Archimage's Writings

Life moves on and so do I. I’ve had to deal with family issues, putting my mom into a nursing home and taking care of her house. It’s been a stressful and disruptive time for me. But, I resolved the difficult bits and I can now try to get back to normality.

I’ve not written much new apart from free-writing. I have finished editing “The Game Is Afoot”, which I’ll send to anyone that signs up to my new mailing list. 

I’ve also reworked my personal website http://auteureist.com.  All my future posts will be on my personal site. I’ll be moving off of Tumblr, but will leave this site up and provide a link on my site back to here.

I’m going to finish editing my noir novel and publish it this month (October), before I dive into NaNoWriMo. I’ll start writing my Holmesian novel which now has a title, “The Singular Case of the Dead Cowboy” during November. 

I’ve been busy and life got in the way, but I’ve been able to keep up with my writing and editing. I have, however, been remiss in posting on here.

My backlog is growing. This is my current workload:

- Finish my song-based story which has grown beyond a short story.

- Finish transcribing (handwriting to type) my satire.

- Finish editing my noir, and publish it this year.

- Finish editing my thriller.

- Finish transcribing/editing “The Man With All the Cards” short story collection.

- Start writing my Holmesian mystery. This may have to wait until NaNoWriMo this year–it’s coming fast.

- I’m doing final edits on the short story I posted here, “The Game is Afoot”.

- NaNoWriMo, of course. I have no idea what I’ll write.

I’ve finally gotten around to generating ePub versions of my “Roland Targus” saga and put them up on sale. (http://auteureist.com). The only excuse I have, is I’m not big on marketing or selling my writing. I write for myself, but perhaps others may find what I produce of some entertainment value.

I’m going to set up a mailing list and release the final edit of the short story “The Game Is Afoot” for free. It has really grown on me as a story as the edits have improved it.

I’m still busy redesigning/rewriting my app. This is a long process.

I’m slowly making my way through my To Be Read pile of books. You can join me on Goodreads (Serg Koren).

And, of course, there is the normal life stuff.

I’ve done my first editing pass through the short story that I posted. I addressed all of the issues I laid out in the previous post and am feeling better about the result. All of the plot holes and continuity issues have been resolved and there is more context and cohesion. The story now holds up as a story and is less of a rambling stream-of-consciousness.

There are still issues I want to address. I will do a second read-through and, as before, make a list of the things that need to be fixed. I also want to take each scene and make sure it works as a scene that contributes to the overall story. I’m going to use Dwight Swain’s Scene/Sequel method as described in Techniques of the Selling Writer.

A Scene has:

1. A goal

2. A Conflict

3. A Disaster

A Sequel has:

1. A reaction to the disaster

2. A dilemma

3. A decision.

These alternate throughout a story or book to produce the proper amount of tension from scene to scene.

This second pass will be more rigorous and time-consuming, but I’ve found that it improves my writing, even if I occasionally break the cycle of Scene/Sequel.

I’ve done my first read-through of the short story I posted. This is when I just read what I have written and make notes about things that I need to fix, add, delete, and otherwise edit in upcoming passes. 

As part of the read-through I ignore:

Fix Tense

Fix Grammar

Fix Spelling 

and just focus on the story.  I make notes as I read. Here is what I need to fix in upcoming edits organized by scene:

Holmes

Motive

Add early references to strange odor

Add early references to cats

Rework discussion starting with “The victim had he hit his head…

Remove reference to struggle. Justify flattened grass a different way.

 Who Is it

Expand on the victim’s appearance and differences.

Evidence

Blakeslee needs to limp at some point. (This is the red-herring. Need to explain it at the end.)

Randolf Blakeslee

Need to mention the Niles’ walker.

Blakeslee needs to accuse Niles of being condescending

New Clue 

Niles needs to look at Watson indicating he has a clue.

Evidence

Discovery

Corroborate the DNA info.

Plans

Mention strange odor.

Family 

The Plan

Blakeslee needs to mention he’s tired of telling Niles to get rid of the rocks.

The Trap

The Confrontation

Need to make more clearly why they rush in. “Door standing open” isn’t enough.

More gun clarification needed

The Fight

Set the scene: night, dark, etc.

Change assailant to intruder

Clarify there are at least two pillows.

More sound cues.

More about property values from Blakeslee

Change platoon to file.

The Goodbye

More details after he starts to gurgle.

Move last sentence to the end.

End

Actually this is 2 scenes. Split.

What does Blakeslee hoard?

Conclusion

Change the gun to being in the litter

Epilogue

As promised in the last post, here is the 1st draft. Again note, this is awful, as most 1st drafts are. This is even worse than most of my first attempts because writing sprints are about writing fast, not well. 

Also note that this is not the Holmesian novel I’ve been working on.

The § is the scene marker my app uses.

The Without further ado, here is “The Game Is Afoot” 

The Game Is Afoot

©2020 by S.Koren.

All rights reserved.

about 9000 words

§ - HOLMES -

“Watson, the game is afoot!”

“What do you want, Niles?” I rolled over in my bed, my cell phone at my ear. I’d been in the middle of a nice dream when the phone rang shattering the beach to shards. My mind was still groggy as I focused on the frail British voice in my ear.

“The game is afoot! We’re needed!”

Niles, my neighbor was a harmless soul, but calling me out of a sound slumber was unusual. “What foot? What are you talking about, Niles?” I glanced at the clock by my bedside. Five in the morning. I groaned.

“Are you alright, Watson?”

“I’m fine,” I mumble. “And don’t call me Watson. My name is, Katelyn…Katelyn Alden. Now what are you going on about a foot?”

“Watson, there is a dead body on my front lawn.”

I yawn and sit up. It’s too early for this nonsense. “What is it this time? A squirrel? Or maybe a deer?”

“No, Watson. A man!”

“Is he cutting your lawn, by chance?”

“No, of course not. Don’t be silly. He’s lying face down on the grass.”

I rub the grit out of my eyes. “You’re not imagining things again are you, Niles? You know the last time you imagined someone was trying to poison Mrs. Hudgeon. It turned out to be someone selling Girl Scout cookies.”

“I’m not imaging this–and I still think that girl was up to no good. Mrs. Hudson would have died, had I not eaten those biscuits.”

I yawn again. “Listen, Niles, I’m tired. I got back late from the hospital. I’ll come over once I get a few more hours of sleep. OK?” I drop back down onto my bed.

“No, Watson. This is important. There is no time to waste. We must ascertain the identity of the victim and apprehend the foul perpetrator before he can enact his plans.”

“What plans?” I realize I’m far too wide awake now to go back to sleep. I curse.

“What did you say, Watson?”

“Nothing. I just asked, what plans?”

“Why, the nefarious plans the murderer has of course.”

“Of course.”

“Come, Watson. You know I need your level headed ness and objective point of view. I’m too interred in my own studies to know much about the way of the common people.”

I grumble and admit I’ll never get back to sleep now. “Ok, Niles. Just give me a few minutes to shower and throw some clothes on.”

“Good lad. And stop calling me Niles, you know my name is Holmes, Sherlock Holmes.”

The line went dead. I cursed.

Half an hour later I was standing next to Niles Jewell on his front lawn. There was indeed a dead body lying face down on the grass in a brownish pool of blood. It took me a long moment to register that this was not some sort of prank. Then my training kicked in. I knelt by the man and felt for a pulse on his neck. I glanced up at Niles. “He’s dead. Did you call anyone?”

“I called you, of course,” was the thin balding man’s reply. He wore a plaid bathrobe which was his usual attire. His shoes were his bedroom slippers. He held a pipe in his hand. I’d tried to get him to stop the vile habit, but he’d just waved me off arguing it steadied the nerves and focused his faculties. I question his faculties.

“I meant did you call the police?”

“No. No disrespect Scotland Yard, or Inspector Lestrade, but they are not up to this.”

“We’re in America. This is Philadelphia. There is no Scotland Yard.” I knew Niles wasn’t dangerous and just had a fixation on Sherlock Holmes. “You should call the police, Niles.” He stood there gazing at the body. “Holmes, call the Yard,” I commanded.

“Ah! Good idea, Watson. I’ll do that. But first, what do you make of the crime scene?”

I stood and to humor my neighbor I glanced down at the body. He was beyond anyone’s help at this point, and I was curious. “Well, given the blood flowing out of his head and the white ornamental stones along your curb,” I point, “and that one has blood on it, I’d say he tripped and hit his head on the stone. Simple accident.”

Niles stood in silence a moment pondering my brilliant, but simple deduction. “No, Watson. This was no accident. The man was murdered.”

I glanced from the victim to Niles. “How can you say that? All the evidence shows an accident.”

“No, my dear fellow.” I wince. “The victim, had he hit his head on the stone, would have died on his back and not face down on the earth.”

“Maybe he was alive after he hit his head and rolled over before he died. And if it was murder, what about the blood on the stone?”

“It’s possible, but unlikely he could have made it that far from the stone. The amount of blood on his head points to an almost instantaneous death. As to the blood on the stone…” Niles steps closer and peers at the whitewashed rock that had smears of red-brown on it. “As to the stone…the murderer smeared his hands on it while making his escape. If you will note there are smudges of blood on the grass between the body and the stone. Also note the grass, which has not been mowed all week, is flattened in a large area. There was a struggle here. The murderer killed the victim and in his haste to escape stumbled and grabbed at the rock smearing it with the victim’s blood.”

I stood there with my mouth agape as I examined the scene and the clues Niles had laid out. “You should really call the police.”

§ - WHO IS IT -

A short time later Niles front yard was cordened off and several officers were investigating the scene. The photographer had done his job and the EMTs were standing by to take possession of the body. Niles and I stood off to the side. An officer walks over to us. “Well it looks like an accident. The man must have been a burglar, tripped over one of the rocks during the night and hit his head on another. The bloody rock points to that.” My eyebrows go up.

Niles peers at the man’s badge. It read “Lewis”. “Inspector Lestrade, it’s obviously murder to anyone with a bit of wit about them.”

The officer blinks in confusion. “The name is Lewis, and I’m a Sargeant, not an Inspector. And what makes you think this was murder?” Niles repeats the observation he made to me. Sargeant Lewis rubs his chin before speaking. “Well, the matted grass isn’t really conclusive. I’m sure the Coroner will have something to say about the loss of blood and cause of death. We’ll let the experts tell us what happened. The photographer walks by us. “All yours Sarge.” The Sargeant nods then turns back to us. “We’re going to take the body to get it autopsied. Before that, I want you tell me if you recognize the deceased. He pulls the yellow tape up and lets us into the secured area of the yard. The EMTs are loading the gurney with the cloth covered body onto the ambulance. The Sargeant pulls the cloth down to reveal the face Niles.

My jaw drops. Nile’s eyes narrow to mere slits, his mouth a thin line. He peers at the body. His one eyebrow goes up. “Interesting.”

“Is he a relative?” The Sargeant asks. “He looks like your brother.”

“I have no brothers–or sisters.”

“Are you sure?” I recover from the surprise.

“Certainly. I know him. It’s me. Well, a younger version of me, that is. Note the small birthmark on the left side of the neck.” One hand points to the body on the gurney, his other hand the spot on his neck.”

My mind scrambles to make sense of this announcement. “You? How is that possible? What were you–he doing here? Who killed him?”

“Good questions all. I have some studying to do.” Niles turns and marches toward the back door of the small house. He turns back at the porch. “Oh, and Watson, see if you can find out if there were any reports of him–me in the area last night.”

“My name is Katelyn,” I grumble.

§ - EVIDENCE -

“Well, what did you discover?” Niles asks the next morning.

“One of the home security cameras across the street at the convenience store picked up the murder. Unfortunately, the video is grainy and I couldn’t make out much about the killer. It was definitely a murder. I’m surprised the police haven’t checked around for home survellaince.”

“They’ll get around to it, I’m sure. Too bad about the video quality. What can you tell me about the murderer?”

“Well it was a man. About 5’7” judging by the size of you–your–the victim,” I stumble.

“So, an inch shorter than me.” I relax as Niles ignores my slip. “Clothes? Anything unique about him?”

“No. It was hard making out any details. Just jeans and a t-shirt from what I could tell.” Niles nods. I pause as I replay the video in my mind. “Wait! There was something. He walked with a limp. He was favoring his left leg. I’m sure of it.” Niles drops into the plush arm chair and lights his pipe. He takes several puffs, deep in thought as he stares at the wisps of smoke curl their way toward the ceiling. He looks at me. “How was the murder committed?”

“He used the rock. The victim was walking across the yard toward the front door. The murderer came into the frame from the left and grabbed the white rock with the blood stains on it. He bludgeoned the victim before the victim even had a chance to turn around. You were right about death being instantaneous. He just collapsed onto his face right there and then.” I didn’t bother mentioning the fact that Niles was wrong about how the rock had gotten blood on it.

Niles sprung up from the chair and pushed his walker over to the front door. “Come, Watson! We must confront the perpetrator.”

“You know who did it?”

“Of course.”

§ - Randolf Blakeslee -

We stand a few doors in front of a house two doors down from Nile’s. I had followed Niles, trying to get him to tell me who he thought had killed his doppelgänger, but the old man had remained silent. Now, he pounded on the door.

“I–I think you should call the police if you think you know who did it.”

Niles turns to me. “Of course I know. Have you ever known me to be wrong?” I remained silent. My friend had always idolized Sherlock Holmes to the point of taking on the persona as part of his onset dimentia, but had never had to deal with a real murder. “What if you’re wrong?”

Before Niles could respond, the door swung open under his fist. The face of the man who opened the door flashed through a spectrum of emotions. Anger at the pounding on his door gave way to shock then to controlled annoyance. “Well, what do you want Jewell?”

Niles Jewell stood a moment trying to comprehend the question. “Holmes. Sherlock Holmes. You must have me confused with someone else. You sir are Randolf Blakeslee, are you not?”

The house owner’s expression turned to anger. “What are you going on about? Of course I’m Randolf Blakeslee. You know who I am. Now why are you pounding on my door?”

“We are investigating a murder,” Niles announced. Randolf’s expression doesn’t change. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?”

“No. Of course not. Why would you think I would?”

“No need to get bent out of shape. I was just wondering if you had, by chance, seen anything unusual over the past twenty four hours.”

“No. I was busy with my practice.”

“Ah, yes. Your violin practice. Well, sorry to have bothered you. We must keep looking.”

The door slams in our face.

“Not a friendly neighbor, is he?” I ask rhetorically.

“He is our murderer–or at least my doppelgänger’s. Did you notice he didn’t ask why we were asking around? That’s something the police would be doing. He wasn’t a bit surprised except when he first saw me.”

“Yes, I did notice that. He covered it well, however.”

“Not well enough, Watson. He is our killer. I’m sure of it. Now the problem is, how to prove it to the satisfaction of the Yard. Let’s get back to the scene of the crime.” Niles peers up at the sky. “A storm is coming and I want to check the site for clues before they are washed away.

§ - NEW CLUE -

“Look here, Watson.” I cringe at Nile’s call. I should be used to his idosynchrosies by now. I walk over to stand by his walker. He’s pointing to a small object laying among the blades of tall grass. “See what is is, would you?”

I kneel down and retrieve the thing Niles has spotted. I hand it to Niles who stands with hand outstretched.

“Ah. Interesting. This appears to be button.”

“It is a button.” I know he means well, but the poor soul does have a way of stating the obvious. “From a man’s shirt,” I add so as not to sound condescending.

Niles nods. “That it is. That’s why I so enjoy your companionship. You have a knack for stating the obvious.” I flinch. Was he reading my mind? “When you get a chance, could you use your computer thing and see if I have any relatives I may not be aware of. Also, stop by the Yard and see if they have been able to identify the victim.” He moves toward the door to his home.

“Wait!” I call. “I have an idea. Can I take a blood sample from you?”

His eyebrow goes up. “Why?”

“I want to see if your blood matches the blood of the victim. That would prove definitively if you two are related. I can also get a DNA sequence comparison done.”

“That would be [something]. But I assure you we are not related. I have no living relatives.”

“None that you know of,” I correct.

§ - EVIDENCE -

The next day I find Niles rummaging through his neighbor’s garbage. “What in the world are you doing?”, I ask.

Niles looks up from his messy task. “Ah, Watson. I’m looking for evidence.”

“Have you found any? I came by to tell you what I’ve discovered.”

“No. Nothing yet. Give me a minute, won’t you?” He dives head-first into the recycling bin. Grunting and scraping sounds accompany the rocking back and forth of the large plastic bin. A moment later, Niles emerges with a stray piece of paper stuck to his shirt and a triumphant grin on his face. He drops back to the pavement and grasps his walker. His breath is fast and shallow. Despite his expression, he looks tired and older than I’ve ever seen him. He holds a cloth aloft in his bony fist the way a soldier would display a won banner or trophy. “Here! Here it is! This is the shirt. Note the blood stains. Note the missing button,” he pants, then adds, “We have the proof.”

“Are you OK?” I walk up to my friend as he seems to collapse into himself against the walker. “Do you need me to call an ambulance?”

“No. No,” he waves me off. “I’m fine. Watson, we have the proof.”

“Yes, yes. Let me get you safely back to your house and we can discuss what you found while you rest. You don’t look well.” I follow behind Niles as he maneuvers his walker back to his house. His pace is slower than before. His exertions in the bin have taken their toll.

§ - DISCOVERY -

“Are you sure you don’t want to go to the ER?” I had insisted Niles go back to his bed. He’d grumbled and argued, but was too exhausted to put up any fight beyond that.

“I’m certain. Stop babying me. I’m old enough to be your father.”

“Grandfather,” I correct.

“So what did you find out?” I hesitated. I wasn’t sure he’d take the news given his condition. “Well? Don’t keep me waiting. What did you find out?”

“Well, the autopsy revealed what we thought. Death was almost instantaneous due to his brain being crushed from the blunt-force trauma.”

Niles nods as he takes in the information. “Anything else? Come on, Watson, I know you well enough to know when you’re holding something back.”

I sigh. I’m glad he’s already lying down. “Very well. The DNA analysis of your blood and the victims came back a positive match.”

“Meaning?”

“It means you and he are related. He isn’t you, of course. But he’s a very close relative.”

“A brother?” Nile’s eyebrow shoots up.

I shake my head. “Probably not. Probably more like a son.”

The other eyebrow shoots up. “Son? Are you sure?”

“As sure as a DNA analysis can be. There’s always a large margin for error, but the sequences have a lot of matching base pairs. Pretty much half.” \[NEED TO RESEARCH THIS]

Nile’s face droops. He lays on his bed silent. I worry the shock may have been too much for him, but then he whispers to quiet to hear.

“I’m sorry, what?” I prompt.

He looks back up at me and shakes his head. “Nothing. I was just remembering.” He makes a concerted effort to compose himself in the bed, then begins, “Thirty-five years ago I met a woman. She was the most amazing creature I’d ever met. We fell in love. Nature–uh–took it’s course, shall we say.” His voice drops. “Things didn’t work out between us, and we lost touch. I–I’d forgotten about her. Maybe I wanted to.” His voice is sad and what energy he had seems to leave him. A broken and deflated man lies on the bed in front of me.

I put a hand on his arm. “That’s ok. I now this is a lot to take in. Try to get some sleep and rest. I’ll check in on you tomorrow to make sure you’re doing ok. Do you need anything before I go?” He shakes his head, but says nothing.

§ - PLANS -

The next morning I walked over to Nile’s house to find him in the kitchen cooking his breakfast. “Ah, Watson. Perfect timing. Care for a spot of tea?”

“Why are you out of bed? You probably should be taking care of yourself.”

“Coffee it is then.” He pours a cup and places it in front of me on the kitchen table. “As to my taking care of myself, I do my best work when I am busy and active. Laying about in bed all day will kill me as sure as a bullet might, just a bit slower I would think. And before you ask, I admit hearing I have a son was a bit of a shock, but that’s all in the past now. Literally, and figuratively. What matters now is that we tie my son’s death to Randolf Blakeslee. I have a good start on that with his shirt.” He points to the item in question that was tossed haphazardly over a stool. “The missing button matches the one we found in the yard. The fact the shirt is still stained with dried blood is definitive proof. I imagine Randolf Blakeslee, realizing that blood was difficult to clean, decided to toss the incriminating item out.”

“Well, if we have proof why don’t you call the Pol–err–the Yard?”

“Because as you should realize, the missing button is not enough. He will merely claim he lost it in a previous visit to my house.”

“And the blood?”

Niles ponders a long moment as he sips tea from his cup. “That would be more difficult to explain away. He might claim the shirt was stolen and used by someone else. No, Watson, we need to more directly tie Mr. Blakeslee and bring him to justice.”

“And what about the motive? Don’t the police need a motive?”

“That they do. And that, as the saying goes, is the gist of it all. I have no inkling of one, but I am sure one will become obvious.”

“And how do we do that?” I sip the coffee. I grimace. It’s instant.

“We get Mr. Blakeslee to confess, of course.”

§ - FAMILY -

I followed Niles out to his yard–the crime scene. The yellow tape had been removed the prior evening and although most of the indications of the murder were gone, the ground and grass were still discolored despite the rains overnight. The blemished stone had been removed by the police during the original investigation as evidence, and a brown muddy pool was the only indication that it had ever been there.

“We need to determine Randolf Blakeslee’s motive. The question is how?”

“Niles, I just had a strange thought.” I kicked myself for not having realized this earlier. “What if the murderer wasn’t after your son. What if they confused him for you.” I peer at Niles. “After all, you two do look alike.”

Niles’ eyebrows shoot up. “I hadn’t thought of that. Good show, Watson. I have to consider what this does to my theory.” He sits down at the kitchen table and holds the tea cup between his hands. He peers into the liquid as if reading the tea leaves. I knew better than to interrupt his reverie. Having done so once before had led to an angry outburst and a spate of sailor-like talk. A minute or two later he looks up. “It matters nothing.”

“What?”

“The fact that the murderer accidentally killed my son instead of me, doesn’t change the clues my deductions. It doesn’t change the motive, the circumstances, or the evidence. All of those are indisputable facts. The only thing that changes is the victim. The fact the murderer mistook him for me is of no import–except of course to my son.”

“Aren’t you at all upset about not having met your son and then losing him?”

“Nonsense. I didn’t know I had a son until a day ago. Before that I didn’t have a son. Now that he’s dead, I don’t have a son. So there is no difference either way. A difference that doesn’t make a difference is no difference.”

“I think I’d be very upset. After all, he’s family.”

“You’re being overly sentimental, Watson. What matters is bringing his murderer to justice. That’s the only thing I want to see done. Not because he’s my son, mind you, but because it is the lawful, and honorable thing do do.”

I sat and sipped the coffee I couldn’t taste as I tried to make sense of the old man across the table from me. “What if the murderer comes after you, if they find out they killed the wrong person?”

“I’m sure they already now. The look of surprise on Randolf Blakeslee’s face told the tale. The next step will be for us to get Blakeslee to admit to the crime. In order to do that we will need the help of Inspector Lestrade.” My mind took a moment to translate Inspector Lestrade to Sargeant Lewis.

“Why?”

“An admission of guilt to an officer of the law will more easily stand up in a court of law.”

“Oh. And how do you plan on getting this admission of guilt?”

“Not me, Watson. You.”

§ - THE PLAN -

I hadn’t planned, or wanted to be part of Niles’ plan, but it didn’t sound dangerous, and with the Sargeant present, I felt safe enough. I had reluctantly given in to Niles’ plea for my help. I didn’t want to see the old man injured or closer to a total collapse from exhaustion and exertion. I stood in front of Randolf Blakeslee’s front door. My hands were sweating and my heart was racing. I glanced to my right where Sargeant Lewis stood behind the cascade of a willow tree; close enough to hear but out of the way enough not to be seen from the front door. I took a deep breath and knocked.

The door swung open and Blakeslee peered down at me. “Well, what do you want?”, he barked. “I’m busy.”

I took a deep breath. “I–I just want to apologize for my friend’s behavior the other day.” I waited for a response, there was none. “He shouldn’t have bothered you and accused you.” I gulped. “Niles means well, but he’s not altogether here, if you know what I mean.” Blakeslee grunts an affirmative. “Anyway, I just wanted to apologize on his behalf.”

Blakeslee’s demeanor softens from anger and annoyance to just annoyance. “He’s an idiot. And crazy. He’s a crazy idiot. Your apology is accepted. But if he ever comes around looking for so-called clues again, I’ll call the cops on him.”

“I understand and will pass that on to him.”

I turn to leave but Blakeslee says, “And tell him to get rid of those stupid rocks. Those abominations belong in the 1960s with him. They bring the value of the entire neighborhood down. Property values are important, you know.”

I blink. “I’ll tell him.” I turn and take a few steps from the door, and spot the Sargeant still behind the tree. I turn back to Blakeslee. “Oh, and one more thing… Niles probably won’t bother you again. He told me he knows who the killer is and he has enough evidence to convict him.”

Blakeslee blinks. “Who was it–the murderer I mean?”

“I don’t know,” I lied, “he didn’t tell me.”

There is a pause. “Well whoever it is deserves what’s coming to him.”

I fish in my pocket. “Oh, one other thing.” I produce the button from Niles’ front yard. I hold it out to Blakeslee. “You didn’t happen to lose a button, did you?”

He peers at the round bit of plastic in my palm and flinches, but recovers quickly. “No, sorry. I don’t like buttons.” He points to the zipper on the sweatshirt he wears. “Where did you find it?”, he probes.

“Oh, Niles found it in his front yard.”

“And what makes you think it belongs to me–not that it does?”

I shrug. “Niles says its not his, and wanted me to ask you in case you were around the yard and lost it somehow.”

“No. I told you. It’s not mine. Now go away. I’m busy.” He prepares to slam the door. “And tell your friend Niles that I want him to stay away from me. It’s bad enough a crazy person like him lives in this neighborhood without having him accuse people fo murder.” The door slams.

“Well, that wasn’t very productive, was it?” Sargeant Lewis observes as he joins me on the sidewalk. “I told you he wouldn’t up and admit to a murder just because you show him a silly button.”

I nod. I–we didn’t expect he would. We just wanted you around in case he did something drastic like attack me–or confess.”

We walk down the street to the patrol car that is parked beyond the view of Blakeslee’s home “Well, my lunch break is over. Tell Niles he should go through proper channels the next time he needs our help.” Lewis takes a few steps toward the car. “Oh, one more thing… are you married?”

“Nope.”

Lewis grins, then hops into his patrol car.

§ - THE TRAP -

A few minutes later I’m back at Nile’s kitchen table. Niles is mulling the events I had just recounted to him. I ask, “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“Of course. Why would I waste my time following the clues to their logical conclusion otherwise?”

“You’ll be in danger.” Without saying a word, Niles gets up and walks over to a cabinet. He pulls a drawer open and removes a small caliber pistol. “I didn’t know you had a gun!” I exclaim in surprise.

“I don’t like using it. It’s only for self-defense.”

“Have you ever used it?”

“No. And I hope I never have to. But better safe than sorry, as the saying goes.”

I feel uneasy and \_\_\_\_ “Why don’t you let the police handle it? Why do you need to get involved?”

“Because I am. Because my son was murdered.” His expression is serious and determined, more than I’d ever seen. He sees the concern on my face and the expression softens. “Don’t worry, Watson. I’ll be fine.” He pauses. “But if anything should happen to me, know that you are my dearest and most trusted friend.”

I watch as he turns to head upstairs to his bedroom. “Are you sure you don’t want me to stay here–just in case?”

“No. I’ll be fine. Don’t worry. You know your way out. Make sure you leave the door unlocked when you leave.”

I grimace. I hated the plan. It was crazy to think this old man could actually pull off this more crazy plan. I glanced at my watch. It was almost 8 P. M. Niles pulls his way up the steps to the second walker he kept by the steps. I sit and wait until I hear him enter the bedroom, then leave his home. He may not want me to help, but that doesn’t mean I can’t or won’t. I leave the front door unlocked–he’d never forgive me if I disappointed him. I then make a call to Sargeant Lewis.

§ - THE CONFRONTATION -

Two hours later, I’m back at Niles house. The front door stands open. My body tightens as my nerves fire on all cylinders and my heart and breathing begins to race. I rush into the house, Sargeant Lewis close on my heels. He tries to restrain me, but I push him out of the way and run into the dark home. I flip the light switch expecting to see Niles body lying in a pool of blood, but the kitchen and small living area are neat and I disturbed. The Sargeant enters after me, with his pistol drawn. He sees everything is in order, but doesn’t relax. I bound to the stairs, but Lewis blocks my way.

“Hold it. If there’s someone in the house that isn’t supposed to be here, you don’t want to be running into them. I’ll go up first.” he whispers. “I’ll let you know if it’s safe to come up.”

“No. I want to go up. He’s my friend. Besides, what if whoever broke in is still here?” I indicate the first floor with a sweep of my hand.

“Ok, but stay behind me–several paces. And if I tell you to run, you run. Got it?”

I nod. We walk up the steps, slower than I would want to, with me several steps behind the Sargeant. He pauses at the top of the staircase and scans the area. He moves toward Niles room. I follow. He motions me to the side of the bedroom door. I’d seen enough TV cop shows to know what to expect. He positions himself on the opposite side of the door from me. He crouches, and tries the doorknob. He pushes the door open. There is darkness inside, and no sound or motion. Sargeant Lewis moves through the doorway in a crouch, his pistol sweeping the room. I see him reach for the light switch while still maintaining his focus on the room. The light comes on and I watch as the officer quickly sweeps the room then stands slowly. “Stay there,” he commands in a horse whisper. He disappears from sight for what seems like several minutes. He reappears. “He’s hurt,” he says in his normal volume. “Call 911.” I run into the room and spot Niles splayed out on the floor. I gasp. There’s a pool of blood that seeps into the carpet around him. “I told you to call 911.”

My eyes are frozen on Niles’ body. I fumble and pull my cell phone out of my pocket. Somehow, I manage to dial emergency services. I join the officer next to Niles’.

“Is he dead?”

“No. He’s alive, but his pulse is weak.” The Sargeant removes his hand from Niles’ neck. “Don’t touch anything in the room. We’ll want to check for evidence.”

“He was shot, wasn’t he? He had a gun.”

The Sargeant looks at me. “Yes, that’s a small caliber bullet hole in his chest. Do you know the type?”

“Yes. It was a small caliber.” The sound of the ambulance arriving draws our attention. A few moments later the EMTs have rolled the unconscious Niles away on a gurney. I want to go with them, but know I can’t do anything to help find the assailant if I do. I return to Niles bedroom where I find Sargeant Lewis searching under the bed.

“What are you looking for?” I ask.

His head pops up. “The gun. It has to be here somewhere. Also, for any other clues.” He gets up off the floor and feels under the large wooden beaurau that stands against one of the walls. “Hello, what this?” He pulls a small object from under the beuarau. I stare at the small cloth mouse.

“It looks like a toy.”

“A cat toy to be precise.” Lewis turns to me. “Does he have a cat?”

I shake my head confused, “No. I don’t think he ever had. He considered cats too informal. Now why would he have a cat toy?”

The Sargeant shakes his head. “Don’t know. But I’m sure it’s a clue. Maybe the assailant dropped it in the struggle.

§ - THE FIGHT -

Niles was startled awake to find the assailant standing over him in his bed, with a pillow between his hands. Niles groped for the gun under his pillow and managed to pull it forward just as the pillow slammed into his face. The shock of the impact forced the gun out of his hand before he could fire a shot. The pressure of the pillow on his mouth and nose increased. Niles fought to breathe as the panic slammed into him the way the pillow had. His hands flew to the pillow instinctively. He fought to pry it from his face as his assailant cursed and yelled. The pillow remained firmly seated on his face despite his best efforts. He brought his knees up but the quilted blanket under which he slept made any impact minimal. He continued to thrash with his legs and knees hoping for a lucky blow. His breath continued to escape. Fresh oxygen was harder to come by. Frantic to breathe, Niles rolled over onto his side. Precious oxygen flowed into him as the pillow was unable to create a complete seal with his face. He gasped. The air revived his mind and energy. He released his hold on the pillow and groped for his assailant’s face. He scratched at the man who cursed then screamed in pain as Niles’ fingernails dug into the man’s neck. Niles dug deeper and the pressure on his body disappeared as the man rolled off of him. The pillow came off of his face. Niles shifted his hold on the man’s neck to his body and pushed him away with all his might. In the darkness, the man toppled off of the bed onto the floor.

Niles groped around on the bed for the pistol, but came up empty. His assailant recovered enough to yell, “I’m going to kill you Jewell. This time, I’m going to get it right. I’m tired of your superior and condescending attitude toward me and everyone in the neighborhood. I’m through with your stupid white rocks and you. Once I kill you we can all go back to our normal lives.” Niles yelped in surprise and fear as the pillow hit Niles in the face, but this time it bounced off it and fell to the bed. It took a moment to realize that he’d not been injured. Niles scrambled for the light switch. His hand toggled the nightstand lamp on. His eyes burned by the sudden brightness, but he scanned the bed for the gun. It wasn’t there. It must have fallen to the floor.

Niles scrambled out of the bed as quickly as his body and age allowed him. His walker stood on the opposite side, where Randolf Blakeslee stood, gun in hand. Niles’ panic turned to terror as he stared at his own weapon pointed at him. The small dark opening of the barrel appeared much larger than he remembered it.

“Hold it right there,” Blakeslee commanded. Niles freezes. His breath is shallow. His heart hammers against his chest. His eyes are held by the wavering gun in his neighbor’s hand. “You’ve caused me and this neighborhood enough grief.”

“Wha–what did I do ever do to you?” Niles voice cracks under the strain.

“You exist. Your going around in a bathrobe all day–even when outside. You’re not a two year old, you know. You keep going on about you being ‘The Great Sherlock Holmes’.” Blakeslee spits the title like a cobra spits venom. (? ) “You’re just an old stupid man with delusions. You should have been institutionalized a long time ago.” Blakeslee sweeps the gun across the room. “Look at this. Tell me who has a shag rug in their bedroom in 2018? Your stupid white rocks. I hate them–no I loathe them. Lined up along the perimeter like a platoon of soldiers. No one does that now. It wasn’t even cool back in the 60s. That’s your problem. You live in the past. You don’t even have internet, I hear.”

“I–I don’t need it.”

Blakeslee looks at him as if he were a creature from another planet. “Everyone needs the internet. Everyone has the internet.”

Niles’ response is as firm as his jaw. “I don’t.” He pauses to take a deep breath. “Now give me the gun, Randolf. You do’t want to do anything stupid. You’re in enough trouble murdering my son.”

“Your son? So that’s who that was. I thought it was you.” Blakeslee stands musing a moment. “Well, I don’t see adding a second murder would do more harm than one. I’ll be rid of you and your antiquated ways once and for all.”

Niles’ eyes fix on the gun barrel as Blakeslee raises it to point at Niles’ head. There is a maniacal triumphant grin on his neighbor’s face. Blakeslee squeezes the trigger. Niles stares, and gives one last silent prayer.

A click.

Niles reacts faster than he had been able to in the past thirty years. He throws himself across the twin bed at the gun. He slams into Blakeslee’s arm forcing it and the gun it still held away from him. Niles’ breath is forced out of his body as he hits the edge of the bed with his stomach. Blakeslee falls back against the wall. Pain racks Niles as he struggles to reach for the gun hand that now helps Blakeslee get his footing. Before he can, Niles fights the pain and lack of breath to scramble off the bed and lunge at his neighbor. The impact throws both of them against the wall. Niles grabs hold of the gun hand. The adrenaline surging through his body allow him to force the hand away from him despite the neighbors younger age and greater size. Niles’ vision blurs and turns red as he fights to keep from getting shot. Blakeslee roars and flings Niles away from him and onto the floor by the bed. Niles hits the rug with his back and groans in pain. He lies there, panting, his eyes wide and fixed on the gun that levels at him once more. Blakeslee’s breathing is fast, his teeth are set in skeletal grin. His eyes are slits of hate.

“Enough. You don’t know when you’re beaten. Well, let me tell you, you are beaten. I’ll kill you and they’ll think you killed yourself, or maybe a burglar broke in. Farewell Niles.”

A loud retort and something slams into Niles chest. He looks down and sees the red stain growing on his favorite robe.

§ - THE GOODBYE -

“So that’s what happened.” I explained to Sargeant Lewis. “Niles managed to tell me everything before he passed out again.” We were sitting in the ICU of the hospital. Niles lay unconscious in the white bed. Tubes and electrical leads were hooked to him. They chirped and beeped in time with his heart and breathing. I knew that as long as they did, he was alive.

Lewis indicates Niles with a tilt of his head. “What do the docs say? Is he going to make it?”

“Well the bullet is out, but it severed an artery (which one). For such a small bullet, it did a lot of damage. They say it depends on Niles. They’ve patched him up the best they can.” I pause. “I hope he makes it.”

Lewis takes a step toward the door. “I’ll check back later to see how you two are doing. I have to get back to work.” I return the smile. Mine is weak.

I take a seat on the chair next to Niles’ bed. His eyes are closed, his breathing labored despite the ventilator that assists him. The rhythm is normal, but I can tell he’s struggling. His skin is sallow. My eyes fill with tears. My heart feels like a cement truck has driven over it. I watch him lie there. We’d been friends from the first day I’d moved into the neighborhood. He’d come over and introduced himself. That was ten years ago. We were both much younger. The sounds in the room drowned out those in the rest of the ICU outside. I had been in enough of them now but I found it unsettling seeing a friend in one. We’d been told to disassociate from our patients, and it’s something I’d been able to do–until now.

A movement of a finger drew my attention. A moment later, his eyes fluttered open to a slit. He was conscious. His eyes darted from side to side as he made sense of where he was. They settled on me. I got up and put a hand on his.

“How are you?” I manage through my tears. He looks up at me with his blue eyes. There is a twinkle in them, but he’s too weak to move and the intubation makes it impossible for him to speak. “Don’t worry you’ll be ok.” He blinks an acknowledgment. “The police have gone over your house. They weren’t able to find the gun. Do you know where it is?” His eyes shift from side to side. I take that as a no. “How about a cat toy, do you know anything about it? We found one under your bureau.” His eyes open a smidge wider, then his eyes shift left and right. He tries to tilt his head but closes his eyes instead. “Don’t worry. It’s not important.” His eyes open. There is an intensity in the way he looks at me \[need to foreshadow this as meaning he has a clue or deduction. ]. “Yes, we know it’s a clue. We think the attacker dropped it, and probably took the gun.” His eyes scan up and down, a yes. I wasn’t sure he’d be able to answer, but I had to ask. “Do you know who it was?” Another scan up and down. “Was it Blakeslee?” Another scan. He tried to speak, but the tube made him struggle instead.

Startled, I put a hand on his shoulder. “Niles, don’t worry we’ll get him. Rest. Stop trying to speak.” Niles hand goes to mine. The O2 pump starts to gurgle. I run out of the room, yelling for help as I go. Two nurses and the doctor on call rush in the room. I try to go back in but one of them bars me and tells me to stay out of the way. I stand and watch helpless as the heart monitor breaks rhythm and takes on the monotone of flatline. The doctor yells for the paddles and a few moments later applies a convulsive shock to Niles’ chest. The tone continues. Another jolt. I watch in horror as Niles body rises then falls with the electricity. A nurse hands the doctor a syringe. He injects the IV line feeding Nile’s hand. There is still no sign of a heartbeat. My own is trying to burst out of my body and to fly to help Niles. Another application of the paddles produces no change. The doctor drops the paddles on the \[machine here] and stands looking down at Niles a long moment as the heart rate monitor wails its steady tone. He glances over at me. His face is dour.

I rush into the room and fling my arms around Niles. He is silent, unmoving, cold. The doctor places a hand on my shoulder. I ignore him as I cry a river on Niles’ chest. There is no heartbeat. “There was nothing else we could do. The bullet did a lot of damage to the artery.” He pulls his hand away as I look at him through tears and red eyes. “I–I’ll leave you along with him for a while. Take your time.” He turns and motions the nurses out of the room.

I don’t know how long I cried like that. I don’t know what I was feeling apart from a deep and lonely emptiness. Finally, when I had cried myself out, I sat on the lone chair and talked to him, even though I know he can’t hear me. “I’m sorry, Niles. I wish I hadn’t let you act like bait the way you did. But, you’re such a stubborn man. If I had stayed in the house, maybe I could have prevented this.” I sob through hiccoughs. “I promise I’ll get Blakeslee to pay for what he did. It’s two murders now. I promise your death won’t go unavenged.” I sigh as I stare at Niles who looks like he is sleeping. For an instant I imagine he’ll wake up and start telling me about his latest observations. I swallow. I know he won’t be waking. “You’re my best friend. I’m going to miss you, Sherlock.”

§ - END -

Sargeant Lewis and I stand in front of Randolf Blakeslee’s home. I pound on the door. “I wish you had let me handle this,” Lewis says.

“I need to see this through. I promised him, I would.”

Lewis nods. “I understand. Just don’t do anything stupid.”

Before I can respond, the door swings open. Blakeslee squints at us in the bright morning sun. “Well? What do you want?”

“Randolf Blakeslee, I have a search warrant.” Lewis produces the paper in question. “Please stand aside.” Lewis an the two officers he brought with him move past Blakeslee who stands with his mouth agape. I give Blakeslee a cold stare as I walk past him and into his home. The interior is small, smaller than Niles’ house. And, unlike my friend’s, this one is cluttered and disorganized. The living room is filled with \_\_\_. Blakeslee is a hoarder. The officers systematically go through the room shifting piles of \_\_ as they search. After several minutes of searching, Sargeant Lewis confronts Blakeslee who has been silently watching, his eyes darting from officer to officer as they go about their search. “You could save us all a lot of time and effort. Where is it?”

“Where is what?” Blakeslee replies staring as one of the officers goes toward a closed door.

“The gun you used to kill Niles Jewell and his son.”

Suddenly, Blakeslee lunges toward the officer who has his hand on the doorknob. “Stop! Don’t open that!”

Lewis’ eyebrows shoot up as he grabs Blakeslee by the shoulder. “Ah, so that’s where it is.” He nods to the officer who had stopped at Blakeslee’s yell. He turns the knob and pulls the door open.

The policeman’s face goes through a rapid spectrum of emotions. First, there is boredom, then surprise. This is quickly followed by confusion, disgust, then horror. His face turns green and he begins to retch. I stand next to Lewis and Blakeslee and wonder what could be so bad when it hits me.

The stench slams into me with the force of a brick wall propelled by a cement truck. I stagger back as I try to keep my stomach from trying to escape my body by way of my mouth. I rush out the front door and am quickly followed by Blakeslee and the officers. We all bend double and either vomit on the lawn or try to gather our breath and wits.

“What–what is that smell?” Lewis finally manages to blurt between gasps of fresh air.

“I told you not to open that door.” Blakeslee appears to be in distress, but not as much as the rest of us.

“It–it–“, the officer who had opened the door stammers. “It’s a giant cat litter box. The entire floor is covered in sand and cat fecal matter. Even though the window was open a crack. I guess that’s for letting the cats in and out.” He promptly retches again. This time, I join him.

§ - CONCLUSION -

A day later an abatement team showed up in protective gear to clear out the small room that had been converted into the world’s largest litter box. The officers went back in and an hour later came out with a baggie whose contents I could not make out. Sargeant Lewis walks over to me. “We got him. We found the gun in a drawer by the bed.” He shakes his head. “How stupid can you be, not getting rid of it, or even hiding it?” Randolf Blakeslee who stood outside by the front door, seeing the gun in the baggie makes a dash past me in an attempt to escape before the police arrest him. I dive at the man. We crash to the grass. I hear his breath rush out of him as he hits. He recovers before I do. His eyes are wide, and he has the look of a trapped animal. He tries to hurdle over me but I instinctively fling a hand up to protect myself. My hand closes on his ankle and he loses his balance and topples to the ground.

Lewis recovers from his surprise and grabs by an arm that he bends behind Blakeslee’s back. With a practiced motion, he cuffs one hand and then the other as Blakeslee struggles to free himself.

§ - END -

A week later Niles was buried. It was either providence or coincidence, that Blakeslee was sentenced that same afternoon. I attended both events. Sherlock had trapped the murderer at the cost of his own life. To me, Niles would always be Sherlock Holmes, and I, his Watson.

I’m going to do something I haven’t done before. I’m going to share a first draft. I’ve finished the short story that I threw together mostly to test and verify the sprint tracking code in my app. That works great. But that’s not the point of this post.

I’m posting the first draft of “The Game Is Afoot” because I want to show you that first drafts, as the saying goes, are crap. They have spelling and grammar mistakes, they barely hold together as a story, and have plot holes large enough through which you could pilot a Star Destroyer. If you’re new to writing, you may find this enlightening. First drafts are never perfect, and first drafts rarely see the light of day. What a reader sees is the result of the hard work of rewriting and editing. Each succeeding draft will approach something that is presentable, but yet, not perfect.

Why not strive for perfection during the first draft instead of wasting time and effort on multiple drafts? The simple answer is that most writers don’t know what the story is during the first draft. Oh, they may have an idea, or perhaps a multi page outline, but once you start writing you can’t predict where the characters and story will go. A map is not the trip or its destination.

The purpose of a first draft is to get the story on paper and to be crap.

Reread the last line until you understand it, absorb it, and accept it.

Get the story out as quickly as you can, so you don’t lose it. That’s the point. I’ve known this for years. So what did I learn that is new doing sprints for the first time?

- I need to have a story idea.

- I need to have an ending in mind. If I don’t know where I’m going I don’t know where I am.

- I need an antagonist. This is what drives the conflict.

- I need to have an idea of the main scenes (the overall arc). If I don’t, I spend time thinking and not writing

- I need to get the story out as quickly as possible. I find writing sprints let me do that.

- It will be crap.

I spent more time thinking about what I was going to write during my sprints than actually writing. I’m a pantser for the most part and sprints are a new way of working and thinking for me. I like that sprints force me to do more up-front planning and thinking. They let me focus on writing which allows me to produce more words than pure “pantsing”.

I’ve begun using my app to do writing sprints. I’m not only doing writing sprints for the first time in my life, but I am also giving my logic a real-world test. The good news is I’m writing again and am enjoying writing sprints even though I hate writing to a deadline.

In the beginning, I thought a sprint was just a mini-deadline. It isn’t. It’s a way to reduce or eliminate distractions in a small chunk of time. Managing distractions while you write allows you to focus, but I need distractions to come up with ideas and to be creative. I’m finding a sprint gives me a distraction-free amount of time and this is followed by a distraction-filled time in which to think and create. I find it is a nice way to manage my writing time.

I started small with five-minute sprints and only a couple a day. I’ve gradually increased the duration of my sprints to 15 minutes, and today I’ll go to the maximum of 20 minutes. Anything longer than 20 minutes isn’t a sprint, it’s a marathon. The first couple of sprints were difficult because I discovered I was spending a lot of time thinking about the plot and what I would write instead of writing. This told me I didn’t have my story thought out in enough detail to allow me to just write it. I spent some time working out the main plot points and since then the writing has come more freely, and my words per hour has steadily gone up.  I’m only doing one or two sprints per day. I’ve been taking it slow to get into the habit of using them and to review issues with the code logic in my app. I’m seeing my motivation to write going up (despite what else is going on in the world) so I will do more sprints per day, but I’ll keep the number fairly low so as not to burn out. Writing using sprints takes more energy than just sitting down to write since it is a more focused activity. At this point I’m over 1800 words per hour. Here is a graph of my WPH per sprint.

I haven’t done much writing this year. There, I’ve admitted it. With the virus, voluntary self-isolation, and all the unrest it has been difficult for me to focus and to be creative. I’ve planned, I’ve edited, I’ve done free-writing, but I have not been able to motivate myself to do any real work on my works-in-progress. Yes, I said works.

I have been reading a series of short books by Chris Fox (http: //chrisfoxwrites. com). One, 5,000 Words An Hour recommends continuous word sprints as a means to increase your word count. I’m familiar with word sprints, but I’ve never done or participated in one. I hate deadlines. But, given the lack of wordage, I decided to give sprints a try.

There was a problem. The app, which Chris Fox created, to track sprints wasn’t available and he, in one of his videos, dissuades you from using it. What to do? I like apps. I have my own writing app. I decided to build sprint tracking into my own app. Great idea! There was another problem. I tend to write longhand (with a fountain pen) and then transcribe my writing into my app. How do I track typing sprints and handwritten sprints? I decided to also add a way to track “external” (to my app) sprints. I’ve spent the last week or so getting the functionality, uh, functional.

Now, I can start doing my own sprints and see if I can get close to Chris’  5K words an hour or 834 words a minute. My top typing speed is about 60 words per minute, so my personal maximum is 3.6K per hour. [Note: Chris suggests using dictation, a speech to text app, to hit the goal. I hate writing that way. ] Also, 3.6K per hour isn’t sustainable. I’ll be happy with 3K per hour.

If you’re interested here are some screenshots of my app’s sprint tracking:

- Starting a sprint.

- Sprint complete.

- Sprint review.

- Logging an external sprint.

For years I’ve wanted to write a Sherlock Holmes story. I’ve always believed I’m not good/clever enough to write a Sherlock Holmes story. I’ve decided to write one.

It all started with a #throwawayline tweet I posted a few weeks ago: “Sherlock Holmes and The Case of the Burning Broomsticks”. It was just a title and I threw it out because I liked the sound of it and because it was a play on Harry Potter titles. I thought no more of it for several weeks.

However, I kept being nagged by a desire to write a Holmesian story. The more I thought about it, the more I liked the title. Self-doubt kept me from proceeding until yesterday. I decided I may not do a proper job, but I wanted to try. I’ve committed to write the story.

This morning, I woke up at 3 A.M. As I lay in bed trying to fall back asleep my mind pummeled me with plot, character, and dialogue ideas. Several hours later, I got out of bed and decided to share my thought and writing process for this project.

First things first, I needed to capture my morning brainstorm before I lost the ideas. I pulled out a new notebook. I keep each project in one or more notebooks dedicated to the project. Yes, I write everything longhand (using a fountain pen) and then transcribe what I’ve written into my app. Writing my hand, for me, is relaxing, helps me focus on my writing, and has a rhythm to it. Typing is faster, but that is the problem. Typing introduces errors, and is more fragmented. The slower pace of handwriting allows me to form more coherent sentences.

So here are the key notes I made this morning. I’ve left out various minor bits, and diversions in thought.

Sherlock Holmes and The Case of the Burning Broomsticks

Sherlock Holmes Tropes

- Holmes - detached, habits, smart, addict, smug, analytical, violin, disguises, logical, untidy, chases, final confrontation, reveal. 221 E Baker St.

- Watson - doctor/surgeon, helpful, bumbling on occasion, foil, 1st person narrator, mustache, strong, astute, honorable

- Inspector Lestrade - Scotland Yard, abrasive to Holmes, good policeman, working-class, dresses well, well-spoken, tenacious.

- Mrs. Hudson - Holmes’ housekeeper, good cook, puts up with Holmes’ strange behavior and experiments.

- Mycroft Holmes - SH brother. Stays at his club. More brilliant than SH. Sedentary, problem-solver, works for British Government, massive build.

- Professor James Moriarty - SH antagonist, genius, Machiavellian, evil.

- Baker Street Irregulars - group of “urchins” who run errands for SH

Other Characters:

- Murder victim.

- Antagonist: Moriarty?

- Three witches

Random Idea:s “The Case of the Burning Broomsticks”

- SH vs. witches.

- British witches. -> Macbeth -> Shakespearean -> 3 witches

- What if SH had to solve Arthur Conan Doyle’s [ACD] murder?

- What if someone is killed by the witches by being impaled by a broom?

- How? Flying broom–in flames.

- How would a broom fly?

- - Rocket engine?

- - Ballista? (Large crossbow)?

- SH needs a nemesis greater than Moriarty.

- Who? Witches?

- Electricity!

- - Brooms propelled by electricity/magnetism.

- - Projectiles have to be metal and only look like brooms. No burning?

- Who in that timeframe would be intelligent enough and devious enough to come up with magnetically propelled projectiles and be devious, evil, and smarter than SH?

- THIS IS WHERE MY IDEAS WENT OFF THE RAILS! In a good way. [I won’t spoil it here].

- A body is found impaled by a metal broomstick.

- The body is that of a visiting cowboy.

- Lestrade finds a knife and lock pick on the body and believes the man is a thief.

- Lestrade also finds bits of metal on the body.

- SH pieces the bits of metal together and discovers/reveals that the victim is actually Arthur Conan Doyle.

The world is in turmoil. Our lives are in turmoil.

Many of us are in self-isolation. We now have a lot more free time. We can use that time to whip that short story into shape, or to work on that novel you had planned but not started. You have more time to write. You sit down–and nothing.  

That’s what happened to me. I sat down to write–and nothing. I’ve worked from home before. What was going on? Then it hit me. I do most of my writing in public places. I feed off the energy and get character and story ideas. That is all gone now. Also, unpleasant news is bombarding us daily.   Plus, all the normal distractions at home make writing more difficult.

You don’t have writer’s block.   You have life block.

What to do? If you’re like me and like to write in public, create an environment at home that mimics what you are used to. Turn on the TV,  radio, listen to music, sounds, voices, just don’t listen to the news full-time. If you write while eating, keep a reign on both or you’ll end up eating full time to write. Set the right level of turmoil.

If too much turmoil causes you to have problems writing, reduce the turmoil. Tell your kids and significant other you are at work and shouldn’t disturb you. This probably won’t help much, but you’ve set expectations and you can work to enforce them. Find a quiet, and more isolated, spot in your house from which to work. Close the door, if there is one. Turn off the phone. Turn off the news.

If you need energy to write, increase it. If you need peace to write, increase it.

That’s often easier said than done. It may be better, and healthier, if you stop trying, if you can’t break through the block. Spend time with your family. You have the time you said you didn’t have. And you are all together. Quality time with those you love is worth more than your writing.  

Also, don’t let yourself be bombarded by all the news. Just because we have 24x7 news stations, doesn’t mean you have to listen to them all day. You need to limit stressors, like news, arguments, etc. The world may seem to be falling apart–it isn’t. It will survive. You will survive. Just don’t do stupid things.

Just like a writer’s block will pass. A life block will pass.

It’s Day 17. I’m over 31K words. I’m taking the day off because I deserve it. I finished my story, not that I have finished (won) NaNoWriMo. The core story is done, as is the first draft, but I have many plot holes and issues I need to deal with.

What’s a plot hole? A “plot hole” is information that the reader needs that is missing from the plot, a hole in the plot. But you already knew that. The more interesting question is, why do plot holes exist and where do they come from?  Here are my thoughts:

Plot holes come into being when you write a story:

1. that you have not thought or researched through enough. This amounts to your planning or thought processes itself having holes. 

2. and it veers away from your original story and you end up with information that you never explained in your original text.

3. and during editing, you remove passages your story requires.

In my case I finished my story, but it’s not the story I set out to write. My plot holes result from the second item on my list.  Since I’m only at 31K words, I can go back and fill the plot holes while increasing the word count. Filling plot holes, is not the same thing as padding the word count. I have a lot of plot holes.

My story uses two alternating points of view that shift between my protagonist and my antagonist. That was my original idea, but I discovered something near the end of my story. As the story began the passages between POV shifts were long. As the story progressed, the shifts became shorter and shorter until at the end the shifts were a single sentence each.  The shorter they became the more frequently the POV shifted. As a result, the pacing of the story and tension level in the reader rises. I didn’t plan it this way. Boy, was I surprised when I looked back and saw what I had done! 

I’m not sure I could plan to write a novel this way (well I could plan, but I’m not sure I could execute it). Also, I wouldn’t use this technique unless the story requires rising tension throughout. It works in my story because it is a mix of horror and thriller. Ever-shortening POV shifts wouldn’t work in a cozy mystery or romance novel, for example.

I’m taking the day off from working on the novel. The end of the story was difficult to write, both intellectually and emotionally. The story is done, now I have to go back and fill in the holes.

#nanowrimo site is still borked. I have a streak of 10 for 10.

The old site was reliable and easier to navigate.

It’s day 11 of NaNoWriMo and I’ve cracked the 23K mark. The 11th day, the second week, is when many people get discouraged, and fade. How do you stay motivated? Here are my suggestions.

• Find a place and time and write consistently.  Nope. Nope. I say again, nope!  This is not motivation. This is how you build a habit. Writing at the same time and place leads to boredom. If you’re bored, you won’t do your best work. Write when and where you can. Write on the bus. Write at work (during lunch or breaks). Write at the restaurant. Write in bed. This will not only have you writing, but it will give you a new habit that is better than “same time, same place”. It will teach you to write anywhere and with distractions around you.  Why do you think coffee shops (Starbuck’s) is a trope hangout for writers? It has people. It has distractions. Humans are social animals. We need company. We are more effective when there are others around us. We need stimulus to help us focus (rather than fall asleep from boredom). You will also get character and dialog ideas by observing those around you.

The one caveat I have is don’t confuse stimulus with distractions. Kids or your significant other vying for your attention is a distraction. They will all ways have a higher priority than your writing (or should). You need to find an area in which to write that has no priority other than writing. 

• Write what you know. Nope. Nope. I say again, nope! Every aspiring writer is told this. This is safe. This is comfortable writing. It is not motivation. Besides, have you ever heard of an author who flew to another planet, fought orcs, murdered his wife, much less seen a real murder, or zombie? To be motivated, you need to write what you want to write, not what you know. Most our own lives are too boring to write about. You learn by doing research, and by writing what you don’t know. That’s how you become a good writer, not a boring writer. Even if what you write is bad, you will have grown because you have gone outside your own existential box. Write what you think is fun to write about. That is motivating.

• Find people that support your writing. Yep. Yep. I say again, yep! Family, is a good place to start. But, family (usually) don’t want to hurt your feelings, so they will all ways tell you how good of a writer you are. This may be good for your ego, but it’s not motivation. Find family, friends, and even strangers that tell you you should keep writing and to push you to write, whether or not they have read your stuff. Join online groups and social media. Interact with other writers (most of them don’t bite) and reach out for help or suggestions (just don’t ask them to read your work, unless they get paid to do so–most writers are too busy writing their own stories). Attend conventions and conferences, join a writing group at your library (you know what a library is, don’t you?)  The more people in your circle, the more you will be supported.

• Make writing fun. Reward yourself. Set achievable goals. That doesn’t mean aim for a 50K novel in November. It means write 250 words eight times a day, less if you can’t manage 250. The goal is to write, not to meet a deadline. Deadlines are for businesses. NaNoWriMo is not about the deadline. It is about building a habit of writing and to write. Set rewards commensurate with your goals. The larger the goal, the larger the reward. Do not take a day off if you’ve only written 250 words. If you write 5000 words in a day, well you can afford to take a day off if you are still on target and schedule. There are apps and websites that turn writing into a game.  If you are a masochist, there are apps and websites that make NOT writing torture. Pick your poison. Encourage yourself.

Don’t worry about the quality of your writing. The point is to tell your story. Quality is about making it perfect. That takes work. Work is not fun (for most of us). It’s a chore. Tell your story. Once you finish telling your story go back and work to make it better. The first draft (the goal of NaNoWriMo) is meant to be shit!  Have fun first. Work later.

The point of motivation is to keep you writing. As long as you keep writing, no matter how you do it, the writing will become a habit you will enjoy.