Matthew S. Rotundo's Pixeltown

Yeah, yeah, I know I’m a day late with this.  I’m sure you managed to somehow slog through your Monday without any wit or erudition from me.

Notched 4K on Apocalypse Pictures Presents, bringing Magic Meter to here:

Fell short of the weekly goal, but I did spend a day chatting with my muse, making some notes on this oh-so-murky second act, and hoping to get a glimpse of the ending.  It didn’t take long for me to make a few connections between plotlines and characters–including an extremely minor player who’s been mentioned in the novel a few times, but who has never appeared on stage.  I hadn’t been planning to do much with him; I just made him up to get me past a certain plot point.  As it turns out, he’s quite a bit more important than I first thought.

I do so love little discoveries like that.  They’re what make first drafts fun.

I spent the rest of that day researching a location–and boy, was I glad I did.  A bit of Googling led me to the mother lode.  I learned something about my setting that’s going to fit very nicely into the story.  I mean, it’s perfect, and I never would have thought of it on my own.  It does amaze, the things one can find on the Internet.

So I lost a day’s worth of words, but I gained some invaluable insights into this story, and actually have a sense of direction for once.  Fair trade, I’ll call it.

Snippet time:

No matter the situation, Susan always felt better working.  Making the movie drove the myriad distractions from her mind, helped her focus on the task at hand.  It enabled her to ignore the fact that they were in the middle of heavily fortified, hostile territory, where one wrong move could doom them all.  It freed her mind from nagging worry, from the omnipresent concerns of survival and security.  She forgot, at least for a time, her misgivings about Gil and his unhealthy obsession.  She could ignore the surreality of the Universal Backlot, encapsulating all of New York City in a couple of blocks–with dashes of London and Paris thrown in for spice.  When they were shooting or preparing to shoot, she could be the actress she had once dreamt of becoming.

And she had to admit to a certain exhilaration at filming here, in a place no one in their right mind would dream of attempting.  If they pulled this off, if they ever got to show the movie to any audience, what a wonder it would be.  The story of how it came to be made might be far more entertaining than the film itself.  Too bad no one was shooting any behind-the-scenes footage for a later documentary.

No updates for Write Club.

And I’m out.

Back on the productivity wagon, logging 5K on Apocalypse Pictures Presents.  Magic Meter is pleased:

Passed a couple of milestones last week:  first, I closed out Act One.  Second, I passed the 40K mark, which makes Apocalypse Pictures Presents officially a novel, according to SFWA.

Gawd, it’s been a slog these last few weeks.  I’m well and truly into the infamous Muddle in the Middle.  And brother, we’re talking some serious muddle here.  On the Muddle Scale, it’s probably up there at about 9.5.   Maybe even 9.6.  It takes nerves of steel to navigate muddle of that magnitude.

Look what I found in the muddle last week:

“You’re not allowed in there,” the pastor said.  “None of you.”

Susan pulled her pistol, put it to the man’s head.  “This guy’s seen too much.”

Gil was inclined to agree.  They could probably stow the body in the closet.  That would buy them a few days, before the smell finally drove someone to investigate.  By then, they would be–

“No,” the Animate said.  “Don’t.  You can’t.  He’s too important.  He would be missed.”

Gil winced.  “Fine.  We’ll bring him, then.  You’ll get to decide what to do with him.”  He addressed the rest of the group.  “Let’s go.  Everyone into the tunnel.  Quick, before the good pastor’s friends arrive.”

One thing after another.  He’d never get the damned movie made at this rate.

(Disclaimer:  Kids, don’t try this at home.  I am a trained professional.)

No updates for Write Club.

Uncharted waters ahead . . .