great antagonist — a true villain, a genuine malefactor — is “conflict” but given a face and a name. If you need proof that a great antagonist will keep people reading, I need only mention: Hannibal Lecter.

15. The Hang-In-There Kitty

Aww. Poor widdle kitty cat dangling from the twee bwanch! Will he fall? Will he manifest the magical gyroscope cats reportedly possess and land on his feet? Will a hawk swoop in and carry him up into the clouds? Tune in next week to find out! Behold, the power of the cliffhanger: one of the great motivations for a reader to tell his loved ones, “Yes, yes, just five more pages. I need to see what happens! No, I know, I know, it’s Grandpa’s funeral, but Jiminy Christmas it’s not like he’s got anywhere to be. LET ME KEEP READING OR IMMA BLUDGEON YOU WITH THIS BOOK.”

16. Tap-Shuffle-Pivot-Shift

A story that becomes something other than it seems — that pivots hard and shows you a whole new face — is a powerful thing, and compelling enough to drag me into its turbulent waters. Fight Club is a great example of this: you think it’s about one thing (the titular club for fighting which nobody talks about) but it keeps zig-zagging and not only exceeding its premise but leaving it behind entirely.

17. Unanswered Arguments

I’ve said in the past that every story is an argument, and that’s useful in terms of gluing a reader’s eyeballs to your story. By putting your argument — really, your theme — on the chopping block, you’re telling me you’re going to prove to me in the narrative that This Thing Is True. You’re saying, “Love is doomed,” or “All people are shit” or “Chickens and cats are assholes,” and then with that thesis in mind you’re going to go about the tale and answer the charge you’ve made. But, like with all aspects of the fiction — mystery, conflict, theme — you don’t want to give away the ghost too soon. Storytellers string the reader along, and so it is with theme: you want them to be sure that somewhere along the way you’re going to botch it.

18. Open Promises

Similar, but different: a writer makes promises and then we keep reading to see if you’re going to fulfill those promises. Remember Bob Ross, the PBS painter? Big Afro? Happy trees, happy clouds? At the fore of the episode he’d tell you, “I’m going to paint a beautiful little meadow here,” and then for 25 of the 30 minutes in the episode, it looks like he’s painting with dog shit. You don’t see one happy fucking tree or cloud in sight. And you think, “He’s going to dick this up. Finally, I’m watching the episode where Bob Ross crashes and burns and cries into his own Afro and whips out a Tec-9 Skorpion and shoots up the studio.” But then in the last five minutes he whips that painting into shape and suddenly: the prophecy is proven true, nary a happy shrub or stone out of place. Stories can promise things — think about heist stories, for example — that the audience will hunger to see fulfilled.

19. The Push-And-Pull Of Tension And Release

Rising tension and releasing it over and over again is like fishing — you let the fish swim with the bait, then you yank on the rod (okay, no, not that kind of rod-yanking, settle down), and then you let the fish go again, and steadily you amp up the tension until you reel in whatever it is you’ve caught. If you’re like me, it’s probably a boot. Filled with electric eels. Stupid fishing. Point is, that ebb-and-flow of suspense is a prime mover to keep readers a-readin’.

20. Fun, Fun, Fun Till Daddy Takes The Typewriter Away

I like a little fun in my reading. Doesn’t need to be a laugh-a-minute cackle-riot, and fun doesn’t even need to be outright humorous. But a little bit of fun here and there keeps reader-peepers open.

21. That Sweet Sense Of Urgency

I want to feel like the very act of me reading the story matters — like, if I don’t read further, I’m somehow holding the whole thing up. I like a story with urgency, with a ticking clock and a chain of consequence and causality. I like a story that forces me to do the pee-pee dance as I can’t put the book down for 30 seconds to go and relieve myself on the houseplants. I want that feeling that the story is the boulder and I’m Indiana Jones. This kind of urgency lives in plot and character: a television show like 24 certainly has that kind of urgency (and the aforementioned cliffhangers) down pat.

22. Confidence

A confident author with clear vision and purposeful language will keep me reading. It’s the author’s way of grabbing me by the throat and dragging me up the stairs with her. Put the “author” in “authority.”

23. The Author On The Page

I’m fascinated by auteur theory, where the author lives on the pages of all his work: I like to catch glimpses of James Joyce or even Stephen King, and that’s one reason I’ll keep reading. When I know that the author is writing from a place of honesty and personal purpose, I’m compelled to keep digging deeper into the creator’s psyche. Like a trail of clues into the cave that is the writer’s mind.

24. Readers See Their Story In Your Story

The reverse is true, too — all readers are looking for a piece of themselves in the work. They want the work to be a mirror wherein they catch glimpses of their own stories. This may seem solipsistic or Narcissistic but look at it this way: the author writes to explain his world and the reader reads for the same purpose. We don’t want to see our stories reflected back because we’re like preening peacocks: we want answers. We want truth that relates to us, that speaks directly to who we are and what we want and all the things that block us from our path.

25. That Magical Blend That Adds Up To, “It’s Just A Damn Good Story, Thanks”

Sometimes, I don’t know what keeps me reading. I just don’t. It’s some magical combination, some bizarre narrative alchemy, all of which persists beyond the known scope of human thought. It’s got all the things that the reader thinks equates to a good story: great characters, sensible plot, a story with depth, cracking dialogue, spaceships, dragon-boats, steampunk llamas, puppies, kittens, scenes of bondage and discipline, vampire mummies, botanical tips, hummus recipes, cheerleaders, and whatever else it is that adds up to a compelling read. Because that’s the goal, of course: to compel readers. To hypnotize them into staying with the book. You’ve got to pay them back for the time they’re giving you, and the way you do that is — well, by giving good story, that’s how. The best story you can write. Because at the end of the day, that’s what keeps them reading: you giving the story (and by proxy, the reader) all you’ve got to give.

* * *

Want another booze-soaked, profanity-laden shotgun blast of dubious writing advice?

Try: CONFESSIONS OF A FREELANCE PENMONKEY

$4.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Or its sequel: REVENGE OF THE PENMONKEY

$2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

And: 250 THINGS YOU SHOULD KNOW ABOUT WRITING

$0.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

Or the newest: 500 WAYS TO BE A BETTER WRITER

$2.99 at Amazon (US), Amazon (UK), B&N, PDF

November 15, 2011 / 23 Comments

Do What Thou Wilt Shall Be The Whole Of The Law

Kill the pig!

Cut his throat!

Kill the pig!

Bash him in!

As writers, we grow easily seduced by tribalism. I get it. I know why this is.

It’s because writing offers no guarantees. It’s a creative pursuit and a financial shot in the dark. Success in this industry is wildly subjective and personal, and that means it’s unpredictable.

Ah, but we don’t like unpredictability, do we? We don’t like dark corridors and flickering light bulbs. We are not a fan of shadowy corners — while a shadowy corner might secretly contain a bag of money with a comical dollar sign stitched to the side, it could just as easily contain, I dunno, a cyborg-bear who needs human blood to fuel his mecha-parts. We want bright lights. Well-lit hallways. An easy path with a dotted line on the floor and a map in our hands.

So, we seek answers. Not possibilities or options in potentia, but rather, conclusive results. As if one’s writing career is the inevitable summation of a well-known equation (which it most certainly is not).

Then, sometimes we find success as writers. We discover our equation and are pleased with the sum we achieve and — well, let’s just say our hearts are in the right place. We figure, we want to help. We want to draw you a map! We want to fire up the tiki torches and light the way! And when we see you start to drift toward the darkness, listing like a ship in a rumbly-tumbly ocean, we’re like, “Hey! No! That way lurks the cyborg-bears! Come this way! Come toward the light, Carol-Anne!”

It’s a not unreasonable inclination. And not entirely unhealthy — certainly what works for some will work for others. Lighting the path is fine. Handing over the map is a good thing.

Where it starts to become problematic is when we assume that our equation must surely be yours as well. That the anecdote of our existence is tantamount to universal data. We become less concerned with offering help and more concerned with being right — soon we start to see others who do differently not as fellow travelers on this weird wild journey but barbarians at the gate who want to storm in and take their big angry hammers and smash our One True Way to bits.

Thus we establish our tribes. And we invite those who agree with us into our echo chambers where we can all tickle each other’s pink parts and hurrah and high-five and sloppily bang each other until we’re all a bunch of ideologically in-bred meme-mutants who are slaves to the notions we once owned and controlled.

Any who don’t do as we do are viewed as somehow lesser. And if they claim success by way of their aberrant methodology, well, pfft, pbtt, fnuh, surely that must be an attack on how we do things. Right?

Let’s get shut of that.

Let’s hike down our Wonder Woman underoos (well, what undies do you wear?), pop a squat over false dichotomies and One True Wayism, and then spray our foul musk upon them.

Let’s burn down the camps. Let’s scatter the tribes. Let’s all intermingle sexually.

Wait, maybe not so much that last part.

Let’s look at the warring tribes —

Are you a pantser or a plotter?

Do you favor print publishing or digital?

Kindle versus Nook?

Genre versus literary?

Sci-fi versus fantasy?

Word versus Scrivener (or the deeper more froth-inducing argument, Mac v. PC)?

Present tense versus past?

Don’t edit as you go versus edit every day’s work?

First person versus third person versus — gasp — second person?

Getting an agent versus going without?

Scotch versus Bourbon?

Coffee versus tea?

Self-pub versus indie-pub versus small press versus non-traditional versus traditional versus Kickstarter versus IndieGoGo versus Createspace versus Lulu versus me yelling my books at passing trucks?

When does it end?

If I do something my way and achieve success and you do something your way and achieve success, what’s the problem? Why do we need to shank each other in the kidneys? Are we competing?

It’s time to recognize that “success” has no metric. Success can be emotional, financial, spiritual, whatever. It can speak to your wallet. It can speak to your pride. We’re all trying to find success but what that means to each of us, individually as writers, represents a many-faced creature. Don’t jam your success up my ass and I won’t cram mine down your throat. Thus creating some kind of bizarre human centipede-esque creation where we recirculate success along with last night’s meal of Chunky chicken soup.

If I were to truly advise people to do as I do, I’d start them off at age 18, I’d get them to publish their first short story with a discerning editor who helps make the story a helluva lot better, then I’d tell them to, ohh, hang out a few years, get some bullshit jobs where they pretend you’re a writer but you’re no such thing, then lose faith a hundred times, then get a break in the pen-and-paper roleplaying game industry and, ohh, do that for ten years…

See? You’d go mad trying to follow the road I cut through the jungle. All those zig-zags and switchbacks and jaguar pits. And yet, no regrets. Because hey, fuck it. Here I am. Doing what I love.

For every person who does Thing A, you can find someone equally successful with Thing B, and C, and probably X, Y and Z. For every person who claims self-publishing is the one path, you can find plenty of evidence on the other side that says big publishers and small publishers can offer a writer measurable success, too. For every successful outliner there’s a successful panster. One bestselling author uses Word. Another uses Scrivener. A third uses Pages, or his iPad, or he urinates his manuscripts into the December snow. Every writer has his own crazy story, his own nutty way of finding success and satisfaction.

Do what thou wilt and find satisfaction within. If you’re not satisfied or don’t believe you’re achieving that what you want to achieve: change it up. That’s the nature of this thing: each subsequent story can earn its own fresh approach. You have multiple ways to attack and you’ve no reason to eschew the mighty power of diversification. You don’t need to be hemmed in by a single approach. You don’t need to separate yourself into camps — you just need to know your way of getting shit done. If it helps you get shit done? Keep it. If it prevents you from getting shit done? Ditch it. Re-examine, re-address, but don’t return to empty tribalism.

Do what thou wilt.

That’s empowering, isn’t it?

So go on, now.

Be empowered.

Put your foot squarely in the ass of your penmonkey destiny.

And tell the zealots and fundies and all the other assholes that you don’t need their approval, thanks. We can all put down the conch. And we can all stop trying to push Piggy around.

And that is the end of that tenuous Lord of the Fliesian metaphor.

Please to enjoy.

November 15, 2011 / 17 Comments

Get Your Pointy Teeth And Practice Your Zombie Shuffle: It’s Double Dead Day!

Purchase as book or e-book at:

It’s the 15th of November.

Which means that Coburn the vampire is here.

Poor, poor Coburn. Once the king of his castle — his castle being New York City — he awakens from slumber to discover that his city and his world have been gobbled up by a zombie apocalypse.

Most of the humans are dead.

Which means his food source is spoiled. Vampire can’t live on dead blood, after all.

And so the vampire must move from predator to protector, a shepherd who must find a food source and stand vigil over the herd. It’s not an easy transition, of course. The monster is still a monster, after all.

(This ain’t Twilight, folks. Only way Coburn glitters is if he kills and eats a stripper.)

Along the way, what will he discover about the world? About the girl he protects? And about himself?

Gotta read it to find out.

A vampire in zombieland.

Featuring:

A teenage girl with a healing gift!

Zombie evolution!

Wal-Mart cannibals!

An army of Route 66 Juggalos!

A little white terrier named “Creampuff!”

And, of course, one cranky-ass cocky fuck of a vampire: Coburn.

Please to enjoy, folks.

November 14, 2011 / 17 Comments

Recipe: Sinner’s Stew

You are now going to make beef stew. With short ribs.

Don’t argue with me.

We don’t have time for your mewling pleas and jibbering jabbers. The Devil and his consort will be here soon. For dinner. And they expect to be fed, by golly. What are you going to tell him? Are you going to look jolly ol’ Lucifer in the eye and say, “Hey, sorry, Lucy old chap, I was too busy playing with the genitals god gave me and thus have declined to provide a meal for you and your lovely centaur trollop?”

Yes. That’s right. The Devil has a thing for centaur ladies.

Don’t judge.

So, let’s get on with the stew, then.

This is what I’m calling a Sinner’s Stew because it contains three of my vices:

a) Coffee

b) Beer

c) Whisky.

Here’s how we begin:

Get a pot. Or a dutch oven if you like to go that way but I just used a heavy stainless steel pot. Because that’s how I do. Into the pot you want to put your favorite fat product.

I used duck fat. Because duck fat is fucking phenomenal. You could also use bacon renderings. That, by the way, will be the name of my memoir: “Bacon Renderings: The Chizzy Wangdang Story.” Because at the time of the memoir’s publication, I will have renamed myself to “Chizzy Wangdang” in order to facilitate my rebirth as an icon of the literary scene: a true darling of artists and weirdos the world around.

Whatever.

Get six short ribs.

Bone-in. And not just because it’s funny to say “bone-in” and then lasciviously wink at the person to whom you’re speaking, but because bone-in meats tend to preserve and add flavor.

As a sidenote, short ribs are awesome because they’re basically BRICKS OF MEAT. Seriously. One day I want to build a house out of short ribs and then, before it goes south, have me and a couple buddies with flamethrowers burn the house down, which is to say, cook all of that delicious meat. Then I’ll invite the whole town over and we’ll all have a big meathouse meal. And then any of the children that show up will end up captured and thrown into my oven because HA HA SUCKERS I’M ACTUALLY THE WITCH FROM THE HANSEL AND GRETEL STORIES.

I should really cut it out with the caps lock. But it’s just so engaging!

Anyway.

Dust the short ribs with flour, salt, pepper, smoked sweet paprika, and garlic powder.

Brown the meat-bricks in the bubbling fatty goodness.

Once you’re done with that, make sure that you get rid of all but say, a tablespoon of the fat in the pot.

Make sure the meat is firmly sequestered in the bottom of the pot (“meat sequestered in the bottom?”) and now it’s time to start adding some liquids.

Add to the pot:

One cup of black coffee.

One bottle of your favorite beer. I used a Troeg’s amber ale.

Three cups of chicken — yes, chicken, shut up — broth.

Now. Stop for a moment. We need to talk about:

The bitterness problem.

Beer and coffee (no, we have not yet added our whisky) contribute bitterness. The beer more than the coffee. Both the alcohol content and hoppiness of the beer (by the way, beer needs a better word than “hoppy,” because that sounds like it has something to do with happy rabbits or is perhaps the name of the Easter Bunny or some shit) can turn your stew bitter. That’s a no-no.

I mean, unless you like that sort of thing?

Weirdo.

We must combat bitterness at multiple stages.

First thing to do, right now:

Boil it. Get a good rolling boil. Boil it for like, three straight minutes. Let the alkiehall cook the fuck off and dissipate into the atmosphere where the booze molecules drift to heaven and get the angels drunk.

Now, drop the temp back down and add some other bitterness-battlers:

Two TBs of Worcestershire sauce, which few seem to realize is actually just fish sauce.

One TB of sugar.

Two TBs each of cider vinegar and red wine vinegar.

And, finally, 1/4c of ketchup.

Toss in your spices while we’re sitting here: a palm full of salt, a dash of pepper, a second dash of cayenne pepper, a dash of smoked sweet paprika, a dash of hot Hungarian paprika, a double-doggy-dash of garlic powder, a Bay leaf (which you will rescue from the broth and not eat), a bundle of fresh thyme bound up and also rescued from the broth (or you could just use the powdered stuff, shut up), a pinch of sage, a pinch of tarragon, and there you go.

Stir. Make sure it boils again. Simmer now for two hours.

What to do during those two hours?

The world is your story-book, friend. Jump a motorcycle over the corpses of slain giants? Hang-glide into a dragon’s butthole? Slay the Dread Humbaba as he reclines and watches CSI: Mesopotamia?

Somewhere in there, though, you ought to chop some vegetables:

Three to five carrots, depending on size.

Three to five celery ribs, depending on size.

One pint of mushrooms.

One medium-sized sweet onion.

Obviously, you’re a human with free will, despite all efforts of mine to shackle your mind and soul and force you to act only at my whim and command, so that means you may choose to incorporate other items into the stew. Potatoes would not be remiss, obviously. Maybe cauliflower. Or peas. Or pee. Or the blood of the last existing dodo bird, wrung from its still-warm body after you brained it with a skillet.

That’s on you, Pikachu.

Here’s where it gets a little crazy and we once again try to battle back the beast of bitterness —

Get yourself ten prunes.

Or, if you don’t like that term, “dried plums.”

(Though they are, of course, the same thing.)

Choppity-chop.

You may be thinking, “Doesn’t this turn the broth into a diarrhea stew? I don’t need a stew that helps me move my bowels, thanks.” It does not. I don’t know if the colonic irritant in prunes is cooked off, but I do know that ten prunes in a giant pot of stew does not a turbid diarrhea soup make. If you’re really weird about it, try some other dry fruit: apricots, maybe?

(The fruit breaks down and almost disappears into the broth.)

Your house by now will be smelling delightful. You may have attracted a small herd of wandering raccoons or some curious and starving neighbors. Beat them back with a rake. Or, do like I do: pepper lawn with Bouncing Betty landmines. That sets a precedent and eventually all trespassers (many without legs!) learn not to come fumbling about your private property.

After your two hours are up, all the choppity-chopped veggies (and prunes!) go into the gurgling broth. Oh! Remove the meat first. Put it on a cutting board. Bring the newly-enveggienated stew to a boil and as you do so, it’s time to pop the bones out of that meat and start pulling apart the short ribby goodness. Chop it when necessary — some of the connective tissue may not yet be broken down. (If any of it seems truly stubborn, you can just remove the turgid tissue and toss that shiznit right in the trizzash — er, the trash. Just make sure to not lose any of the actual meaty deliciousness.)

Put meat back into the stew and, at the same time, rescue the thyme bundle and the Bay leaf.

Next step deserves all caps:

NOW IS THE TIME OF WHISKY.

Take a shot.

No, I mean — you take a shot.

(Actually, if you’re like me, you’ve probably already been drinking this whole time. Good for you. Also, if you’re like me, you’ve probably already soiled yourself. Not so good for you. Or for me. Just call the school nurse, they’re supposed to have some extra pants on hand for incontinent drunks like you and me.)

Now take another shot —

And pour this one into the stew.

The choice of whisky is yours but I followed the suggestions of one Mister Stephen “Snack Whore” Blackmoore and went straight for the beautiful bottle of Laphroaig Scotch on my shelf.

The Laphroaig contributes that peaty smoky goodness. Which you’ll also get from Lagavulin. Or, if you’re really living on the edge, a shot of Mezcal. (I’d think Mezcal would be better in chili, though. Hm.)

Once more, boil for two minutes.

Now simmer for a half-hour.

Somewhere in here taste the stew. You want to make sure the bitterness factor has gone well and truly away — but, if it hasn’t, you want to get ahead of that problem. A little more vinegar, sugar, maybe broth. Keep tasting and dicking around with it until that acrid tang has gone from the back of your tongue.

The Devil doesn’t like a bitter stew.

He’s sweet. Like candy.

So, there you go. That’s it. Half-hour later you’ve got a bubbling pot of meaty stewed goodness. Ladle into bowls. Feed to the Devil and his centaur prostitute. Rejoice, sinner.

November 11, 2011 / 36 Comments

The Geography Of Blackbloom, Part One

Last week’s challenge has borne fruit:

THE GODS OF BLACKBLOOM HAVE BEEN CHOSEN.

(All Blackbloom entries are here.)

I thought initially we might leap in and do some creation or other divine myths surrounding the gods we chose, but then I thought, well, it’d be nice to have a greater sense of what these gods create.

Thus, it’s time to examine the physical world of Blackbloom.

What is this place?

What does it look like?

Where can you go? What vistas and nightmares can one explore?

We know a few things.

We know that seas of sand exist.

We know the place is fairly diverse.

We know it’s subject to three seasons (rainy, dry, dark).

But we don’t know much else.

So, you have 100 words.

With those 100 words, describe a place in the natural geography of the planet — think about how Earth has Everest or the Grand Canyon or the Hawaiian Islands or whatever. Go nuts. Go big. Go weird. Blackbloom is not a world for timidity. Note, however, we don’t want to talk about cities. The cities of Blackbloom — which are sentient and can communicate — will get their own challenge. For now: think geography, not man-made (though certainly divinely-made and feel free to incorporate the gods if you feel it’s valuable). Give us the names and the places and the madness of this new world writ large.

You’ve got two weeks. Till Friday, 11/25, noon EST.

Post your 100-word entries below.

Please: only one entry per person.

Further, again, you’re likelier to have your entry chosen if it’s written more like an entry from an encyclopedia (or, for more salient reference, from a roleplaying game book).

I’ll pick — well, I dunno. However many helps us start to cobble together a map of the planet. Because that’s what we want. Not a whole map, not yet — we’ll still have those Here There Be Dragons portions — but enough so we start to see the world in all its splendor and terror.

November 11, 2011 / 15 Comments

The Gods Of Blackbloom Are Chosen

This week’s challenge — The Geography of Blackbloom! — is live.

You people? You’re killing me.

What with your awesome (and oft-conflicting) entries.

Killing me.

Took me hours to sift through the killer options for gods and goddesses.

But, I think I’ve nailed it.

Some early comments:

While the more fictional and non-encyclopedic entries were welcome and fun to read, they often contained not enough information to go on and so they really didn’t end up getting included.

Also, a number of well-written entries conflicted with others I’d chosen, so this is less about me choosing which ones are coolest and instead about choosing which ones fit together. Part of the fun (and frustration) for me is looking for themes and picking them out and playing them up. I did find a few themes at work. I tried to grab hold of the ones I saw and run with ’em.

Just as the denizens of Blackbloom are separated by caste, so too, I believe, are the gods.

We also see mention at times of a court — a court that appears both defunct (in terms of power?) yet active (in terms of gathering?). Not sure what that means or how it plays out. (Part of the fun of this process is the raw potential — ideas yet to cement, undetermined, floating in the ether.)

The separation of the gods is as such:

We have the pair of Supreme Deities: Life and Death. They have no names, only identities.

They are parents to both gods and men — and their children (and, I suspect, their children’s children) form the middle of three tiers, or castes. This doesn’t have a name, yet — so, for now, I think it’s suitable just to think of them as the gods of the Common Pantheon.

But I also noticed that many had conjured what appeared to be “lesser” beings (some were fun, but were so lesser as to be almost silly), and these gods all seemed to be lower caste and, in many cases, dirty.

These, then, are the Unclean Gods. Lesser, somehow. For reasons as yet untold.

I also liked that a lot of the names sounded like they belonged together. Feels like everything’s a little more “together” then. A couple-few names in the Unclean Gods stand out as odd, though (Ashpuddle, Gloss, Sudswaller). That may be fine, or maybe that’s a naming convention unique to the Unclean? I can’t be sure.

Finally, I dug the sense that many of these gods are connected, that they have family and lovers and all the tangled drama and relations one comes to expect from a pantheon.

Given that the gods and goddesses “rained” upon Blackbloom, I don’t think these divinities are the only ones of Blackbloom. I expect we’ve many more to see, but this is a good start, at least.

Feel free to comment below — but note that any comments here are theorizing. It’s all heresy and apocrypha until we canonize things during challenges, so, don’t expect anything in the comments below to be “truth.”

Also, this week’s challenge will be up shortly.

In the meantime…

I’m going to work up a loose graphic to highlight the “family tree” at some point (and this calls to mind the fact we’re probably going to need a Wiki or something eventually), but for now, the gods in short:

SUPREME DEITIES:

Life and Death

THE COMMON PANTHEON:

The First Namer: Isyrm

The Three Children: Maritae is the god of the rainy season, I’m citing Tallyr as the god of the dark season, and the god of the dry season is as-yet-unnamed.

The Sisters: Koreth (Invention), Liam (Imagination), Perena (Luck)

Brother and Sister: Zephyr (Wind) & Chloe (Flowers)

The Family: Pasone (Love) & Torrda (Fertility) have a daughter: Diome (Apathy)

The Dancer: Yasri (Disorder and Madness)

The Duelist: Marriri (Passion and Violence)

The Abandoned: Kinnis (Otherworld/Underworld)

THE UNCLEAN GODS:

Sudswaller (Kitchen Sinks and Drains)

Ashpuddle (Collector of Broken-Yet-Precious Things)

Gloss (Language)

Tatamiri (The Book-Keeper)

Tylin (Underdogs)

Tomtar (The Question)

THE ENTRIES IN QUESTION:

In the beginning, there were two gods: husband and wife. The wife was Life and the husband Death. They lived in a castle in the clouds. Together, they populated the world, giving birth to both gods and people, depending on the sexual position they used when conceiving. Their children fell from the sky like rain. One day, the goddess of Jealousy asked Death to strike down her false lover, but Death ignored her plea. In a rage, she killed her father. His blood rained down into a pond at the top of a mountain, where the Blackblooms now grow. (Sarah E. Olson)

After Death was killed by his wrathful daughter, Jealousy, their once-mortal children on Blackbloom discovered a way to live for eternity with a Second Life, using the flowers that bloomed in Death’s blood. With their new-found longevity, the humans ceased to believe in Gods; indeed, they began to perceive themselves as God-like entities. And so, without the strength of faith, the children of Life and Death became unrecognisable. In their anger, Life’s children began to wreak havoc upon Blackbloom, while she herself withdrew, burdened by grief at the loss of her husband. (LoveTheBadGuy)

Maritae is the eldest of the Three Children, who hold dominion over the changing seasons. Long ago she was worshiped during the annual rains. Angered over being forgotten, she spends her season wandering the cities, animating the algae-like creature and taken great glee when it devours someone’s pet. Her siblings find her yearly outburst amusing, which leads to greater annoyance and a spread of the algae problem each year. The rest of the time she can be found anywhere serving alcohol in search of interesting – and by interesting, we mean edible – company. (Kate Haggard)

The Sisters, named Koreth, Lian and Perena command the three principles of Invention; Imagination, Need and Luck. Each sister controls one of the principles and they have the power to influence it for better or for worse. The sisters have to work together but they often disagree. People worshipped The Sisters and in return they were granted fantastic discoveries and knowledge. When the people became arrogance and stopped worshipping, The Sisters felt abandoned and resentful. Now they covertly inspire the people to create more and more powerful weapons and magic so that they might one day destroy themselves. (Jim Franklin)

Isyrm is the First Namer, who speaks the tongue of the unflickering flame. His unfathomable words sing breath into the world, his touch brings the light of consciousness. He is most disturbed by the strangeness which makes the mortals unable to perceive him and the other gods. For the past two centuries, he has begun a plan to reach out to humanity, by slowly granting life to the world around them, hoping that other beings will perceive the gods and remind humanity of divinity lost. It is Isyrm who awakened the cities themselves from murmuring slumber. (J.M. Guillen)

Tallyr is the god-goddess of the Blackbloom flowers, which grant un-death. Tallyr was once called the Lightless Garden as he/she grew the Blackbloom flowers during the third season, when Blackbloom enters into an eclipse, when her power over shadows and their secrets ripens. It is said that his/her body is the soil and the seeds from which the Blackbloom flowers grow. Now, Tallyr walks as a frail figure with eye lids grown shut and the way he/she hears is through the vibrations in the ground. (Harry Markov)

Zephyr is the God of wind, and twin of Chloe, Goddess of flowers. It is said that both siblings have disliked one-another since they were created. The root of their animosity is unknown, but Zephyr’s effects on the world do not help matters. Constantly, Zephyr massages the winds to disrupt pollen spreads, including the much-revered, Blackbloom flower. Due to his hatred of these very things, he lives on the sand oceans and captains the Dune Drifter, a frigate he uses to raid Blackbloom shipments across the trading routes. Sailors pray to him, and do not believe in the un-life. (Ryan G. Sanders)

Diome, god of apathy. Bastard son of Pasone, outlawed love god, and Torrda, low level goddess of fertility, he takes two forms: human and wind. Diome creates apathy and/or impotence at will. He is rooted in spite and ruin. He detests children. In human form he is handsome, charming, and conniving. As wind he can pass through a living being’s soul, and replace human desire with torpor and lethargy. Ambitious to rule Blackbloom, Diome is a highly dangerous god. His pleasure comes not from causing death but in creating malleable subjects with long lives made empty and meaningless. (E.C. Sheedy)

Yasri the Dancer, Goddess of Disorder and Madness. Her dance is constant but ever-changing; perpetually in motion, it is thought that when she stands still it will bring the end of all existence. She spreads Chaos to combat the stifling stagnation of Order, for only through change can life be renewed. Some say she created the Games to upset the caste system. Passionate emotion and obsession are her hallmarks. Artists are most likely to perceive her true nature, but to know her is to lose touch with reality. All whores are her cultists but not all her cultists are whores. (Rachel T.)

Kinnis is the god of the otherworld, the land after death. For millennia his kingdom flowed with the finest art, music and food, produced by those who had passed. But, since the discovery of the Blackbloom’s power, his kingdom has only the poor and unwanted in its halls. Furious, Kinnis cursed those who take the flower, so they cannot leave the surface, and sets out to make their second life a living hell. (Alexa)

Marriri, goddess of passion and violent acts. Fallen from worship with the rest of the gods, she now travels throughout Blackbloom, encouraging fights, inciting riots, and acting as a catalyst for romantic affairs. Depicted as an ivory maiden with bloody fingertips, Marriri is the reason why it’s customary to wear white in a duel, or any overtly passionate activity. (A.J. English – note, I removed the last part of this so as to avoid conflict)

SUDSWALLER is a deity particularly overlooked by adults, though still recognized by lower caste smallings who are forced to wash after-dinner dishes for their spending coins.
Short and crusty in appearance, and somewhat foul smelling if ignored for long, this demi-god holds dominion over kitchen sinks and drains, and is appeased by anointments of soapy water and lemon oil. Prayers should be spoken in Sewer-tongue. The Sandsailor’s Lament refers to the god in the 103rd haiku: The galley grumbles, When Suds wont clean the trenchers, In Dark Season’s moon. (Kirsten)

Tatamiri, the Book-Keeper. She is the vagrant lady from the Veleto caste (the beggars) who sits on your doorsteps every evening, spreading all around her papers, records, datapads and what have you, items that she had gathered from trashcans, gutters and dumpsters. And she stays there for hours, crunching numbers and figures, speaking them under her breath. Tatamiri is keeping tabs on every soul the Blackbloom has robbed from Death. The ancients say that whenever her figures amount to nine billion, the Bloomed wither and their desiccated remains are scattered to the winds. And Tatamiri starts all over again. (MC Zanini)

Tylin is the god of the underdog. Ever since his attempted coup and resulting exile from the now defunct Court, he has taken a keen interest in the lives of mortals, whether they be flesh and blood or stone and steel. He seeks, above all, to raise the low above the high. As part of his punishment, each fresh memory erases an old one, leaving the limits of his abilities unknown even to him. Those who seek his aid must remember while that Tylin’s might can be a great boon, you may very well make yourself his next target. (Ryan Jassil)

Blackbloom gods are like minor nobility: a home estate and a place at court. Ashpuddle’s estate is at the bottom of the sandy ocean; that is, if something is lost anywhere in the sandy ocean, eventually currents in the sand will (thousands of years later) dump it in her domain. Everything there is worn smooth. A weakling goddes, her place at court is as guardian of the oft-Bloomed; she is said to be very small, dirty, shy, and an inveterate collector of things that are broken but still precious. (DeAnna)

Gloss is the god of language. He is seen on the streets, begging in bloody rags and murmuring to himself in tongues. All who meet the skinny wretch assume him mad, but in secret he speaks directly to the cities, and moves between them, exchanging plans. (Matt Roberts)

Tomtar – Most commonly seen as a pack of unruly children (species matters not) roaming the streets, looking into alleys and doorways, going up to strangers and posing odd questions about the state of reality with the unblinking innocence of a child but never waiting for an answer. Tomtar is the hermaphroditic god of the question. Associated with scholars, nomads and hobos when it was known as a god, it’s name has lost its significance only to be replaced as a slur directed towards the homeless and insane and even the foreign – tomtar. (Sven Nomaddson)