It’s #AuthorLifeMonth!

There’s quite a wonderful thing going on in the Instagram world this month! It’s one of those daily photo challenges, but this one — hashtagged #AuthorLifeMonth — is geared specifically to writers, as a way of showing off a little of who they are and what they do. And of course I’m participating! I’ll feature my photos for that tag here, throughout the month.

Day 1: Your Books. Here are mine, on my own shelf! How cool is that.

Day 1, #AuthorLifeMonth: My books! If all goes according to plan, there will be four this time next year!

Day 2: Author Pic. I’ve used a different author pic on each book thus far; this is the one I used on the back of The Wisdomfold Path.

Day 2: My author photo. #AuthorLifeMonth (This is my second author photo, used most recently on THE WISDOMFOLD PATH. Thus far I've chickened out on using a pie-in-the-face photo as an author pic!)

Day 3: Your Last Five-Star Read. This one was a little trouble, because I don’t give five stars very often at all. (I’m talking Goodreads ratings here.) For me, five stars is for those few, rare books that are life-changers; books that would be on the list for books I hope I have with me when my ship crashes on that lonely island. I only have a few five-star entries on my Goodreads roster, and of those, none are ones that I’ve read recently. So I went with my most recent addition of a five-star book:

Day 3 of #AuthorLifeMonth: Last 5-star read. I reserve 5 stars for those books that become part of me. I read this many years ago, but I return to it often. Richard Halliburton was an adventurer and writer from the first decades of the 20th century, and h

That is a wonderful book! It’s perfect for a lazy Sunday afternoon of reading.

Day Four: Your WIP. Heh! I have two WIPs right now, one that I’m editing (Forgotten Stars III), and one I’m drafting (Lighthouse Boy). One’s a physical copy, and the other exists as a Scrivener project.

Day 4 of #AuthorLifeMonth: My WIPs. Top is the manuscript to FORGOTTEN STARS III, which I'm editing. Bottom is the Scrivener corkboard view of THE ADVENTURES OF LIGHTHOUSE BOY (not the actual title), which I am still drafting (and likely will be for years

More of these to come throughout the month!

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I Am No Writer

I posted this image last week to Instagram, and someone asked about it:

An important distinction. #amwriting
 

What do I mean by this? Why would I claim to not be a writer, but rather a storyteller?

What I mean is simply this: I am more focused on the final product than I am the process. Writing is the job; writing is the work. There’s nothing at all wrong with that, because the writing is necessary. But sticking with my metaphor from my post about first drafts, I find it helpful to maintain my focus not on the laying of the pipe or the pouring of the foundation or the running of the wires, but on the final product: the house. Or, in my case, the story.

It’s the story that’s why I’m doing all this. It’s the story whose needs I have to service. It’s the story that I have to do well. It’s the story that readers will hopefully care about, and it’s the story that I hope will bring them back for the next one.

One can write a lot of things without being a storyteller. Writing is a skill with a lot of possible end goals, and the process can lead in a lot of different directions. And I do think about process a lot — in fact, I’ve yet to meet a writer who doesn’t! But in terms of defining who I am, I choose to focus on the goal and not the process.

Mine is storytelling.

What’s yours?

 

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Confessions of a Writer

So I saw this little quiz-thing on another writer’s blog (Julia Grantham‘s, to be precise), and though I haven’t been tagged with it, I’m not going to wait. So here’s a bit about me as a writer, for anyone who might be new to my particular…idiom!

When did you first start writing? Was being a writer something you always aspired to be?

I’ve loved writing and telling stories for as long as I can remember. I didn’t decide to start taking writing really seriously, though, until the late 1990s, when I started working heavily on a fantasy novel and writing short fiction. Before that, I played around with fan-fiction, but never really decided to get serious until later.

I didn’t decide “Writer or Bust!” until 2009 or 2010, when the idea for The Song of Forgotten Stars started to really heat up in my head.

What genre do you write?

Science fiction, fantasy, and horror. Mainly the first two. In terms of sci-fi, I really gravitate to space opera.

Can you tell us a little about your current work in progress. When did you start working on this project?

I have two projects going on right now. First is initial edits on the third book in the Forgotten Stars series, in which we explore the mysteries of the planet Xonareth even more deeply. Among other things, in this book we learn why Xonareth was quarantined from the rest of the Galaxy. More importantly, in terms of character, I add Lieutenant Penda Rasharri to the roster of viewpoint characters.

Interestingly — to me, anyway — I realized halfway through this novel that for the duration of this series, every single viewpoint character will be female. Also, the scope of the story seems to be getting bigger with each volume. I’m a bit scared by this; my original dream-goal was a nine-book series, but if this keeps up, my scale by Book IX will be absolutely galactic.

My other project is my long on-again, off-again fantasy novel not-titled The Adventures of Lighthouse Boy, which is a Dumas-inspired adventure tale with sword fights and court intrigue and thieves meeting in the forest and sea battles and lost Kings and hidden treasures and nefarious priests and all that good stuff. There is actually no magic at all in this book; it’s fantasy because it takes place in a realm that never existed, not unlike Lloyd Alexander’s Westmark books. I’m writing some of this every day; my quota is 500 words while I’m working on other stuff at the same time, but if the decks are ever clear, the quota will go up to 1000 words or more.

When I’m done editing Forgotten Stars III, then it will be time to start prepping my supernatural thriller for publishing sometime this summer. I think I may have a title for it, but I’m not sure yet. I’m still kicking it around in my head.

What was your first piece that you remember writing? What was it about?

How far do we want to go back? I remember writing a play in fifth grade called How the Elves Saved Christmas (a concept which I still think could make for a fun family flick); around then I wrote a lot of crappy fan-fiction. As in, really crappy fan-fiction. Mashups that had James Bond teaming up with Indiana Jones in outer space. Yeah.

Before that? Well, I wrote stories in second grade about a superhero cat named Little Bootie. I have no idea why he was called that, or why he went around in a costume with a big K on the front. When you’re in second grade, shit don’t have to make sense, yo.

Serious stuff? As in, when I decided to take writing really seriously? I wrote a fantasy novel about King Arthur’s return called The Promised King, and I actually posted half of it online for some years before I decided to re-trunk it, because it wasn’t all that great.

The first story I ever submitted someplace was a vampire tale called “Graveyard Waltz” (name taken from a song by the Hooters). It was rejected, of course, but the rejection got a nice not scrawled in the margin by the editor.

What’s the best part about writing?

When I think my characters are going to do something, and then they go and do something else that’s way cooler than the original thing I’d intended for them to do. I like that.

What’s the worst part about writing?

Well…look, I’m not going to lie here. I’m an indie writer, which means that my job is even harder. It means that I’ve seen entire months go by with no one buying either of my books. It means watching my second book languish with a single Amazon review, when I know it’s better than the first one. It means seeing my stories not being read, and that kills me, because stories should be read. A story told to no one isn’t really worth a lot, in my mind. At least, for me it isn’t, at this point in my life.

I’ve really been struggling with this lately. I’ve been told that I should write first for myself, but lately I’m trying to find the difference between writing first for myself and writing only for myself.

Oh, and titles. I take forever to come up with titles, which is why I have all those weird working titles. I’m not being coy. I genuinely don’t often know what the title is.

What’s the name of your favorite character and why? (This can be from a book by another author or from your own work.)

My personal favorite character? Oh wow, I couldn’t really name one. But for purposes of this question, I do like writing the character Zeyke in the Forgotten Stars books. He’s a pilot who is very, very good at what he does, but he’s also a nervous worry-wart who is always convinced that utter disaster is seconds away and that he will bear the brunt of it. I’ve given him a very sarcastic tone, and he has managed to make me laugh with some of the fatalistic sarcasm he brings to bear. He’s fun to write.

How much time a day/week do you get to write? When is the best time for you to write (morning or night)?

There is no “best” time. There is only the time that there is, and I use it as best I can. Weekdays, that means I get up at 5:30, so that after coffee and making lunch and getting dressed and all that, checking to make sure the Internet is still there, and such, I get half an hour in before work. Then, later on, I like to use my lunch break at work to write another half hour, and then I cram in a bit more time later on at night. You have to fit the writing in. It’s not hard to do so, but it does involve some choice-making.

Weekends, I can get more done. I like to go to the grocery store where I shop and work in their cafe for two hours before I shop, and I usually get in some time on Sunday afternoons after Nature Walk with the dog.

Did you go to college for writing?

No. I majored in Philosophy. I’m really unsure if that was a mistake or not.

What bothers you more: spelling errors, punctuation errors, or grammar errors?

It depends. Grammar, I can usually deal with, especially if it’s clear to me that the author has made a stylistic choice, and frankly, I’m not always up on all the particulars of grammar, anyway. I’m not likely to notice if you use ‘laid’ when you should have used ‘lain’, for example.

Spelling or punctuation? If it’s clear that it’s just a typo or odd goof, I’m fine. It takes a pattern of such behavior to make me start to notice and distract me from the story. Today I read an author refer to a character’s “jealous”. It’s obvious to me that she meant “jealousy” and for whatever reason, the ‘y’ is MIA. I’m fine with that.

What is the best writing advice that anyone has given you?

Read a lot, write a lot, and write the book that you want to read.

What advice would you give to another writer?

Don’t.

OK, I’m kidding. Seriously: read a lot, write a lot, and write the book that you want to read.

And get your ass out of the chair once in a while and go walk. Take pictures, do…something other than writing.

What are your favorite writing sites or blogs that you turn to for help, tips, or encouragement?

Mostly the sites of fellow writers.

Besides writing, what else do you enjoy doing? What are your hobbies?

Reading, listening to music, and walking in the woods. Hiking is peaceful and energizing and restorative to me. I also enjoy cooking, and movies, and comics.

What is the best book you’ve read this year?

Carrie Morgan’s The Road Back from Broken is really good. (My Goodreads review here.)

What is the best movie you’ve seen this year?

Probably The Force Awakens? Not really sure, actually. My reaction to that movie was pretty schizophrenic. There are a lot of things I love in it, and a lot of things that set my teeth on edge. I have yet to write my full review of it.

What is your favorite book or series of all time?

Living author, fiction: The Lions of Al-Rassan by Guy Gavriel Kay
Deceased author, fiction: The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings by JRR Tolkien (I consider these one large work; I never re-read LOTR without also reading The Hobbit.)
Living author, nonfiction: Little Chapel on the River, Gwendolyn Bounds
Deceased author, nonfiction: Cosmos, Carl Sagan

Who is your favorite author?

Oh, I’ll give a list: Tolkien, Guy Gavriel Kay, Carl Sagan, Neil De Grasse Tyson, Bill Bryson, Christopher Moore, Stephen King, Alexandre Dumas, Mary Stewart, Jacqueline Carey, and more.

What are your plans for the rest of the year in terms of your writing?

Pedal to the metal on the afore-mentioned projects! I hope to have Forgotten Stars III out in November and GhostCop (not actual title) in summer, either July or August. I want to finish Lighthouse Boy, but that one is a splurging doorstop of a book, so who knows. I may well take a year-long sabbatical from the Forgotten Stars books, once number III is out. I also have another idea for a second set of stories set in the same universe (it’s a big galaxy, after all), and I’m hoping that GhostCop is the start of a series, but where it goes from there, I’ve no idea just yet!

I’ve got a lot of stories to tell, and intentions to tell all of them. The hard part is finding readers, but I’ll keep plugging. It’s all I know how to do, really.

Where else can we find you online?

Right here! And on most of the Social Media Usual Suspect sites — links are in the sidebar, over there. (Right now I’m on a brief social media hiatus, but I doubt very much I’ll abandon anything; I just needed a break.) Oh, and that reminds me: I’ve started using Pinterest again, although I’m still not entirely sure how Pinterest really ‘works’.

OK, that’s all for this…have a great weekend, read my books, and yada yada yada!

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Updates and a Quick Stroll Around the Writing Neighborhood!

Hey all! I hope that 2016 is starting to settle into some good of good groove for you all, now that the bustle of the Holiday season is over. I’m always bummed out, a little, when the Holidays end; for all the hectic activity and commercialism, the Holidays always do seem to me like a time when we all try to make the world feel (and look) a bit better. Plus, this year my family had a truly wonderful Holiday season, starting with a trip to New York City at Thanksgiving and culminating in a Christmas with my entire family (it’s a small family, but my sister lives in Colorado and doesn’t get out here more than a few times a year, so that’s that).

The Holiday season was not particularly helpful to me on the writing front, however, and I suspect that many writers find themselves in the same boat. It’s hard enough to carve out writing time during the standard work-and-life routine of, say, March or September; throw in the Holidays, and yeesh! One has to become some kind of beast akin to a wounded, rabid, female grizzly bear whose young are being threatened in order to protect the writing time.

(And this year, it didn’t help that an 800-pound gorilla going by the name of The Force Awakens showed up.)

So, I’m now back in some kind of writing groove. What’s happening?

Well, I’m working on two projects at once. This may prove to be…unwise, but we’ll see.

First up is that I’m still plugging away on The Adventures of Lighthouse Boy. This book has stalled a few times when I put it aside in order to delve into serious editing work on other books (mainly the Forgotten Stars books), but I don’t want that to happen again, so I’ve dropped my quota down to 500 words a day on it, with the caveat that I have to get those 500 words before I do anything else.

Second up are the revisions to The Song of Forgotten Stars III. This has been tough going thus far, because the first few chapters are an absolute mess that I’ve been working to untangle.

I wrote Stardancer entirely from Princess Tariana’s point of view. In The Wisdomfold Path, I added Princess Margeth’s POV. Now, in this one, we add the third important viewpoint character: Lieutenant Rasharri. Problem was, I did a lot of POV-hopping in the first few chapters, as opposed to just doing what George RR Martin does with his Song of Ice and Fire novels, giving each chapter a single viewpoint. So that’s what I’m doing, but I have to rework those messy first chapters. I suspect that the revisions will go much more smoothly one I’m past the first few chapters.

(And here’s a tidbit: It occurred to me, halfway through drafting Book III, that in this series, every single viewpoint character will be female. I don’t know that this means anything, but I found it an interesting angle.)

So, that’s where we are right now! What are other writers up to? Let’s take a quick stroll around the Writing World!

Nicole Crucial on Following Your Gut in a First Draft. Her post is a response to this post of mine, and she has some interesting thoughts!

Brianna Da Silva has a list: 10 Traits of an Epic Villain. Villains are hard to get right, and Brianna has some great thoughts. For me, it’s important to remind myself that there is an alt-universe version of all of my stories in which the villain is the protagonist. Except for the most mustache-twirling of villains, they think of themselves as heroes of their own story, and I like it best when the villain is — just a little, just a teensy-weensy bit — actually right about things, even if their actions are awful. Good post here!

Joe Hill dismantles the cliche of the “crazy artist”. I’m reminded of Stephen King’s knockdown of the idea that writers and artists need to be substance abusers: “We all look pretty much the same when we’re puking in the gutter.” It’s apt that Hill’s piece would remind me of this, as King is Hill’s father. (I didn’t even know this until recently.)

Katherine Dell had some struggles with getting back into her routine. I can relate to this. Sometimes, after the weeks-long spectacle that is the Holidays, I find myself having trouble even remembering what the “routine” is.

Ilana Teitelbaum on self-promotion. I have improved my skills of self-promotion, going from awful to pretty bad. I’m hoping to reach Meh by the time Forgotten Stars III comes out.

Finally, Brett Michael Orr’s novel The Bureau of Time is now available! I haven’t read it yet, but it’s safely ensconced on my mobile devices and on my TBR List for this year. Orr’s one of the good guys, and I can’t wait to see what he’s come up with. Apparently it’s a YA science fiction/time travel adventure, and we can always use more of those!

See you next time, folks!

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“Shiny in the Black”: A FIREFLY Christmas

I wrote this story, a rare foray into fan-fiction, a few years ago and I’ve been reposting it on Byzantium’s Shores every year since. This year, I thought I’d bring it over here. This is what I imagine a Very Special Christmas Episode of Firefly would be like. For purposes of timeline, we’re before the Serenity movie.


Take my love, take my land
Take me where I cannot stand
I don’t care, I’m still free
You can’t take the sky from me
Take me out to the black
Tell them I ain’t comin’ back
Burn the land and boil the sea
You can’t take the sky from me
There’s no place I can be
Since I found Serenity
But you can’t take the sky from me…

Captain Malcolm Reynolds was usually the first one to exit his bunk in the morning, which, coupled with the fact that he was also usually the last one to retire to his bunk at night, went a long way to making him the way he was. Even on mornings like this one, when the night before he and the rest of his crew had been up abnormally late celebrating a score on Persephone, he was up before anyone else, no matter how much his head throbbed and the metallic taste of too much bad whiskey filled his mouth. But on this morning, as he climbed up the ladder to the hallway and shuffled toward the mess, he slowly realized that he wasn’t the first one up this time. Someone was in the mess already, and they were singing. Mal could make out the words – “God rest ye, merry gentlemen…” — and he inwardly sighed. On a typical day, Mal needed at least three cups of green tea before he was ready to deal with Shepherd Book. Today he figured to need six cups before he felt ready to talk to anyone.

“Ah! Good morning, Captain! There’s water on the stove, just off the boil, if you’re looking for tea.” The Shepherd beamed.

“Yeah,” Mal said. “I’ll get to the tea in just a moment, Shepherd, but just now I’m a bit flummoxed as to why there’s a tree in the corner of my mess.”

“Oh, that,” said the Shepherd. “I hoped you wouldn’t mind. Just a little something I picked up before we left Persephone yesterday.”

“I didn’t notice you bringing a tree on board?”

“Yes, I was worried about how to sneak it onto the ship, when I realized that God had provided me a perfect way to get it past your eyes.”

“And that was….”

“You and Jayne were ripping drunk. Zoe and Wash and the Doctor carried you on board. You weren’t noticing anything last night.”

“I wasn’t that drunk!”

“Maybe, Captain, but you got out of bed and came all the way to the mess wearing your gun, your slippers, and a pair of women’s underwear.”

“Oh.” Mal staggered over to the stove. “I think I’m gonna have that tea now, while you explain why there’s a gorram tree on my gorram boat.”

“There’s no need for language, Captain.” The Shepherd folded his hands in front of his chest, in that prayerful stance that Mal hated. Of course, Book well knew that the Captain hated it when he took that tone, which is why he did it so much more often now. Mal just grunted as he fumbled in the cupboard for his favorite mug and the tea leaves.

“Hand me the kitchen robe,” Mal said.

“Certainly.” Book opened another cupboard and pulled out a bundle of cloth, which he tossed to the Captain. This was the ‘kitchen robe’, a bathrobe that Mal kept stashed in the mess just for situations like this. He put on the robe as his tea steeped, and just in time, too, because that’s when Zoe and Wash arrived. Zoe looked all cleaned up and ready to go, as did Wash, even if no one could tell because Wash generally looked all cattawumpus, with his unbuttoned shirt over a tank top, shorts, and sandals.

“Well, this is very nice,” Zoe said. “Care to let us know what you’re wearing underneath the kitchen robe, sir?”

“I do not,” said Mal. “And you can stop laughing. We’ve all had mornings like this.”

“Not laughing, sir.”

“You laugh on the inside,” Mal countered.

“It’s true, honey,” said Wash. “You do. I, on the other hand, plan to laugh joyously out loud at our Captain and his self-induced plight.”

“I hold my liquor better than you,” Mal said.

“I never get much chance to develop my skills in that regard,” Wash replied, “seeing as how somebody‘s gotta be sober enough to fly the ship. Speaking of which, do we have a destination, Captain?”

“Can I drink my tea first before I think about business?”

“Certainly, sir.”

Shepherd Book took a step forward. “I actually have a few thoughts as to that–”

“Ooooh, pretty!” And with that, everyone turned to greet Kaylee, who had just arrived in the mess as well, wearing a freshly cleaned pair of overalls over a shirt with little red hearts all over it. “I didn’t know we could grow trees on board!”

“We can’t grow trees on board,” Mal said. “This here is a flight of fancy by the good Shepherd, who I’m sure will be explaining himself momentarily.”

“Well, I like it,” said Kaylee. “It’s shiny.”

“It’s not shiny yet, actually,” said Book. “It will be, after we decorate it.”

“Decorating?” Mal said. “A tree?”

“Yes sir,” said Book.

“So just the fact that there’s a tree on my boat isn’t even the strangest part of this whole business?”

“It’s not strange, Captain,” said Book. “It’s a tradition.”

“Preacher, you got any notion as to how many weird things people do are explained by casual use of the word ‘tradition’?” Mal sipped his tea. “That explains a lot of your whole ‘Shepherding’ job, you know.”

“Traditions become traditions because they mean something to people,” Book said. “You’ve got some traditions yourself, Captain.”

“Name one.”

“For one, your finding of an Alliance-friendly bar every year on Unification Day. And also your overindulgence every time we get a little more money for a job than you’d planned.” He smiled. “At least this tradition doesn’t involve a headache and the burning of another set of clothes.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll be taking that explanation now, if you don’t mind.”

“Certainly, Captain. It all began on–”

He was interrupted by a loud burst of raspy Chinese as Jayne Cobb staggered into the mess. “Smells like a ruttin’ forest in here,” Jayne said when he’d finished cursing in Chinese.”I hate forests. They remind me of my grandmother.”

This, as did many things Jayne said, made everyone stop talking and stare at him.

“What? Oh, I suppose you all think that forests are nice places filled with happy little creatures. Like one of Kaylee’s storybooks.”

“I don’t read ‘storybooks’,” Kaylee protested. “I’m not a child, Jayne. I’m an engineer and I’m a woman with all the needs of a woman, like—”

“Stop! Please!” Mal burst out. “You know I don’t want to hear about that, Kaylee.”

“Sorry, Captain.”

“Wash, can you just get us in the air, please?”

“I wanted to hear about this tree first,” Wash said. “I mean, since you haven’t given us a destination yet for our next job and all.”

More silence, until Zoe cleared her throat.

“By any chance, Captain, did you think to line us up a new job when we finished the old one?”

Mal shrugged. “I had other things on my mind last night,” he said.

“I’ll say,” said the newest arrival into the mess. “Although I don’t think he was exactly thinking with his mind last night.” It was Inara, who looked typically resplendent in her kimono-like morning robe. “Was she memorable, Mal?”

“Well, she–”

“You don’t remember her, do you?”

“You know, I think we’ve all got off the main topic here, which is why there’s a gorram tree on my boat!”

“Well, Captain,” said Book, “as I tried to start explaining–”

“A Christmas tree,” said yet someone else. Tensions went up as the voice of the ever-enigmatic River Tam cut through. “We had a Christmas tree at the institute. The men there said there would be presents. That was before they started the mental probes.”

River stood there in the doorway, with her brother, Simon the good doctor, standing behind her.

“River?” Simon said. “Do you remember something?”

“I remember everything,” River said. “I just choose when to talk about it.”

“So,” Simon said, “you know what the tree is?”

“I just said so,” River replied. “It’s a Christmas tree. But it’s naked. It needs decorations to make it shiny.”

“Ah,” said Book. “You see, Kaylee? That’s what I was getting at. We’ll decorate it.”

“With what?” Kaylee asked.

“Oh, all sorts of things,” said Book. “Ornaments made of painted glass. Little lights. Popcorn that we put on strings. And I even have a figurine of an angel for the very top of the tree.”

Jayne cleared his throat. “Anybody else here havin’ a hard time figurin’ out who’s crazier here, the Shepherd or the Doc’s sister?”

“I don’t think it sounds crazy,” said Kaylee. “I think it sounds nice.”

“It kind of does,” said Wash. Noticing Zoe giving him a skeptical glance, he went on, “What? I’ve been saying for years that this boat could use some more color on it.”

“My boat’s got all the color it needs,” said Mal. “Look, people, next person other than the Shepherd who talks is on mess patrol for a month. Shepherd, explain this. You’ve got until I finish my cup of tea, and if your explanation ain’t convincing, you’re the one on mess patrol.”

“A hard bargain as always, Captain,” said Book. “It’s an Old Earth tradition. The Bible tells us that one day, God decided to come into the world in the form of an infant, so he could save his people. Ever since then, believers have celebrated that night by doing things like exchanging gifts, and bringing trees into their homes to decorate. That’s what I’m doing here.”

“Shepherd,” Mal said, “didn’t I once tell you that God ain’t welcome on the Serenity?”

“You did, Captain. But it’s my belief that God is here, whether you consider him welcome or not.”

“Well, be that as it may, you’ve brought a tree onto my ship without asking me.”

“Would you have said ‘yes’?”

“No, but that ain’t the point. I like to be asked anyway. It’s my ship.”

“I just thought…it might be a source of pleasure for us,” Book said. “You don’t have to believe to celebrate.”

“You said somethin’ about exchangin’ gifts,” Jayne said. “What’s that?”

“Well,” Book said, “we could each randomly select a member of the crew and get that person a gift.” He noticed the scowl on Mal’s face. “Or not.”

“We should,” Kaylee said. “We don’t do enough nice things for one another.”

“I let you all stay on board,” Mal said. “That’s nice of me.”

“And your hospitality is known throughout the ‘Verse,” Inara said. “That’s why so many people flock to us to give us money.”

“Yeah,” Mal said, “I’m a loving man. But as to the money thing, you said something about a job, preacher? You got a lead for us?”

“I do,” said Book. “Of a sort.”

“Of a sort? The paying sort?”

“Not as such, no.”

“Then what is it?”

“There’s an orphanage on Haven,” Book said.

Lot of orphanages on Haven,” Jayne pointed out.

“Yes, but as it happens, I know this orphanage particularly well.” Book looked like he was remembering something…but then he snapped back to the moment. “I would simply like for us to take some of our recently abundant bounty – not all of which was obtained through means the authorities would entirely smile upon – and use it to purchase supplies for the orphanage. We would then deliver said items to the orphanage in time for an upcoming festival.”

“Supplies?” Mal asked.

Book nodded. “Food, clothing, and…toys.”

“Toys?” Mal repeated.

Jayne frowned. “And we’re doin’ this in exchange for what?”

Book just smiled.

“No way,” Jayne said. “No way, uh-uh. No way I’m givin’ some of my ruttin’ money to some bunch of orphans. Ain’t my fault they ain’t got no home. Let ’em grow up, find work, and make an honest livin’.”

“Is anyone besides me,” Simon said, “unusually touched by Jayne’s newfound belief in making an honest living?”

“Shut up, Doc,” Jayne said. “Least I ain’t hidin’ behind a slip of a girl.”

“No,” River said. “You hide behind a gun that you gave a girl’s name.”

Jayne’s only response to that was a grumbled growl.

“Let me get this straight, preacher,” Mal said. “You want us to spend some of the money we’ve fought and scrimped for and use it to give stuff to children? And you want us to do this on a time frame of…what?”

“Three days, Captain.”

“Three days. And we’re doing all this with no reward for us?”

“Not all rewards come in the form of money, Captain.”

“The ones that keep this boat in the air do,” Mal said.

“Come on, Captain!” Kaylee said. “I, for one, would like to do a job for once that don’t make me feel like I need a shower after.”

“Maybe we put it to a vote of the crew?” Simon offered.

Mal glared at him. “My ship ain’t a democracy,” he said. “But…Jayne?”

“Can’t decide, Mal,” he said. “Normally I’d be against this sort of stuff, but I’m thinkin’ that if we don’t do it, Kaylee here’ll be complaining about it for months. Might well be worth doin’ to keep her quiet.”

“Thanks, Jayne,” Kaylee said. “But really, it’ll feel good. Don’t you all want to feel good about something for once? I mean, feel good about something other than stealin’ from the Alliance?”

“There’s other things to feel good about?” Jayne asked.

Mal turned to his second in command for help. “Zoe?”

“I don’t know, Captain,” Zoe replied. “Normally I’m siding with you, but right now, I find myself a bit swayed by Kaylee’s youthful exuberance.”

“I can’t believe I’m even considering this,” Mal said.

Shepherd Book put a hand on Mal’s shoulder. “I think that maybe some part of you is seeking redemption,” Book said.

Mal glared at him.

“Not really helping your cause there, preacher,” Zoe said.

Book removed his hand.

“If we do this,” Mal said, “I’ve got some conditions. Kaylee, you are not allowed to badger me for an optional ship’s part for one month. Shepherd, you will do all cooking and mess duty for the same month. Jayne, one word that this job makes me soft, and I’m shooting you out the airlock.”

“What about me, Captain?” Inara asked, purposely blinking her beautiful eyelashes as she did so.

“Uh…I’ll think of something,” Mal said. “All right, Shepherd, where are we going first?”

“To buy some toys,” Book said. “Which means a trip to Ariel.”

“Wash, you heard the man. Let’s get in the air. I’m gonna go clean up. Can’t believe I’m doing this….” And with that, Mal left the mess to return to his bunk. Wash and Zoe headed for the bridge, and Kaylee left for the engine room. River gave Shepherd Book a look of reproach.

“You didn’t tell him the part about the elfin-man dressed in red who flies through the sky to give the children their presents,” she said.

“On the whole,” Book replied, “I figured it best to leave that part out of it.”

“Yeah,” Simon said. “That was…probably wise.”

Minutes later, Serenity lifted off and flew away from Persephone and toward Ariel.


Part Two

Wash put Serenity down on the landing pad, nice and gentle. So nice and gentle that Zoe complimented him on it.

“You’re getting’ more gentle all the time, honey,” Zoe said. “You have such a gift for handling sensitive equipment.”

“Thanks for sayin’ so, my love,” Wash replied. “But I could always use more practice–”

“All right, enough of that, you two.” Mal came up onto the bridge, fully dressed in his usual brown shirt, brown pants, brown belt, brown holster, brown boots, and probably brown socks too, if one could see them underneath all of that. “Wash, you keep the ship warmed and ready to lift if some part of this job goes south. Zoe, you’re coming along.”

“I figured, sir.”

“Captain,” Wash said, “is it really necessary to have contingency plans for this job? We’re actually conducting an honest transaction for once.”

“Yeah,” Mal said. “For once. We don’t get a whole lot of practice with this kind of thing, so who knows what might go wrong. You and Kaylee keep the ship ready. River and the Doc will keep you company. Zoe, you’ll be with Jayne, the Shepherd, and me.”

“What’s Inara doing?”

“Well, I think she’s still on her shuttle, writing long entries in her diary about how much she hates me right now.”

Zoe knew what that meant. “You told her no clients.”

“We ain’t got time. Why am I always the bad guy on this?”

“Oh, I couldn’t begin to venture a guess, Captain,” Zoe said. “Let’s go.”

Mal and Zoe began to exit the bridge.

“Zoe?” Wash called out.

“Yes, love?”

“You’re going to buy toys,” Wash said. “I could use a new stegosaurus for the collection.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

The Captain and Zoe left then, and Wash reached into the small footlocker next to his seat and pulled out a handful of his dinosaur figurines.

In the cargo hold, Shepherd Book and Jayne had the cargo hauler ready to go.

“Jayne,” Book said, “do you really need that many guns?”

“Preacher, are you carryin’ that Bible of yours right now?”

“Good point.”

They lifted a crate containing coin up onto the back of the hauler as Mal and Zoe arrived and descended the criss-crossing stairs down to their level.

“Awful lot of coin to be givin’ up,” Mal said.

“A purchase of good will is never a bad purchase,” said Book.

“You get that from that Bible of yours?”

“No, it just came to me,” Book replied. “A preacher can’t live on the words of one book alone.”

“All right,” Mal said. “Let’s go. Kaylee, open her up.”

“Be careful, Captain,” Kaylee said as she opened the ship’s cargo door and lowered the ramp. Mal, Jayne, Zoe and Book drove off in the hauler. Then Kaylee closed the ship back up. She turned away from the control and nearly jumped out of her skin when she saw that River was standing there, unblinking, just inches away.

“River! You scared me!”

“Would you like me to teach you a song?” River asked.

Kaylee blinked. “Uhhh…sure, honey. I’d love to learn a song.”

“It goes like this. ‘On the first day of Christmas, the operatives brought to me….'”

“Uh, River?” Kaylee interrupted. “Is this one of those creepy songs you learned while you were captive at…that place?”

“Yes,” River said. “I guess I should learn some new songs myself.”

“Yeah,” Kaylee said. “That would be great.”


***
Mal drove the hauler through a warehouse district of Ariel’s main city. Unlike the shiny, wealthy area they had visited a few months earlier – to steal some medicine – this area was much darker and dingier. Every planet, no matter how rich, had parts like this, Mal had long since learned. No one was rich enough to banish dirt and grime forever.

“You know where this warehouse is, right, Book?” Mal asked.

“I’ve got the address right here,” Book said, holding up an electronic data organizer. “And the crate number of the merchandise we’re getting. It’ll be in and out.”

Jayne growled. “Every time one of you people says we’ll be in and out, I go through half my ammo. I haven’t had an in and out job since–”

“Jayne, I’m sure that’s fascinating,” Mal cut in. “But just in case it ain’t, why don’t you hold it to yourself?”

“Sure, Mal,” Jayne said. “I’ll just sit here and be quiet as usual while you and Zoe tell each other the same stories over and over again. Hey, can I hear that one about that time you both got your asses kicked by the Alliance? I love that one.”

“Captain,” Mal said, pointing to himself. “First mate,” he said, pointing to Zoe. “Gun for hire.” He pointed to Jayne.

“Thank you for clearing us up on the chain of command, Captain,” said Shepherd Book. “But we appear to have reached the warehouse.”

“All right.” Mal brought the hauler to a stop near an entrance. “Standard procedure. Zoe, you’ll get us in. Then, Jayne, you’re in first, followed by me, then the Shepherd, and Zoe, you bring up the rear. We’re going to try and find this crate, get it, and be done with it before anyone knows were here.”

“In and out, Captain?” Zoe said.

“In and out,” Mal agreed.

“Not usually our thing,” Zoe said as she walked to the door.

“See, Mal?” Jayne said. “This is what I’m talkin’ about.”

“Well Jayne, that’s six hours since I last regretted hirin’ you.” Mal smiled. “I think that’s a new record for you, ain’t it? Hey Zoe, you got that door open yet?”

“Think so, sir,” Zoe said as she pressed a button that made the large bay door swing open. “Pretty easy, too.”

“Huh,” said Mal.

“Anybody else thinkin’ that was a little too easy?” Jayne put in.

Mal shrugged. “Well, we’ve got guns, so if we get into some local color, we can make our way out.”

“There might be armed guards inside,” Book pointed out.

“Cold feet, Shepherd?” Mal said. “This was your idea. But we’re here, and I’m not in the habit of runnin’ away at the first sign of something unexpected, especially if that unexpected thing is something that actually makes my life a little easier. Like an unlocked door. Shepherd, grab the coin. Jayne?”

Book picked up the crate of coin, and Jayne came forward and led them inside.

The warehouse was, pretty much, like every other warehouse in the ‘Verse. There’s only so much you can do, really, to dress up hundreds of stacks of thousands of cargo crates in an enormous, cavernous room.

“Well, would you look at that,” Jayne said. “A warehouse. We don’t see these too often.”

“Sure, Jayne.”

“I mean, yeah, we go into our share of storehouses, stockpiles, armories…there was that one depository we knocked over that one time…and before I joined you people, there was that distribution center job…but not a lot of warehouses.”

“Jayne,” Mal said, “are you trying to get on my gorram nerves?”

“Just commentin’ on the unique nature of this job, Mal.”

“Shut it, Jayne,” Zoe said. “Preacher, you got the crate number?”

Book consulted a slip of paper. “It’s 29-94-75.”

Mal looked at the manifest markings emblazoned on the side of several nearby crates, and determined which way they needed to go. “This way,” he said, and with Jayne in the lead and Zoe in the rear, they made their way down the corridor created by line upon line of stacked crates.

It didn’t take long to find it. The crate was pretty large, taller than Mal by about two feet, and about eight feet long and six feet across. Mal shone his flashlight on the crate and read the number. “This is it,” he said. “29-94-75. No other markings.”

“There wouldn’t be,” Book said. “The number is all they need.”

“Yeah, I know how shipping works,” Mal said. “All right, here it is. Now we just gotta get it out of here.”

“That crate’s a little big for me to haul out on my back,” Jayne said. “Of all the gorram–”

Zoe cleared her throat. “I think that’s the solution to our problem, Captain,” she said. She pointed to an open area about thirty feet away, where two forklifts stood silent.

“There it is, then,” Mal said. “Easy. Jayne, you’ll drive the lift. We’ll get the goods back out to our hauler, get back to the ship, before anyone knows we were here. No problem. See, I told you! Easy job.”

At that moment six floodlights turned on, three from each side, all trained on Mal and his crew.

“Malcolm Reynolds!” a voice boomed out from the darkness behind the floodlights. “Malcolm Reynolds, you are bound by law to stand down.”

Jayne muttered something in Chinese.

“In and out, right, Captain?” Zoe said.

All Mal could do was raise his hands and nod for the others to do the same.


Part Three

“Weapons on the ground!” the voice shouted. “Now!”

“Do it,” Mal said. He shot a look at Jayne, whose expression of disgust tended to be indistinguishable from his expression of being about to lose his temper. Slowly, Mal, Zoe and Jayne all laid their guns on the floor.

“Put that package on the floor too, preacher,” said the voice.

Book put the crate down.

“All right, face the crates.”

They complied.

“Put your hands on your head.”

They complied.

“Stand on your left feet and recite the first stanza the Alliance anthem!”

Mal glanced at Zoe. “Uh, what?”

Now the voice burst out in laughter. “All right, turn ’em off,” he said. The floodlights all shut off, and the light returned to the dim of the warehouse overhead lamps. Mal turned toward the source of the voice to see a stocky man dressed in old army fatigues approaching. The man was bald except for long, stringy hairs that hung from the back of his head; he had a thick mustache and three days’ growth of beard. He gave Mal a gap-toothed grin as he put his hands on his hips.

“Ahh, Mal, what am I gonna do with you?”

Mal and the others glanced around at the ‘lawmen’, and saw that they weren’t lawmen at all. They were a motley bunch of thieves. Not unlike themselves.

“Jonas,” Mal said. “Fancy meeting you here. I never figured you to be on Ariel. Kind of a rich world for your tastes, isn’t it?”

“Gotta go where the money is, my boy,” the man named Jonas said as he lit a cigar and took a few puffs. “‘Sides, ain’t planning on being here long. I’m guessing you weren’t either.”

“Not really,” Mal agreed. “Can we put our hands down? I don’t tend to find this posture conducive to friendly chat.”

“Ain’t so sure we’re being friendly,” Jonas said. “But sure, let your hands down. Don’t make a move toward those weapons, though.”

“Of course not,” said Mal. “After all, we’re just bein’ friendly.”

“I suppose we are,” Jonas replied as Mal and his people lowered their hands. “So, Mal, what are you doing here?”

“Same as you,” Mal said. “Doin’ a job.”

“And what would be the nature of that job?”

“Well, we’re purchasing the contents of this crate right here and going with them to a…client on Haven. Easy enough.”

“Sounds easy. Haven’s a piss-poor world…wait, did you say you were purchasing the goods?”

Mal shrugged. “Yeah, we’re doin’ it the honest way this time. Wanted to see what that was like.”

“Really. Honest. Dumpin’ a box of coin here and taking the box? That’s a new version of honest. Sounds to me like you’ve found a way of stealin’ that ends up costin’ you money.”

“Yeah,” Mal said, shooting a look at Shepherd Book, “I guess we didn’t really work all the kinks out.”

“Well, Mal, I can’t let you have this box. See, we need it, too. I’m doing a job, myself, and there’s a cantankerous old woman out on Whitefall that could use some of what’s in that box.”

“Whitefall?” Mal laughed. “You’re planning on doing business with Patience?”

“Sure. Why not?”

“Oh, no reason,” Mal said. “Just make sure you plan for her to try to shoot you.”

“Nah,” Jonas said. “Patience and me go way back. I was the one who told her that she should shoot you if she got the chance.”

“Well that was nice of you,” Mal said. “She got the chance. Twice. I’m still here, still flyin’. Counts for somethin’.”

“Yeah, I guess it does. But I can’t let you take this box, coin or no. You see, Mal–”

“Hey, Captain!” It was one of Jonas’s men. Jonas rolled his eyes.

“What is it, Randy? I’m trying to be threatening here, and you’re interrupting.”

“I know, Cap, but this ain’t the box we’re here for.”

“What?”

“Look!” The wiry man named Randy held out a PDA for Jonas to look at. “See, that’s the number of the box we want. It’s the next one over. That one.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. That one’s got the farming seed and fertilizer in it. See, the one we want is in slot number 29-94-77. This slot is number 29-94-75.”

“Oh,” said Jonas.

“Well, this changes things a bit, doesn’t it?” Mal said.

“I think it does, Captain,” said Zoe.

“You see, Jonas, there’s no need to make this deal confrontational. Instead of goin’ that way, we can go another. We’re not even here for the same crate. We’ll take what we want, you’ll take what you want, and everybody’s happy.”

“Seriously, Mal? You’re after this crate? What’s in it?”

“I don’t think that really matters,” said Mal. “Haven’s not a big farming world, so you can bet I’m not looking for farming seed and fertilizer. Let’s just take what we all want and be done with it.”

Jonas kept his gun aimed at Mal as he considered things. Then he nodded at the Shepherd.

“Sure, Mal, we can do that. But I want the coin, too.”

Mal shrugged. “Give it to him, Preacher,” he said.

“Really?” asked Book.

“Yeah, really,” Mal said. “Plan was to leave the coin here anyway. But if you’re gonna take the coin, least you could do is have your boys load our crate onto our hauler for us.”

“I suppose I could do that,” Jonas said. His men grumbled, but he hissed them quiet. “A friendly gesture, right?”

“Yeah,” Mal said. “If we promise not to shoot you, can we pick up our guns now?”

“Sure,” Jonas said. “But we’ll still be coverin’ you until this is done.”

“I figured,” Mal replied as he picked up his pistol. The others followed suit.

“How’d you get in here, anyway?” Jonas asked.

“Door was open.”

“Well, I suppose you can thank me for that,” Jonas replied. “Paid the guards to leave it open and make themselves scarce. All right, boys, you heard the man. Let’s get these boxes loaded! Remember, this one here goes with them, that one down there goes with us. With the Shepherd’s coin.”

Book handed the box of coin to one of Jonas’s men, four of whom turned to the work of loading both crates while Jonas and Randy kept their pistols aimed at Mal and his people.

“Somethin’ here ain’t right,” Jayne said. “We’re gonna get screwed on this deal.”

“Well, Jayne, the screwing was built into the deal, so at least we’re not surprised by it.” Mal shook his head. “This is a weird damn job, though.”

“Nah,” Jayne replied. “There’s still some way this is gonna go south. You watch. Always happens to us.”

Mal rolled his eyes. “Not all our jobs end in disaster,” he said.

“Name one,” Jayne said.

“Well, there was–”

“You ended up drunk and with a con-woman pretending to be your wife.”

“Yeah, but it was good up to then.”

After about ten minutes, they were all outside and both crates were loaded onto their respective haulers.

“Well, Mal,” said Jonas, “I’d prefer if you’d drive off first. And try to stay out of my way in the future.”

“Pleasure doin’ business as always, Jonas,” Mal said. “But I wouldn’t mind pointin’ out that just because we were in the same place, doesn’t mean I was in your way.”

“Even so. I don’t want to get your luck on me, Reynolds. You have a history of taking on work that doesn’t leave you much of a profit. One day you’re gonna realize that ‘Just keep flying’ isn’t a great strategy for life.”

“Thanks for the wisdom, Jonas. Got some for you, too.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Patience is gonna try to shoot you.”

Jonas grinned. “Let her try.” He gestured with his pistol, sending Mal and his people off.

“I’m tellin’ you, this is gonna be a bad deal for everybody,” Jayne said as they neared Serenity.

“Calm down, Jayne. Your opinion is noted.”

Mal drove the hauler back onto the ship’s cargo hold, and Kaylee closed the hatch behind them. Simon and River were there waiting; Wash was on the bridge, and he called down on the intercom.

“Captain?” Wash said. “I’m ready to lift.”

“What are you waiting for!” Mal responded. The ship shifted beneath their feet as the engines roared and Serenity lifted off. Book and Jayne were offloading the crate from the hauler and securing it.

“You see, everybody?” Mal said as he took off his overcoat and tossed it at the foot of the stairs. “Nice, simple job. No big worries, no big fuss. We’re out some coin, sure, but we’ve got a big crate full of nice, shiny toys that will make all the children in an orphanage on Haven happy.”

“Everything went all right?” said Simon. “No hiccups?”

“One little hiccup,” Mal said. “But it didn’t amount to much.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that, Captain,” said Shepherd Book.

“What?”

“Hey Mal,” Jayne said. “We got a problem.”

Mal glanced at Zoe. They walked aft, to where Book and Jayne were both staring at the crate, which Book had opened. Zoe took one look and let out a string of expletives in Chinese. Mal did the same, only with a string of completely different expletives in Chinese.

The crate was full of farm seed and fertilizer. They had the wrong crate.


Part Four
 

“Those aren’t toys,” Kaylee said. “Those are agricultural supplies for a new colony. Did you change the job while you were out?”

“Seal it back up,” Mal said. “That stuff is perishable, and by breaking the seal, we’ve started the decay process.”

The crew stood around, staring at the crate that was supposed to contain toys for the children of the orphanage on Haven but really contained farming seed and fertilizer that had supposedly been destined for Whitefall. Jayne and Book lifted the facing of the crate back into place and restored the seals. When they were done, Jayne stepped back and looked at Mal.

“Well, Mal, guess we got ourselves another hiccup.”

“Yeah, looks that way.” Mal muttered another curse in Chinese and then he kicked the crate for good measure.

“That won’t hurt the crate,” River said.

“It will hurt your foot if you do that again, though,” Simon said.

“So, what now?” Jayne said. “That’s it then, isn’t it?”

“I don’t know,” Mal said. “I’m thinkin’.”

Zoe cleared her throat. “Captain, you know Jonas better than any of us. How likely is he to hold this against us?”

“Worried about us having another enemy?”

“I’m running out of space on the piece of paper where I keep their names written down, sir.”

“Yeah. Preacher, how did this happen?”

“I have no idea, Captain,” said Book. “I double-checked the numbers. We had the right slot number in the warehouse. The only way this happens is if the warehouse workers put the crates in the wrong slots themselves.”

And with that, a silence settled over the crew as they realized what had happened.

“Well, this is new,” said Jayne. “Never stolen the wrong goods before.”

“Yeah, this is definitely a wrinkle we haven’t tried before,” said Mal. “All right, I’m open to suggestions.”

“Suggestions for what?” It was Wash, who had just come down from the bridge. “Everyone’s looking awfully glum here.”

“We stole the wrong goods, honey,” Zoe said.

“Now there‘s something we haven’t done before!” Wash said. “Now what?”

“See?” Mal said. “Took him all of two sentences to get up to speed on this.”

“What do we do?” Kaylee asked. “Captain?”

“Maybe the children want to play as farmers,” River offered. “They can grow their own vegetables and work the soil.”

“River,” Book said, “the orphanage is in the middle of a city that’s a hundred miles in diameter. There’s no soil except what’s in the decorative flower pots.”

“That sounds depressing,” River said. “Children need space.”

“Well, we can’t solve every problem at once,” Zoe said. “Captain, Jonas is gonna know that he can’t open the crate without breaching the shelf-life of the goods that he thinks are in there.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Mal said. “If that’s the case, then Jonas has no idea that he’s got a crate full of toys on his ship. Which means that he’s on his way to Whitefall. He won’t know anything is wrong until Patience does. Of course, knowing Patience, she’ll have already tried to shoot him.”

“So that’s it then,” said Jayne. “We ain’t gotta do a gorram thing. Let them shoot each other and then we can sell this stuff to whoever takes over for Patience. Make back our coin, and then some.”

Mal considered this. After a moment, Shepherd Book stepped forward.

“Captain, I know that your ship is not a democracy, but I must voice my opposition to what Jayne has suggested.”

“Yeah, I thought you might,” Mal said. “Wash, go get us on a course for Whitefall. Get us there fast. We want to get there before the shooting starts.”

“You got it,” Wash said as he headed back up the stairs. “A pilot’s job is never done! Until he lands, then he’s done until the next job….”

“Zoe,” Mal said, “I’m gonna need your help figurin’ out how to approach this one. We’ve got to make a switch without both Jonas and Patience deciding that I’m cheating them.”

“Sounds like a challenge,” Zoe said.

“Why I’m givin’ it to you.”

“Wait a minute!” Jayne said. “We’re gonna try to get the toys back? Anybody else think that’s crazy?”

Simon shrugged. “I think it’s kind of shiny,” he said. Kaylee grinned at him.

“Doc, I’m gonna do somethin’ hurtful to you someday soon,” Jayne said. “Mal, how can you even consider this?”

Mal looked at Shepherd Book. “I took a job,” he said. “And even though the job’s starting to bring some trouble, truth is, that’s what jobs do. And there ain’t a job in the ‘Verse that I’m like to walk away from once I take it.”

Jayne shook his head. “I can’t ruttin’ believe this.”

“Hey, look at the bright side,” Mal said. “We’re goin’ to Whitefall to try and do business with Patience.”

“Probably be some shooting,” Zoe added.

Jayne laughed harshly. “Day’s gonna come when you’re not gonna be able to buy me off by lettin’ me shoot some folk,” he said.

Mal considered that. “Well, that’s gonna be an interesting day. Come on, Zoe. We need to brainstorm.”


***
It took them the better part of a day to get to Whitefall, which was a pretty miserable and dusty rock way out on the fringes. Malcolm Reynolds didn’t much like this world; it was run by a crusty woman named Patience who didn’t tend to practice any, and who had a nasty habit of trying to shoot him. She’d succeeded once, but the last time, Mal had got the better of her. He’d done the job, and despite some unkind words as regarding his character, he’d gotten paid. But this one was going to be tricky, no doubt about that.

“OK, Mal, we’re here,” Wash said as Whitefall loomed before the ship. “Now what?”

“Well, Patience is a woman of habit,” Mal said. “So I’m thinkin’ she’ll want to meet with Jonas in that same spot she chose to meet us in last time we were here. Good spot for an ambush. So we’ll go there and hope we’re in time to avoid some fisticuffs and general tomfoolery.”

Zoe looked at Mal. “‘Tomfoolery’, sir?”

“What? You know I like to dust off archaic words now and then.”

“Part of what makes you charming, sir.”

“Thanks for sayin’. Now, if I’m Patience, I’m puttin’ two snipers in the hills around that meeting spot, after we took care of the one she ahd there last time. And Jonas is gonna have his own sniper up there somewhere too. So Jayne and the Shepherd will take care of the snipers for us, and then we walk in and make everybody happy.”

“Aren’t we doin’ an awful lot of counting on the Shepherd to shoot people on this job?” Zoe asked.

“Probably, but that book of his is nonspecific as regards kneecaps and elbows, if I remember right. Wash, same landing spot as before.”

“Sure thing, Mal,” Wash said. “And I’ve got Jonas’s ship on the scanner now. They’re landing as we speak, two hilltops over. Looks like we got here in time.”

“It’s a Christmas miracle, Captain,” Zoe said.

Mal rolled his eyes. “Now don’t you start,” he said. “Let’s go get ready. Wash, put her down.”

“Sure thing, Captain,” Wash said.

Mal and Zoe walked down to the hold, where Jayne and Shepherd Book were waiting.

“Captain,” Book began, “I feel I should apologize for having gotten you into this business.”

“Did it with my eyes open,” Mal said. “But if you’re volunteering for a month of mess duty, I don’t think I’ll hear any objections from the rest of the crew.” He glanced around at Kaylee, Simon, River, and Inara, who all just stood there placidly. “And a month it is! All right, Zoe and me have come up with what we think is a nicely nuanced plan.”

Jayne grunted. “Book and I take out the snipers and cover you while you and Zoe try to talk some sense into Patience and Jonas?”

“Yeah, that’s about it.”

“We gotta start comin’ up with plans that don’t have quite as much ‘if’ in ’em,” Jayne grumbled.

“Every time I ask you for input, your first words are ‘I shoot them’.”

“Yeah. Not a lot of ‘if’ when the other guy’s got bullets in him.”

“OK. Get that crate ready. And Kaylee, keep the engines warm. We may need to make a fast break for it.”

“Be easier if you’d let me replace that drive inducer that I keep warning you about,” Kaylee said.

“New year’s comin’,” said Mal.


***
The scene that confronted Mal and Zoe when they peered over the edge of the knoll above Patience’s rendezvous spot was about what Mal expected: Patience sat atop her horse, while her men had Jonas at gunpoint, and Jonas’s men had Patience’s men at gunpoint. Everybody had everybody else at gunpoint.

“Whole lot of gunpoint,” Mal muttered.

“Not too late to find a desk job, Captain,” Zoe replied.

“More of us than there are of you, Jonas,” Patience said. “And I’ve got a sniper aimin’ at you right now. You’re not walkin’ away.”

“I got a man took out your sniper,” Jonas replied. “I’m not stupid, Patience. And my men are better shots than yours. Now how about you toss me the coin and we’ll be on our way?”

“All I see here is a big crate,” Patience said. “You might as well open her up and let us see the goods.”

“Suits me fine,” said Jonas. “Randy? Open it.”

Keeping his hands visible at all times, Randy popped open the crate and swung it open. “Uh, Captain?” he said.

“This some kind of joke, Jonas?” Patience asked. “That don’t look like seed and fertilizer to me.”

“What?” Jonas turned to Randy. “What is she gorram talking about?”

“This crate, sir,” Randy said. “It’s full of…toys.”

“Toys?”

“Toys, sir.”

Toys?!

“This some kind of joke, Jonas?” Patience sounded annoyed. “So you’re gonna dump fake goods on me after you have my money?”

Jonas looked uncomfortable.

“Do we go down now?” Zoe asked.

“Shhhh,” Mal said. “Things haven’t gone south enough yet.”

“Patience,” Jonas said. “Uhhhh….”

“I’d like to hear an explanation,” Patience said. “Before I shoot you myself.” She pulled out her pistol.

“Malcolm Reynolds cheated me!” Jonas said.

“Reynolds?” Patience’s eyebrows went up. “What’s he got to do with this?”

“Funny you should ask!” Mal called out as he rose up and sauntered over the knoll, his pistol in his hand but not aimed at anything. Zoe came behind him, her shotgun in her hand as well.

“Reynolds!” shouted both Patience and Jonas at the same time. Both also pointed their pistols at him, at the same time.

“Well there we go,” Mal said. “Two criminals suddenly united in purpose. Warms the heart, eh, Zoe?”

“Sure does, sir.”

“Mal, I’ll shoot you where you stand,” Patience said.

“And I’ll shoot you again before you hit the ground,” Jonas said.

“Sure,” Mal said. “But then you wouldn’t hear the explanation and my counter-proposal.”

“Explanation?” Jonas roared. “You switched the crates and took the good stuff! What were you going to do, let me get shot and then sell Patience the real goods?”

Mal thought. “Huh. Zoe, that might have worked.”

“Surprised you didn’t think of it, sir.”

“I gotta be goin’ soft in my old age.”

“Happens to the best of us, sir.”

“Jonas, we didn’t switch a gorram thing. The warehouse workers screwed up. Those crates were in the wrong spots. We took what we thought was our crate, but it was really yours. And you got ours, thinkin’ it was really yours. Kind of an irony, ain’t it?”

Patience rolled her eyes. “Right now I’m wondering which of you is the less competent one,” she said.

“Well, that would be him,” Mal said. “No offense, Jonas, but at least we discovered the problem and we’re here to make it right. Now here’s our proposal. We take our crate and go on our way. You get your crate, which we stashed about a mile away from here. Then you two finish your business and everybody goes away happy. Or we go away happy and you shoot each other. Whatever you prefer.”

“Or I just take all the goods and keep my coin,” Patience said. “Mal, you’re still not very bright. Neither are you, Jonas. You may have taken out one of my snipers, but I put two up there.”

“Yeah, Patience,” Mal said. “As to that, we took out Jonas’s sniper who took out your sniper. And then we took out your other sniper. So now the only two snipers up there are mine. And they’re good, believe me. Aren’t they, Zoe?”

“The best, sir.”

“Yup. So, Jonas, we’ll take this crate now. Yours is a mile that way.” He pointed. “No reason for anybody to get shot.”

“You takin’ my hauler too, Mal?”

Mal shrugged. “I suppose we can leave it behind once we get our goods back on my ship. As a good-will gesture and all.”

“Or we can come with you and make sure we get it back,” Jonas said.

Mal shrugged. “Or that,” he conceded. “We just want our goods.”

“A bunch of toys?” Jonas shook his head. “What are you up to, Reynolds?”

“I’m doin’ a job,” Mal said. “Why does everybody keep asking me that?” He turned to Patience. “Give him the coin, Patience, and go get your box and keep running your little world. Nobody needs to get shot here. It’s Christmas.”

Patience blinked. “It’s what?”

“Never mind. Just get out of here.”

Patience sighed. “Every time you show up on this world I end up losing money,” Patience said as she tossed a sack of coin to Jonas. “That crate ain’t there and I’m puttin’ a bounty on you, Mal.”

“Yeah, well, I’ve got a track record here, Patience,” Mal said. “I get you the goods and then I get paid. The way a transaction’s supposed to be. You’re the one likes shootin’ people and tryin’ to get out of paying, so I’d just as soon you rode off with your men and stopped disparaging me.”

Patience laughed. “Fine, Mal, have it your way. But if you don’t mind some advice, you need to stop expecting transactions to run the way they’re supposed to. That’s why you’re still flying around in a rustbucket.” She gestured to her men, who stood down, and then they rode off.

“She only says that because she can’t fly in a ship for ten minutes without puking,” Zoe said.

“Yeah, well, let’s get this stuff back to Serenity. We’ve still got a job to do. Jonas, if you would?”

Jonas sighed. “You heard him, men. Let’s go. Least we can with him saving our bacon on this one.”

Jonas’s men grumbled but obeyed. Mal spoke into the mouthpiece on the wire he wore under his coat. “Jayne? Preacher? You can come down now. We’re all good here.”

“How’d you know where to find us, anyway?” Jonas asked.

“Dealt with Patience before,” Mal replied. “Let’s move.”

“Did you really leave her goods a mile away?”

“Yup.”

Jonas shook his head. “You could’ve kept them, sold them someplace else. Made double profit.”

“Thought of that,” Mal said. “But I need to be able to do business. No need to make an enemy out of Patience until I have to.”

They moved the crate of toys back to Serenity, whereupon Jonas ordered his men to start back to their own ship. Mal ordered his crew to get the ship ready for departure, and then he went outside with Jonas.

“Well, Mal,” Jonas said, “it was a pleasure, as always. Now, if that’s all–”

“Not quite,” Mal said. “I’ll be taking the coin that Patience gave you.”

Jonas blinked. “What?”

“You heard me,” Mal said. “You took coin from me that wasn’t yours to take. And despite that, I still came here and saved your gorram hide. Way I see it, you owe me. Let’s square up right now. Get it over with.”

Jonas stared at him. Mal sighed.

“Jonas, you really want to see what a good draw I am? And what a good shot?”

Jonas sighed and pulled the bag of coin from his jacket pocket and flipped it to Mal. “Every time I wonder how it is you stay in business, you pull something like this out of your hat.”

“Not much of a secret,” Mal said. “I don’t set my sights too high. I just keep flyin’.”

“Yeah. Well, do me a favor and don’t tell anyone you took my coin from me.”

“As far as I’m concerned, it was a payment offered in good will.”

Jonas nodded. “Yeah, call it that. But stay away from me for a while, would you?” He lit a cigar and went to join his men. Mal turned and went aboard the ship.

“OK, Wash, let’s fly. We need to be in Haven’s air within twelve hours.”

“We can just make it,” Wash replied over the loudspeaker.

Serenity lifted off.


***
Eleven and one half hours later, they were flying toward Haven. Mal came up to the bridge, where Wash was looking at a scanner.

“So?” Mal asked. “What’s the new problem?”

Wash blinked. “I didn’t call you!”

“I know, but we’re due for the next problem with this job. What is it?”

Wash pointed to the scanner. “Alliance ship in orbit. They haven’t scanned us yet, and maybe they won’t, but if they do–”

“They might board us,” Mal said. “Then again, they might not. They’re in stationary orbit?”

“Uh-huh,” Wash said. “Right above the part of town where our Shepherd’s orphanage is.”

Mal muttered several curses in Chinese.

“That’s what I said,” Wash replied.

“All right. Let me think.” Mal thought. And then he pressed the intercom button. “Would everybody please report to the hold? You too, Inara. I need everybody.”


***
The plan was this: Mal, Zoe, and Wash would stay aboard Serenity, in stationary orbit on the other side of the planet. They would load all of the toys onto Inara’s shuttle – individually, because the shuttle wasn’t big enough for something the size of that crate – and then Inara would fly down to the orphanage in the middle of the night, when Shepherd Book assured them no one would notice something like a shuttle landing on the roof. Then, Jayne, Book, Simon, Kaylee, and River would take each toy individually to a child.

It wasn’t one of Mal’s most thought-out plans, but it was the best he could come up with on fairly short notice. Mal thought it was a decent enough plan, until Zoe said “Nice plan, sir,” which was what she usually said when she thought his plans were scenarios for utter disaster. But that was the plan, and so it was that on the night before Christmas, when all through the orphanage not a child was stirring, a shuttlecraft flown by a registered Companion came down to land on the roof.

“All right, we’re here,” Jayne said as he grabbed an armful of toys. “Let’s get this ruttin’ job over with.”

“Said with the true spirit of the day,” Shepherd Book said. “All right, everyone follow me. And keep quiet. The whole place is asleep.”

“They always knew when I was sleeping,” River said. “They knew when I was awake.”

“She’s gonna be all right, isn’t she?” Jayne asked.

“Sure,” Simon said. “Isn’t she always?”

Jayne shook his head as Shepherd Book led them across the roof and into the orphanage via the roof access door, which Book lockpicked open in seconds.

“Real great security here,” Jayne remarked.

“It’s an orphanage,” Book said. “One where everybody knows there’s nothing worth stealing.”

They went downstairs, where they found themselves in a very large room, with bunk beds running down each side, and a child sleeping in each bed.

“All right, there are four more rooms like this,” Book whispered. “Every child gets a toy.”

“Right,” Jayne said, and he ran off and started randomly sticking a toy on each bed.

“Jayne!” Kaylee protested. “You can’t do it like that! You can’t give a boy a doll!”

“Why not?” Jayne asked. “They don’t like it they can trade.”

“Just do it right,” Kaylee said.

“What kind of toys did he play with?” Simon muttered.

In this way they went through the room, distributing a toy to each child. Somehow, miraculously, they got through all of the rooms without waking a single child, giving a toy to each one, one toy to each of three hundred children.

Except the last bed, which, when Jayne approached it, he discovered was empty. No child here, just rumpled sheets. Kid probably got up to go to the bathroom, or get a drink of water. “Huh,” Jayne thought. He looked at the toy in his hand – a teddy bear – and decided that he rather liked it. He’d always wanted one when he was a kid, and never got one. And this one was real nice, with a bow around its neck and everything. So there was a toy left over. So what? Kid shoulda been there in bed. Kid’s loss. He turned and headed back for the ship.

Meanwhile, River was taking her time over each gift, gently laying it on each bed, and whispering a rhyme over each child. What made it take even longer was that she was inventing each rhyme off the top of her head. Simon wondered if he should intercede, but since she was speaking in verse about things that weren’t somehow grimly dark or eerily foreboding, he thought it was best to just let her go.

Also meanwhile, Kaylee found herself wondering if it was really fair to try to pigeonhole these kids into girl toys and boy toys. After all, her toys had been wrenches and hammers and drivers and blast drills and parts from a hundred different ship engines, and look how she’d turned out! Nothin’ to be ashamed of. It was a fine life, even if once in a while she wanted something a little more than engine parts and dirty overalls.

Also meanwhile, Inara saw that the orphanage’s one lone security guard had had his curiosity piqued by some strange noises, and he came shuffling up the stairs to find a shuttle sitting on his roof. He was about to blow an alarm whistle when she came down and silenced him with a look and a flash of leg. It always worked, especially with young men like this. Barely old enough to grow a beard. Staring at her as though he’d just seen an angel. Sad world, Haven, she thought. No wonder Companions almost never come here.

“Is there a girl you like?” she asked him.

He managed to nod.

She removed a ruby brooch from her robe and handed it to him. He gulped.

“Give this to her,” she said. “And say nothing of me tonight.”

He managed to nod, again. A major accomplishment, that. And so she sent him on his way, knowing that this would be their little secret, forever. Inara could keep secrets, and what would he say? Would he talk of the beautiful woman in the spaceship on his roof? No. Of course not. She smiled.

Finally meanwhile, Shepherd Book went all the way to the lowest level of the orphanage, where the oldest kids were. These kids were in the worst shape, the ones most likely to end up in something a bit worst than Mal’s line of work, the ones most likely to end up on the wrong end of someone’s gun or floating dead through the Black. He had little hope that a toy, just one toy, would be enough to budge more than maybe one or two of them off the trajectory their lives had them on, but lots of miracles had started from smaller stuff than a single toy. He laid each one on a bed, and tried not to linger too much over the one particular bed, the one over there on the left. On his way back up to the roof, he paused at the door to the headmaster’s apartment. He wondered if he might say hello, under other circumstances. Or if he might rather go in there with a gun instead of a bible. He lingered there only a moment and then returned to the roof.

“Are we all here?”

“We’re just waiting on Jayne,” said Simon.

“Where is he?!”

At that moment, Jayne was muttering, “Where’s the gorram stairs around here?” He’d gotten lost. It was a bigger orphanage than he’d though, and now he had no idea how to get back up to the roof. But he had to get up there, fast; the night was getting old and people would be getting up soon. He rushed around, all over the place, looking behind every door, until he found the stairs up. “‘Bout time,” he said. And then he stopped, because there was an eight-year-old girl looking at him.

“Uhhh…hi there,” he said. “You should be in bed, youngster.”

“I couldn’t sleep,” said the girl. “I have bad dreams. I wanted a drink of water.”

“Well, you got your drink, so back to bed.”

“You’re not from here,” the girl said. “Are you here to steal things?”

“No,” Jayne said. “Not this time, anyway. Maybe tomorrow, haven’t figured out the next job yet. Don’t know. Gotta keep moving.” But he didn’t move. That girl just stood there, looking at him. All big-eyed, with her tangled hair and bedrobe that wasn’t filthy but had seen better days anyway…. “I think your eyes are stuck,” he said. “I gotta go.”

“Bye,” she said. And she stood there watching as he went halfway up the stairs, where he stopped.

“Aww, gorram it,” he said as he turned back and came back down. “This is for you.” He handed her the teddy bear. “Hold onto it tight when you sleep. Might help with them dreams. I got a preacher friend who says this is Christmas, so…have a ruttin’ happy Christmas.” And then he went up the stairs, practically running up them, to get away from the girl with the big eyes.

“That all the toys?” he asked when he got on board the shuttle.

“There were about twenty or so left over,” said Simon. “I left those in a playroom.”

“We’re all ready, right?” Inara called back.

“We’re all here!” Book said. “Close her up and let’s go home.”

Inara guided the little shuttle back into the air, and up into the sky toward the planet’s other side, where Serenity lay in orbit.

“What took you so long, Jayne?” Kaylee asked.

“Got lost,” Jayne said. “And…there was a little girl. Don’t worry, I gave her a toy.”

River pointed at his shirt, his red shirt. “A man with a beard wearing red came in the night to give her a present,” she said. “Just like the old stories!”

Jayne stared at her. “What is she ruttin’ talkin’ about?”

“Nothing,” said Book.

When they arrived on Serenity, Mal was there, waiting.

“Nice work,” he said.

“Thank you, Captain,” said Shepherd Book. “I appreciate it.”

“I did a job,” Mal said. “Soon as that tree gets dry and starts dropping those sharp needles all over my mess–”

“I’ll have it down, sir.”

Mal nodded and headed for his bunk. “Nice work, everyone,” he called out. “Zoe, wake me when we get to Persephone.”


***
A few weeks later they’d done another job, and they all had a little extra money. Not a lot, but some. So they all decided to exchange gifts. Mal wasn’t sure whose idea it was, or if it even was anyone’s idea, but it seemed to happen anyway.

Zoe gave her dear husband Wash that stegosaurus figurine he’d wanted. Wash gave his beloved wife Zoe a brand new leather vest.

Shepherd Book gave Simon an old copy of a very old anatomy book, a ‘classic text’ on the subject, from Old Earth. Simon gave River a rose made out of glass, with gold leaf on the petals; she commented on the fact that it had thorns. River gave the Shepherd a new Bible, which she promised him she would leave ‘uncorrected’.

Kaylee gave Jayne a new carrying case for Vera, his favorite gun; Jayne gave Inara a robe that she knew she would look stunning in but would never ever ever wear in front of Jayne. And Inara gave Kaylee a new engine stabilizer and one of her own robes.

And Mal? He got what he always wanted. He got to keep flying.


The End

Merry Ruttin’ Christmas
and a Happy Gorram New Year!!!

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When the Muse Taunts Me

(The following is a repost of something I originally posted to Byzantium’s Shores a few years ago. It remains a relatively accurate portrayal of my relationship with The Muse.)

The Muse is a fairly capricious being.

When we think of The Muse — that otherworldly being who is the source of all things poetic — we generally think of a being or beings who look like this:

But after however-many-years of wandering in the wilderness, chasing after the dreams and visions offered by The Muse in the hopes that my efforts at making use of one of those tiny scraps of an idea might, in my hands, become something worth reading, I’ve come to the conclusion that The Muse does not look like that at all.

First of all, The Muse is a guy. Why is this? I don’t know; I didn’t set it up. But he’s a guy. But he’s not a classical Greek God of a guy. No, he’s a dumpy fellow. Picture the love child of Danny DeVito and Tommy Chong, at the age of fifty-five. That’s The Muse. He’s cranky, probably from being too short, and lackadaisical, probably from smoking a lot of weed.

The Muse ain’t much for hygeine, it turns out. Or presentation. He just doesn’t care how he looks, because he knows that all the power is his. He knows that he’s got the goods, and that we want ’em. And he knows that he doesn’t have to give up the goods at all, and that when he does, he only has to do it on his timeframe. So when he shows up, he’s not all tall and muscular, wearing a perfect toga and a laurel branch on his brow.

No, The Muse shows up in a dirty tank-top that might have been white once-upon-a-time, but it was likely stained in the package. It’s just slightly too tight on his pot-bellied frame, as if it’s one half-size too small. Nevertheless, he insists on tucking it in, so that it comes untucked in the course of his day. So when he shows up, he’s got one side tucked in and the other side hanging there so you can see flashes of his gut.

His pants are also filthy. They’re brown slacks, shapeless and dirty. There’s a ketchup stain on his thigh, but he doesn’t care. His shoes are some strange blend of black, brown, tan, and gray, all in one color that has never had a word attached to it, in any language.

The Muse is cranky and foul-mouthed. He has no manners to speak of; he smokes and drinks and is insanely rude. When he talks, it’s with a thick accent, and almost never the same accent two days in a row. But that doesn’t matter, because he almost never sticks around long enough to have a conversation. He doesn’t even talk to you when he drops by to give away ideas.

In fact, he doesn’t even give ideas away. See, he’s got so many of them that he doesn’t need ’em. In fact, he doesn’t have ‘so many’ ideas; he has all the ideas, every single idea anyone ever had or is ever gonna have. And he just drives around with them, in his 1973 Dodge Dart. The whole car is painted metallic green, except for the right fender, which has a big old dent in it and is still the color of primer. The passenger door has a big orange ‘7’ on it, but not the driver’s door. In this vehicle The Muse speeds around town, never once obeying a speed limit (unless he goes on the Thruway, in which case he gets in the left lane and goes 45).

Once in a while The Muse drives by your house. And when he does, he might slow down for you, or he might not. If he slows down, he won’t stop to talk. He won’t even look at you. He’ll just throw a wad of garbage out the passenger side window, to land on your feet. It’ll likely be a paper bag from McDonald’s. It’ll be a few days old, so it’ll be stinky and the grease will have soaked through the paper a bit and there will be smeared ketchup on it. But that doesn’t matter, because you have to open that bag up, see. You have to dig through it, past the wax paper cup that’s still sticky with Coke syrup and the French fry thing with ketchup on it. You have to do this because you’re after the Big Mac wrapper. There’s still cheese and ketchup and Special Sauce on it, but you can wash your hands later. Because on the inside of that wrapper? That’s where he wrote your Idea.

And the Idea won’t always be relevant to anything you’re working on. Sometimes it’ll be the key to solving a particularly sticky point in the tale you’re telling right then, a point where you’re stuck. Maybe you read it and realize that the key to a happy ending is having Captain Renault round up the usual suspects. Or maybe the Idea is a notion for a new tale, entirely — “Hey, what if there’s a great white shark who realizes that there’s good eatin’ in the waters off a New England resort island?”. Or maybe the Idea is something else.

The Muse visited me this morning. Drove by and chucked something out the window. It wasn’t a McDonald’s trash collection this time; instead it was a bag of non-returnable bottles. Took me a while to dig through it and find the Idea, but there it was. I won’t say what it is, but it turns out to be the essential key to the story, the thing that will make it work. This morning, The Muse gave me the way to win the ballgame.

But not on the novel I’m writing now.

No, today The Muse drove by and chucked me the key to the plot of The Adventures of Lighthouse Boy (not the actual title), the project which I shelved a while back so I could let the plot simmer in my head a time longer. Now that I’m trucking away on Princesses In Space!!! II: Ocarina of Time (not the actual title), I’ve had the other tale fall into place. And I won’t get to that one again, most likely, until 2014 at the earliest.

I stood there, sticky bag and useless bottles in hand, reading what The Muse had scrawled on the back of a cash register tape. “Oh, come on!” I shouted. “What the hell good is this gonna do me right now?”

In reply, The Muse only laughed. He’s got a nasty laugh, that guy.

Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.

(image above via)

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Your First Draft is NOT Crap!!!

first draft

There seems to be a common school of thought among writers, at least so far as I’ve seen, that holds that your first draft of anything – story, novel, poem, whatever – is always bad. But I gotta be honest here, folks: I don’t like the idea that your first draft is crap. In fact, I dislike this notion with some intensity.

Actually…I hate it. Hate hate hate it.

Your first draft is not crap. It just isn’t. Is it “publishable”? Almost certainly not. Is it “ready”? Almost certainly not. But…is it crap?

Almost certainly not.

Look, when you write, you pour a lot of yourself out onto the page. How can that be “crap”? And even if there a lot of things that need fixing, either in terms of phrasing or pacing or characterization or any other concern one might have about a piece of writing…there’s still a lot that’s good, right? Unless you quite literally replace every word in your first draft during your edit, your first draft is not “crap”. Neither is it “junk”, or “bad”.

I think that what’s called for here is a different metaphor. So: if we think of a finished book as a building, then this is what your first draft is:

OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA

That’s right. It’s not crap; it’s an unfinished building. You still have to put up walls and run plumbing and electrical and install window frames and put up the glass windows and doors and you have to paint the walls and finish the exterior and trim out the woodwork and lay carpet and all the other stuff that comes with building a building. But a building without a frame is a pile of stuff from Home Depot, and that’s not much use to anybody. Without the frame, there is no building; it’s the frame that defines the building.

Your first draft is pretty much the same. Without a first draft, you don’t have a story because you don’t have a sense of things. You don’t have a clear idea your arc or what it is that your characters are trying to accomplish or what problem they’re trying to solve. You don’t know what it is they need to learn, or how they need to change, or what things are going to happen to change them. Without the first draft to give you some idea of the story’s structure, you don’t know what kind of story it is.

So a first draft is not a pile of crap, and it does not suck. It’s an incomplete framework. You’d never try to live in a house that was just a frame on a lot, and you wouldn’t want to read a story that’s in its first-draft stage. But that’s not because the first draft sucks! It’s because the first draft is missing things, like drywall and paint and plumbing and electrical and windows and doors and trim work. There’s a reason that carpenters talk about “rough carpentry” and “finish carpentry”: the rough carpentry is the framing and basic layout, and the finish work is what makes the thing a house or a store or an office building or whatever. No carpenter ever says, “Your frame should be crap!” because that’s not how they look at these things.

That’s the way it should be for writers, in my opinion. Even the terminology is compatible: rough carpentry, rough draft. Finish carpentry, finishing work on the story. This seems to me a much more productive and healthy way to look at one’s writings-in-progress. When you finish a rough draft, you haven’t produced something that sucks; you’ve produced the frame of an eventual finished story.

Now, obviously this analogy isn’t perfect. Sometimes when we do the finish work on a rough draft for a 30-chapter novel, we might find ourselves condensing things to the point where we literally get rid of chapters 3, 5, 10, and 22. An architect supervising the construction of a 30-story building, however, isn’t going to wait until the frame is built and then decide, “OK, we’re actually going to ditch the third, fifth, tenth, and twenty-second floors.” But no analogy is perfect, and even an imperfect analogy using carpentry as its motif has got to be better than one that uses poo, right?

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A Brief Trip Around Writing Blogistan

Here are some things that I’ve seen around the neighborhood of the Blogistan Writing Community:

  1. Briana Morgan released her first book, Blood and Water, a month or two back (I read several chapters of it in draft, and if the final version — which is on my To Read list — is as good, it’s a keeper), and now she is selling signed copies. (Note to self: Get off arse and start offering signed copies!)
  2. Ksenia Anske (whose site needs to be on your “Visit several times weekly” list now) has thoughts on how writers shoot themselves in the foot by not making their books discoverable.
  3. Shelly Muncaster has reasons for not doing NaNoWriMo. She makes an important point: NaNoWriMo might not be for you. If you’re genuinely vexed by it, there is zero shame in not participating! NaNoWriMo should be a source of fun and good work and camaraderie, not for beating oneself up.
  4. EJ Fisch discusses, amongst other things, how she has used her workspace in her day job as a way of marketing herself as a writer. This reminds me of something I read in a book years ago, which was assigned reading for a sales job I had. (I was terrible at it and eventually got fired, but that’s a tale for another time.) The guy writing the book discussed how he put his sales award certificates and photos of himself meeting various dignitaries on the wall behind his desk, so his prospects could see them as he talked with them. He was using his own walls as sales space. Always a good idea! I’m not sure how well I could do this sort of thing at my workplace — my own workspace is very tiny, with almost no wall space to speak of — but it’s worth thinking about.
  5. SK Waller (one of the first writing-peeps I ever met, over ten years ago, in the course of blogging!), had some observations on how trying NaNoWriMo impacted her own usual process. She’s not a plow-ahead-and-revise-later type of writer, so she had some trouble getting out of the block. (She did eventually win, though!)

That’s about all for now. Moving forward, I’ll try to do more of this sort of thing. Excelsior, Stardancers!

 

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Stuff!!!

No updates in a few weeks! But it’s been a really busy month. Here are some notes on recent antics in my world:

  1. Remember, THE WISDOMFOLD PATH is out! I haven’t finished the Nook formatting yet, but I hope to have that done in the next few days. Got you copy yet? No? GET WITH IT, PEOPLE!!!
  2. I redesigned Byzantium’s Shores, my personal blog. The old template was looking increasingly clunky in my eyes, so I finally cleaned it up a bit. Also, now that NaNoWriMo is over and the book is launched and whatnot, I should be able to post more reliably there.
  3. We took a vacation in New York City! That pretty much killed my writing time for six days, but I figured that would happen, so I accounted for it. I did get some work done on the trip, enough so as to not completely lose momentum. I’ve been posting photos of the trip to Flickr, with blog posts over on Byzantium’s Shores annotating the journey. Follow along!
  4. Regarding NaNoWriMo: I am now 2-2 in my NaNo participation: two wins each of the first two years, and two losses the last couple of years. Ouch! I expected this year to be tough, but I was pretty much on target right up until the last day or two before we embarked for NYC, so I feel pretty good that I would have made 50000 words with no problem had that trip not happened. And NaNoWriMo, as much as I love you and look forward to you each year, I love travel with my family more! (And besides, the whole point isn’t to beat yourself up about making 50K anyway. The point is to show prospective writers how the whole “goal-setting” thing works.)
  5. What’s up now? Well, this month there’s Christmas and the new Star Wars movie (which I continue to believe should have been released next May, because Star Wars movies should always come out in May), and it’s time to start revising Forgotten Stars III, which I can already safely say is going to be a lot harder than reworking the first two books. The first draft isn’t exactly a mess, but I’ve had time to think a lot about certain aspects of that book since I finished the draft, and…well, there’s a ton of heavy lifting ahead, so much so that I’m a little worried about making next November’s hopeful release date.

That’s about all for right this second. More stuff to come, though! I actually have some posts already written and awaiting their loading here. Stay tuned, Stardancers!

Excelsior!

 

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On Fanfic, and on Writing as Play

Pew! Pew! Pew!
So there was a thing the other day on Twitter in which a lot of writers were suddenly defending the idea of writing fan fiction. I didn’t understand why at first, but as far as I can tell, someone wrote an article somewhere – I think for a teen-oriented publication of some sort, whether print or web I don’t know – attacking the idea of writing fanfic. Now, I did not read the article in question, or even track it down, because…well, I’m not so interested in refuting specific points. I’d rather just generally say that no, writing fanfic is not a complete waste of time, except in one kind of scenario that I can think of. And that is simply this: if you are talented enough to write your own stories from scratch, and you have the desire to write your own stories from scratch, but you instead choose to write fanfic instead.

And you know what? Even then I don’t think it’s right to say that it’s a waste of time, because it’s your time.

Even so, not everyone approaches writing the same way. If you just enjoy spinning your own stories and you have no real aim for them other than to please yourself, then hey, why not indulge a bit of fanfic? There are less-productive hobbies to have, and I suspect that for a lot of folks who write fanfic, the act of doing so scratches the same kind of itch that, say, playing a role-playing game does for others. It indulges a human need for story and for interaction with a fictional universe in a way that is, for those who enjoy writing, sometimes deeply satisfying.

I wrote fanfic for years, too, and I have my own thoughts on the subject, because I think fan-fiction can be useful as a learning tool for writing original stories later on.

One of my favorite podcasts is Functional Nerds, a podcast featuring writer Patrick Hester and musician John Anealio. The podcast generally features interviews with writers or other kinds of content creators in the SF, fantasy, and horror worlds, and I strongly recommend it. A favorite installment of mine featured author Mary Robinette Kowal as the guest, and she spent a lot of that particular podcast talking about writing and how to teach it. The general thrust of the episode, as framed by an early question by Anealio, was in breaking writing down into specific parts or facets. Lots of times when writers are asked what the best way to learn to write is, they’ll appeal to a Zen-like approach and say that you just have to sit down and do it. And that’s true, to an extent…but as a musician, Anealio looks at art in terms of more basic things. All music students, no matter what instrument they play, start off by learning scales, because scales are the basic building blocks of Western music, and every musician continues practicing scales for the rest of their lives.

So he asked Kowal this question: “What are the ‘scales’ of writing, and how do you practice them?”

Kowal indicated that she rejects the “holistic” approach to learning to write, and describes a number of ways one can break down the task of writing in order to focus on one particular area: description, characterization, and so on. I think that fanfic can serve the same kind of purpose, especially for people who want to write stories in a fantasy or science-fiction universe.

With fanfic, the basic world-building work is already done. If you write a Star Trek story, you know what your ground-rules are. You know that there’s a United Federation of Planets, and a Klingon Empire, and a Romulan Empire, and there are Ferengi about and that starships can go as fast as “Warp 10” and that Vulcans are a civilization organized around principles of logic and that Dr. McCoy’s first name is Leonard and that Jim Kirk was born in Iowa and so on. There’s a lot of heavy lifting that you simply do not need to do.

Or suppose you want to write your own Lord of the Rings stories, set in Middle Earth. Well, here you’ve got the maps and the races and even the languages already laid out. And ditto any other fictional universe or setting or other fanfic enterprise.

Writing fanfic was not a waste of time for me because I taught myself a lot of things about story construction, about pacing, and structure in those tales. Dialogue? Check. Making characters sound distinct, and making them “true” to themselves? Absolutely! I couldn’t very well have Mr. Spock having a temper-tantrum (at least, not without explaining it), or have Indiana Jones show up in a 1980s-era space tale, or James Bond suddenly be a wise-cracking, sarcastic buffoon. Anyone who takes their fanfic seriously wants it to feel authentic, right? And that takes work and consideration of the universe and what’s known about the people in it.

Now, I wasn’t thinking along those lines when I was writing them. My pseudo-Star Wars tales weren’t “exercises”, in my mind; I was just having fun writing. But you can’t write without learning about writing, and it turns out that ideas that start out as fanfic ideas can often have the serial numbers filed off and repurposed. After all, that’s a big part of what I did for Stardancer.

No, I do not consider fanfic a waste of time. Do I still write it? Not really, although I can’t rule it out – I did, after all, write a pretty darn good (if I do say so myself) “Very Special Christmas Episode” of Firefly a few years back, which I re-post on my personal blog every year. Yes, I might have achieved more, earlier, had I focused on original work before stepping beyond fanfic, but then, I might not. I did learn a good deal, though, and ultimately, all that fanfic I wrote cultivated in me a deep sense that writing is, even when it’s hardest and even when I’m working at it as hard as I work at anything else, play. Writing as play, in the best sense of the word. Fanfic is where I developed my sense that writing should give me the same feeling that I had on those Saturday afternoons when, as a kid, I and some other friends would pretend that the refrigerator boxes in their garage were spaceships.

Yes, you learn technical skills from fanfic, and I think it’s worth indulging on that basis alone. But you also connect with story and you play with it. And dammit, writing should be play! It took me a long time to realize this, but I finally did. Writing is where I scratch the itch that was once served by those afore-mentioned refrigerator boxes. Writing is where I find the kind of mental place where once I played with action figures and toy spaceships. Remember how annoying it was when you and some friends would be really into a play session of some make-believe or another, and Mom would come along and interrupt and snap you out of the illusion you’d created in your mind? Well, that’s the exact same feeling as having the phone ring during a really good writing session.

So, go ahead and write your fan fiction. If that’s the only writing you ever do, but you have a blast doing it…then you win. And if you do eventually start writing your own work, bringing to it the same sense of fun and play that you had when you were really engaging your earlier fan fiction…then you win!

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