Intense writing

The last three nights I've stayed up late--very late--working on a story. I'd learned about an anthology that this story might fit, but the deadline was yesterday. I had to work fast. Luckily for me, they accepted emailed subs.

The story in question, "Y.V. 7650.1," started off life back in 1997 as "U.V. 7650.1." It was an ambitious, semi-near-future nihilistic genetic engineering/bioterror/quasi-religious SF piece with heavy sexual overtones. I'd tried to tackle it using certain style tricks, and frankly, failed miserably. The science was beyond me, and my writing wasn't up to snuff. What's more, my protagonist was an outright repulsive character. And it was long, of course. It clocked in at 8,500 words, pretty much my average. I'd sent it out to a few markets way back when, and it bounced back so fast it made my head spin. I seriously doubt any editor read it all the way through.

But I knew the central idea had merit, and the plot structure was sound. So I filed it away, and paid it no more mind. Until this new antho came along. I wish I'd learned about it earlier, but beggars can't be choosers. So Tuesday I started the rewrite. And it was a rewrite in the most basic sense of the word--most of what I'd written before was scrapped entirely. For one thing, the tense of the story changed (yeah, I know). The protagonist was redefined drastically. Ultimately, he's still Not A Good Person, but he's now at least friendly and honest about himself, even if he does the right things for the wrong reasons. I recast some themes running through the story, abandoned some poorly-developed subplot elements and tightened the superstructure from start to finish. Amazingly enough, in the final tally the word count came out at 8,400 words. I'm astonished. That's not a huge difference--100 words is less than half a page--but this may be the first time ever that I've done a rewrite and come out with a smaller story on the other end, rather than a much larger one.

"So, what do you think she’s got?" Evelyn asked, snuggling in next to me as the familiar round, fatherly face of anchor John Stone coalesced before us. "Epilepsy, do you think? I mean, I've heard stories--"

"Ssh! I want to hear this." Something bad was going on at Metroplex. That's where Stone was, I could tell now. And the entire medical complex was cordoned off.

"...no idea the nature of the contagion at this time, or how it is spread, Vicki. The information we’re getting is that it is unresponsive standard anti-virals or antibiotics," Stone said. "Again, we’re getting conflicting reports of a chemical agent or biological attack, but the rumors here are flying fast and furious. We do know that as many as a dozen people may be affected, with similar cases confirmed in New York, Atlanta and Los Angeles. The Metroplex medical complex is under a state of quarantine, and... What? Vicki, I think they’re moving us back, now--"

Suits. Biohazard suits moved in the background, going into the hospital. Holy shit.

"...no confirmation on the earlier report that Mayor Shiela Whitfield has died," Stone said. He didn't look like he wanted to be there anymore. "This is footage we accessed from Metroplex's online monitors of Mayor Whitfield's room before the link was severed from inside the hospital, in violation of the Medical Freedom of Information Act..."

I dropped the apple. It hit the foamfloor with a wet thunk. It wasn't the Mayor on the vid. It was her, but it didn't look like her. At all. Even with all the breathing tubes and monitors on and in her, I could tell. She'd changed since I'd last seen her on the New Year's broadcast. Jesus H. Christ, she'd changed.

There aren't many markets for this story, so I've got my fingers crossed that the editors looking at it now will want to give it a home. There are too many sexual elements for Asimov's or Analog to take it, I'm sure. It's unfortunate that Alice Turner is no longer fiction editor at Playboy, because this is the sort of speculative fiction she often went for. The length is also a problem, as it is in most of my work. On first read, it may seem that it takes too long for anything to actually happen, but what starts as an apparent character study actually contains a bunch of subtle plot points that aren't readily apparent until the end. I've noticed that trend in a number of my stories. Maybe my creative brain function is defective.

I'm just looking forward to going to bed at a decent hour tonight, rather than the 2 a.m. of recent days.

Now Playing: Pink Floyd A Momentary Lapse of Reason