Ruminations From a Cluttered Mind

Why, hello blog. Haven't spoken here in a month. Wow, time flies.

Part of that time was rather productive, and part of it not. Right now, it's not. I am 1 action chapter and 1 final tag chapter away from finishing that blasted story and my motivation has dropped to nothing. Although, I did have the most interesting dream the other morning that an associate editor from NY came out and wanted to examine it in person. We went to McDonald's for coffees and had a very fruitful discussion of my work. Hilarious!! I'd love to see the day editors from NY visit rural IL to discuss the literary merits of a piece of fanfic!

Before I pooped out on my writing drive, I did manage to complete two more chapters, so I'm up to 14. I have 2 paragraphs of 14 done right now, and that was like pulling teeth prying it out of my brain earlier today. 12 and 13 are pretty good, I think.

Maybe if I wasn't so reproductive I would be more productive. I once read an agent's advertisement in a writing journal, saying that her dream client would be proliferative. My snappy answer to that would be, I'm as proliferative as they come...as long as we're not limiting ourselves to a discussion of literary output.

So, since I still can't post my story in its entirety, I'll content myself with a little snippet from chapter...13.



Jamie headed toward the house, dropping his backpack off his shoulders to hang it more fashionably off just one side. He stopped at the top of the front steps and looked back out toward the street. The streetlights hadn’t come on yet, so Phillip probably wouldn’t be back for a little while.
 
It was then, as he was squinting westward into the sun, that he first saw the stranger. A guy on a bike, a streamlined 12-speed painted a distinctive red, gold, and black, was pedaling up the block at a fast clip. He was a young man, with close-cropped brown hair and a lean, athletic form. He looked like a metropolitan bike messenger who had inexplicably crossed over into Arlington to make a suburban run. And as he passed by Jamie, who still stood atop the front steps, he smoothly arced to the right and pulled up onto the driveway. He peeled around in a tight curve so he faced the way he had come and stopped short.

The man waved an arm and flashed an easy smile as he swung off the bike and walked toward the house. “I have a special delivery. Do you know Amanda Stetson?” As he spoke, he unzipped his lightweight jacket and removed a 10x13 envelope from inside. He stopped at the base of the steps, holding the envelope in both hands.

“That’s my mom.”

The man nodded. “Good, good. I need this to get to her right away. Is she home right now?”

Jamie shook his head. He was inches from the door, and he had a good set of lungs on him for hollering, but the stranger made him nervous anyway. It wasn’t that he seemed particularly threatening. But learning recently about his mother and step-father’s true line of work had Jamie’s imagination running on overdrive. He wondered whether the bike-riding stranger was a Soviet. Maybe he even carried a gun. “My grandma’s here. Do you need someone to sign?”

“Nah, that’s alright,” the man replied smoothly, seemingly untroubled. “This isn’t for anyone but your mom. It’s work-related, if you know what I mean.” His words were light, but his blue eyes were watching Jamie intently, as though to read whether he did indeed know what he meant. Jamie felt butterflies in his stomach. After a beat, the man continued. “It’s for the government part of her job, so that means it’s very important.”

“Oh.” Jamie swallowed.

“Do you watch football?”

“Football?” Jamie quirked an eyebrow in surprise. “Uh, sure. I watch.”

The man nodded thoughtfully and smiled to himself. “I figured. Listen, when the quarterback passes the ball, and the wide receiver catches it, what happens next?”

“I guess he runs with it until he either makes a touchdown or gets tackled.”

“Exactly.” The man stepped forward and pressed the envelope against Jamie’s chest. “Take it,” he said. Then he smiled tightly at the boy. “You’re the receiver. Get this to your mom, because if it gets intercepted by the other side, our team loses. Got it?”

Jamie thought he could actually feel the hair on the back of his neck stand upright. Where the hell was Phillip? “You take it!” he cried, pinching the envelope between two fingers and holding it away from himself like a set of used sweat socks. “I don’t want it.”

“There’s no time, kid,” the man replied, backing away. He threw a sweeping glance up and down the street before turning a keen eye on Jamie once more. “This is the end of the line for me. I don’t plan on getting sacked.” And winking conspiratorially at his reluctant ally, he swung back onto his bike. “When you see her,” he called, “tell her I’m sorry for all the trouble I gave Mr. Stetson yesterday.” He sped off in the direction from which he had come before Jamie could think to ask his name.

I finished chapter 11 tonight. It's all of 2700 or so words, and I think...think...it reads okay, but I need sleep and a fresh perspective to tell for sure. I thought about posting a section of it here, but it's so full of spoilers I don't think I'd better. The best part of the chapter is the dialogue, which I think is pretty fun. The part I'm a bit insecure about is whether it's fully performing its duty in moving the plot forward. I suppose, at worst, it's fluff. Everyone likes a little fluff, right?

Speaking of insecurities (Alright, I'll admit I'm being tongue-in-cheek here. I don't mean it), I was visiting fanfiction.net yesterday and saw that not only is one of my favorite SMK writers in the midst of posting a multi-chapter piece, but now one of my top three, dang-I-wish-I-was-that-good writers is also posting a multi-chapter story. I am not ashamed to admit, my first reaction upon seeing her there was an audible squeal.

In case there's anyone who visits me and has a yen for some Scarecrow and Mrs. King fic, here are my top three favs:

Amilyn (also has written a Probe drabble, good woman)

Mary (my number 1 favorite, especially a piece called 'True Companions.' Unfortunately, she hasn't posted anything new in quite a few years)

Resourceful (writes beautifully descriptive pieces with strong characterizations that pull you right into the scene, up close and personal)

I also give honorable mention to inner thoughts, who weaves lovely tales that emphasize the domestic life of the Stetsons, and her dialogue is spot-on and fluffy fun to read.

I hate to stop there, because there are others I also have enjoyed very much, so I'll bow out with the caveat that this is by no means an exhaustive list of amateur writers who bring me joy.

The big question is, where do I go from here? I finished chapter 9 last night, and the story seems to be falling into place well enough, but the end of the chapter took an unexpected turn on me, and now I have to plot a way out of it. No worries. I'm sure I'll come up with something soon enough. Anyway, I'm posting a little piece of 9 here. I have to admit, using this blog as a preview forum does help keep me on track. So, without further ado...




She took the flares and walked back to the road, activating them as she drew close. She had placed the second one when a series of sharp cracks from deeper in the woods startled her. Pale and wide-eyed, she stood frozen, her eyes following the stream of light from Billy’s headlights, willing herself to see into the darkness to the source of what she knew to be gunfire.

“Get back in here!” Billy shouted.

She ran for the car at once, stumbling on the wet leaves underfoot until she reached the door Billy had thrown open and tumbled inside. She yanked the door closed behind her just as the glare of an oncoming set of high beams was bearing down on them. Passing close enough to scrape against Amanda’s door with a screech like nails on a chalkboard, a dark-colored sedan roared past them from out of the darkness. It jolted violently over the uneven terrain, fishtailing dangerously until it pulled onto the road and continued back the way it had originally come.

Billy and Amanda reflected each other’s stunned expression, running on an adrenaline rush that left their hearts pounding and breathing heavy.

“Are you okay?” Billy exclaimed.

“Fine. Which way do we go now?” But she was already staring into the dim, gray wilderness ahead of them, her course decided.

In reply, Billy seized the radio. “I have gunfire up here. Harvest team, scramble. Repeat, scramble. Harvest 3, the vehicle is headed your way at a high rate of speed. Track him. Harvest 1, you’ll get here first. Watch for the flares. We’re going in. Landlord, out.” He turned to Amanda to find her already out of the car and partway up the incline ahead of them.

He caught up with her at the top of the hill, which dropped abruptly down a bluff overlooking the waters of the reservoir. The sun was a golden ball just over the horizon, dissipating the remnants of nighttime mist below. Amanda was kneeling on the ridge, her knee in the soft dirt, fingering a number of spent shells she was collecting in her palm.

“Amanda?” he spoke quietly, approaching her from behind.

She lifted her head and her eyes were glistening as she offered him her prize. He took them from her, and she pulled herself to stand. Her lips were pressed tightly together, hands pushed deep into the pockets of her jacket. “Too late,” she whispered, and she turned away.

The ball is rolling on my latest project, and I'm just taking a moment to remember my little blog over here. As much as I enjoy losing myself in a writing project, it does have its drawbacks. I have a tendency to isolate myself, for one. At the moment, however, I have a house empty of everyone except one sleeping toddler, so I can indulge a little. I'd be writing right now, but I hit a tough spot and I haven't come up with a good way of tackling it yet. So while I think on that, I'll attend to my dreamwidth account and share a little piece of the current story which I am particularly proud of. My goal is to complete chapter 4 by the end of the day. I know how the chapter ends, so it's just a matter of steering it that way. This snippet is from chapter 3.


Francine gave Billy’s door a tentative knock before opening it a crack. Inside, Billy was on the phone, pacing the room, and he was most unhappy.

“No, don’t take my message. I’ll wait…Is that right? Then you tell Culpepper I’ll see him in person in ten minutes…No? Then remind him I was assured this was a status green drop, and my agent was assured this was a status green drop. Do you think I sent him over because he’s expendable?! I don’t know what the hell happened, but I want some answers, now!” He turned toward the door and saw Francine with Amanda behind her and motioned them in. Francine gently pushed the door shut and Billy held the phone out to her. “Take this,” he said in a low voice, but his eyes were on Amanda.

It seemed as though time stood still, and Amanda’s breath caught in her throat at the look on Billy’s face. She had seen the look before. He was their capable section chief, whom she had known for four years. Even in the midst of incredible pressure and the ugliest of internal adversity he maintained such a steady hand over The Agency’s environment, but the deep creases around his brow and mouth and the beads of sweat on his face always betrayed his feelings. Something terrible was happening. Amanda felt herself sinking numbly onto the nearest chair.

“Amanda,” he said kindly.

She gave a slight nod of the head and held his gaze without flinching. Softly, she answered, “Is he dead?”

Billy dropped heavily into a chair across from her, leaning forward, hands on his knees, deciding his answer. He grimaced. “I really don’t know, Amanda. I hope not. All I know at this time is he’s missing.” He paused to watch Amanda’s reaction. Her face betrayed nothing of her feelings, and she made no reply. He continued. “I sent him on a drop, a very safe drop. It should have been ten seconds, in and out.”

“A status green,” Amanda said, recalling Billy’s phone conversation.

“Right,” he confirmed. He rubbed his eyes and stood up again, automatically resuming his pacing. He stopped briefly and turned his attention to Francine as she lowered the phone back onto its cradle. “Did we get anywhere?”

Francine shook her head and lowered her eyes uncomfortably. “They’re just as surprised as we are, and they don’t seem to know much more.”

“Dammit,” he spat, discharging more frustration by launching back into more vigorous pacing.

Amanda followed him with her eyes. “Sir,” she said when he reached his desk and turned for another lap down the length of the room. “What happened?”

Billy paused in his pacing and released a long, weary breath. “There was a bomb, C-4 plastique. It blew out the front of the building he was in. Emergency workers have put out the fire. They’re searching the debris, and so far they’re coming up empty. Maybe he got clear.” He stopped. His words sounded hollow even to himself, and he didn’t miss the corresponding wince from Francine. In a lower voice, he continued, “But his car is still in the public parking lot over there. And he hasn’t called in a status report. That’s everything I know, Amanda. I’m sorry.”

For a while, she pondered this information in silence. The muffled din from the bullpen was all that disrupted the stillness. Francine looked questioningly toward Billy, but his attention was on Amanda, gazing thoughtfully at her hands in her lap. He waited until she lifted her eyes to meet his and rose to her feet. She addressed Billy evenly. “All right, what do you want me to do?”

Billy regarded her sternly. “That depends. I need to know how you’re going to play this. Will you be Scarecrow’s partner, or Lee’s wife? It’s your call.”

“Scarecrow’s partner,” she said firmly.

True to my word, I spent a good deal of time writing yesterday, and today I spent a lot more. I'm a good 2000 words into this story, and I believe I have mapped out sufficient suspense and angst to keep it riveting. At least, that's the aim.

I just love how these projects get me researching stuff online. Today I virtually visited the Department of State. I printed off an organizational chart, perused photos, printed maps, and took some notes. Better still, I managed to put much of this information to practical use in the story itself. It sure would be nice if I lived near D.C. so I could check out the State Department buildings personally. Nothing you can get off Google compares to actually being there. Oh well, I do the best I can.

I'm a little torn right now because I'm on a roll and really want to finish the chapter I'm working on (it ends with an evil cliffhanger), but it is already almost 1 a.m. and I do have to work tomorrow. That usually goes better with sufficient sleep. And food, definitely food. Oh, what the heck. I'm finishing the chapter. So, so sorry, tomorrow-self. o_0

Almost as an afterthought, she realized it was the clap of the car door that had pierced her sleep. All through the night, it was the sound she had dreaded, and expected. Drawing a tremulous breath, she pressed a hand to her mouth. For a moment, a surge of anger flashed unbidden through the sorrow and heated thoughts accosted her. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. She wasn’t supposed to be this person, this suburban icon beloved by everyone in the neighborhood except her own husband. This thirty-year-old abandoned housewife.

She could still hear the rumble of his low voice from just hours ago. “You once told me you’d follow me to the ends of the earth,” he said gently. He was always so gentle, even when he was twisting the knife.

“Oh, Joe,” she had countered impatiently, “I said that when we had nothing to lose but a lease on an ugly old apartment in a lousy neighborhood. We have children now, for Pete’s sake. How can we come live with you in Africa? There are no English-speaking schools, no medical care. We’d all need passports and-what?-nine different vaccines? Sweetheart, you are getting hardship pay to go to this place! How can you think this is a good environment to raise your family?”

He didn’t argue anymore after that. He just stared at her, smiling sadly, unmoved. Later, he didn’t come up to bed. He said he needed to wrap up some work first. But he never came up.

She brushed her hair from her face in a vain attempt to clear her head of these ruminations. After a time, she sank back down onto the bed, pulling the covers up to her ears. In another hour, she would rouse herself, put on the brave face again, and get the boys started on another busy morning. They knew Daddy was leaving on another trip when he tucked them in bed last night. Nothing would be amiss to them, and she would preserve that illusion to the end. But for now, she rolled onto her side and turned her face to the pillow. For now, blissfully unnoticed, the tears could fall in perfect candor.

It was a long time coming, but stranger things have happened. Tonight I viewed the 88th episode of Scarecrow and Mrs. King. Actually, it was season 2, episode 10, but here's the deal. Back in high school, right after both Probe and Adderly went belly up, I recorded every episode of Scarecrow and Mrs. King. Every episode except...the one never shown in syndication. I was such a doofus, I memorized every episode title and could name them in order. I used to kill study hall hour timing myself to see how fast I could write them all down. Anyway, 1 episode was never shown, and now I found it on-line. It's called "Playing Possum." Was it worth the wait? *giggle* It was a fair episode, and not nearly as exciting as "A Far, Far Better Thing" from Adderly. That's okay. I still got a kick out of it. Husband had to rest up for the night shift, so I had time on my hands.

In other news, Husband was a little jumpy last night. We hadn't been sleeping long when I awoke to him leaping out of bed and peering through the blinds, muttering to himself. He grabbed the phone and ran out into the hall, turned on the light. Well, that had my attention.

"What's the matter?" I reasonably wanted to know. Had to ask a few times before he answered.

"Gunshots," he finally said grimly. "Kids running down the street. I'm calling 911."

Oh, Lord. There's a Saturday night on the wrong side of the tracks. So he went to the front door and gave an account to the authorities. Apparently, he awoke to the sound of 2 sharp cracks not far away, and when he got up to investigate, he saw a group of a half-dozen juveniles running past the house. It might have been less intimidating to me or anyone else who didn't grow up on Chicago's southside, where the crack of gunfire in the night is sadly familiar. Anyway, our local PD sent out 3 squad cars immediately to check things out, and they talked to husband while I padded about the downstairs, shivering and near blind without my contacts.

Turned out, it wasn't gunfire after all, just a group of teenage yahoos swinging at mailboxes with a baseball bat. They got 2 of the neighbors, but not ours this time. They knocked it flat last Halloween, though. Husband had plenty of reason to be spooked. Just a few days ago, I was working at the computer in the front window at night when something thunked against the glass in front of me. Husband checked the front porch and found a paper bag in flames. Sounds like we live in a war zone, doesn't it? Well, it's not quite the Mayberry it used to be when I was a kid, I'll say that much.