The Never Ending Shame of an Unfinished Novel

When all else fails. seek guidance from the collective. The internet has good stuff.

Start Writing

The reality behind most would-be writers is that their desk drawers are full of unfinished manuscripts that will have only ever been read by a single person, the author. If you’ve ever written a Substack post it leads you with faint, ghostly characters stating two words, Start writing…sometimes an herculean task. I’ve been there recently, with a rough draft of a Fantasy short story for a contest deadline that day. It was terrible, but had promise, and I could have made it awesome but as usual I ran out of time, that one true currency. A sick family takes its toll on keeping a house and child fed and amused, especially when they’re not allowed in day care. We seem to have a sequence (ha ha) Child contracts the disease, passes it to mother, and after fighting for weeks, I finally get it.

So today I reread some of my first book, The Sequence, reminding myself that I can write, I can write award winning books and contest winning (more like making final rounds and winning within my group) shorter works. A new friend recently read The Sequence snd wrote “Great book so far Lucien, I wish I could write pages on all the things that click.” And after he finished, “Fantastic book Lucien. I sure hope you have another one brewing.”

The Time

Sitting down to write has been non-existent this past month, with the exception of a micro-fiction entry I put together quickly. Otherwise work on the new novel has completely stopped. So I got into it slowly after Declan went to sleep. It’s a complicated plot line and I have to re-acquaint myself with not only the characters, but the plot itself. I clearly need a better workspace and more time in it!

Found a few great inspirations from NanNoWriMo authors which I shall include here.

Grant Faulkner

The irony of the moment when you think about giving up on your novel is that it can also be a moment that’s ripe with opportunity if you just keep going. After a lapse, it’s important to forgive yourself, readjust your goals, and give yourself a fresh start so that a bad week of writing doesn’t lead to a bad month of writing, which then turns into a bad year of writing. I pick a “milestone day”—the first day of a new month or a new week—and start again. It’s all about designing your life around the things you rationally want to achieve instead of sinking into the powerful claws of more impulsive needs (such as quitting).

Life goes by too quickly to wait for next year or our next novel. I don’t want to die with a list of all of the novels I wish I would have finished. The main thing about any achievement isn’t necessarily starting it, but restarting it over and over again.

Mur Lafferty

The first badge of a writer is writing an awful lot. NaNoWriMo winners have done that. But the next badge is finishing something. Storytellers of old didn’t just get up from their campfires in the middle of their stories and wander into the woods.

Hugh Howey

If you are having a difficult time finishing your novel, try writing the final chapter! Too often, we get lost in the middle of our books, unsure of where we are heading. Create that final destination, then go back and write scenes that get you a step closer. Don’t worry, you’ll clean it all up in the revision process. The important thing is to have a rough draft with a complete story.

Kami Garcia

Even if you only write one page a day, at the end of the year you’ll have a book. Books aren’t written in first drafts. They’re written in revisions. But you can’t revise unless you finish.

…To name a few. Link is here if you’d like to see more tips and encouragement on getting back to the grind. One page a day leads to seven pages a week and perhaps even 350 pages by the end of a year and there’s your book! So get it going!

Here’s a quote from my NanoWriMo 50,000 word outline (draft) for False Ignition I wrote in 2020 as a Prologue. It pains me to see that I was nailing this technology back then when it was right around the corner.

False Ignition

by Lucien Telford

Prohibitions and Laws on the use of artificial intelligences.

Article 86.

Prohibition.

No agency may deploy or use in any way, an artificially created intelligence, neural network, or quantum intelligence for the use of duplication, replication, or creation of any likeness of any individual that holds a government position of any kind. Furthermore, in the event that an entity, living or not, is discovered in the use of such content, the intelligence is to be deleted, its source code destroyed, and any humans involved prosecuted under the Artificial Intelligence Act, section 86, Prohibitions and Laws.

---

2020! Once I had submitted The Sequence I took advantage of the lockdown and beat NanoWriMo with a disjointed mess of a sequel to my first book and a solid place to start from. Lots was happening in our lives and the book took a back seat much of the time to promoting The Sequence, a part of the industry I knew very little about. So the learning curve was steep, time consuming, and in the end I didn’t get it right, but I will this time. I have people now.

I have however been discouraged lately with the lack of novel writing and then finding myself unable to complete even a basic short story for NYC Midnight. Discouraged is a place to rise from though, and I intend to do just that. Watch this space for more snippets and with a subscription over at The Short Version you can get a look at my shorter works plus some teasers from False Ignition.

Here’s a review from the SPSFC 2022 I hadn’t read in some time.

SPSFC3 2022

“The Sequence by Lucien Telford did have some reasons why it didn’t move on in the contest, but the author’s skill in talking about genetic engineering just gripped me viscerally. The mystery pulled me in like a tractor beam. In my own Exile War series, the characters all kind of take the attitude of “Oh yes, the genetic engineers were very horrible, but that was all centuries ago.” In The Sequence, it’s not centuries ago. It’s right now, it’s in your face. And the horrors of what it really takes to turn the human genome into your own personal art project will blow your mind. I wish the whole world could read this book before we go too far down this path, so we could be warned of what lies hidden underneath the promises of genetic engineering.” – Bowen Greenwood.

One more thing:

I came across this review for The Sequence generated by an AI on Amazon. By all accounts solid praise!

Customers say

Customers find the book has a fast-paced plot and engaging storyline. They appreciate the detailed world-building and descriptive writing style. The book is described as an interesting, enjoyable read that keeps readers engaged. Readers praise the clever use of biogenetics terminology and current genetic modification advancements. They also appreciate the short chapters that make it a quick read. Overall, customers describe the book as a great first novel by a skilled writer.

Saying Goodbye

Last night, while powering through as much study material as I could for the new job, I felt a finality, a piece of the grief cycle I’ve come to know as acceptance. That moment of clarity mixed with all the other stages of grief where I knew it was time to say goodbye, to cherish the memories, to acknowledge my own personal achievements and move forward. As always, we are heading in that direction at 500 miles an hour, and the landscape slows for no one.

Updates to follow when I find a gap in the study while I’m in Calgary next week.

Lots of photos I promise!

Apologize if you’ve read this before, but I feel as though I need to provide some proof that I’m actually doing work when I can. Please remember this a second draft, has not seen an editor and offers some incite into where I’m taking the book. It’s a major spoiler so read no further if you have to wait. The set up is that Fong and Woo have been sent to a possible homicide in Hong Kong where they are met by a young and new police officer eager to help, along with evidence that should have never left the scene they found it in the first place.

False Ignition

Chapter 21

Sixty stories high, standing on the rooftop of Amoy Gardens, the arms of his Tyvek suit tied around his waist, Woo watched as smoke from his cigarette curled and looped between his fingers before disappearing into the city’s white smog. He took a final drag, considered the crime scene he’d just left. He’d never lain a finger on the ribbon in TKO. In fact, whoever had placed it there had taken great care to ensure no DNA could possibly attach itself via a very expensive and difficult to construct molecular dusting containment measure.

Was he being paranoid? It stood to reason that a well-financed criminal syndicate like the Wo Shing Wo could not only afford to, but in fact couldn’t afford not to apply a high-priced containment to protect the identities of their operatives in a dump of genetically altered and cloned human bodies. But why include him? Who would want his involvement, or even his potential consideration as a suspect in this case? Had Rong noticed him? Had this become a two-way vendetta? No one had invited Rong to Woo’s investigation. But if Rong had taken an interest in Woo’s life, in his personal whereabouts, well then he would need to start taking specific steps to protect not only himself, but his investigative team, and in particular, Fong.

He tossed the butt end over the edge of the building, the smouldering ember flaring briefly as it spiralled towards the ground in a disintegrating trail of blackened ash.

—

“We got the pathogen testing team in here yet?” Woo asked the officer. “I need to know if this scene is contaminated or not.”

“On their way, sir.” The uniform said, swiping at his holo. “Shows ten minutes before they get here.”

“Ten minutes. Christ.” He moved to Fong, their inflated translucent helmets bobbing and bouncing as they touched.

“Fong when was the last typhoon?”

Fong took a long breath in. “Geez, boss. Maybe a couple of months ago? Let me look it up.”

“Every victim we investigated related to that TKO scene showed up the day after a typhoon had rolled through. No exceptions.”

Fong swiped at data. “Shows here that the last direct hit was at the beginning of the season, May.”

“That was a ten. They named it Ester.”

“Yes, boss.”

“So it’s been three months.”

“That’s correct, boss.”

He paced across the bedroom’s doorway entrance, massaging his temples. This was no suicide. Which meant someone placed this victim in the room, injected them with a deadly toxin and ran.

“Fong, this scene is a set up.”

Fong gave him a confused look. All eyebrows and squint.

“Why, boss?”

“It just, it feels like a trap.”

He spun in place. A shiver hit him up and down, full body. His stomach clenched with an anxiety he hadn’t felt since he’d been a boy.

“The ribbon is identical.”

Could it have been planted by another officer?

“The bot has confirmed that, boss.”

Someone on the inside?

“Like whoever set up this scene knew it would be me and you investigating.”

Christ. The Super.

Fong’s eyebrows raised. “We can go if you want, boss.” He couldn’t see what Woo saw. A deep, instinctual past pattern recognition. Not since the day he’d watched his father close the box containing his mother’s eyeballs had he felt such irrefutable terror.

“Fong.” Woo grabbed him by the shoulders. “Get your bot and fucking run.” He spun in place. “Grab any uniforms you can on your way out.”

“Boss?”

“Trust me, Fonger. We need to get out of this building, and we need to leave right fucking now. I will be right behind you.”

Woo turned back inside the unit, hustling towards the bedroom, his gait limited by the suit’s restrictive size. He held an open paper evidence bag in one hand. Without stopping, he shovelled as much dead skin and pooled blood inside it as he could. He continued past the male victim’s scalp, and as he ran through the living room he stopped at the delicately wrapped white ribbon, identical to the one he’d seen at a similar crime scene months prior. He video catalogued it using the suit’s visuals, taking care to have it analyze the soil, the pot, and the strangely coloured stem leading up the plant’s thin trunk into the ribbon.

“What in fuck?”

He unzipped, removed the helmet, examining the plant in close. The ribbon, the pair of wires leading up its stem. This was no pathogenic homicide, this was a trap, an attack on the Hong Kong Police Department.

He squeezed his lapel microphone’s push-to-talk switch, velcro’d to his shoulder underneath the suit.

“Everyone in this building is to evacuate immediately! This is a code orange. I say again. Code orange. Evacuate, evacuate, evacuate!”

He leapt down the stairwell, three steps at a time. Swiped open his wristband. “Fong?”

Fong responded in-between rushed breaths. “Boss!”

“Don’t stop running!” Five step jump. “This was a setup!” Swing around the railing. “The ribbon was a trigger!” Five step jump. “Clear the neighbourhood and do not stop running!”

Woo swiped for the precinct emergency line, broadcasting through all police datastream-linked devices in range of the band’s wireless.

All units in a one block radius of Amoy Gardens evacuate. Evacuate all personnel and equipment. all civilians must leave. This is a code orange attack. Save yourselves.

—

The Uniform

How embarrassing, the uniformed officer thought, clearing the contents of his stomach into the toilet, as per detective Woo’s explicit instructions, and flushed. How very embarrassing. He’d need to make up for this display of weakness. He stood at the sink, reminding himself to not use it, wiping his mouth with the sleeves of his blazer. He adjusted his hat in the mirror, checking his dress and deportment, trying to make himself look as professional as possible. He’d always wanted to be a detective, and this crime scene was a perfect opportunity to show that he was ready. Fresh vomit crusted his collar and sleeves. He eyed the toilet. Don’t use the sink, the detective had said. The toilet water though, that had to be fair game. He knelt down before the porcelain bowl, removed his precinct wristband and splashed the freshly replaced water from the toilet over his cuffs, dowsing his collar until the pale and lumpy remains were no longer visible, then snapped his wristband back in place. As he did, he heard an announcement through the band’s audio. …must leave. This is a code orange attack… Confused, he straightened his cap and walked back into the living room, his head held high, his shoulders back, wondering where there could be an attack. Code orange meant mass casualties. Or was that code blue? There were just so many colours, he couldn’t remember them all. Shaking his head, he wandered the apartment, looking for the detectives, but they were gone. In fact everyone had left, even the forensics personnel. He picked up a paper evidence bag off the carpet, thinking he might collect something important while they were out, maybe make up for his fragile stomach. A small tree stood alone in the middle of the living room, a white ribbon tied in a perfect bow around its trunk, an evidence marker face down on the floor beside it. He picked it up, a stencilled number seven on one end. Could the detectives have missed this thin strip of fabric tied to a tree? A perfect opportunity, he thought. He opened his evidence bag and with one gloved hand he gently tugged on the bow, intending to show the detectives that he would make a great investigator, that he noticed evidence just like they did. As he pulled on the ribbon, he felt a slight rumble in the floor, his legs becoming unsteady. He pulled harder on the bow, wondering two things: why the floor was moving as though he were standing on the deck of a large boat like the Wan Chai ocean-going ferries, and why the ribbon was bound to the plant so tightly. He yanked on it once more, this time removing the bow entirely. He held it up to the light from the window as the floor shuddered with a violent jolt. Dangling from one end of the bow was what initially had looked like a small root, but on closer inspection he saw that the root had two veins, and where they were exposed, one was red, the other white. Another rumble dropped him to his knees, then a brief sensation of falling. Floating just beyond his reach, the evidence bag fluttered like a feather just above his head. He stepped towards the bag but found no footing. Beneath the shine of his polished black boots the floor fell away from him, breaking into smaller and smaller pieces. A loud rush of air grew in volume and physical intensity. He felt an impossible rise in his stomach and as he frantically searched the room for something to hold on to, the walls cracked and shattered. The entire building then somehow leaned away from him, crumbling into pieces, the neighbouring apartment blocks rising up into the sky as though they had taken flight. And then amongst the chaos came the sudden, horrific realization that the thing accelerating towards him was the ground.