Writing
Explanation of my writing method, and more story progression
All my writing us off the cuff outline building described as new story chapters. The point of writing these is to have fun with the plot, not to release a finished product. Once the plot is finished, then I fully rewrite the story. The purpose of the rewrite is to turn the plot into quality art, fully capturing the experience of the character for the reader to enjoy.
Here is where we are at so far, the main character John comes in to town on business, hunting an unknown man responsible for multiple brutal murders in the big city. Upon arrival, he notices a few weird things, the stage clerk, messaging men in town of his arrival immediately, in particular a man named Dutch. Most of the honest townfolk become almost hostile when he mentions the name of this Dutch fellow.
Halliday genuinely doesn’t know whether they are protecting him because he is their friend, or because they are afraid of him.
Chapter 3 begins when Halliday is making preparations to head out of town, where he can possibly get more answers. This is an outline essentially, I try to keep one scene per chapter, and while going through the art of capturing the experience, chapters will become progressively longer. This one happens to be about a secondary detail that will help in the case in the future.
Strikethrough for stuff that’s just bad, and italics for things that need changed.
John strolled down the frosty boardwalk, the ever-growing crystals crunching under his leather boots. He thought back to the Vanderbilt file, dug up from an acquaintance back in the meltland. A clean record, for the most part: no business ownership of any sort, no fingerprints, no felonies. Only a single police report, out of the Boston Settlement back east, with nothing of significance—just a minor vehicle wreck. He noted the model of sled: a 3062 Qualinus, brand new at the time, a hefty chunk of change to lose, even if it was his fault.
No account of Vanderbilt to go on; he got the feeling these townspeople weren’t going to offer much about their secret goings-on. But there were other ways to get this kind of information, mainly in the mining settlements out of town. The miners out this deep were a bunch of ice-rats, diving in the slush, pulling up whatever junk they could find. Intimidation from a town hundreds of miles away wasn’t going to do much for them. John considered his options: he could keep asking in town to figure out what he could; he could take that clerk outside and reconfigure his face until he got some answers; or maybe he could take a pint of tequila out to the mining settlements, let the long-awaited burn loosen their tongues.
He was beginning to draw more attention walking down the boardwalk. Glances from passersby lingered when he looked away, immediately turning to apparent blindness when he turned.
Walking past the Tailor’s, he noticed a shy face behind a veil of long dark hair looking across the store and through the glass over to where he was walking. A tailor, he thought. Now that’s something I might just pay another visit to when all this is over. My cloak is in need of repair after all. He made sure his gaze penetrated the frost and glass until she knew he was staring right back at her. She turned away quickly, ducking behind a line of sealskin. (why??)
Halliday chuckled and continued down the boardwalk toward the home side of the small town. A series of archways marked the entrance to each residence; he knew there would be caverns and bunk pods multiple stories deep inside each archway. Steamer chutes were visible through the ice, piping hot air up to the power plants near the surface. As a boy, Halliday had worked as a sweep inside the steam chutes, climbing inside and resealing leaks, checking the density of the outer material of the chute all the way up and down. The memory clung, still vivid in his imagination.
When a man works for long enough in a trade, he begins to notice the work of other men doing the same work: areas where the other man does something different, taking note of quality work and mistakes that may be present. John scanned the chutes now, smirking at the overuse of the bubbling putrid sealant used to cover the many leaks that compound over time. One chute, however, was devoid of sealant—very unlike the other homes. John walked closer. Either the chute was just installed, or whoever the occupant of the home was had used 8-mil stainless steel for his damn steam chute.
Upon closer inspection, the chute seemed to reflect the deep blue back out, indicating polished stainless, not the crinkled aluminum with the outer coating.
Looking around at the house, every other detail began to jump out, screaming hand craftsmanship, quality materials, intricate design. Someone had spent years on this dwelling, sparing no detail. The numbers in the address plaque on the door were lined in columns of two, each one a different type of metal: 294779—29, 47, 79, the atomic numbers of copper, silver, and gold. The two copper numbers had ionized over time, turning to a solid blue-green. Straightening, John took another long look, then started back for the restaurant, a certain feeling of respect for whoever put this masterpiece together.