[When the Fiction-Writing Directorate stepped out from years of shadowy silence to embrace the brave new world of the internet and its values of authenticity and transparency, I set myself the task of telling the tragic and illuminating tale of Miss Callista Cornelius. Before I told much of the tale, however, I was viciously attacked by an unknown assailant. To my shame, I let my cowardice get the better of me, and fell silent.

Miss Cornelius, however, deserves better; and thus I shall resume her tale.

You may wish to re-read the first installment of this series. . . . → Read More: Miss Cornelius Meets the Director]]>

The Lovely and Brave Miss Cornelius

[When the Fiction-Writing Directorate stepped out from years of shadowy silence to embrace the brave new world of the internet and its values of authenticity and transparency, I set myself the task of telling the tragic and illuminating tale of Miss Callista Cornelius. Before I told much of the tale, however, I was viciously attacked by an unknown assailant. To my shame, I let my cowardice get the better of me, and fell silent.

Miss Cornelius, however, deserves better; and thus I shall resume her tale.

You may wish to re-read the first installment of this series. The investigations of Miss Cornelius, a persistent and inquisitive reportress, brought her too close to the truth of the Directorate (at that time, still shrouded in mystery). The Director sought to avert her attention by hiring her to write a terribly dull public relations piece: if he convinced her we were boring enough, surely she would turn her attentions away from our hallowed halls.

I proudly present Miss Cornelius’s notes. – G.T.]

November 16.

This dismal fortress looks no less dreary in the dawn light. If anything, the stone walls look even bleaker without the flickering candle-light to soften them. The air is cold and damp and smells faintly of old bacon. I do not know how I will be able to present this dismal pit in a positive light to complete my commission!! But I reminded myself of the critical investigations this work would fund: the sordid relationship between the insane asylum and the adjacent meat-packing plant, for example. I know what’s going on there; I just need to support myself while I find the truth!

I figured a brisk walk around the grounds before breakfast would remove the gloomy cobwebs from my mind, so I pulled on my jacket and headed down the stairs. But I was intercepted by Ethel Lee, who was just as stern and humorless in the dawn light as she had been last night. She shepherded me into the dining room for a grim breakfast (soggy waffle, cold tea, sullen companions!) and then directly to the Library for my interview with the Director.

I Meet the Director

The Director

Ethel Lee positively simpered at the Director when she introduced me. I have never seen such an extraordinary transformation in my life! Who would have thought that such a stern woman would giggle and blush like a schoolgirl when he thanked her for her services?

He is a striking man, to be sure, and has an undeniable presence. He has the most astonishing beard – I would not be surprised to find a whole nest of mice living in it! – and piercing eyes that miss nothing. The library itself was a dim and oppressive room, with shelf upon shelf of daughty and impenetrable tomes. An ugly portrait of an elderly gentleman hung on the wall; it was of the unsettling sort whose eyes seemed to follow one about the room. I shuddered and strove to ignore it.

He welcomed me warmly and thanked me for taking his commission. “Why,” he said, “the Directorate has labored for many years in the service of little-known authors. We yearn to bring their work to broader acclaim – and your pamphlet can only help us with our great work. Would you like me to read to you from one of our most beloved poets?”

I had no choice but to say yes. The Director opened the enormous book that lay before him on the great table, and began to read.

“This is called ‘The All Night Sea Fight,’ and was penned by the great McGonegal.” He cleared his throat.

Ye sons of Mars, come list to me,
And I will relate to ye
A great and heroic naval fight,
Which will fill your hearts with delight.

The fight was between the French Frigate “Pique” and the British Frigate “Blanche,”
But the British crew were bold and staunch;
And the battle was fought in West Indian waters in the year of 1795,
And for to gain the victory the French did nobly strive.

Oh, God! I thought back to the shrieks I thought I heard echoing through the night; perhaps some poor wretch had been forced to listen to more of this verse.

Surely this was a joke. I peered at the Director’s face, eager for any sign of levity or humor, but saw only an unholy enthusiasm.

It was about midnight when the Frenchman hove in sight,
And could be seen distinctly in the starlight;
And for an hour and a half they fired away
Broadsides into each other without dismay.

And with the rapid flashes the Heavens were aflame,
As each volley from the roaring cannons came;
And the incessant roll of musketry was awful to hear,
As it broke over the silent sea and smote upon the ear.

Oh, God. It continued, unceasingly, the Director’s voice rolling on like a flood, unstoppable and horrid. Think of the asylum, I reminded myself, but feared that if I listened to much more of this, I would be joining the ranks of the mad in their grisly and gristly end.

Then “Brave, my lads!” Captain Faulkner loudly cries,
“Lash her bowsprit to our capstan, she’s our prize”;
And he seized some ropes to lash round his foe,
But a musket ball pierced his heart and laid him low.

My Torment Continues Unabated

In desperation I cast my glance about the room, seeking any sort of solace or refuge; but there was no escape. Even the windows were shrouded with heavy drapes, through which no trace of light intruded. Just the bleakness of shelf after shelf of books, no doubt full of tedious horrors like the one being inflicted on me by the Director.

Then a yell of rage burst from the noble crew,
And near to his fallen body they drew;
And tears for his loss fell fast on the deck,
Their grief was so great their tears they couldn’t check.

I looked again at creepy portrait with the wandering eye; it alone broke up the nightmarish room.

To my disbelieving horror, it winked at me.

TO BE CONTINUED.

November, not April, is the cruelest month, for it brings the horror that is NaPhreAppMo: National Phrenologist Apprenticeship Month, in which hundreds of thousands of would-be phrenologists declare themselves “apprentices” and go out into the world, shaving the heads of strangers and creating bad drawings of the features of their skulls.

If these erstwhile phrenologists cannot find willing volunteers, they either chloroform the unwary, or simply invent drawings of imaginary people and unicorns. I myself do not leave Directorate headquarters during the entire month of November, lest I be accosted by an earnest young protophrenologist.

They then believe . . . → Read More: On the Horrors of People Liking Things I Do Not]]>

Concerning the Evils of NaPhreAppMo

Gustav

November, not April, is the cruelest month, for it brings the horror that is NaPhreAppMo: National Phrenologist Apprenticeship Month, in which hundreds of thousands of would-be phrenologists declare themselves “apprentices” and go out into the world, shaving the heads of strangers and creating bad drawings of the features of their skulls.

If these erstwhile phrenologists cannot find willing volunteers, they either chloroform the unwary, or simply invent drawings of imaginary people and unicorns. I myself do not leave Directorate headquarters during the entire month of November, lest I be accosted by an earnest young protophrenologist.

They then believe that this “work” counts as completing an actual apprenticeship, and begin calling themselves Phrenologists and pursuing clients.

It is simply shameful, and I pity the members of the public who are exposed to these charlatans. True training in the phrenological sciences takes years of careful study and dedication; it is not something to be undertaken so rashly. I, for one, will not put up with NaPhreAppMo and its misguided participants one instant longer. I insist that you stop this foolishness immediately.

The Problems With Cephalopunk

Cephalopunk? Honestly? I cannot understand the appeal of this tired and shallow genre. How many thousands of young men must sew identical tentacles on their morning jackets before we grow weary of the seething mass of tentacles on the streets before us? The terrible sameness of the extruded tentacle product is wearying, yet its adherents praise each other as if they were doing something astonishing and brave.

Why cannot its adherants see beneath the thin veneer of suckers and disproportionally enormous eyes to the romanticization of calamari? What, I ask you, is so romantic about the death, dismemberment, and quick batter-frying of squid? It is an aesthetic movement that glosses over a gustatory genocide.

Furthermore, I do not see the faintest hint of punk in cephalopunk. Where are the cuttlefish overthrowing speciesist hegemony? Where are the octopus throwing pipe bombs into oceanariums? Where, I ask you, is the punk?

I beg you to desist.

Permission and Approval

Yet despite my abhorrence of these atrocities, they continue. No matter how loudly I denounce them, people simply will persist in doing things I dislike. It is infuriating, and I think I shall have to calm myself with some absinthe. For while it is undeniably true that people need neither my approval nor my permission, everything would be so much nicer if only they would act as if they did.

Alas! I despair.

Please, my friends, in the comments: request my permission! Beg for my approval! I shall grant it as I see fit.

“You must help me!” cried Agent Frederick. The young agent, normally so self-composed, sat in my study, weeping missishly.

“Pull yourself together, lad!” I said, sternly. He took a deep breath, and wiped his eyes on his coat-sleeve (the one covering his prosthetic arm) and blew his nose grotesquely. “What is it this time?”

“I have too many things to do!” he said, and his lower lip began to tremble. Indeed, the lad was quite busy: in addition to his writing, he was engaged as the phrenologist’s apprentice, supported his consumptive sister by obtaining corpses for an anatomist, volunteered in the Temperance . . . → Read More: The Phrenologist’s Apprentice: The Directorate Guide to Getting Enough Done]]>

Gustav

“You must help me!” cried Agent Frederick. The young agent, normally so self-composed, sat in my study, weeping missishly.

“Pull yourself together, lad!” I said, sternly. He took a deep breath, and wiped his eyes on his coat-sleeve (the one covering his prosthetic arm) and blew his nose grotesquely. “What is it this time?”

“I have too many things to do!” he said, and his lower lip began to tremble. Indeed, the lad was quite busy: in addition to his writing, he was engaged as the phrenologist’s apprentice, supported his consumptive sister by obtaining corpses for an anatomist, volunteered in the Temperance movement, and had a cat of whom he was quite fond.

With more work expected of him each day than any one person could do in a fortnight, Agent Frederick had tried all sorts of schemes for prioritization and structure, only to find himself constantly overwhelmed and weeping, to the point where he could do nothing at all.

He begged me to help him.

“The Hounds already feasted upon my arm!” he said, presenting his prosthetic limb as evidence of the depth of his struggle. “I can’t bear to face them again… their teeth… their eyes, O, their horrible eyes! But if I can’t break this terrible paralysis, they shall have all of me.”

For his cat’s sake, I decided, I would help. Thus I counseled Agent Frederick to apply the power of synchronicity to his circumstances.

Learn!

The Synchronicity Approach

1. Calm yourself. You are of absolutely no use to anyone when you are distraught. I recommend absinthe, but other experts suggest deep breathing, long walks, and similar foolishness.

2. Write a list of all your tasks. Make the list complete and specific, and limited to tasks you could complete right now. For example, if “deliver fresh sample to the Anatomist” is on your list, but you are confined to the Phrenologist’s workshop for the next eight hours, place your work for the Anatomist on another list so that you may focus on what is possible.

3. Select an item at with synchronicity. Unenlightened minds call this “random”; but the secret powers of synchronicity are anything but random. I used to allow my wonderful cat Markus to select an item for me, but you may use any method you like, such as tossing darts, drawing straws, or asking a passer-by to choose a number.

4. Act. You now have several choices.

a. Simply complete the selected task.

b. Realize that the task can’t be done now for external reasons: if the Phrenologist hasn’t left the charts for you, you can’t file them, can you? If there is simply nothing to be done, remove the item from your list.

c. If the task is one that fills you with dread and reluctance, do not simply set it aside. You must engage with the task. Meditate first upon the causes of your discomfort, and then upon the solutions. For example, perhaps your reluctance to distribute Temperance leaflets stems from your romantic rejection by the leader of your organization. Ah, perfectly natural to avoid her now, is it not? Now consider solutions: perhaps you can collect your leaflets from someone else? Or perhaps you could present her with a kitten and hope to win back her affections. If you cannot bring yourself to complete the task, at least take steps toward understanding and repairing the situation, instead of letting the task fester in darkness and solitude. In time, you will prevail.

Why This Works

“Absurd!” Frederick cried. “Why, if I picked tasks at random—“

“—With synchronicity,” I corrected.

“With synchronicity,” he continued, “how could I ensure that important tasks would get done?”

“I understand your skepticism,” I said. “But it seems to me that you spend all your time weeping and paralyzed, so nothing is getting done, important or otherwise. Is that not true?”

He nodded, ashamed.

“This way, you will achieve at least a modicum of success. However, I suspect you will be pleasantly surprised at how often this method presents you with precisely the right task. Synchronicity, lad.”

And that, my friends, is how this post came to be written today.

Your Turn.

How do you balance your multitude of tasks? Are you willing to try the synchronicity approach? Speak up in the comments.

Good evening, Brave Writers. Today I wish to share with you the cautionary tale of a young writer named — ah, let us call her Felicia Alicia McPecia, to protect what scanty shreds of privacy she retains. (I am well aware that this weak pseudonym will do little to deter astute readers from discerning her true identity; I can only beg you to allow Miss McPecia to live out her days of squalor and ignominy unmolested.) Her tale is not, as you might think, a warning against the cruel critics who drove her to drink, gambling, and madness, but a . . . → Read More: An Exhortation: On Second Thoughts]]>

Gustav

Good evening, Brave Writers. Today I wish to share with you the cautionary tale of a young writer named — ah, let us call her Felicia Alicia McPecia, to protect what scanty shreds of privacy she retains. (I am well aware that this weak pseudonym will do little to deter astute readers from discerning her true identity; I can only beg you to allow Miss McPecia to live out her days of squalor and ignominy unmolested.) Her tale is not, as you might think, a warning against the cruel critics who drove her to drink, gambling, and madness, but a warning against second thoughts.

Miss McPecia first came to the Directorate’s attention when she began her epic work, a sixteen-part saga involving Vikings, dragons, modern banking conspiracies, sentient tattoos, and a dozen other unlikely items. It seemed a ghastly mish-mash to me, though the quality of her work was not our concern: we feared that sixteen volumes might prove too much for any author. We put her on a special Watch List as soon as she began to blather about the work to her writing group, and vowed to keep her typing diligently away, however incoherent her vision for the work might be.

At first, it seemed our suspicions were misplaced. Not only did Miss McPecia blaze through her first draft with a speed some called “unseemly,” but the first volume found a publisher and popular success! Incredible — but the reading public’s taste has never been less than utterly abhorrent.

Unfortunately, publication was the last good thing to happen to Miss McPecia. For no sooner had her volume appeared on the shelf, when she began to have second thoughts. I should not have ended the volume with the banker’s firey Viking funeral, she mused;  for it will make the jollity of the opening of the next volume appear unseemly. No matter; all she had to do was rearrange the scenes of the second volume a bit, to open with a bit more gravitas. No matter!

Poor foolish Miss McPecia.

For second thoughts, like sorrows and mosquitoes, come not as single spies but as batallions.

Once she allowed the first of the legion past her guard, the way was clear for the rest, and she was beset. I should change the heroine to a dog! For everyone adores dogs! she thought, and then Why aren’t there any robots in this beastly novel? and I have not drunk enough absinthe to write this scene! and What on earth will Great-Aunt Maureen Laureen McFlorine think of the steamy scene in Chapter Sixty-Nine? I should have made it more sedate!

And just like that, all hope was lost, for Miss McPecia was consumed by second thoughts.  She found herself unable to even begin her second novel, for second thoughts had devoured her mind and, indeed, her very soul, and left her as nothing more than an empty (but attractive) vessel in which second thoughts could cavort licentiously. All trace of creativity had been permanently erradicated.

Her publisher was distraught, and sent Miss McPecia’s editrix to help her regain her will to write. But the poor editrix was no match for the vast wave of Miss MicPecia’s second thoughts, and before long, succumbed to her own second thoughts, and joined Miss McPecia at the docks for gambling, opium-smoking, and other shameful behavior, all documented in the tabloids of the day.

It is a tragic tale, Brave Writers. Let it not become yours.

All are vulnerable.

Why, even seasoned Directorate agents such as myself can be vulnerable to the deadly plague of second thoughts. I find myself hesitating before posting this: for why was the Directorate not able to save Miss McPecia from herself? Indeed; mistakes, hideous and unforgiveable, were made. I myself was so absorbed by Miss McPecia’s novel that I did not pay sufficient attention to her progress on its sequels; I shall bear the stench of that failure for the rest of my life.

Do I not have my own second thoughts about that misbegotten Manifesto that cost so dearly? Do I not have my own dark cloak of second thoughts wrapped around me at all times?

Indeed.

But I cannot allow myself to fall, unwary, into the same trap, and allow myself to become mired in the dark cesspool of second thoughts. I must summon all my courage, and proceed. Thus I present:

Three Steps to Avoid Succumbing to Swarms of Second Thoughts.

1. Be aware. Miss McPecia was an innocent: she did not understand the risk she faced. Now that you have read this missive, you are forewarned, and will approach the shadows in your path with trepidation and caution.

2. Be impervious. Do not listen. Hold your vision, however improbable, unlikely, bizarre, and wrong it may be: hold your vision tight, and write it. Do not allow second thoughts to sway you away from your path. Let your vision be a mighty shield; let it deflect all sorrows, mosquitoes, and second thoughts.

3. Be implacable. Simply write, undaunted. Subsite sermonem statim et scribe.

Your Turn.

What second thoughts beset you? Bring them to light here, that we may help you with their banishment.

Not long ago, I was charged with “counseling” a recalcitrant writer. Agent Cloudfeather should have been working on his horror novel about the zombie invasion of a small Western mining town.  O, Yes, dear reader, our recent mining experience makes this novel particularly harrowing for me. Nevertheless, I did my duty and and ensured that this author completed his work.

When I confronted Agent Cloudfeather (gently, I assure you! why, I bought him a delicious coffee beverage at a local cafe!), he swore to me that he had the finest of intentions, but did not know what to write about. His . . . → Read More: What To Write About When You Don’t Know What To Write About]]>

Gustav

Not long ago, I was charged with “counseling” a recalcitrant writer. Agent Cloudfeather should have been working on his horror novel about the zombie invasion of a small Western mining town.  O, Yes, dear reader, our recent mining experience makes this novel particularly harrowing for me. Nevertheless, I did my duty and and ensured that this author completed his work.

When I confronted Agent Cloudfeather (gently, I assure you! why, I bought him a delicious coffee beverage at a local cafe!), he swore to me that he had the finest of intentions, but did not know what to write about. His plot had stymied him. This agent’s complaint is all too common among the writers with whom I work; and in nearly all cases, the true problem is some species of neurosis and insecurity, rather than a dearth of ideas. Nevertheless, I humored Agent Cloudfeather and took his complaint at face value. I now share with you the wisdom I imparted to him, and trust that it will be of some use.

Don’t Do This.

What you must not do is impose your own lack of ideas and direction upon your character. Do not have your poetess protagonist mope listlessly about the drawing room, complaining that her muse has deserted her; do not have James K. Polk, the star of your epic poem, blather on for stanzas about how he cannot think what legislation to craft next; do not write a short story called “The Day The Earth Ran Out Of Ideas.” Those are all perfectly horrid schemes, and I think we can all agree that they are the last refuge of the unimaginative.

Instead, Try These Techniques.

Practice. The phrenologists tell us that the organ of Generation, or the ability to generate ideas, is located at the crown of your head. While the phrenologists may claim that your destiny is writ in bone, predetermined and unchangeable, you can in fact strengthen your organ of Generation, and develop the power to generate ideas at will. Simply write, simply subsiste sermonem statim et scribe, and in time, your generation skills will improve immeasurably. One splendid internet site where you may practice your generation skills is Liberty Hall; each week, you will get a trigger and 90 minutes in which to craft a story. You will be astonished at the speed with which your idea-generation skills improve.

Consequences. The Fiction-Writing Directorate is particularly fond of consequences, for all human beings can become extraordinarily creative if the consequences are dire enough. If there is not a handy VerbHound, please consider Write or Die, from our dear friend Dr. Wicked. This cunning device deletes your very words if you do not type fast enough; you will find sitting and staring at your computer screen rapidly loses its appeal.

Ask for Help. You may also ask a friend, acquaintance, or innocent bystander for assistance. Simply framing the question may lead to inspiration; it is much like when you go to the doctor, only to find your flu healed as if by magic. Sometimes, it is enough to simply ask.

Alternatively, your friend may provide just the idea you need (or you may find an idea in the afrighted glance of the stranger you approach with your unsettling question). If so, rejoice! and promptly return to your type-writing machine, and write.

There is a third possibility. Agent Cloudfeather asked me what he should write about. “Write about my cat, Markus,” I told him. “Write about his valour, his sacrifice, his bravery. Write about the softness of his fur, once the mangey patches healed. Write about the sheer bulk of his purring body. Write about his adoration. Write about my loss–” I fear I could not continue; tears filled my eyes.

“I don’t want to write about your cat!” protested Agent Cloudfeather. “I want to write about… dinosaurs! Dinosaurs! I need a tyrannosaur! Oh, Gustav, thank you!” He gathered up his papers and fled the coffee shop, leaving me alone with my memories of Markus, and a rapidly-cooling latte. O, Markus. I could only console myself with the knowledge that I had helped Agent Cloudfeather: for he had found his path while explaining why he could not use my ideas.

Comment, please.

If you cannot write your novel, at least write a comment. Try these techniques and tell me how they work; tell me what other approaches you have used.

You may also write about my cat, Markus. I miss him so.

Gustav

I have hesitated: I do not know if this woeful tale should be told. There are reasons why strong men blanch at the thought of the Manifesto Mines of . . . → Read More: On the Creation of the Manifesto, Part III]]>

In Part One of this tale, Our Heroes learned of their Urgent Need for a Manifesto (lest their Web-Site license be revoked!), and traveled Bravely to the Manifesto Mines of Kazakhstan. Upon arrival, they found themselves Surrounded by angry Miners with Rifles! In Part Two, Lida distracted the hostile miners while Gustav and Ethelie crept into the mine. Many hours later, our Intrepid Trio fled Kazakhstan just moments before the mine exploded!

Gustav

I have hesitated: I do not know if this woeful tale should be told. There are reasons why strong men blanch at the thought of the Manifesto Mines of Kazakhstan; there are reasons even the most hardened criminals speak of it only in whispers; there are reasons, my friends, why I will never tread its paths again, even had it not been destroyed in the explosion as we fled.

I did not wish to tell you, for the horrors of your own mind are sufficient for your torments; I did not wish to add to your burden. Ethelie argued that we must show our Vulnerability, be Open and Authentic to connect with our Agents. A splendid argument, I’m sure, but I held my ground: I would not have a generation of writers driven insane by my dark tale.

Then Lida took my trembling hand, and gazed fondly into my eyes, and simply said, “You must, Gustav. You must warn them.”

She was consoling, and she was right: I could not let any other writers venture unknowingly into the perils of the Manifesto Mines of Kazakhstan. I shall complete the tale.

The Festering Darkness Embraced Us.

Once we saw that Lida had the irate miners firmly in hand, Ethelie and I took up our equipment and crept into the mine. We heard no sounds of pursuit, but it was not until we had turned the first corner that I paused to light a flickering light against the foul darkness. This darkness was no mere absence of light; it seemed to have an oily presence of its own, which pressed insinuatingly against my skin. I shuddered, but would not be daunted. No, my friends, I would not be daunted until we were much deeper in the bowels of the mountain.

I peered into the heavy bag I bore upon my shoulder: it contained Markus, my astonishingly corpulent cat, whom I love more than any other creature in the world. I should not have brought him, I know–O how I know! Do not burden me with your recriminations!–but I could not bear to be parted from him, and I found his purring weight a great comfort as we trudged through the labyrinthine passages of the Mines.

“Hurry,” Ethelie said, her face stern, as usual. “Lida will not be able to distract them for as long as we’d like. She overestimates her skills.” She prodded one of the canaries—a writer who simply refused to write, no matter what measures we took– with her umbrella. He protested, but one glance at her face was sufficient to silence him, and he led us deeper into the tunnels. Ethelie watched him carefully for any signs of peril, but for a seemingly endless trudge through the tunnels, it seemed all was safe and quiet.

It was not.

The First Canary Suffocated.

Unbeknownst to us, a noxious and strangling gas oozed out of the depths of the earth, turning the air impure. The canary stood before us, clutching his throat, gasping desperately for air, his face turning dark and slack, and ultimately collapsed. Ethelie fastened her gas mask more firmly and bent to feel for a pulse. “He’s dead,” she said, her words muffled by her mask. Poor lad; he was only eighteen. If only he had been willing to Write, what a long and marvel-filled life he might have had. I was thankful Lida was not here to make an insipid pronouncement about how this shameful loss was “just like writing.”

There was nothing we could do for him. I avoided squashing him as I stepped over his body and continued down the tunnel, Markus thumping heavily against my back with every step, a weighted counterpoint to my pace.

The other canaries did not fare much better than the first.  The second fell to some sort of tentacled horror; Ethelie dispatched the beast with her pistol. I had to calm Markus after the shot, for the sound terrified him and he yowled. Ethelie looked surprised that I had smuggled Markus in, then glowered, but did not say anything; she just pursed her lips and waited impatiently until we were ready to continue.

The third and fourth canaries died when a tunnel collapsed; the fifth drowned by an angry dwarf; the sixth was pierced by a stalagtite, and I cannot say if the stalagtite fell or was hurled by some dark horror awoken by our passage. We had only one canary left, and we still hadn’t found a Manifesto. The mines were ancient, and the richest veins had been exhausted years ago: but we could not return without our Manifesto.

We Find the Manifesto!

Deep under the mountain, time loses meaning: there is nothing but your steps, the constant pressing darkness, your faint light, your obese cat purring against your back. I do not know how long we wandered, urgent and seeking; but I know that at long last, we reached our goal.

I heard Ethelie gasp, and raised the lantern higher. It cast its fragile beams on what we’d been seeking: a Manifesto. O, my friend, it was an absolutely magnificent specimen, and I could not imagine why it had not been wrested from the earth long before now.

Then I heard terrible claws scraping against stone, and knew: this manifesto was protected by a dragon.

We Confront the Dragon.

Ethelie cursed; I have never heard her use such language before. “Run!” she shouted to me — but she turned to face the monster, raising her tiny pistol in her quaking hands, even though she had to know it would be no use to the fire-breathing horror that hunted us.

“No,” I said. I could not let her die alone!

“Fine,” she said, and shoved the gun in my hand as she ran past. She grabbed the Manifesto, which separated from the living stone with a strange squelching-ripping sound. She grabbed the lantern, as well, and the grasping darkness finally won possession of my person.

So be it. I exist to serve the Directorate; and if the best way I can do that giving my life so that Ethelie might flee with the Manifesto, then so be it. I consoled myself with the belief that my death would be instantaneous; it would not take long for me to die when engulfed in dragon-fire.

A great wind blew through the tunnel as the dragon inhaled, preparatory to incinerating me with a massive exhale; it would only be seconds.

I pulled Markus out of the bag and clutched him to my chest, though my arms could barely support his bulk. I buried my face in his musty fur, and waited. In those agonizing seconds, I first felt him purr, and then heard it, until there was nothing left in the world but the warmth of his body, his sound, his scent –

An instant later he yowled fiercely and squirmed in my arms. I could not hold him! I am too weak! I–

I am sorry. Allow me to collect myself.

The End

I could not see through the impenetrable dark, but I could feel and I could hear. Markus leaped out of my arms and hurled himself through the darkness toward the beast, howling and screeching as fiercely as if he were a whole pack of VerbHounds. I heard him land on the dragon with a meaty thump and I heard the dragon’s claws thrashing against the walls of the mine and I ran.

I ran.

I could not save Markus and I could not stand with him. I simply ran. Behind me, Markus’s battle with the dragon raged on — and as you know from Part II of this woeful tale, it ultimately lead to the complete destruction of the entire mines.

O Markus!

The rest of the tale does not bear telling. We boarded Lida’s zeppelin and sailed away from Kazakhstan forever. Ethelie gripped the Manifesto in her bony hands the entire voyage, eyes glinting as viciously as the dragon’s, while Lida prattled on about the Lessons she’d learned about Vulnerability and Struggle and Sacrifice and Pie and Duty.

Markus’s headstone lies beneath the old cherry tree beside the kraken’s pond, though his body was destroyed along with, one assumes, that of the dragon and all those miners. I visit it often, remembering my friend’s bravery, and cursing my own cowardice.

His epitaph? “Enjoy your damn manifesto.”

Subsiste sermonem statim et scribe.

Oh, dear. You have been procrastinating, haven’t you?

I am very, very disappointed.

You must realize we know when you aren’t writing. Every time you decide to watch “Lost” instead of writing, every time you sleep late instead of arising to devote yourself to your work, every time you decide to have lunch with a coworker instead of writing — every time you avoid your work, the Threat Board in the Directorate’s Command Center lights up.

The Board has been burning with the light of a thousand suns recently, and so Ethelie has charged me with sharing my best strategies for getting writers . . . → Read More: Use Synchronicity to End Writer’s Block]]>

Gustav

Oh, dear. You have been procrastinating, haven’t you?

I am very, very disappointed.

You must realize we know when you aren’t writing. Every time you decide to watch “Lost” instead of writing, every time you sleep late instead of arising to devote yourself to your work, every time you decide to have lunch with a coworker instead of writing — every time you avoid your work, the Threat Board in the Directorate’s Command Center lights up.

The Board has been burning with the light of a thousand suns recently, and so Ethelie has charged me with sharing my best strategies for getting writers to write.

I am not sure that’s really wise, but so be it. Thus, here is your first Strategy:

Use the Power of Synchronicity

What is the difference between “random” and “synchronicity?” Why, synchronicity is merely a random path that works out so marvelously that you grant it importance. All you need to do is make random choices, and observe the results. I see far too many agents paralyzed by trying to make the best decision when, in fact, nearly any decision would lead to fortuitous results. Stop overthinking, and start acting — and let synchronicity be your guide.

Examples! You demand examples!

Help! I can’t decide which of my dozens — nay, hundreds! — of projects to work on today. Nothing could be simpler. Simply write them down on index cards and select one. Work on that project. Take the next step: write 500 words, brainstorm the surprising twist at the end, research the behavior of bats so Chapter Two is authentic.

Help! I don’t know what happens next in my story! Again the index cards come to your rescue. Think: what are all the possible things that could happen next? Write them down, one for each card. Do not fret if an idea is implausible or ridiculous; simply write them all down. You may find that this process of listing the possibilities has revealed the perfect choice: write it! If not, then simply shuffle the cards and select one. Write that one.

Foolish, you say? Perhaps. But which is more foolish: not writing, or being stalled forever for lack of the perfect choice? Think carefully before you answer: for the Verb-Hounds are always hungry. If it takes a mistake to end your auctorial paralysis, then make mistakes, I say!

However, you will be startled by the uncanny correctness of the random choice you made. Write it, and you will see that your “random” choice was perfect after all: you only needed the courage to move forward.

Help! I have thousands of things to do in addition to writing. What do I do first? By now you must know the answer, deep in your heart: select one at random. Do it. Rejoice. Repeat until all your work is complete.

What do you think?

I challenge you to try this approach the next time you feel hopelessly mired in procrastination. Trust, observe, and report in the comments! Did this approach help break your paralysis?

I am quite sure it did.

Miss Cornelius was a striking young woman, and it is an honor to present her notes to you.

Miss Callista Cornelius

November 15

Arrival at the Directorate. What a bore this job looks to be! I’ve been commissioned to write some sort of pamphlet about this stodgy old literary society, the sort of thing they give to their members around the holidays, and everyone stands awkwardly around . . . → Read More: Miss Cornelius Arrives]]>

As promised in my Introduction, a Brief History of the Fiction-Writing Directorate. From the notes of Miss Callista Cornelius, transcribed from the handwritten original and annotated by Gustav Tauszig. Posted despite acts of violence and coersion.

Miss Cornelius was a striking young woman, and it is an honor to present her notes to you.

Miss Callista Cornelius

November 15

Arrival at the Directorate. What a bore this job looks to be! I’ve been commissioned to write some sort of pamphlet about this stodgy old literary society, the sort of thing they give to their members around the holidays, and everyone stands awkwardly around pretending to admire the overpriced twaddle, covertly slipping extra brandy into their egg-nog. That sort of tiresome tripe. It galls me to have to write pap like this, when there are so many urgent investigations awaiting me in the City. My only consolation is knowing that this soul-deadening drudge-work will cover my expenses for many months — months that I’ll be free to apply myself to my journalistic investigations.

God only knows why they chose me. I’ve built my reputation on undercovering scandals: my story about the meat-packing plant (never again will sausage pass between these lips!), the shameful conditions of the zeppelin-workers, my expose of Mr. Fowler’s “science” of phrenology. I’m not known for this kind of puff-job. The money’s good, though, so what’s a girl to do?

[Several of Miss Cornelius's investigations had lead her to the farthest fringes of the Directorate, and my superiors, in their wisdom, thought it best to divert her before she stumbled upon something that might interest her. For Miss Cornelius had proven herself quite intrepid, and my superiors feared to arouse her predatory instincts. What better way than to pay her handsomely to write some boring drivel? Convince her of our dullness, and she would never seek the truth.

Or so they thought. --G.T.]

A Grim and Dreary Mansion

I arrived at the Directorate headquarters in the late afternoon, as dusk was creeping about. No doubt the place will look better in the daylight, but now it simply looks old and damp and drafty. There’s a dank little pond in front of the building, all scummed over and foul-smelling. I thought I saw something shift beneath the surface, but surely that was my imagination. I’m weary from the long trip here, that’s all, and already resentful about the idiocy of this task.

Buck up, Callie! You’re here to do a job, and you’re damn well going to do it right. Focus, girl.

It is hard to focus here, I must admit. Everything is so dim, and shadows seem to creep around in the corners, when you aren’t watching them. The staff — residents? members? I am not sure who they are, exactly — are also a bit eccentric. I was met by a skinny bug-eyed chap in a top hat and tails named Gustav [O, faithful reader, now you know that these journals are presented honestly! --G.T.], had an awkward tea with a stiff old battle-axe named Ethel Lee. (Note, check the name; Ethel Lee sounds vastly more cheerful than the dour and implacable woman I met. She sounds like she should be square-dancing, with rosy cheeks and lots of laughter, not shut up in this grim building.)

Callie! Get ahold of yourself. This is no time for flights of fancy. You’re a journalist, not a novelist.

To Sleep

Yes. So. I have been given a clean and simple room on the second floor. All is quiet in the building now, though occasionally I hear strange howls outside. “Just the wolves,” Ethel Lee told me, with a curious smile. They don’t sound like any wolves I’ve ever heard, but I sensed this was not the time to question her.

In the morning, I meet with the Director himself, and will have to feign interest in this society I have committed myself to write about. I must sleep well tonight; it will not do to fall asleep while he is talking.

Ugh, there’s another one of those howls, and I swear I hear something sloshing. My room looks out over the pond–but it is too dark to see anything.

I think I’ll leave the candle burning tonight; in fact, I think I’ll light a second, and a third, so that this room will not have so many flickering shadows. I shall feel like a right idiot in the morning, but better that than laying awake all night.

[It saddens me that Miss Cornelius did not feel more welcome and at home at the Directorate. Why, this is a splendid old place, full of laughter and warmth! Had I only known, I might have found a way to comfort her. Perhaps I could have sent an oil lamp to her room, along with a plate of chocolate biscuits and some warm milk. --G.T.]

Yesterday, as I was leaving the Beastmaster’s quarters after indulging Ethelie’s hysteria, I decided to settle in the library with my copy of Miss Cornelius’s notes about the history of the Directorate. I lost myself in the work, and and only lifted my weary eyes from the pages when I heard — or thought I heard — a stealthy footstep behind me. The next thing I remember is a terrible blow to my head, and then all went dark.

I awoke untold hours later — I do not know how much time passed while I lay helpless . . . → Read More: Training Exercise #12: An Apology]]>

I fear something dreadful has happened.

Yesterday, as I was leaving the Beastmaster’s quarters after indulging Ethelie’s hysteria, I decided to settle in the library with my copy of Miss Cornelius’s notes about the history of the Directorate. I lost myself in the work, and and only lifted my weary eyes from the pages when I heard — or thought I heard — a stealthy footstep behind me. The next thing I remember is a terrible blow to my head, and then all went dark.

I awoke untold hours later — I do not know how much time passed while I lay helpless and insensate — to find myself covered with books! It seems the large shelf behind me somehow toppled, and I was knocked unconscious by a splendid first edition of Mr. Fowler’s Phrenology, Proved, Illustrated, and Applied.

Yet as I struggled to my feet, I could not help but remember the stealthy footsteps I heard; and I could not help but notice that Miss Cornelius’s notes had vanished! Dizzy though I was, the conclusion was inescapable: The bookcase had not fallen by accident, but by the ill intent of a villain.

I do not know which is more horrible: the concussion that has confined me to the tender ministrations of the Infirmary staff, or knowing that I must apologize to Ethelie when she awakens from her laudanum dreams. For her words were no mere womanly hysteria: Evil stalks the Directorate, and we are none of us safe.

O Ethelie, I am sorry. I shall never doubt you again, and as soon as we are out of this damnable infirmary, we shall track this evil to its lair and defeat it. This I swear.

And what of Miss Cornelius’s notes, you wonder? Fear not; for I was working from a copy. Her original journal is safely secured in the — but no. I will not say. But I am now more determined than ever to bring her research to the clear, healing light of day.

Your Exercise:

Surely one of your characters has something horrid to apologize for. Write that scene.

Special strength-training exercise: Please ensure that your apology does not parody, reference, offer homage to, or claim inspiration from Mr. William Carlos Williams’s splendid poem about the plums.

Unless, of course, you are Mr. William Carlos Williams.

Poor Ethelie! To indulge her, I did indeed go to the Beastmaster’s quarters, though of course I did not find any evidence that he pushed her. What on Earth did Ethelie think I would find? A to-do list with “Shove Ethelie” checked off? An overdue notice from the library for the book How . . . → Read More: Training Exercise #11: Scent]]>

Ethelie’s doctors have sedated her with laudanum; her incessant rantings about how a dark and nefarious enemy pushed her down the stairs were disturbing the other patients in the infirmary. That leaves the task of setting your daily writing exercise to me. I shall endeavor to do my best.

Poor Ethelie! To indulge her, I did indeed go to the Beastmaster’s quarters, though of course I did not find any evidence that he pushed her. What on Earth did Ethelie think I would find? A to-do list with “Shove Ethelie” checked off? An overdue notice from the library for the book How To Shove Someone Down the Stairs? I trust that as Ethelie’s body heals from its injuries, her mind will heal as well.

A visit to the Beastmaster’s quarters is always delightful. I find myself surrounded by the familiar scents of my childhood: the warm animal scent of Maggie, the Beastmaster’s pet verbhound; the manly scent of leather and the oil he uses on the harnesses and other equipment; the mouth-watering fragrance of the raw meat upon which the Hounds feed; and a dozen other scents that all combine into one heady fragrance that transports me to my earliest youth.

Your Exercise:

Smell! Breathe deeply and notice the different scents which surround you. What can you tease out? How precisely can you describe it?

Or, perform this exercise on behalf of one of your characters. What does she smell? What does this tell us about her world? About her?