One challenge in writing I feel few people discuss is working through the not-so-interesting parts of stories. The action, the drama, the sex, it’s all fine and fun to write! Let’s scaffold all the scenes and get to writing the good stuff! But what about everything else? The quiet moments, the mundane dialogue, all the working parts that give weight to the big moments; these are equally as important and often not as much fun to write.
There are lulls in stories, and in great stories, those lulls are vital pieces to the narrative. We read through them because we understand how much power they hold in making the exciting parts far greater than the exciting parts would be without them. But those lulls … they are far from easy to write, and to write well.
Here, Backstage, you get the unrefined, down and dirty drafts. You get to read the original stories as they’re being invented, and you get to see the unpolished moments in between the fun stuff. And if you follow the story all the way through to publishing, you get to see what refinement and polish can do to a piece of work.
But I digress. The main idea is that in these unrefined, rough draft versions, the lulls are on common ground with exciting parts, but they remain infinitely more challenging to write. Challenging to write, and challenging to get right. As you read through the original stories, keep in mind how these are naught but glances at stories that could be, and we are seeing the first iteration of their evolution. These lulls, then, may require a little more grace than usual.
However, it’s not grace for which I am writing this letter to you, dearest guest. Nay, it is simply to expound on a facet of development, and that is, after all, one of the purposes we have opened Backstage to you. However you choose to approach these stories, we welcome you wholeheartedly, and hope you enjoy the lulls as well as the exciting parts. For even though they are unrefined, we’re still putting work into them.
Let’s get into it →
Yes, lots of stories are on the backburner. But not all, as can be deduced from the regular installments of the stories below. And of these, House got a lot of love this week. One thing I’ve been doing lately is creating large collages for the different stories, or different aspects of a story, to help inspire and drive the vibe of the story. These collages will never see the light of day, as they are composed of random images from across the web and I have done zero dilligence to track the origin of those images. Still, they exist, and House got one this week. It’s a big step in the unfolding of the dreamscapes our dear Mr. Solomon Garcia will be traversing, getting lost in, and maybe even becoming consumed by. The only way to know Mr. Garcia’s fate will be to keep up with the story.
On the research front, the context library where stories in the public domain are catalogued and tracked for potential inclusion in the Backstage Pass is being completely reorganized. This is work that was begun at the beginning of the year, and continues due to the development of a support plugin. Upon completion of the plugin, the organizational system for context libraries in general will be ready, which should help push the development of stories such as Body Count, which rely on a good amount of research.
Learning of Ceres’ existence just outside of the Manor must have been a shock to both Edgar and Isabelle. How do they respond?
Our dear Solomon Garcia gets a little introspective in this week’s installment of House, much to his wife’s chagrin. They’re trying to have a nice lunch together, goddammit! It seems as though the mysterious stranger has got her hooks in our curious dreamwalker:
Do you want to see a magic trick? Real magic, you ask? No no, there’s no such thing as real magic. Just ask the Great Caprini who knows all the best magic tricks there are, and will be the first to tell you they are all tricks, and not magic at all, for—as previously stated—there is no real magic. Or is there?
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The gift of time is, for many, an incredible gift indeed. Unless, of course, it is not a gift at all and arrives with a cost in excess of what one may be willing to pay …A tale from the Odds ‘n’ Endings Boutique.
When last we spent time with the bus driver, they had arrived at the Trading Outpost, whole and with all passengers intact. That’s a success, isn’t it? You can catch up with Part XIX here. It seems the whole troupe might get a little rest before moving on. Or will they? Let’s find out →
"We keep things fast and loose around here," said Manuel as he escorted the bus driver and passengers into the saloon. "You'll notice everyone's carrying. If you've got 'em, I recommend keeping 'em on or near you, even when you sleep."
The conversation left the bus driver feeling disappointed; the trading outpost was not the safe haven he hoped for. Looking around, he realized there was a general temperament of wariness. Everyone was indeed packing, and they roamed the small boulevard in groups of four or five. An infected could sprout in the middle of the street and no less than three groups would take it down. The idea mildly consoled the bus driver, but it did not completely temper his fear. The memory of the monstrous infected chasing them through the Funnel haunted him.
It was a short walk from the bus to the front door. The building was all wood, a detail not lost on the bus driver. In denser areas, the first few floors of any populated building were reinforced with metal of any kind people could get their hands on and shape to the purpose. Wood didn't last long where wanderers and their ilk were concerned. He wondered how many times this building had been rebuilt.
“Awestruck by our beautiful wooden saloon, I see,” said Manuel. He was grinning ear to ear over the statement, though his demeanor shifted to a more sour expression as he continued. “Stone, steel … it don’t matter what we do to reinforce our buildings.” He pulled the door open and held it as the passengers filed in; the bus driver waited patiently beside him. “Y’all watch your step in the hallway,” he said to the first few passengers through the door before continuing. “Before our main defenses went up, all manner of The Evolved would come through, knock everything down, then run off. We learned pretty quick how to hide, and how to rebuild. If it wasn’t for the good Doctor here—” Manuel gave a nod and salute to the scientist as she passed, who returned the nod before entering, “—we’d still be living out of our bunkers.”
The bus driver struggled to understand why anyone would choose to remain under such circumstances. He said as much:
“Why stay if it was that bad?”
“Oh, habits and all that. We’re a stubborn people, those of us who came to call this place home after the epidemic hit.”
Manuel gestured to the bus driver to enter, once the final passenger has passed through the door. The bus driver walked in, followed by Manuel who let the door shut behind him. They entered into a corridor that ran the length of the building. In each wall were built short windows, with a doorway on each side at the very end. The floor was coated with some unknown substance and was uneven and difficult to walk over without paying close attention. One of the passengers ahead collapsed and was being helped up by two others. Everyone else slowed to wait for them, though they weren’t moving very fast to begin with.
“All of our buildings feature ‘The Maulway,’ as we so lovingly call it,” said Manuel. “Our big defenses keep the big bads away, but we get plenty of the normal-sized shamblers wandering in. Sometimes we get a rush of 'em." Manuel traversed the corridor without looking down; here was someone accustomed to moving through and around these spaces with frequency. "The solo ones, well we take those out pretty quickly before they get too far in. These Maulways come in handy with a rush though." He moved with a long, loping gait, eyes ever forward. "We lure them in here and pop 'em through these windows. The floor slows 'em down pretty well, and they often fall over, causing a nice little pile up. That's when we dowse 'em with the acid."
With his eyes ever on the floor before him, it dawned on the bus driver what this discolored substance was: dried infected viscera. Though it was dried out and not sticky, the idea he was stepping on what were once Wanderers made him shudder.
"Holy fuck," said the bus driver. He didn't realize he said it out loud.
Well, at least they’re not stepping on freshly fallen infected, right? That’s gotta be a good thing. Who knows? Maybe before the night’s over, they’ll be swimming in infected viscera. Or they’ll become infected themselves. There’s only one way to find out! Come back next week!
Isn’t this grand? The bus driver gets a little of reprieve from the drama they escaped from in the high desert, though we don’t how long this reprieve may last. The vampires as well get a little reprieve, though this is only temporary, as it does seem something dramatic lies on the horizon. And Mr. Solomon Garcia? Well, who can turn down a good meal with a loved one when trouble is scratching at your windows and your doors?
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Cordially,
Mad Alex
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