I'll Make It A Point

I’m not dead.

I have a wife and two kids, and several other paid writing projects. I feel bad for nothing.

Being a writer, and attending writing workshops and functions, I end up in the proximity of a lot of modern writing talents. Recently, I ended up sitting down with (someone I'm going to name drop) Barb Howard to actually storyboard the entire thing. She's an outstanding author (I suggest checking out her book "Whipstock" for excellent examples of event/idea comparison), and I completely took advantage of the fact that she is a ridiculously nice person. Again, I feel bad for nothing. It was good to sit down with an author and look at the whole of the work.

"Source" is going to end up being novel-length. I needed to set out a more robust skeleton on which to hang all of the meat. I have a lot of islands of ideas, perhaps some vying for continent status, and all major plots and sub-plots all neatly developed. I knew where I wanted the story to go. Yet, I was having issues lining up the story progression in a way that felt meaningful. It just didn't have the impact I wanted. So, what Barb ended up pointing out was that I was arranging everything around events rather than ideas. It's a writing downfall I was familiar with, but until someone pointed it out to me, I didn't realize I was doing it. I took my newfound enlightenment and put together (what I consider) a much more poignant storyboard.

Overall, I consider it a growth experience.

I'll end with an excerpt from a few chapters ahead:

The collision alarm blared as the freighter sailed across the viewfinder. Maybe they would mistake us for another commuter. A really inconsiderate one. Then I remembered we were in a garishly blue ship with rainbow accents.

The pegasi swarmed upward like angry fireflies. They weren't firing. They must have assumed by our lazy sideways yaw that the ship was incapacitated.

"Hit the button!" it goaded, in a voice urgent but distinctly condescending.

I curled my lip. I wished it had a face so I could shove a hoof in it.

I scanned again, even looking under the panel to a soundtrack of the LOYAL-T's disapproving sighs. Sirocco had bitten down firmly on his hoof, and his eyes were so wide I thought they were going to fire out of his face. The lead pegasus was getting close.

Finally I shouted in frustration, "Where the hell is this damn button?"

Closer.

"It's above you. I swear, land-locked ponies never look up."

His rig lit up; the barrels zoned in on the viewfinder.

Of course. What better variety of brain to put in a flying vessel. The yellow disc, clearly marked "auto-pilot", was just above me. I jabbed my hoof up, then paused. What was I about to do? I looked at Double Down, still pinned in the corner. He shrugged. Lens of humor, indeed. I pushed it.