World-Building... in Space

For this update on my world-building activities, I will be detailing some aspects of the world of New Fiction Idea #17 (not Macbay Transportation Services this time).

Tevyne

Tevyne is the home planet of Liutas. Our lion-man is of the planet's dominant species. Due to the general environment, most groups are nomadic. There is a long history of warring tribes/clans, and the society is collective and honour-based. By the advent of the Human Empire (which, incidentally, branched off from Earth's "lost" colony and doesn't actually involve Earth), most of the planet's technological level was similar to ours today. By now they've caught up to the rest of the Empire and usually work with the military (although only if they're accepted with the rest of their family or friend group).

Salynas

Salynas is the home planet of Kaliause. It is mainly water, with most land masses being archipelagos. As a result, many different genotypes, cultures, and languages are isolated; they adopted English as a planetary language because the Human Empire found them before any native language spread significantly. Around Kaliause's part of town, the culture is individualist, although family units are a very close second in importance culturally. The language is primarily based on a musical scale, but different vocalisations with the same "tune" have started to come up, especially in slang. They were at about medieval-era technology before the Empire found them, and they've (some archipelagos more than others, mind you) pretty much caught up with the high technology of the time.

Domus

Domus is the home planet of Stannum. First colonised by humans, it has been terraformed and contains a mostly human population, although some smaller, "uninhabitable" areas have been taken up by other intelligent species, and some species more physiologically compatible with Earth conditions live in the cities. As such, it's very similar to Earth of the same time period, plus the extra diversity. Stannum was once an average businessman with a small household he didn't particularly like, but he died of heart-related issues. As is common in highly-populated areas in the same galaxy as Valka, his body was kidnapped and "reclaimed" to work endlessly in the haunted graves.

Valka

Valka is the main setting of the story. It's been war-torn for some time due to outsiders trying to secure its natural resources (by blowing a lot of it up, but let's not question the ones with the guns...). Even before battles started breaking out, it wasn't a particularly pleasant place. Some sale of resources has led to a very corrupted upper class and government, and its cities are nearly entirely underbelly. Its original dominant species was pterodactyl-like, but it hosts a large diversity now.

This is a very vague summary, but let me know if there's anything in particular you'd like to hear. I'm still in the process of fleshing these places out a bit, so I'll be glad for an appropriate challenge.

Double-Crossed

I have a soft spot for crossover stories. Of course, a lot of this is because of the fan fiction series that I loved writing even if I cringe to actually read it, but the appeal goes farther than that. It even goes farther than the general concept of throwing beloved characters from a generally bright and sunshiny series into various death traps and other trauma.

Really, all writing is crossover writing. I don't mean we're all really fan fiction writers (although an argument could probably be made for that), but we're too far along in time for any work to be wholly its own thing. Brutal is a crossover between Hetalia and The Hunger Games; The Long and Winding Road is a crossover between Hetalia and the zombie apocalypse; the story of Max in prison is a crossover between Macbay Transportation Services and a writing prompt; Portalmancy is a crossover between the ideas of a more literal photogate and the power to telepathically switch door hinges.

Whether it be an entire pre-made universe (such as the real world, if not a published story), a system of magic, a character trait, or or a time period, everything in a story is from somewhere else. The only real creation is crossing things over, finding a complex combination that hasn't quite been laid out in words (or pictures, or maybe notes) before.

That's my take on it, at least. What do you think?

Dream Journal #15

I had gone so long without remembering a whole dream that I scribbled this down in the dark before I fell back asleep.

11 Sept—12 Sept

I was at some sort of band camp, sitting in an auditorium-type area with a planetarium feel to it. Everything was a bit dark and bluish. Becky* and I had done some kind of musical performance, culminating in playing a video game together that was something like a dating sim. Now I was sitting next to her, among many others at the camp.

Dr. F** was presenting something to us, resting his hands on a cheap, one-legged podium. He concluded his little speech by grinning and informing us he was a dork about it before zombies became "a thing." He then readied his flute and played a few halting bars of a song before awkwardly trailing off. Telling us he was trying to play a certain song (which I can only remember ended with the word "Power"), he chuckled and lowered the flute. I didn't know the song, but I recognised that it was some sort of classic hard rock song. Since I had a huge book of hard rock sheet music, I volunteered to go get it. Dr. F was pleased and waved we me out to find it.

I had walked to a far room full of bunk beds before I realised my sheet music was in my locker, along with my oboe and a spare pair of jeans. I turned to leave the room, but a Hispanic mother was in the way, sitting in a chair that blocked the space between beds as she helped her daughter get her bedding set up on the top bunk. They kept chattering in Spanish, and I tried to catch the mother's attention so she would get out of my way, but she didn't look at me. I contemplated climbing up and over one of the unoccupied beds, but there were little, dead bugs all over the mattress covers, and, even though the bunk bed I had been eyeing had a little metal ladder extending over the top of the upper mattress, I didn't want to risk it. Suddenly the daughter asked her mother something in English pertaining to the move-in, and she answered. Turning to me, the mother said she asked her child to ask questions in English because I was there.

Somehow I escaped those two, but I wasn't out of the bunk bed room before I ran into a familiar-looking girl with straight, shoulder-length blonde hair. I told her I thought I knew her, but I couldn't think of how. She shook my hand and reintroduced herself as Allie (her real name being Alpha). Recognition finally dawned on my face, but she continued to tell me we had been to the same church camp since before my congregation moved to a different campsite.

I said goodbye and hurried back to the locker room. The floors were black like lab tables, and the lockers were cubby holes with swinging wooden doors. The door to mine had been closed while I was gone, and I started to panic because I didn't know the combination. When I pulled at the handle-less door, though, it swung right open. Finally I saw my things and started to pull out the book of sheet music. Apparently the cubby was at some sort of slope, because everything kept trying to slide out onto me. Eventually I managed to get out the hard rock music book, along with my Journey sheet music book and an extremely thin volume of Schoolhouse Rock! sheet music.

Closing my locker, I backed up, arranged the books in my arms, and started back towards the hallway. Before I was out of the room, one of the band kids, a rather large male who had been standing casually by a wall perpendicular to me, puffed out his chest so that he thumped into my side. This threw me off a little, but I kept walking because I was sure he was just joking around despite the frown on his face. I gave up that theory when he and a male friend, who had been a bit behind me, shoved me hard in the back. I stumbled but managed to hurry out of the room.

* Becky is a family friend/mother of my long-time best friend. I think I've seen her play a keyboard, so maybe we did a duet with that?
**Dr. F (he often goes by that because very few people can spell his last name) is my physics teacher. He tries way too hard to be funny, but he still is funny sometimes. He was quite in-character here, although I have no idea why my subconscious decided he plays flute.

Fragments IV

Because.
(I, II, and III found here)

• A fan fiction for The Kill Order concerning the pair near the beginning with the boat
• Someone with the ability to remember/know things the moment someone else forgets them
• Hetalia-style personification of religions (although maybe with a higher proportion of serious scenes)
• Personifications of languages
• Some novel in a Douglas Adams type of voice (if I should prove to be so capable)
• An addictive pill that utilises stress hormones for weight loss purposes
• A glove with a watch embedded in the palm
• A world where f_s = μ_sF_s
• The secret lives of instruments left in the band room between rehearsals
• Fantasy with a romantic element, where the heroine chooses the ordinary human over the magical/whatever love interest
• A fantasy with an African setting

Updates Left, Right, and Centre

Is my update pace reasonable?

Most mini-guides I've seen in articles recommend updating at least once a week. That's certainly too slow for me—even when I wait three days for an update, readership drops dramatically.

That being said, I'd hate to feel like I'm pummelling you all with my ideas. I realise you have things to do other than read my ramblings, so let me know if you want me to cut the pace to, say, every other day by default (and, as always, a bit longer if the latest post receives no comments).

Or, if you don't mind either way, let me know that. Are the updates at good times of day? I always schedule them, so I can post anytime. I'm not going to try posting twice a day or anything, but I'll keep up a post-a-day pace if you'd like me to do so.

O Thou Font of Every Blessing

While it seems most published stories need to meet certain font requirements, especially in digital publishing, I can't help but search for exactly the font in which I would like to read and write my stories.

A lot of my writing is done in 12-pt Verdana because that's what the FanFiction.Net Document Editor uses. That, of course, only applies to my fan fictions (although it should be noted that that's how I get to see the first and second drafts of The Long and Winding Road). I also use the plain horizontal lines for section breaks.

Along the Winding Road, however, currently appears in 13-pt Bell MT. I'm not sure exactly what about it seems just right for the story—as is the case for most of my fonts—but I do like the number styling in the chapter number-titles (which appear in centred 25-pt). Section breaks are currently formatted with a centred "~*~".

Mayflies is in 11-pt Georgia. This seems like a rather average font, but maybe I'd just like some tinge of normalcy in a story about ancient Mayan bird men and their sorcerer friend. Chapter headings are currently left-aligned, 12-pt, bolded letters (a "J" if Jonathan narrates, or an "M" if Matthew narrates).

Piracy Cruise Lines requires some pretty huge margins for some reason. Text is in 15-pt Garamond. Section breaks have yet to appear, but chapter number-titles are right-aligned, 18-pt, and formatted "---1---."

Dreadful Valley (my NaNoWriMo novel) was written in 12-pt Andalus, with section breaks formatted as plain horizontal lines. There were no chapter titles. I may have just needed a font that worked whether I was writing with my computer in Mac or Windows mode, although I still wouldn't put up with anything too typical, it seems.

Figments is in 12-pt Constantia with right-aligned chapter number-titles at the top of the page.

Chasers appears in 12-pt Candara. Section breaks (modelled somewhat after the Pac-Man dots) are a centred arrangement of three "◌"s. No chapter titles appear.

This blog (when it behaves) is in 12-px Copse, with the title "Novelling with Journey" in 60-px Consolas.

What kind of fonts do you like to us? Do they influence your writing at all?

Prompt Writing #2

This is the first official instalment, but my earlier prompt writing exercise will function as Prompt Writing #1.

Prompt: [Forward Motion Writers generator]

After a sham trial, your character has been thrown in prison, no chance of parole, less of a chance of survival. It's only a matter of time before an attempt is made on their life. They have to escape and soon. The question is, how?

Randomly Selected Story and Character: Macbay Transportation Services, Max Webb

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

That Macbay.

That demon Macbay.

Max could have easily scribbled such thoughts all over the walls of his cell if he'd had a pen. That could have upset the other residents, though, and they seemed upset enough. A man with military tattoos stretched across military muscles sat on his bunk sending death glares through the door of bars. An older man quarreled with a young redheaded woman who already bore a black eye. The rest seemed to think that the plump man with no more than the politically necessary amount of army service was worthy of their attention.

Max wondered briefly if any of them were the magic users he had been so eager to push into the army. Although, after the harsh ridicule he had gotten for even believing in such powers, he may have had more to fear if they didn't. Revenge for unfinished deeds, even delivered by these characters, was nothing compared to being shipped to a madhouse. At least here he could die quickly, of a broken neck or some such thing.

Although if that demon Macbay got him killed here, Max would still not be particularly happy. He would only be particularly dead, and that would hardly be good for anyone. Who could be a better and more effective Manager of Conscription? His sons were far too young, and his nearest brown-nosing underling was far too pathetic. The Empire needed him alive, and in a position of power that only he could wield effectively. 

Of course, even if he made it out of here, there was no guarantee of his restoration. The newspapers already screamed lies of embezzlement, much more than he had ever taken for the magic-user project, and that devil truck driver was undoubtedly frolicking about the mainland scot-free and spreading worse. He'd have to charade as someone else to get his position back—although that would hardly be an issue if he were capable of it. As long as he was back in power, where he deserved to be—where his Empire needed him.

"Yer the crazy conscripter, ain't ye?"

Leaping off the mildewed floor, Max adjusted his hat and composed himself before meeting the speaker's gaze. A wiry man with skin stretched over his muscles like extremely shrunken clothing, he stooped over to view Max and squinted to do a better job of it.

"I," Max began, lifting his chin, "am the Manager of Conscription for The Empire. Undue rumours have been spread about me, and so I must bide my time here until sense returns to the men of justice."

The inquirer stood straight as he laughed. "Yeh, an' I'll bide my time 'til they see me wife jump back ta life."

Max frowned, although in a quite civilized way, as the wiry man wore himself out laughing and retired to another corner of the room, shaking his head.

More jeers than punches hit Max as the days passed, but the grimy, unidentifiable food alone would have been enough to wear him down. Between the derisions, scuffles, and general atmosphere, Max was starting to truly lose hope. If the men of justice could fix their eyes so firmly away from this place, if his entire case was naught but yellowed news to them now, how could they redeem him?

How could anyone? He had already broken ribs, cheekbones, and pride, and it was only a matter of time before things got really dire. If it weren't for new hoodlums coming in, his cellmates would be nearing extinction. He was only a politician, with no real crime to his name, but, among so many true villains, that was more of a disability than a virtue. He doubted he would last long enough for anyone to see the truth and purpose in his actions and come to free him.

Wrapping his fingers around the only decently clean thing in the cell, Max was looking over the dark blotches on the door when it suddenly rattled in his grip. Quickly he withdrew his hands, but this only served to amuse the culprit on the other side of the bar.

"You awake there, crazy old man?"

Max's limbs stiffened to the point of paralysis as he turned his eyes upon the outsider. Baring his disgusting, crooked-toothed grin, Macbay stuffed his hands in his back pockets and leaned in to get a better look of Max's bedraggled face.

"Taking good care of yourself, I see," the trucker commented, straightening back up.

Frowning sharply, Max opened his mouth to make reply but could not determine which insult to throw first.

"I've been doing fine, too; thanks for asking," Macbay continued, thumbing the front of his hat upwards, although it didn't improve his fringe-obstructed view much. "Still at my old business. Just got a big job the other day. This lady by the name of Viola asked me to deliver a special package for her."

At his wife's name, Max's enraged thoughts stuttered to a bewildered stop.

Macbay grinned widely as he fingered the bars that would so easily bend for him if he put his mind to it.

"Think I ought to take the order?" he finished.