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.

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.

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.

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.]

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.

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?

Today I had to take poor Markus, my corpulent cat, to the Beastmaster for treatment. I fear Markus is not well.The emanations from his body are foul and plentiful, but I trust that the Beastmaster will be able to heal him. Yet I worry: no matter how much I trust the Beastmaster;  no matter how unmanly such concern is; no matter how much skill I have in my job; all I can do is wait.

To distract myself from fretting overmuch, I turned my thoughts to an exercise for our new agents.

Please write a paragraph in which a character faces a medical situation. How can you reveal her character through her illness? How can you illuminate his world? What do her reactions say about her religion, her socioeconomic status, her culture? What emotions does he convey? How might this advance the plot?

How much weight can you make a simple ailment bear? Practice loading it with value: don’t let it just do one job in your story when it can do three.

This is an exercise in description. Describe the room you are in (or another familiar location) using only non-visual imagery. What do you smell, hear, taste, touch? Describing what you see is easy; today, I ask you to stretch a bit.

Example: Instead of writing, “My room is painted white and decorated with portraits of my favorite verbhounds,” I might write, “The room smells of last night’s absinthe, and the desk is faintly sticky.”

As Ethelie said yesterday (where did that woman learn to capitalize? It is unseemly), post your exercise in the comments or privately in your journal. Do not be critical of the exercises of others; these are just practice.

I await your response.

Gustav

Authenticity.

I have a cat; his name is Markus and he is quite obese. I prefer porridge in the morning and absinthe in the evening. My favorite color is taupe.

Oh, God. I give up. I fear I am not suited to this brave new world of openness and authenticity. I must find a different path.

A Brief History of the Fiction-Writing Directorate

Miss Callista Cornelius

This uneasy grasping toward openness reminds me of an unfortunate incident many years past. An intrepid lady-journalist, Miss Callista Cornelius, stumbled upon the Directorate, and began an investigation. Since she was quite intrepid indeed, my superiors determined that something must be done, so I was assigned to “assist” her with her investigation. Her findings were fascinating, and I learned a great deal about the organization I serve.

Unfortunately, Miss Cornelius died in a tragic dirigible accident before her research could be published. I have her notes in my trunk. Instead of all this horrid openness, perhaps I could take Miss Cornelius’s notes and look them over. I am sure they have material of sufficient interest to satisfy my readers.

Like other agents, I thought I knew the history of the Directorate, from its origins in the monasteries of the Dark Ages to its current position of quiet prominence. I thought I knew the brave and noble role the Directorate played in the events of the ages.

Miss Cornelius showed me I was wrong.

I see I am out of space. Next week, I will begin sharing her researches with you. Miss Cornelius would click her tongue disapprovingly at me for setting up such a cliff-hanger, as if this were some cheap pot-boiler, instead of the fruits of her life’s work. My most sincere apologies. I will do my best to make it up to you — and to Miss Cornelius.