Are Fedoras Really That Bad?

Abled Person: Hey man, can you hold this wad of $2,000 and this one penny for me while I open my wallet?

Disabled Person: YOU COMPLETE AND UTTER FOOL!

The United States Government:

(Watch how many people don’t get this.)

Been in a funk lately. :/ So I’m experimenting with different techniques to try and get myself out of it.

Queen Hatshepsut of Ancient Egypt. She has a lovely smile for someone who’s been dead for thousands of years.

Bow in reverance to the glowy crystal phallus!

It’s a celebration of LOVE!!

Something possessed me into making this cake so I enlisted the help of @cold-brew-colors since I can’t bake for shit. I drew most of the chocolate Zonda though. It was made in celebration of the release of Gunvolt 2!

The adorable little figure is the wonderful handiwork of @bupiti! She’s even more cute in-person!! Thanks again for her!

when i was seven the sea-witch cursed me.

she cursed my great-grandfather, actually, who had spat on the hands of the ocean and disrespected the beating heart of the earth - for what else are waves but a pulse - who was silly and violent and who tried to rip from the water what was hers by rights. we were wealthy, before that, a family of merchants. my mother says in her youth she recalls white horses, the gleam of candles, early mornings with bread baked fresh by a horde of servants.

he didn’t ask permission to cross her. that’s what my mother tells me while she spoons porridge with no flavor into the wood of my bowl. he had no faith in superstition, rode with boats that were more decoration than strength, the folly of a man who was cruel and vain and proud of his own gold teeth. the sky had been blue, so regardless of what the village witch said, he would sail that day. and when his boat sank; their lives turned blue like the sky that day.

my mother says she thinks the curse on the men of our family, even if they come in when they marry, is that they will forever be violent, too foolish to see the storm on the horizon. she whispers this to me on the eve of my seventh birthday, while father is his own storm, thundering around the house, looking for her. later, when i am cleaning the cut by her cheek, she tells me the curse is on the women to forever be unhappy, to wane until they are shadows, to walk into the deep like a sinking ship. 

we don’t burn candles often, they are too expensive. she tells me this in the silk of a dark room. the moon kisses her hair. 

in three days, my mother will walk into the ocean, and my father will be my own problem. the curse will pass onto me. 

my father does not believe in superstition, no curse to conquer him. when he is gone, and i am heartbroken, i go to the village witch. i ask her to teach me about magic, and other things, and about how the ocean can be coaxed, and how to save my father’s soul. 

and my hands rot too, keeping a house by myself with things i barely knew. i learn the art of a good scrubbing, keep my mind full of white horses while i endlessly clean, dream of candles in dark while i make the bread that he will not allow me to eat. he keeps me from the ocean, from visiting the place that took my mom, from following in her footsteps where the water makes women undone.

i am sixteen when i see her in the water of a bowl. she scares me so completely that i drop it, and my father comes in with his hands, and the curse, and i almost forget all about it. it isn’t until after that i realize she is beautiful, and young, which surprises me. 

i think about it every evening. her face becomes distorted to me. i can no longer remember the exact shape of it, only the impression of beauty. 

i turn seventeen and wait for the high moon. i pin safety to my vest in little witch herbs and runes. i put naked toes on the sand and slip closer, closer, to the avenue of my family’s doom. i find a little private beach, small and surrounded by rocks, hidden from my father in the event he ever thought to come looking. at high tide, it is barely the span of my body. at low, it feels empty.

the witch of the land has given me what i need to call in the witch of the sea, but i do not use it. it feels wrong, somehow, standing here in the wind and the quiet pulse of the world. i put down the incense and sage and i sit just close enough it feels wild, dangerous - but not close enough to get caught up in thrill. 

when nothing happens, i go home and i make bread that i will not eat.

for months i do this. i climb down to my beach. i learn to do it when the moon is half, and then when the moon is empty. i learn to do it so well that sometimes i go to sleep in my own bed and wake up by the water. i take to sleeping with warding runes to keep me from being pulled in the rip out to the waiting hands of a hungry sea-witch.

i don’t know when i start talking. more often i sing, because singing in my house is not allowed, and something about the way the rocks echo my voice feels comforting. the older i get, the more i can pretend i hear my mother’s voice, answering me, harmonizing gently. i sing songs about sadness and lullabies about curses. when i have exhausted every song i know, i write new ones about fathers who have never learned how to be kind, about the house i work in but do not love, about mothers who left, and about a sea witch.

i see her sometimes. in a puddle, in the drop of rain, in the strangest places. i never expect it, although i always hope. i am never able to see her for more than the length of a wave, breaking, and each time, it does something new to my heart.

at eighteen i am too much of my father’s burden. he tries to unload me onto other men. the land witch helps me with this. i rub hemlock, burn wolfsbane. we arrange so these men have other women to marry. the news of my curse is bad enough to scare most away. my father is not happy.

after a particularly savage night, i wonder how bad it could be. i could marry some boy from the village who didn’t quite bother me. i suppose they’re not ugly. timothy had always been gentle to me. i think about a life, and how i am cursed to be unhappy. my father would finally be proud of me.

i walk to the beach and i tell the waves about him and how i could convince myself it was love if i just never wanted from him. how i could be okay, if not content, how i could be free, how i already had learned life down on knees.

but i go home and i write a rune of warding. and the years pass and i find reasons each suitor is wanting. and the sea witch i see, sometimes, peeking out at me, staying long each time in the water, looking, watching. i see her in mirrors when my father storms against me. it is bad because he mistakes the cause of my smiling. it is better when she is there the next morning.

and i go to the ocean. when i am too sad to speak, it seems like the ocean is whispering for me. i picture my mother’s voice and tell myself i am happy. i am seven again and we are sewing. i am seven again and the curse has not been given to me. i am seven and she came home after she walked to the sea.

i grow silly, brave, unthinking. i leave behind the herbs and i wade deep. i teach myself the art of swimming. i am bad at it, at first, but something about it feels good to me. like the ocean wants to buoy me. in the day i think of it, guilty. what if there was a rip tide, and the water took me? who would care for my father if i stepped off the beach into a long drop? wasn’t i clever enough to know that the ocean is uncaring?

it is not this that does it. i go out after a rain and i slip on the rocks and suddenly i am in water above my head but without the moon i cannot see the up of it. i kick and i thrash and the water surrounds me. the tide pulls on my body and in the cold i feel my body grow weary. water spills into me. it punches through my body, up my nose and into my lungs and some part of me knows this is what mother felt before she was gone.

i kick ground by accident, reorient, drag myself heaving and spitting into the air. i lie there for a long time, half in and half out of death, enjoying the sensation of breathing and of life.

when i look up, i think i see her, watching me, her brows knit with something like worry. but we make eye contact and my heart leaps and then she is gone and i am left alone with nothing but the dawn breaking.

my father is furious when there is no bread. he finds my hair wet, and the salt of the ocean still smelling on me. and that is it. that day he goes out and pays someone to agree to marry me.

this feels right to me, i think. i’m twenty-one, three times seven, a perfect number for a curse to fully come down on me. i will be wed in three weeks.

the land witch comes to visit me. she looks like she’s sorry for me. she gives me a spell and tells me to put it under my pillow; i’ll dream of love and it will soothe me. instead i dream of the seawitch, and how wonderful she is, and the sight of her, out on the water, worried.

even though it is risky, i go down to the beach. i do not bother with protective spells, i have already seen that the water can kill me. fear alone keeps me from wandering. i sit on the beach and in the sand i draw runes for understanding and i make the small magicks i’ve spent years learning and i close my eyes and i ask the ocean “why do you do this to me.”

i fall asleep. i dream that the sea witch talks to me. i dream she is my age, that she is the great-granddaughter of the first to curse my family. i dream she has spent years watching, learning, finding the truth of me. that she just needs to get the courage to come and speak, that she has fallen in love with my singing, that she knows no curse but the one in her heart that brings her back to a human, to a creature of air and not water, to a mistake in the making.

in the dawn i know it is a dream and no more. i make bread. i pour water out before it can make mirrors. i do not look. i do not like the ache that has filled me, as if i’ve been looking for an answer and the answer only leads to longing.

the man i meet - my husband-to-be - is delighted by the house i keep. he believes a woman should keep in her place, and her place should be clean. he hears from neighbors that sometimes i sneak out to the land witch’s house. laughter barks out of him. not going to allow that behavior, not me. he does not believe in curses. he will pack me up and move me from the ocean to somewhere in the mountains, where i know nobody. and i will, he promises, learn to keep my place, and that place clean.

i tell myself i could love him. he is not ugly. he says i’m pretty enough after whiskey. my father mentions i used to sing. i refuse to perform for these men so instead i make them cookies. they laugh and talk about me, even when i am in the room, as if they cannot even see. they shake hands and talk about how useless a woman is for much else than breeding. it’s very funny. the man meets my eyes and promises he’ll put a baby in me. i look down and pretend the thrill i feel is excitement, not fear brewing in me.

the land witch comes by a week before my wedding. she is smaller these days, aging. her apprentice and i get along wonderfully. the two women stand before me, holding something. 

a small box, so tiny and lovely. “break the curse,” the witch whispers, “learn to be happy.”

i smuggle the box, take it everywhere with me. it is days before i have a moment to slip away, to open it by the sea. i take a candle with me, even though my father will notice and be angry.

by the light of fire i read the spell they have left me inside, and then i am so full of gratitude i cannot stop crying.

it must be a full moon, so i must wait. in the meantime, i walk home, and i bake. 

i do not see the seawitch, even though i look for her. maybe i have wounded her, getting married. my father asks why i keep smiling. i tell him it is because i am finally with a man. he grunts and says to stop looking so silly. 

the man kisses me. i let him. we are married on a night with a full moon, and i poison him and my father in the bread i did not eat. i think of how these men were cursed so they could not see a storm coming. i watch them as they lie there, dying, and then i put all of the things i own into a basket for the land witch. i leave it there with a song i wrote for her, a spell i know will make her happy, will stop the aging of her joints, will give her the kind of relief she gave me. 

i go down to the water. i find myself running, even though i am in no hurry. i know the way so well it is like i wake up there, panting. i ask permission first. i lay out the contents of the box, i organize and practice and when the needle and pain comes, i am ready for it. i am used to pain at night. i breathe into it and walk naked into waters that swallowed my mother.

i chew bitter herbs. i swallow fire. i feel myself drown as i change from land witch to sea witch. 

when it is done, i open my eyes in the deep of a moonlit ocean. and i see her. 

this time she does not flicker. this time when i reach for her, she is there, and she is pushing my hair out of my eyes, and we are kissing with the ocean rejoicing around us, and i am laughing, and i hear her voice as clear as bell inside me.

and we live like this, a whole world between us where white horses are the size of pinky fingers and swim with their thin snouts, where i need no candles because i was raised lightless, where we have no servants but the water takes care of us. i show her the magic of land and she unfolds the magic of water. together we are unstoppable. when i come up to the air to sing little girls a promise that they can survive the madness, she sings with me, and we make a beautiful harmony.

The Sound Of Silence really does exist, and it’s the lingering echoes of the Big Bang. Without warning, those echoes finally fade and stop… and you can hear what true silence sounds like for the first time…

The Wreckers - In the Junkyard

Another round of thugly antics. Again, check out Puckarooni for her Pokemon Superhero AU. Cool jams, friendos.

Alolan Joe - Alolan Ratata Leader and self proclaimed mousestache afficianado

Ben - Spearow Brawn of the group of Bachelor of Thuganomics

Zach - Zigzagoon Dunno what he’s doing, but he’s doing it well

Sherman - Sentret Newbie, but he makes up for it with heart

~~~

“Alright, Gents.” Joe said, strapping on his goggles

“Who wants to go first?”

Ben and Sherman’s hands both shot up, Zach was taking his time strapping on his hard hat.

Joe stroked his luxurious lip fluff, “Hmm, let’s see what the new recruit has to offer. Sherman, you’re up.”

Sherman pumped his fist and smiled at Ben. Ben gave him a curt snort before tossing the sledgehammer at him. Sherman fumbled the catch but managed to miss having it land on his toes. He gathered up the hammer and scurried to the center of the junkyard where they had set up their latest target. A sleek, heavy duty, Ironclad™ mini-vault safe.

“Okay,” Sherman said, squaring his feet and tugging at his leather gloves. “Watch this.”

He brought the sledgehammer way back behind him, twisting almost all the way around. He then let out a warrior cry, something of a mix between a painful yelp and yodelling, and brought the sledgehammer against the side of the safe. The metal-on-metal clang rang out through the junkyard. The others brought their hands up over their ears. The safe keeled onto two of its legs before settling back to stability. The ringing died out and Sherman turned around.

His whole body was shaking from the heavy impact. “How was that?”

Zach gave a golf clap, Joe chuckled under his breath. Ben shook his head, “Alright alright, amateur hour is over. We don’t have all night to bust this thing open.”

He sauntered over to Sherman and snagged the sledge out of his trembling hands. Sherman smiled up at him, expectantly. Ben scowled down the bridge of his nose at him. “Uh…Not bad, I guess.” He sniffed and noticed the small dent at the side of the safe, “Now, stand back. Let me show you how it’s done.” He smirked.

Sherman nodded and scuttled back a few steps. Ben took the sledgehammer in his hands and tested its weight, a few test swings swiping at the air. Like a baseball star, he rolled his shoulders, spat on his hands, shook his arms out.

“While we’re young, tough guy.” Joe called out.

“Bite Me, Nerd!” Ben hollered back.

Joe folded his arms and laughed. He turned to Zach, “Think he can actually bust that thing open?”

Zach had finished suiting up with a dust mask and looked like a post-apocalyptic refugee. Zach looked at Ben’s prep ritual and shrugged. “Maybe.”

“I heard that.” Ben said, shouldering the hammer, “Okay, here we go.” He whipped the hammer high over his head and roared his own battle cry. For a whole minute, Ben whaled against the safe. He slammed the sides, top and legs, driving the safe into the dirt. Over and over the hammer fell to the brittle tune of clanging metal. When he finished, the sledge hammer landed beside him with a heavy thud. Ben fought to catch his breath.

“Damn, what’s this thing made of?”

“WHAT!?” Shouted Sherman, standing a few feet away.

“I SAID! -Nevermind.” Ben dragged the hammer back to where Joe was standing. Zach had vanished to places unknown. Sherman hustled behind him.

“Alright, Joe.” Ben said, holding out the hammer to him. “Show us what you got.”

Joe lifted his eyebrows, “What’s this? You’ve given up?”

Sherman, ears slowly returning to their rightful tone frequency, chimed in, “Hey hey, I can go again.”

Ben ignored him, “This was your idea, fearless leader. Let’s see you put your money where your mouth is.”

Joe looked at the hammer, then back at Joe. “Alright, Ben.” He took the tool out of Ben’s hands, “But when I crack this thing open, I expect you to start treating me with a little more respect.”

Ben scoffed as Joe whisped past him. Sherman scooted up beside Ben, who stepped a little bit away. Sherman followed. Ben grumbled.

Joe came to the center of the junkyard. The atmosphere of the yard became heavy. He dragged the metal sledge along the ground and it rattled against the various pieces of scrap along the way. The florescent lights hummed above and there was a quiet breeze that picked up a few scattered bits of paper, causing them to dance in the air.

Joe squared off with the safe. He took a deep breath and pulled the heavy sledge hammer into the air. He ratcheted his torso, twisting back and leveling the hammer. The air stood still in anticipation. Ben and Sherman held their breath, along with Zach, whom had returned at some point. Then, with a mighty howl, Joe spun his body and connected with the pointed edge of the safe. The metal clang was joined with a loud crack and snap. The head of the sledgehammer sailed through the air and landed a few feet away from Joe with a dull thud. The safe had been scuffed to the side a few inches, but aside from that was unchanged.

Ben clucked and doubled over, laughing heartily. Sherman shouted from beside him, “That was Awesome!”

Joe turned and casually walked over to the busted head of the hammer. He regarded it before gathering the lump of metal and returning to the rest of the crew.

“Well gents, looks like- Ben you can stop now- looks like we’ll need another plan.”

“What’s in the safe, anyway?” Sherman asked.

“Documents, of some nature.” Said Joe. “They must be pretty dangerous if they want us to Wreck them.”

“What if,” Sherman said, looking excitedly between Joe and Ben, Zach had shuffled off to sniff around the safe. “What if we just hold the stuff ransom? Maybe we can blackmail the guy?”

Joe stroked his stache. Ben gathered himself, “No, cause then we wouldn’t be the Wreckers anymore.” He folded his arms in a tough guy flex, “We’d be the Blackmailers. Or whatever.”

Joe nodded, “He’s right, and I’m already getting T-shirts made.”

“We’re Getting T-Shirts?” Sherman exclaimed.

“You bet, as soon as we crack this safe. Now then.” Joe looked at the busted sledgehammer, “We’ll need a new plan to get those–”

“Done,” Zach said, holding up a manila folder stuffed with documents, the word “classified” was barely visible on a sheet jutting from the mass.

They all looked at the folder, then to the safe, the door was open with no further apparent damage. Joe, with an exceedingly puzzled look on his face, took the folder.

Sherman gawked, “How did you do that?”

Zach held out his hands and gestured with is fingers, wiggling them and twisting his wrist. “Just…ya know.” He did some more wangjangling and fidgeting, “That.” He nodded with a satisfied look on his face.

Sherman watched the display intently, mimicking the frivolous actions as best he could. When Zach was done, he looked at his hands. “That’s wild,” He said, a little disheartened that it made little sense to him.

Ben scoffed, “Well, whatever. I probably loosened it up for him.” He looked over to Joe, “Alright, so now..?” He trailed off expectantly.

Joe took the hint and walked over to an oil drum, “Now, we do what we do best.” He tossed the folder into the bin.

“We Wreck Stuff!” Sherman called out and ran back to the edge of the clearing, grabbing a half tank of gasoline they had stashed there. He hustled it over to Ben and handed off the payload. Sherman had not yet achieved “Burn it” status yet, but he was eager to help.

They gathered around the drum as Ben poured in a responsible amount of fuel into the drum, and then added an irresponsible amount with a sinister grin.

Joe held a hand out to Zach, who whipped a match from his pocket and placed it into Joe’s palm. “Alright Ben, that’s enough.”

Ben rejoined them and set down the tank of gasoline. The three of them watched Joe expectantly.

“This is another job,” Joe lit the match with a strike against his teeth, “Well done.”

He tossed the match into the oil drum and it immediately burst into a column of flame. The four of them stepped back at the spectacle.

“This is so damn cool.” Said Sherman. “Don’t you think this is cool?” He said, turning to Zach.

“Maybe.” Said Zach, who was already busy trying to pry open the lid of what looked like a jewel box.

Ben glanced at Joe, “‘Well done’? Are you freakin serious?”

“What can I say, I have a–,” Joe turned to Ben, so the firelight glimmered off his goggles, “Flare for dramatics.”

Ben groaned.

Happiness Will Come To You.

Magical Dangers

In this world, magical creatures exist alongside human beings. They have been helping us in small ways, more as appeasement than some sort of benevolence.

...

The room bustled with the shifting of chairs and the scribbling of notes. The company had brought in one of the top instructors in the field of magic theory to explain things to the industry leaders. The slides had been packed with information with the audience in different stages of understanding.

"Are there any questions so far?" The instructor said, levitating a glass of water to drift to his hand. He took a sip before adding, "Let's continue."

"Excuse me," an executive said, raising his hand, "So, why is it that humans are not allowed to use magic?"

The instructor turned from his presentation to look at the executive, seated among peers who had already shifted slightly away from him.

"Hmm, a good question. Are you prepared for the answer?" The instructor said. The executive nodded.

"Alright. Then let me begin by asking you a question. Why were you late to this meeting?"

The executive looked taken aback, then cleared his throat, "Uh, sorry about that. Had some trouble finding the meeting room."

The instructor nodded thoughtfully. Then he said, "You are lying."

The executive choked out a laugh and shrugged, "Right. Magic."

"No, not magic," The instructor said. He patted his terminal desktop, "Security cameras. The contents of which I will keep secure." He added to the panicked executive. "I apologize for scaring you, but this leads into my point. Humans can lie."

There came a murmur through the audience. Fae in the crowd gave uneasy glances to human coworkers. For their part, some gave apologetic nods and others gave indignant grumbles, and some stayed perfectly still and silent.

Another member of the audience raised their hand, a Fae woman. The instructor sipped his water again before acknowledging her.

"Does being able to lie make you unable to use magic?" She asked.

The instructor set down his cup and sighed. "Quite the opposite, my child." He turned to his terminal and tapped on the screen to open a new projection.

"Humans and Fae are not terribly different, you see." He clicked through the slides, each a colorful, albeit somewhat childish, depiction of humans and Fae.

"Among the most notable differences will be our lifespan," A new slide showed the young elf and the ghost of a human, "and our Oum," It showed the outline of an elf and a person with something glowing in their bodies. "Which has been loosely translated to the 'soul'."

The elf had a blue color while the human's was red.

A few members of the audience were taking notes, others had checked out and were scrolling through their devices. Still others, mostly humans, were watching and already forming the chip which grows on one's shoulder when they are told they are fundamentally incapable of something.

A young man in the front row wearing a rather irritated look on his face spoke up, "I don't see how being able to lie means we can't use magic."

The instructor became visibly irritated at the interruption.

"Again, it's not that you can't, it is that you are not allowed." The screen clicked off as he faced the audience. "Because it isn't the lies you tell others that makes you dangerous," He gestured to the audience, "It's the lies you tell yourself!"

The room darkened and speckled with flickers of lights, the air became a dazzling display of the night sky.

"Humans try to fathom the impossible. The infinite of space and time and you have made marvelous progress. But how much can you hope to comprehend? You live for barely a century and half of that is spent in diapers!" The lights in the room began to hum and float around, circling the instructor.

"You are like bees. Industrious and fascinating, but dangerous in your numbers. If a single bee were to come to you and ask for the method to nuclear energy, not only would you doubt she would understand, but if she did even by mistake figure it out, you could scarcely trust that she would be responsible with it! It's just not in the nature of these tiny beings to handle things so far beyond their ken." The instructor tapped one of the motes of buzzing light. It turned red and began to spin around faster and faster. "And if just ONE of these little, marvelous beings manages to seduce the secrets from you and the rotten history of your kind repeats itself--" He trailed off as the red buzzing light flickered and exploded, causing a wave of heat and a shower of sparks, and left the room empty of light. The instructor held up his hand, where the manacle on his wrist hummed with a red light, "Well, you have to bear the weight of your decision forever." He dropped his hand. The room was silent.

Eventually, he lifted his head, the light returning to the room.

"May I continue?" He asked. He nodded to the following silence. "Very well." He clicked back to the original presentation and continued.

How I turned an idea into an outline

With NaNoWriMo around the corner, I thought I might show you how I plotted my novel.

This is the story structure I used:

0% inciting incident

0%-20% introduction in the world, ends with a point of no return

20% first plot point: the hero receives his marching orders

20%-50% response to the first plot point

35% first pinch point: reminder of the nature of the antagonistic force

50% midpoint: big fat plot twist that changes the hero’s AND reader’s experience

50%-80% attack: the stakes are higher now

65% second pinch point: again reminding the reader of the antagonistic forces at hand

80% second plot point: the final injection of new information into the story to give the hero everything she needs to become the primary catalyst in the story’s conclusion (no new information past this point)

80%-100% resolution + final conflict + return home

I didn’t make this up. I think it’s by Larry Brooks, if The Internet informs me correctly. Fun Fact: once you pay attention to it, you’ll see this structure everywhere. Just take a look at any Harry Potter book, for example.

These points are the “bones” of my story. Next, I decided what “flesh” to put on them.

I simply made a list of things I like to read about:

Books about books and libraries

Magic

Quirky characters

Intelligent, fast-paced and sometimes silly

So, I combined this list and the structure points into a story that makes sense. Because I don’t want to spoil my plot / I am still to shy about my wip, I will make up a new plot for this post, so I can show you.

0%: The hero does something magical without knowing how she did it. She discards it, because everybody knows it can’t have been real.

0%-20%: We see the daily life of the hero: she is unhappy because all she wants to do is read, but she is not allowed to. She reads in the dead of night and is punished for it by her evil stepcousin. She finds a book on magic.

20% It all clicks together: she can do magic!

20%-50% The daily life for the hero changes. Instead of reading all night, she practices magic. She now loves books even more. She has little victories over her evil stepcousin, but hasn’t won yet.

35% The evil stepcousin finds out that she can do magic and takes away the magic book.

50% She discovers she can do magic without the book.

50%-80% The hero is not the only one who is bullied by the evil stepcousin. Her younger cousin is a victim as well, and he doesn’t have magic to defend himself. The stakes are raised, this is bigger than herself now. The younger cousin also wants to read, so they have several bonding moments over reading.

65% The evil stepcousin hurts the younger cousin, he’s in a coma now.

80% The hero discovers the evil stepcousin could do all these evil things because he knows magic too.

80%-100% The hero confronts the evil stepcousin, fights him off, nearly loses but wins in the end. He gives up and releases his power over the younger cousin who wakes up from the coma.

It’s not the most genius plot ever, but I literally made this up in minutes. So can you! And imagine the genius plot you can come up with if you spend more than a few minutes on it.

Then I calculated how many scenes I need in which part of the story. My wip is a YA or 12+ book, so I want it to contain about 75,000 words in total. I want my scenes to be around 1,000 words long to keep it snappy, so I need 75 scenes.

Scene number 1 (0%) is the inciting incident, scene number 15 (20%) is the first plot point, scene number 26 (35%) is the first pinch point, scene number 37 (50%) is the midpoint, scene number 49 (65%) is the second pinch point, scene number 60 (80%) is the second plot point and scene 75 (100%) is the last scene.

Some sidenotes on the 1,000-word scenes:

That’s more of a vague rule of thumb than a strict rule. If your scene needs to be longer or shorter, make it longer or shorter of course. My wip has some 2,300-word scenes as well.

Having 1,000-word scenes does not mean I have 1,000-word chapters, that would be really short. I will divide my novel into chapters after I’m finished writing my first draft.

For NaNoWriMo, maybe you could write scenes of 1,667 words, so you do one scene per day. A 50,000-word novel has 30 scenes of 1,667 words. Inciting incident is at scene 1, first plot point at scene 6, first pinch point at scene 11, midpoint at scene 15, second pinch point at scene 20, second plot point at scene 24 and scene 30 is your last scene. That’s just an idea, you got to see what works for you.

Then I made up in one sentence what will happen in every scene. For example: “They meet the dragon and he sends them on a sidequest.” Now my outline consists of 75 one-sentence scenes. This way, I prevent the problem of the sagging middle and other pacing problems and I still get to surprise myself when writing.

From those one-sentence scenes, I flesh out every scene into a first draft, using the process I described in my post How I never have to face an empty page when I write.

And that’s my first draft! I hope everything is clear. Feel free to ask me questions if it isn’t.

I’m gonna tag a few people I admire, who I hope are interested. If you aren’t, feel free to ignore me, or message me to take you off my tag list. If you would like to be added to my writing advice tag list, let me know.

Keep reading