Better Than Nothing

So I thought I’d do a bit of plotting. I can’t get the Benhá thing out of my head and I’ve not plotted that ever. Too scared I suppose. Maybe I should plot it several ways. Pick one that seems best.

Setup: perfectly happy island girl discovers she’s got dermatographia.

Hook: the man who owes her money turns up dead in her normally peaceful village and she’s suspect número uno.

PP1: rather than stay to face mislead justice she decides to flee with a man she’s just met, a Solex monk.

Pinch 1: Roundmartin’s goons burn her home town to the ground looking for her.

MPT: Charming discovers she’s Roundmartin’s niece and that she has the same prophetic powers he did.

Pinch 2: Roundmartin’s thugs attack the monastery she’s staying at.

PP2: Charming discovers where Roundmartin is and goes to confront him and give him back his power.

Conclusion: having given him back his power she some how defeats him at the last minute.

164 words on day 729

On Shared Worlds

I wouldn’t describe this as incoherent as much as disjointed.

If you’ve been wondering where I am some nights these days I’m writing in a notebook. When the day gets ahead of me I have better success not screwing around too much if I use pen and paper. Seeing my own handwriting is kind of cool too.

Today I read about shared worlds for writing and other creative creations. I’m somewhat angry that an idea I had back in 2000 is manifesting itself as a thing in 2011. And not my thing. The examples I stumbled on looked to be about as good as I could have hoped and about as mediocre.

One doesn’t pay creators for their work and robs them of potential earnings by putting that work under a non-commercial CC. I can only assume it’s because of the headache trying to work out how much of any one work a person created on their own and how much they relied on the contributions of others. I don’t find this as peudent as I find it uncourageous. I do the movie test here. Can I use you stuff to make my movie without pissing you off if you don’t get paid. That’s the real hurdle in all these things: making or not making money.

When someone else gets rich off your idea you’d like a piece of that. Even if the money came as conpensation for a huge amount of effort on that other person’s part. You think, “That son of bitch used my idea to make tons of money and I got nothing.” The trouble is you should be thinking, “That son of a bitch did something I didn’t do: execute.” The reality is that that son of a bitch likely would have made money off of any half-decent idea; he just happened to start with yours.

The only way shared worlds will ever truly get out of mom’s basement is when a Hollywood studio fronts a blockbuster movie and gives the license to the stories and characters and ideas away. Wanna make a James Bond RPG, go for it. Think we need a Toys 4, let us know how it works out. You can imagine a When Harry Met Sally board game, do it.

These sites are a writers’ version of a 60s commune. And nothing can come of them unless omeone truly sacrifices. Flash fiction, short stories, novellas, not even novels will have the clout to take an ember to a flame and fire. A personality could pull it off. Steven King. J.K. Rowling. Arrange for them to give the rights to their next novel away and it’ll happen.

But where does the money come from when you do this? It comes from the quality. This is a real test of a creator’s mettle. Put Harry Potter in the public domain then find out how furiously awesome you’ve got to write or create to keep up.

xxx words on day 728

Like a Tawargachi Novel

I had several minutes to prepare, but I spent them fretting rather than focusing. How others could saunter in to the classroom, set down their pads, and settle to their desks like they were on a sofa sipping warm chocolate and reading the latest Tawargachi novel escaped me. I slid my pen into my breast pocket a second time. I took it back out because I needed something to hold. The pen clattered to the floor when I attempted to spin it over the back of my thumb.

Professor Sog—yeah, I know—backed through the door as he chatted with a colleague in the hall.

“After class,” he said. “I have hours till 2:30. Good, good.” He saluted the colleague good-bye with a stack of hard-copy tests then turned to face the class and smile. He was wearing his yellow plaid exam shirt; the class sighed…or, “Oh’d”…or somethinged. The class reacted satisfactorily at seeing he hadn’t neglected to wear the same shirt he wore at every exam he’d ever given. Not just this semester, all of them.

Last semester, at the Fall mid-term, one of the older boys who sat in the second row had asked, “Do you always wear that yellow shirt on test days?”

“Yellow, huh?” Professor Sog asked in return as if he hadn’t quite heard the boy speaking, but we knew he had.

Unable to summon the courage to ask the question twice, the boy demurred. The exam thus proceeded normally.

There was nothing normal about today’s exam though. This one was our last for the year. Since I was a Senior it was my last ever. And, for me at least, its outcome would determine if I lived or died.

284 words on day 726