I’ve been visiting my best friend up in Seattle who’s a motion video artist with PopCap Games, and I had the opportunity to help his team out with a video shoot yesterday. Without divulging any information that hasn’t already been divulged, it was an afternoon of mischief and shenanigans and yes, even a little bit of hijinks stirred into the mix– a cocktail of fun I like to think of as PopCappery (a term that may already exist, but I am re-coining now).

For the event, I donned the fetid guise of Zombie Temp Worker and shambled around a garden for the afternoon. Turns out, Zombie doesn’t have a green thumb… well, he does, but the only way it’s going to grow any plants is as compost because Zombie demonstrated he doesn’t know the business end of a rake. It was refreshing working with a group of such talented people who get the job done well but know how to have fun while doing it.

To cap off the whole day, we got a group of PopCappers together to play test Ismia. It was the first time that I had the chance to step aside and watch people play the game and the experience was enlightening. Everyone provided great feedback, and I look forward to working in all the great suggestions.

If you’re interested in seeing more adventures of Zombie Temp Worker, check the PopCap blog regularly. There should be some great undead PopCappery coming your way soon!

In a recent post I discussed my desire to start work on a new story, possibly another novel. In a yet more recent post I expounded upon the increasing scarcity of my free time, making work on a novel in the near future seem a bit unrealistic. Trying to find the best of both worlds, I turned to the internet in search of some organizational help.

One of the greatest lessons I learned in writing my first novel was that, for my particular writing process, organization is tantamount. I had a good 5 false starts on my novel, writing for a hundred pages or so before getting lost, overwhelmed, or frustrated with the lack of cohesion. It wasn’t until I sat down and outlined the whole thing that I got past the hundred page mark, and then it came together remarkably quickly. 4 years of struggling without an outline and 6 months of writing with it to finish the rough manuscript.

Unfortunately, organization doesn’t come naturally to me and I am in constant search for new ways to record, organize and remember all the ideas that bounce around in my head all day. Hence my online search for an organization aid/word processor geared toward the novel writer.

I was not disappointed in my search. After checking out a few options, I decided to give Jer’s Novel Writer a crack. I have only had a few days with the program, but I already see its great potential as a replacement to Word. In my first few hours with the program, I used it to outline the rules text for Heroes of Ismia and was impressed with the facility with which I could organize the document into parts, chapters, scenes and text blocks. The program automatically keeps an outline of the document as you write, putting the framework in a drawer to the side of the main work area. Several times I wrote a section of rules that I later decided to move. No problem, just drag the section in the outline to wherever you want it. sections and chapters are reformatted and re-numbered to fit the new order.

This feature, while valuable for writing a rules text, will be a lifesaver with a novel. Reorganizing chapters and scenes in Word used to take me hours and it will now take seconds. Using the outline to reorganize is great, but for me, it has an even higher purpose. I can use it to outline the skeleton of the full story, then come back and add the meat once I know where it’s going.

Another great improvement over the classing word processor is color-coded margin notes, which allow the writer to make quick, easy to find notes without losing narrative momentum. The software is packed with other features including a database to store characters and places, but I haven’t had enough time with the program to absorb it all.

I’ll certainly have more to say about it as it helps me organize my next novel. And if you’re looking for an alternative to Word, check it out for yourself.

So most of the people who read this blog know that I have written a novel; a novel that I feel is pretty darn good, maybe good enough to get published. The problem is, after submitting to numerous agents and editors, it hasn’t been picked up for representation or even consideration.  I have spent the greater part of the last two years either rewriting the manuscript or bemoaning the fact that it hasn’t gotten any attention. Basically doing anything but picking myself up and moving on to the next novel, as a writer should. Now, two years after completing the first draft and several rewrites later, I think I have the distance from the work required to see what it truly is: my most brilliant failure.

Now don’t think I am getting down on myself or fishing for reassurance. This minor epiphany came as I was listening to a program about a Dutch organization called the Institute of Brilliant Failures. The group studies the effects of failure and bankruptcy on businesspeople.  Most businesspeople, after going through the heartbreak and trauma of their crumbling dreams, give up on starting their own business and never try again. However, the Institute of Brilliant Failures has found that businesspeople who go through the collapse of their first business and persevere in the business world to start another venture are much more successful the second time around, having learned from the mistakes of their failure.

It was an amazing act of perseverance to simply write my first novel, and while writing it I was confident that it would be published right away. I learned so much as a writer during the five years I spent composing the story: about plot, character, and about my own writing process. I didn’t realize that when the writing stopped the learning continued. I think the greatest lesson my novel can teach me is to keep trying, to pick myself up and take a crack at another novel. It is possible that the best thing for my career as a novelist is not publishing my first manuscript, and I think the Institute of Brilliant Failures would agree.

While I was standing there, trying to find my street on the faded map of the city through the misty glass, a bus pulled up behind me with a rattle and a startling hiss. It stopped there and waited. At first, I didn’t turn around; I just kept staring as hard as I could at that white, wrinkled paper, trying to burn a hole through the frosted glass with my eyes. But then the driver opened the doors, and I was bathed in this warm light.

Suddenly, I couldn’t stand the city anymore; I couldn’t stand the fog or the neon lights, and I couldn’t stand the two-fifty for a cup of tea; I couldn’t stand the fake store windows with the mannequins and the empty gift boxes.

I turned around and looked up at the driver. He was just sitting there smiling, waiting, like he knew I was gonna get on. So I did, without even looking at where the bus was going. I brushed the fog off my jacket and out of my hair and stepped into the soft, warm light.

I took out my wallet to pay the driver, but all I had in it was the white paper flower. I showed the driver my empty wallet and he told me not to worry about it this time. I went halfway to the back of the bus and sat down, with my damp pea coat on and everything. I sat there holding the white paper flower with that warm feeling all inside my body.

When we crossed the bridge a minute ago, it looked like the fog might break up. I’m still not sure where I’m going, but it doesn’t really matter. Maybe I’ll go find that little girl and take her ice skating or something; I don’t really know. I just know that this white paper flower has six petals and a leaf, and that the little girl was right, nobody should have to feel lonely. And I don’t. I just feel warm, like I haven’t felt in a long time. The driver turned out the lights on the bus a while back, so I can’t really see the drawing of the flower. I can only feel the paper, soft from weeks in my wallet, but I don’t need the light to see the flower anymore. It’s inside me, keeping me warm.

Looking out the window now, I notice the fog really has lifted. I can see stars. For the first time since moving to the city, I can see stars between stars.

© Reed A Raymond 2011

When I stepped outside, the cold slid across my face like a veil. I held the door open a crack, letting the warmth ooze out behind me and around me, then I closed it and kept walking down the street, still not sure where I was. The fog closed around me like cotton balls, and I could hardly see where I was going. All that I could really make out were the shops along my side of the street. They had their windows made up all Christmasy, with trees and fake snow around these great gift ideas, like diamond rings and home entertainment systems, that all must have cost a goddamn fortune. I didn’t see any tea-steepers, though.

I stopped at one window with some mannequins in it that were modeling the latest winter fashions. One of them was wearing this scarf that I really liked. I just stood there, in the cold and the fog, imagining myself wearing that gray scarf. I would’ve looked real good in it too. But it started to feel kind of creepy. Pretty soon, the mannequin started to look like me. I don’t think it was the alcohol; I was starting to sober up after that tea and the walking, but I couldn’t look into the window without seeing myself standing back there, behind the glass, staring right back out. I know it sounds crazy, but I almost started to panic. I was scared that if I stood there too long, in the seeping fog, I would melt through the glass and turn into that mannequin behind the window, with empty Christmas boxes at my feet. That my only usefulness would be to show off sweaters and beanies and expensive furniture and tapestries. I turned away from the window and started walking down the street as fast as I could. Funny, though, I looked damn good in that scarf.

The fog was sticking to my coat, beading up like dew and shimmering in the dim electric light. There wasn’t any point in wiping it off though. It wouldn’t have made any difference. There’s no way of getting away from the fog, not with an umbrella or anything. Anyway, I kind of liked the way it made me look. All silver, like a fucking knight in shining armor.

I walked like that for a while, till it got real bad. The fog was dripping off me in little rivers and my hair was sticking to my head. I was cold. I was afraid I might catch pneumonia, and I still had no idea where I was. I noticed some lights down the street a ways, kind of half glowing in the haze. When I reached them, I found these maps of the city behind a piece of glass. The glass was probably there to keep off the rain and fog, but it wasn’t working too well because the fog had made its way through the cracks, bleaching and wrinkling the paper behind.

© Reed A Raymond 2011

To get my mind off my cold feet, I started thinking about my tea, trying to guess when it was the perfect temperature to take my first sip. I’m not very patient and half the time I end up taking a sip too soon, scorching the hell out of my tongue. I hate that; there’s nothing worse than a burnt tongue. I get some kind of pleasure in other kinds of pain. When I sprain my ankle, I enjoy the attention I get from my limp. I like the tingling pleasure of pressing my bruises. But there really isn’t any pleasure in a burnt tongue. Nobody can see it; nobody’d know unless I told them, but then it’s like I’m asking for sympathy, and I hate that. So, inevitably I’ll just brood and feel sorry for myself, but I won’t get any pleasure from it. That’s why I spend so much time trying to figure out the exact instant when my tea is just the right temperature. There’s nothing like that moment when you can comfortably take your first big sip of Earl Grey tea. The only problem is you have to drink it really fast because it’ll get too cold real quick, and there’s nothing worse than cold tea.

I sat there for a while, watching the steam skate along the surface of the hot brown liquid, like kids on a frozen lake, before breaking away and drifting up into nothingness. I was thinking about that little girl who gave me the white paper flower and wondering if she liked ice-skating and tea. She would probably put honey in it till you couldn’t taste the tea anymore, till it just tasted like hot honey. I love that about kids, how everything’s so sweet, and they’re never lonely.

Thinking about kids and honey and everything made me kinda lose track of time, so I wasn’t sure if my tea would be cool enough, but I took a sip all the same. It was great, really just right. The warmth had this soothing effect on my stomach. I don’t handle alcohol too well and I was starting to feel like I was gonna be sick or something, but the tea calmed everything down right away. It also helped clear the stain from my mind, made me feel a bit more comfortable sitting in the crowded cafe. But I didn’t stay there long. I drank my tea real quick, so it didn’t get too cold. Then I got up, put the last of my change in the tip jar next to Buddha, looked at Audrey, in the eyes this time, and said goodbye.

© Reed A Raymond 2011

Anyway, I was going through my wallet to pay for my tea and I came across this little drawing of a flower on a white piece of paper. It had been in my wallet for a few weeks and I’d forgotten about it. When I saw it, the burning started up in my eyes again and I was afraid I was gonna cry, it made me so happy. It gave me this warm feeling all over, like someone else was inside my body with me. The white paper flower was given to me by this little girl a couple weeks back. It was the day I moved out of my old flat and I was taking a break from hauling boxes and stuff. I was sitting on this park bench across from my old building, thinking about the city I was gonna be moving to and the cold and the fog, when she walked right up to me. She didn’t sit down or anything, she just walked up and stood in front of me. Kids can be so brave, they really crack me up sometimes. I almost started laughing right there, but I didn’t want to be rude, so I introduced myself instead. She reached into the pocket of her red dress and pulled out this little piece of white paper. She told me no one should have to feel lonely, and she pushed the paper into my hand, then ran off down the sidewalk.

On the paper, there was this drawing of a flower with six petals and a little leaf; I think it was supposed to be a daisy or something, I don’t know. But it really was a pretty good drawing, especially for a little girl like her. She’s probably gonna grow up to be a regular Cezanne or something. Anyway, it made me feel real good, so I put it in my wallet. I was gonna pin it up on this board where I put all my favorite pictures and articles and stuff, but I kinda forgot until I saw it again, looking for my tea money.

I paid for my tea with my last three bucks and sat down over by the window. All the other tables were taken so I couldn’t get any closer to the fire. I remember being real miserable because I could feel the cold sliding down the window and pooling around my Docs. That was when I found myself envying the guy over by the fire, taking up three spaces on the couch. Envying his ease and his warmth.

© Reed A Raymond 2011

Pretty soon I came across this little spot. It looked real busy, but I went in anyway. I hate social situations when I’m drunk but I hate the cold even more. It was funny because when I was outside, my face was freezing and my body was warm, but when I opened the door and the warm air from inside spilled out and all around me, my face got warm and my body felt real cold. My pea coat was holding out the heat. I almost took it off but I didn’t wanna look like an idiot walking around with a jacket hung over my arm like a fucking waiter.

The cafe was made up real nice and cozy. They even had this old wood burning stove over in the corner where all the heat was coming from. It was a nice stove, one of those little black ones, like the kind we had when I was a kid up the coast in Mendocino. The cafe was really just one little room so the stove kept it pretty hot in there. Some guy had his mug sitting on top of it, where you’re supposed to put a pot or a kettle, and he was keeping his coffee warm that way. He looked really at home, all spread out on the couch next to the stove, reading a book of poems by Yeats, or Keats, I couldn’t quite make out the name, and I didn’t really care. His comfort bothered me because I’m never comfortable like that in public. I really prefer to be at home, on my own couch, or my bean bag chair with the soccer ball pattern. I  envied his comfort and wished he was drunk and not me. But that wasn’t until after I ordered my tea.

The girl behind the counter was about my age and really pretty in a Hepburn kinda way. Audrey, not Katharine. As I ordered my Earl Grey tea, I spent the whole time looking at a little wooden Buddha that was sitting next to the tip jar. Audrey probably thought I was acting weird, but I’m not sure because I wasn’t looking at her at all. That made it all bearable. As long as I don’t know that someone thinks I’m strange, I don’t mind. That little Buddha didn’t care that I was drunk. It reminded me of this tapestry I had hanging up in my living room back at my apartment. My friend gave it to me a couple years ago when he came back from a trip to Tibet. It was one of my favorite things, a real conversation starter. I always have gotten a kick outta that Eastern stuff.

The tea cost me two-fifty. I’m always surprised at the cost of tea these days, I mean, it’s just leaves and water, right. The really good stuff doesn’t even come in a bag; you’ve gotta get your own damn tea-steeper and everything. I had this great one shaped like a yin-yang. I got it out of a catalogue and paid almost a fortune for it, really. But I bet it was the best looking damn tea-steeper in the city. Maybe I should get into the tea business if people are paying two-fucking-fifty for some dried up leaves and you don’t even have to give them a goddamn bag.

© Reed A Raymond 2011

On a backlit neon city street, I struggled to clear my mind of its alcoholic stain. I hung my head, watching the cracks in the pavement slide beneath my feet. I was glad to hang my head because the buzzing pink tubes burned my eyes like whiskey, and I had to squint to keep the tears from forming. That was another reason I was happy to be looking at the cracks in the sidewalk as I hunched my way down the street.

My eyes.

I hate people looking in my eyes when I’m drunk. It makes me feel like I’m inferior or something. Really, it’s just me being paranoid, like the other person would care that I got a little carried away drinking alone on a Friday night. But that doesn’t make me feel any better about it.

If it were raining I wouldn’t bother hanging my head because everyone else would be. That always cracks me up, seeing people running through the rain with their shoulders hunched all over, like they’re gonna avoid getting wet that way.

I always pretend it isn’t raining, even when it’s really pissing down. The more it’s raining and the harder the wind’s blowing, the more I pretend like the sun’s shining and the slower I walk to let everybody know that I’m not bothered by the rain like they are. But really I hate the rain. I only like the idea of not hating the rain, and that’s why I don’t hide from it. There’s nothing I like more than walking in the rain and pretending I don’t hate every goddamn second of it.

It wasn’t gonna rain, though. If anything, it looked like the fog might come in again.

Before I moved to the city, the fog was romantic. I imagined sitting up early in the morning with a mug of over-steeped Earl Grey tea, watching the fog roll in through the Gate and over the city like a comforter. I didn’t imagine myself lost, stumbling through the streets, drunk as hell. One week living in the city and I was already sick of the fog.

I was trying to find my way back to my appartment, but I’d just moved to the city and I didn’t know my way around all that well. All I wanted to do was crash on my futon and sleep the booze off, but I was just sober enough to admit to myself that I had no idea where the hell I was. That’s what really got me; it pissed me off more than those goddamn neon lights. I’ve always been pretty good at finding my way around. I almost never need a map, and if I’ve been somewhere a couple times, I can usually find my way back without a problem. I’m not boasting or anything, it’s just this thing I’ve always been able to do.

The thought of wandering around in the fog all night looking for my street wasn’t really appealing. Even with my pea coat and wide wale cords, the cold was getting to me, so I started looking for a cafe or some place where I could get some hot tea. Sometimes, a hot cup of tea is the only thing in the world that’ll make you feel right.

© Reed A Raymond 2011

This is where I will post chapters from my unpublished children’s book in an attempt to destroy any chance of getting it published in the “real” world.