Editing ... still

Is it ever over?  Sixth editing pass on Leaving Wonderland.  I'd copied a small snippet for a game on Twitter in the #WritingCommunity and noticed a 'form' that was supposed to be a 'from'.  Then I noticed a passive voice on the same page.  I thought I covered all of this in the first five passes.

Apparently not.

Back to page one, finding small bits of passive voice, weak words that needed stronger ones, hinted at meanings that were so obscure that even I puzzled over them.  Tidying, cleaning, adding, subtracting.  At what point is a novel complete?

Damned if I know.

Aaron D McClelland
Penticton, BC

Author's Website

Nest of the Coquatrix ...

 

"I'm going to go now." Lawrence said, his voice suddenly weary and flat.

"Before you go, I'd like you to do one thing for me." Nigel said, taking a fresh pad of paper and a pen from his desk, "Are you right or left handed?"

"Right.  Why?" Lawrence said and Nigel saw the suspicion on his face.

"There's a technique called 'non-dominant handwriting'." he explained, knowing that he had to be candid to gain Lawrence's cooperation, "Your non-dominant hand is your left and I'd like you to write an answer to a question on the paper for me."

"Are you trying to make me look foolish?" Lawrence asked, staring at the pen and paper, "Getting me to scrawl a sentence like I'm a four year old so you can laugh at me?"

"Not at all." Nigel assured him, leaning back in his chair to relinquish all control or influence.  He needed Lawrence to do this willingly.

"This technique taps into our younger selves, which have direct access to our subconscious.  It can be revealing both to a therapist and a patient."

"What do you want me to write?"

"You've told me what Big Belly wanted you to do.  I want you to write down what you want to do."

Lawrence pondered.

"That's a big ask."

"I know it is.  But you have voiced a disdain for falsehood and secrets.  Doing this may open a door in our relationship that leads to understanding and validation."

Lawrence smiled.

"I'll make you a deal.  Give me an envelope and I'll write my answer and seal it in the envelope.  You can only read it after I'm gone."

"That sounds fair." Nigel said as he pulled an envelope from his desk drawer and handed it to Lawrence.

"And you won't laugh if it's messy?" Lawrence asked as he turned the pad toward himself and picked up the pen.

"I will never laugh at you, Lawrence.  I promise."

"What I want to do?"

"Yes."

"Don't watch me." Lawrence said.

Nigel swivelled his chair so he was facing the glass wall, still able to see Lawrence but not what he was writing.  He waited until Lawrence had finished, put down the pen and tore the sheet free of the pad, then folded it and placed it in the envelope.  He watched him carefully lick the flap and seal it, then place it on Nigel's desk.

"Okay." Lawrence said and Nigel turned back, seeing Lawrence's bemused smile.  He made no move to pick up the envelope.

"Next week?  Same bat channel. Same bat time?

"Thursday at seven-thirty."

"Groovy.  Later-skater." Lawrence said and left the office.

Nigel waited until he heard the elevator doors open and close then picked up the envelope and opened it, unfolding the page within.  What he saw drew the breath from his lungs.

In perfect cursive script Lawrence had written;

I want to kill her

Nest of the Coquatrix

Aaron D McClelland

Penticton, BC

GangsterStory

The T in LGBTQ+ ...

I wrote my first transgender love scene this week for 'Leaving Wonderland'.  It was steamy and sweet and saturated with emotion.  It wasn't gratuitous; it needed to be there to push the story forward, to bring two people together whose union was vital to the plot.

It was laced with hesitation and nervousness, a natural emotional blend when two people cross boundaries into unknown territory.  But once that connection was made it flowed and reached an earthy, almost spiritual climax.  It began with heat and concluded with a harmonious surrender to vulnerability and tears of the pedigree only found in love fulfilled.

It was a challenge I set for myself, to work outside what I know as a CIS man, and explore a sexuality I am only aware of as a near observer to members of a community I feel allied with.

How did I write a transgendered female character?  I thought of a woman, because that's what she is despite a twist of nature giving her a female brain inside a male body.  I thought of all the transgendered children and youth who lay awake at night wishing they were dead because their true emerging selves are too often rejected by those who are supposed to love them.  I thought of that struggle, that lonely survival, and how deeply emotional it must be to find someone who accepts them just the way they are.

Love is love.  It doesn't have a gender or orientation and is only absent in sociopaths.  We all crave acceptance for our true selves and when we find it we love deeply, freed from our defence against vulnerability, surrendering our souls to the one who accepts and loves us back.

Royal and Renée are two of my favourite characters, first appearing in a short story about an unlikely romance between a Romani gangster and a transgendered young woman.  I enjoyed them so much I transplanted them into 'Leaving Wonderland', my first spy novel.  They fit there.  They imbue the story with mystery, adding so much to the interweaving suspense of the central plot, their love story riding shotgun in the mad dash to the climax of the novel.

Aaron D McClelland
Penticton, BC

GangsterStory

Leaving Wonderland ...

Rabbit 

She lay dead at his feet, and seeing her crumpled body limp on the cobblestones, arms and legs at disturbing angles sent a wash of sorrow through the core of his chest making him feel sick.  Discordant church bells echoing through the manmade canyon between the old brick buildings of the narrow alley seemed apropos to the sadness that welled inside him.  Yet something was wrong.

It was her hair he decided as he tilted his head studying her, ignoring the sudden awareness of pain in his left shoulder.  Her hair wasn't supposed to be that long nor that colour.  She was supposed to have shorter black hair, not long and brunette.  Although a flash of her as a blonde skittered across his mind and was gone as quickly as it appeared.

And she wasn't supposed to be dead.  It was impossible that she was dead, and a small helpless sound came from his throat as he remembered that he loved her.  He couldn't remember her name, but he knew that he loved her.

The pain in his shoulder was getting worse and was now matched by its twin in his left hip.

What was her name?

He grimaced as his pain increased, the arhythmic tolling of the bells annoying him now as he searched his memory for her.

The last thing he remembered was a dream; running across a grassy meadow in the moonlight, chasing a playful rabbit.

Rabbit.  Was her name Rabbit? 

He shook his head.

In the dream Rabbit could talk.

"Hurry." Rabbit had said, "Hurry or we'll have to jump."

And he ran as fast as he could as Rabbit pulled away from him, her long legs sleek and sure in the darkness, her feet light on the grass.  His own feet clumsy, his legs weak and growing tired quickly.  He was about to beg her to slow down when she fell.

They both fell.

"Who are you?" he whispered to the dead girl, lowering himself painfully to one knee, his hip screaming with pain, his hand trembling as he reached out to touch her.

There was blood on the back of his hand.  It was scraped.  Behind him the church bells were growing louder, drowning out the humming traffic on the streets at either end of the alley.  It was becoming surreal, like a bad European student art film.

The skin of her cheek was pale, as soft as silk and still warm.

"Who are you?" he asked again, "I can't remember."

He felt tears begin to well in his eyes, blurring his vision.  How could he not remember her name?

"Run." said Rabbit in a barely audible whisper that caused him to pull his hand back, startled.

The girl's lips, slightly parted, hadn't moved but the voice had come from her.  Then he realized that lips didn't have to move to form that word – it was all in the tongue and the breath.

"Run!" Rabbit hissed louder and he felt a cold rush sparkle up his spine and over his scalp.

Those weren't church bells.

He turned to see two men clamouring down the old fire escape on the building behind him, their pounding feet making the metal rungs sing like badly pitched bells.  One of the men clutched a pistol with a comically fat extended barrel.

Not a barrel – a silencer.

They were coming to kill him.

He looked down at the girl, his chest hitching at the thought of leaving her that way, but he was alive and needed to stay that way.

"I'm sorry." he whimpered, and ignoring the pain in his left hip he rose and ran down the alley away from the men, zig-zagging to make a poorer target.  He heard the hollow 'chunk' from behind him and saw the limestone dust kick up from a cobblestone two meters further down the alley where the bullet skipped.

They were definitely trying to kill him.

Aaron D McClelland
Penticton, BC
GangsterStory

BETWIXT

(where the dead things go)

Final edits are complete, the front and back covers are done, and it will soon be available on Amazon.

Read a sample chapter here

Watch the trailer here

Can't wait for Amazon?  You can purchase the epub or mobi directly from my website

We all need practice ...

I was asked by a novice writer recently to draw on my 40 years as a professional writer and provide feedback on the opening four chapters of the first novel in a multi-book SciFi/Fantasy series he had planned.

It was horrible.

Poor continuity, inconsistent characters and story line, nonexistent character development, amateurish prose, littered with grammatical and punctuation errors, and derivative of popular films such as Game of Thrones, Dune, Lord of the Rings, The Last Star Fighter, and Star Wars.

I provided feedback as requested and suggested he practice on smaller projects until he found his style.  Perhaps joining a local writer's club to receive feedback on small projects.

I also suggested he join in on games we writers play on Twitter ...

There's a writers' game on Twitter in the #WritingCommunity than I enjoy because of its challenge.  Every Friday, fellow writer Craytus Jones drops a theme for that week's #SatSplat.  When selecting my #SatSplat entry, I usually try to find a short passage in one of my own novels that fits the theme.

The catch is; Twitter allows only 280 characters, including spaces and the tag #SatSplat.  It demands brevity while still making your point, delivering your punchline, building that tension.  It forces you to refine your prose down to its sleekest form, making every word count and letting the chaff flutter away in the breeze.

It's important practice and has actually prompted me to return to a section of a wip and tighten up my prose to provide a more economical yet still potent kick.  Here's a few of mine;

Unrequited love

I held my pillow and stared into the dark, remembering Angel's smile that day. How it would be if she was there with me right then, wondering if she was thinking of me – if she ached for my arms to be holding her as much as I ached to do that small and intimate thing.

#SatSplat

Comedy

“You’re not just a pretty face, are you?” I said and sipped my coffee.

“I don’t have a pretty face.” Tosh said, looking concerned.

Either he didn't understand the slang or I was meeting a lot of concrete thinkers lately. 

'BETWIXT (where the dead things go)'

#SatSplat

Supernatural

“Betwixt.” he said, “Most ne’er heared of it and them’s what has think it a story for children to keep them abed at night.  But it’s real as bones, old son.  D’yer know how I knows it?”

“If I had a thousand years I couldn’t guess.”

“Because I died there, mate.”

#SatSplat

Nostalgia

The hippest station for rock in 1959 was CKWX, spinning songs that just made you want to dance.  No one with a soul could help but at least tap their foot when Red Robinson spun a disc, and there were days that listening to those songs stopped my heart from breaking.

#SatSplat

Poetry

I miss the sunset in this space between

that edge of falling light and promised dawn

nevermore in this space between

where the dead things go

where the dead things go

#SatSplat

Action

I swung the machete down hard on the top of the bodyguard's head and buried the blade between his eyebrows.

“Glurg.” he said, staring at nothing as I pulled his sawed-off free, cocked it and aimed both barrels at Billy’s face.

“You gomered him!” Billy squeaked.

"Yep."

#SatSplat

I am waiting to see if that novice writer takes my advice.

Aaron D McClelland

Penticton, BC

GangsterStory

Mac & Beth ~ hurly-burly review

Mac & Beth review

by Tabitha Tomala of 'Behind the Pages'

Thank you to Aaron D McClelland for providing me a copy for an honest review!

Banks cleans and processes the money brought in from Duncan’s illegal drug deals. He also hears and sees everything that happens within the gang. He sees the difference as Bethany enters the trailer park, and begins to wrap Mac around her thumb. He watches as greed begins to infest members of the gang, and begins to doubt Mac’s ambition. The violence and tragedy he will witness are worthy of a Shakespeare retelling.

Never before have I been unable to put down a story based on Shakespeare. Mac & Beth is the best retelling of Shakespeare I have ever read. All the key players were on the board from the original play but rebranded into gangsters and fortune-tellers living in a trailer park. Instead of sword fights and long winded soliloquies, it was brutal gun battles and drama fueled action scenes. 

Aaron D. McClelland did an excellent job of humanizing the gang members. Seeing Banks in his day to day life builds empathy and compassion with the reader. And even though you know all the characters are peddling drugs and committing murder, you can’t help but sympathize with them. Would you really blame Banks for killing someone to protect his family?

Modernized Shakespeare at its finest, Mac & Beth stays true to the overall plot and themes found in the original play. Readers looking for a tragic hero will certainly find one. And it will tear you apart to watch the downfall. Even knowing what was going to happen, I kept wishing for a different outcome. Aaron D. McClelland can retell any Shakespeare play and I will be sure to read it.

To Purchase: Amazon 

Original review is here.