Tag: dystopia

An Excerpt: A Story about Stories

Day 6 of NaNoWriMo, and I want to get at least 2000 words in before I have to go to work, because it’s a long day and I need to get started soon. I’m at 17,000 words, up 7.000 words, so if I don’t get all the words in today, I’m okay. 

An excerpt (remember this is rough draft time). In effect, what I’m writing is a story about a story:

As I drove down the highway, I thought about Hakeem’s and Bosco’s words — I couldn’t help but laugh at those two young men wanting to — what? Offer themselves up as husbands? Be my protectors? I seldom picked up on those kinds of currents. As role models, my parents gave me the gift of watching their near-perfect relationship, perfect except for my father’s belief that my mother kept a secret he couldn’t crack. However, I didn’t seem to fall for the occasional men who took me out for coffee and complimented me. I literally didn’t understand the process of “I take you out for dinner, you have sex with me.” 

From there, I thought about Sonya’s words. “If you’re looking for the Alvar, you’ll have to look in the worst places.” Wasn’t that always the case with fairy tales? The Hobbits had to throw the One Ring into Mount Doom, a raging volcano. Little Red Riding Hood had to go through a dark forest and visit the wolf to pass through menarche, symbolized by the red hood. Would my quest follow the parameters of the Hero’s Quest?

I was not a hero. I was an academic without a job and without any useful skills except the ability to crack Schmidt locks — and other locks, albeit with the help of a lock pick. I was an anthropologist searching for the inevitable, unpublishable study, a study of the origins of a mythical people. If the Alvar actually existed, what would I do if I found them? If they didn’t exist and I found the human origin of the tale as if it was an urban legend, where would I publish my findings?

Did I chase the legend simply because my mother once told it to me in a bedtime story? 

I pulled myself back to reality and saw a roadblock up ahead, just before Eau Claire.  I slammed on my brakes, nearly skidding as I approached the barricade with three men, all armed with semiautomatic machine guns. When one of them walked up to me, his hand on the strap of the gun slung over his shoulder, I rolled down my window, hands shaking. “What seems to be the trouble?” I asked, trying to school my voice into calmness.

“Your papers,” the man, with the hard voice and face of the military, held out his hand.

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Of course I had identity papers. My parents had warned me that, if I had to bug out of town, that I needed at least a copy of my birth certificate and my drivers’ license. I had not been asked for them before this moment, and I wondered if I had hit a border to a newly formed country.

*******
May you find wonder in your day.

Big Audacious Goal reached for today.

Officially at 13,000 words (give or take a few!) One quarter of the way through!

*******

Afterward, I dreamed that my dad yelled that I had written the story all wrong and that the aftermath of the collapse on Duluth, MN would look nothing like I’d written it. I fled to the bathroom, and tried to put makeup on for some high school banquet I was about to be late for. I had put on skin correctors of different colors for different parts of my face, except they were glossy and glittery in patriotic red and blue and would not smooth in.

I walked into my room, and clicked the mouse on my computer, reading the notes I had taken when I interviewed a Texas secessionist for my story. I remembered standing on the loading dock as he stood there, semiautomatic rifle slung across his back, explaining that the patriots needed to get the country back from the foreigners. I wrote down the words, sickened.

I tried to dress as quickly as possible, sensing that I would never arrive at the banquet that I would be honored at.

I woke up, reminding myself that the words are important and wondering if I was ever going to get them out in an order that would compel people to read them.

Writing as Therapy

“I tell my story over and over in my head, over and over to my readers, struggling to make sense of it …”
— The Repentance of Nicholas, Lauren Leach-Steffens
I wrote the story from which this quote was taken some twenty-five years ago. The story was a Gothic tale of heinous deeds, sacrifice and redemption, or that’s what I told myself. In reality, the story was about an unreliable narrator who survived an attack by an incubus and suffered from Stockholm Syndrome, falling in love with her attacker in the aftermath. This scenario happens all the time, and is part of the reason it’s so hard to leave one’s abuser. It mirrored what I was experiencing at the time, and my denial. I will not post the story here because it glorifies Stockholm Syndrome.
Writing therapy, however, has legitimacy. Psychology uses the tool extensively as a therapeutic tool, although they utilize it more as writing sprints (short exercises) and journaling. However, it’s not a large leap from that to working out events and feelings in a journal to fictionalizing them, either directly or symbolically, through specific scenes and general themes.
Writing as therapy can yield bad results. There’s an often derided phenomenon called the Mary Sue/Marty Stu story in fan fiction, where someone inserts their fantasy of competence, fame, and winning the (insert desired gender of love interest here) into an existent world. It reads predictably ridiculously, defying characterization of other members — after all, they’re props for the fabulous main character — plot, and logic. (Note that many women in fanfic and science fiction have had their legitimate works derided as “Mary Sue” simply because others can’t imagine female characters as anything but the prize. I’m not talking about that.)  For a glimpse of Marty Stu, watch the first movie in the Star Trek reboot. Chris Pine’s Captain Kirk takes over the Enterprise when he should have been smacked into a high-security military prison for trespassing, and the fun (?) begins. Every little thing he does, as they say, is magic. Credulity is stretched thin.
My favorite theme in my writing is therapeutic: ordinary heroes can save the world from the Apocalypse. I guess I write pre-Apocalyptic fiction. This likely comes from being a tween/teen during the Reagan Administration, where our president joked about bombing Russia on a hot mic and Russia and the US stockpiled weapons to up the threat. (To my Russian reader: If you’re old enough to remember, you remember this differently. That’s okay.) During that time I had near-constant nightmares where I was separated from my family as the sirens raged, and the only place I could find to shelter was a toilet stall. Because I have a sick sense of humor, think: flush and cover. I didn’t realize where this theme came from until this morning because the subconscious is a wonderful thing.
The therapy we do in writing is transformational. We create solutions, or wishes, or a worst-case scenario that moves people to act. We heal ourselves, heal our readers, and tell our story, over and over, struggling to make sense of it.

World Building Example

This is an example of some world building I had to do for one of my stories. Voyageurs is set in two time periods — the Chaos of 2065, and 2015. This segment is told from the viewpoint of Ian Daiichi Akimoto, a Traveller (time traveler) of the Chaos. (I’m not claiming that my writing is a superlative example of world building or any writing; I’m just showing you how I did it).

Notice that much of the world building is done by 1) description; 2) comparison to an earlier time; 3) things that Ian takes for granted daily. This book also uses the unique vernacular of Travellers and of the daredevil subgroup known as Travellers, but they’re not present in this section.

********
I went to my room and changed out of the shorts into my gauze button-down shirt in plaid and a khaki pair of men’s knee-shorts that I had washed that month. It would be quite hot outside, as it was May. Berkeley had told me once that May used to be on the cool side. Not anymore, not in the time of the Chaos.

I strapped on my walking sandals, because even the bus-trains that had replaced cars were instruments of global warming, and I couldn’t justify the wait for the bus-train for such a short walk. I also strapped on my hydration bladder, because 110-degree weather required precious water. I put on homemade sunscreen against the brutal rays and headed out.
As I walked on 39th Street, I saw nobody on the sidewalks, but full bus-trains motored past me. I saw no cars, because cars had been outlawed in my birth year. My parents had told me that even electric cars had been outlawed because of the violent reactions that the carless had had to the few who could afford electric cars. Hundreds of people nationwide had died because of those riots.
Houses on the path down the hill looked like houses in most parts of town — sagging, crumbling piles of grey with patches of old paint and rags stuffed into cracked windows. Houses in the wealthy part of town had been built underground so they couldn’t be destroyed by mob action. As concrete took a huge amount of water to produce, I wondered how those houses could be built in a time of rationing. 

As I said, the ComfortZone sprawl included a college and many clinics once upon a time. The shells of the college, and many of the clinics, crumbled into dust. I steered clear of the college, got lost anyway, and then stood in front of the glass doors of ComfortZone. A sign on the door reminded people that their sacrifice served God and country.
A helpful greeter who thought I looked hopelessly lost steered me to the elevators with instructions to the oncology wing. Oncology’s walls, like most walls in the complex, were pasty and scuffed, with signs of peeling paint. At the reception desk, I asked how Carlie Peterson fared, and a big redheaded nurse said tersely, “I cannot give you that information under CIA,” which I interpreted to be the Citizen Information Act. I suspected that if I had been Homeland or the local Police, I would have been freely granted the information. The nurse then smiled and waited for me to ask another question, one he could safely answer.
I finally settled on, “Is Ms. Peterson taking guests today?” The nurse nodded and said, “She’s in room 324.” He escorted me down a winding series of scuffed, dirty halls.
Once in room 324, I saw a single bed swathed in white against pale mint walls that could have used painting. A gaunt woman with ice-blue eyes sat in the bed knitting. Her patchy white hair failed to hide pieces of pink scalp. She looked up and smiled at me, and I thought that she must have been quite an electrifying woman when young and healthy.
She interrupted my reverie with, “So, are you Berkeley’s pup?”
“I’m twenty-five,” I sputtered.
“I’m sixty. You’re a pup,” she countered. I would have guessed her as much older with the wrinkles and hollows in her face. She squinted at me and said, “You’re the only Traveller I’ve met who wears it in his face.” I knew she meant the comma-shaped pattern of freckles on my cheeks, the ones that transform my face from exotic to boyish. 

“You’re a Traveller, then?” I asked as I sat, sitting in the cracked beige guest chair.
“Yes. You never cease to be a Traveller just because you don’t travel anymore. The doctors marvel over my Blaschko’s lines every time they check my heartbeat. They think I’m simply a chimera.” 

“I’m supposed to ask you about two people,” I changed the subject. “Harold Martin and Wanda Smith. Were they Travellers?”
“They were. Harold may still be alive. I wouldn’t know; Harold wouldn’t contact me unless he had something to gain from me. Last year, he actually tried to influence me to change my will so that a bogus charity of his would benefit from my estate.” She looked up and smirked. “He didn’t succeed.”
“How did you catch him at it?” I asked, curious.
“When he tried to kill me after I had signed the document, of course,” she shrugged.
“How did you get out of that?” I leaned forward.
“Rolled out of his way, grabbed the will, and transported to 2070 to tear it up.”
“Why 2070?” I asked.
“Because I figured that was five years after I’d die, so I wouldn’t cross myself. Things get strange when you cross yourself.” Such as they had with my own parents, who died of a mistake they knew better than to make.
Apparently, Ms. Peterson suspected she would die this year. Given the gauntness of her face and body, I suspected she was correct. She didn’t seem to be perturbed.
“Ian, you haven’t asked me about Wanda.”
“What about Wanda?”
“She died in 2017. She crossed herself. I always suspected that there was something more to that. She had too much skill for such a simple mistake.
“Is this why Berkeley sent me here?” I asked her.
“Yes, we thought that if we set you on this mystery, you might find something. You do see the mystery — Travellers make mistakes they knew better than to make, and they die. Setting you in motion might pay off in other ways. I’m not sure.” She set down her knitting and beckoned me over. She took my hand in hers and said, “I’m glad to see you again.” Again?
As I trudged through the walk home, the sweat evaporating as it formed, I thought about Carlie Peterson’s belief that she had remembered me. I knew all about false memories, which could be add
ed through suggestion, through doctored pictures, etc. Or she might have remembered someone who looked like me many years ago. I had never seen her before, however. 

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I glanced up. A dragonfly hovered above me, which seemed impossible after years of drought. Travellers nicknamed them ‘time flies’ from a children’s story. My mother had read the story to me when she was still alive.
********

For you Kansas Citians — ComfortZone used to be called St. Luke’s. There are other sections where Country Club Plaza gets described as a burned-out shell where desperately deprived people live, and the library has been razed to build a garage for police riot vehicles (think MREPs and the like). 

The Story I Never Wrote

I almost wrote a novel in my twenties. The idea came to me in one long dream I had while sick with a kidney infection. (Note: fevers are great for giving ideas. Margaret Mitchell purportedly wrote Gone with the Wind while out with the flu.) I could only remember snippets, but the bare bones of the dream became this:

  • The fall of the US began with attacks on universities by blue-collar mobs fronted by mysterious benefactors (“Blue-Collar Wars,” 2012-2015)
  • The Blue-Collar Wars developed into factional fighting. Occasionally, a faction would develop or steal weapons, and much burning and looting occurred, so there’s a breakdown of infrastructure, and sone limited radioactivity in places.
  • Because infrastructures, industries, and social structures have been disrupted, the wars (more a free-for-all) eventually splinter the US into several chaotic states.
  • The Religious Right and the White Supremacy Movement have melded into the Free White State, which takes up much of the Pacific Northwest. Some “states” have become distrustful and insular. Some states with severe shortages of basic necessities have become feral lands. The desert areas are said to be where people go when they wouldn’t be allowed to live anywhere else*.
  • The protagonist was a young assistant professor of Anthropology** who was traumatized in the attack on her university, the first attack of the Blue-Collar Wars. Shell-shocked and having just lost her parents to murder six months before,  she decides the only thing she has to live for is research, so she clears out her bank account, outfits herself, and leaves campus even as the buildings burn. (An interesting note: One item in her safety deposit box is a passport, birth certificate, and social security card under another name).
  • The protagonist wanders around, researching emerging urban legends. She’s hypothesized that the tales would resemble “Mad Max meets King Arthur”, which they do for the most part. However, there’s another thread she keeps hearing, from people who were shown kindness from people of compassion and love, who seemed to shine just a little when you looked just right …
Yes, elves. Not in the Keebler variety, and less tight-assed than the Tolkien variety, but perhaps if some of them didn’t sail to the west because they liked humans too much …
Don’t worry, more happens.
Yes, there was a plot — in my head. There were several scenes written, mostly about a relationship from meet-dire emergency to pledging undying love. Those are still the fun ones to write, especially if there’s awkwardness around the whole thing. Only about five people have read any of it; one of my friends nicknamed the idea “Dirty Commie Gypsy Elves in the Desert”, and I’ve called it that, rather sardonically, ever since.
I never wrote this story. I felt overwhelmed by the potential of plot holes. I didn’t know enough about living off the land, hydroponics and aquaponics, or desert climate to describe the habitats of the Folk. I wasn’t sure whether the forces outlined above would be enough to topple the US (now I’m afraid that they are). 
Most of all, I didn’t think my ideas were worthy of exploring. 
And I didn’t write a novel for almost 30 more years.
Think of the time I wasted.
**********
* Yeah, I know, Mad Max. The Postman. But it makes sense.
** Not an insertion. I was an undergrad in a foods-related career path.

Kansas City, 2065

Sometimes, I worry about climate change, and fear we have come to the point of no return. I deal with this in a distinctly Buddhist way, telling myself it is what it is, as I have limited control over climate.

However, that doesn’t mean I cannot change the future in my books:

Berkeley, a time traveler hiding in the parched Chaos of Kansas City 2065, sends his protege Ian Akimoto back to 2015, purportedly to protect Berkeley’s former protege, Kat Pleskovich. Kat, the top daredevil in the game Voyager, doesn’t trust this enigma from the future, but when he warns her during a sabotaged Voyageurs stunt called “jumping time”, Ian gives her the chance she needs to survive. After several attempts on their lives, Kat and Ian, with the help of Berkeley, deduce that Harold Martin and Wanda Smith,  Kat’s friends, are behind the attempted murders. With the help of Berkeley and Kat’s estranged mother, Agnes Faa Pleskovich, they discover that the archived notes of the Voyageur’s files reveal a pattern among the daredevil deaths. Then, when Berkeley sets them to deciphering Time Physics, a tome that Ian’s deceased parents wrote, Kat and Ian discover a plot that runs from 1930’s Kansas City to the environmental devastation of 2065, and a possible way to reverse it …

Yes, this is a magic solution to climate change — find its historical roots and keep it from happening. But the story allowed me to explore a ten-year drought and its effects — monocultures of adaptive but noxious giant hogweed in empty lots; bombed and burned-out buildings from civic unrest; lawlessness and evidence that the rich hole themselves away in bunkers hoarding water. It also gave me the opportunity to create consistent rules for time jumping and changing the future and develop underground subcultures for the Travellers (in this case time travelers) and Voyageurs (daredevil time travelers).

If only the reality was this easy to fix.