Out into the deep blue...novel?

My pre-manuscript notes have piled up to a ridiculous degree in the past two weeks of prep, and I've finally decided that it's time to get going on the bulk of the project.
That's right. A Tale of Two Princes is coming off the drawing board and hitting the page. I'm working on an average of 5 pages per day, so the first draft should be finished by April. I'll give myself another 6 months to revise, and then a year to get it on shelves. I've got a lot of people anticipating the end of this road, and as such, you can bet that I won't back out halfway through.
I'm diving in. October 2010, here we come!

Down, but not out.

I'm going to try and walk out of this one with a smile. After all, it's only been a week.
I guess those circumstances I was talking about worked against a relationship more than I initially suspected. At least we didn't go far enough to make friendship impossible...or maybe I did. Only time will tell.
To put it bluntly (because sometimes nothing else really cuts it) I fucking hate God's habit of toying with me. On the other hand, I guess this gives me more time to work on my book. But is that happiness really fair compensation?
I think this calls for guitar more than anything.

"I miss you."

Oh, the power in those words.
As I write this, I'm listening to "Princes and Damsels" by Jake Goodman (yes, I'm still listening to that guy) and talking with my cousin Kate on another 'net tab.
My first words: "hey there."
Hers: "i miss you."
After a few moments of silence, she said, "let's see each other, really soon."
I don't know why. Those words just hit me a bit hard. See, my girlfriend and I have both had it a bit rough in the romance department, and both of us are done with being young and reckless and free-falling (enjoyable as it may be). So despite all the promising beginnings, we're taking it real slow -- treading carefully, so to speak -- not that that's a bad thing. It just...lacks the thrill I'm used to.
I feel like if I was actually able to just sit down and talk with her and hang out away from the class desks more often, then things might get where I feel they could be, but everything's stopping that from happening.
I just wish I could hear Silvia say something like "let's see each other, really soon." I know she would, given the chance. But our increasingly busy lives are conspiring against us.
So here I sit at the computer, with a dead cell phone in my hand. It died as I was leaving Silvia a voice mail. Right before I said the words "I miss you."

Down to Business.

A Tale of Two Princes has a lot of potential -- so much, in fact, that I don't trust myself with it. I've started taking this very, very seriously (don't get me wrong, I have no doubt that the process will still be enjoyable); the manner in which I've decided to get things done is, I think, very businesslike.
The book has several phases...

1. History
2. Romance
3. Buildup
4. Pursuit/Revenge (Active Protagonist)
5. Cat-and-Mouse (Active Antagonist)
6. Confrontation

I've presented my synopsis to a host of people, and of these, I've found several who are particularly interested in one phase of the story over all the others. I still need a couple more, but the plan is this: once I have a person designated for each phase, I'll have them shoot as many questions at me and pose as many suggestions as they can, concerning plot, character, setting, etc. All this input will be taken into consideration, and these six peoples' names will appear in the "Special Acknowledgments" section once the book is released.
This is shaping up extremely well. It's going to be a very engaging project. So don't expect to hear from me for a while; I'll be too busy writing. :)

Freedom!

You're all still free to assist with A Tale of Two Princes, but I'm now very much past my Writer's Block. Turns out all I had to do was extend the beginning of the book, return to the origins, and write a six-page synopsis of the whole thing. Who knew?
On a different note, I just finished reading Jonathan Strange & Mr. Norrell yesterday for the third time around. I think I'm going to take a vacation from reading for a while; who knows where to -- behind the sky; the other side of the rain...it's all just as well. I need some time to focus more on the Tale.
I'm beginning to think that, despite this being very early in a writing career that hasn't even taken off yet, A Tale of Two Princes will be my masterwork. I just get the feeling. This concept is so full of things that I can work with, on so many levels, that it may be the best writing I'll ever produce. And while that may seem very energizing at first, it's also very daunting to think that if, indeed, this proves true, another such work will never come from my hands again.
It's an interesting journey -- and one I fully intend to carry out to its completion. Wish me luck!

Writer's Block

I'm having some trouble with my Tale of Two Princes, and I could use some assistance. Check out the excerpts I've posted thus far, and send me an email(seraphim407@gmail.com). I'll provide any plot details I have set down so that you can give useful suggestions. And for those of you asking in your heads, yes, your name will appear in the Special Acknowledgments once the book is released.
I need all the help I can get here. Much appreciated!

Urban Monk

My head feels naked. But Silvia likes it, so I won't complain.

And We Have Liftoff

I can't quite describe it. But then again, it's one of those things that defies description; words may paint a picture, but no amount can fully do it justice.
It's like water. No cage of words can capture it; no net, no matter how carefully woven, can pull it in for inspection; and just when you think you have the answer in your hands, it slips away, leaving you only with droplets and the strangest sense of futility.
It's times like this, when you're falling and flying at the same time, that words utterly fail. Love is one of the few beautiful things that make this ugly world tolerable.
I'm in the clouds. We have liftoff.

Another Excerpt from "A Tale of Two Princes"

In the East Courtyard of Trietus Mansion, two figures sat amidst the gardens and ponds with a table between them, and upon that checkered table were chess--pieces. The air had rather a bit of chill, and the two figures were dressed accordingly: one was bundled in a black greatcoat and gloves, while the other favored worn leather and a scarf. On a smaller table beside them rested two empty cups of tea, still breathing steam into the fall air -- the drifting aroma of the steaming tea-leaves mingled with that of the flowers in the surrounding gardens, and together with the soft gurgle of a waterfall striking the nearby pond, and with the singing of birds, this lent to the scene a most pleasant and tranquil atmosphere.
But on the contrary, the atmosphere at the chess-table was quite tense.
It was Alphonse's move; he sat perfectly still, scrutinizing the board most intently -- the tremendous strain of such hard thought clearly showed on his face -- while Balthazar sat equally motionless, his icy blue eyes glinting with a hint of amusement. When Alphonse, after excruciating deliberation, made his move, Balthazar's response came after only a moment or two.
Again, Alphonse was left to puzzle over the board. He tried watching Balthazar for some indicator of emotion or thought, but his face was an unreadable mask; his eyes betrayed nothing of the plan that had formed behind them. And so Alphonse returned to his scrutiny of the board. It was not so full of options as it had once been: almost every Black piece -- in one move -- had been pinned to its square, and the choices that remained were not at all favorable. He sighed, massaging his temples. "I don't see what I can do," he admitted at last. "It's useless."
Balthazar laughed; Alphonse cocked an eyebrow.
"My dear Alphonse," he tutted, "you surely know why I'm laughing."
A servant rushed over at the casual wave of Balthazar's hand, refilled their teacups, and promptly darted off again.
Alphonse confessed that he did not.
"You've finally stumbled upon a correct answer, but in a situation where it provides no help." Balthazar chuckled as he sipped his tea -- this produced a strange, muffled echo in the cup. He set it back on the side and laced his gloved fingers together, resting his elbow on the edge of the chess-table. "By chance, did you see what I was planning?"
Alphonse was tired of confessing his own ignorance, and so as a response he contemplated his tea.
"I apologize, then -- I gave you too much credit. Here, let me show you..."
And he set about, with visual demonstration, explaining the few possibilities that gave Alphonse the slightest hope of a draw -- "...at this point, it was all you could have hoped for, you know..." -- and listing, for each, the lengthy multilayered counters and eventual victories which Balthazar had conceived and formulated. Such was the length of his explanation that both brothers' teacups were again empty when he finished, and the sundial nearby -- which had read two o'clock when he began -- was now very near to half-past two.
"Do you see now?" he asked finally, setting the board for another game.
Alphonse, watching the sunlight breaking and twisting in the ripples of a nearby pond, stifled a yawn. "O told you before,m Brother, that I already saw the pointlessness of continuing. It doesn't make it any clearer to know every reason why. If anything, I'm more confused now that I was half an hour ago." He stood, shook the stiffness out of his limbs, and gave Balthazar a nod. "I should be making my way to Caulsen-square now."
"To see Julia?" Balthazar smiled.
"No; to see an opera. She's been anxious to immerse me in theatre."
"I'm thrilled for you. Be sure to tell me what you both think of it later."
With that, Alphonse turned and left.
Balthazar, watching his brother depart, pondered their last chess game. Every position was systematically arranged in a mental list: every aspect, every motive behind each move, every piece's role, every square's importance...
From his coat, Balthazar produced a journal and fountain-pen, and began to write.

The opera house in Caulsen-square was not very much like others of its kind -- in fact, its extravagance and novelty begged the question of whether there really was another of its kind at all. Of course it followed the conventions of grand mahogany doors, lamplit crimson drapes on the exterior, and a sculptural fountain on either side of its entrance, but in every other respect it strove to defeat the other opera-houses of Ambros with its magnificence.From the bar-lounge, where patrons smoked and drank and discussed their relatives' health during intermission, to the restrooms set in marble, and to the main hall with delicate chandeliers all over -- even to the flying buttresses and the upper balconies, each a work of art in and of itself -- the opera-house in Caulsen square took no reserve in announcing itself -- or, of more importance to the patrons, its high price.
It was to this opera-house that Julia Khomnus had invited Alphonse Trietus, to see the theatrical adaptation of her favorite novel (Qualis Artifex Pereo by Robin Fischer).
They arrived twenty minutes early in Alphonse's coach, adn when they stepped out, it is fair to say that they caused quite a commotion -- Julia, in keeping with what was fashionable in Ambros and what was not, had advised Alphonse previously in choosing an outfit ("But what would I go in!" he had groaned, pacing the stone walls of a pasture neat Trietus Mansion. She had given him a smile and sighed: "It the easiest thing in the world, once you know what people expect"...). And so, to avoid the crowd that was forming in the square, Alphonse had taken Julia inside the opera-house, where they purchased their tickets and hid in the lounge.
Julia was laughing as she found a sofa by the fire and seated herself. Alphonse followed suit, sweeping back the tails of his coat as he did so.
"What were you thinking, bringing me so early?" She fanned herself with one hand, a smile on her face.
Alphonse shrugged. "I had to escape my brother."
Julia paused for a moment, as if wondering why, and then, remembering Balthazar, nodded. "I can understand that."
A man strode over from behind the bar. "Would you like anything to drink before the show? Perhaps try our latest import?"
Alphonse looked up. "Red or white?"
"Red, sir."
"Then I'll be glad to try it."
"And you, ma'am?"
"I'll have a glass as well."
"Excellent. Just a moment." And he returned with two cups of crystal a few seconds later.
"So," Alphonse began, once the man had been paid and returned to the bar, "what should I be expecting? Tragedy? Epic? Comedy? Romance?" he swirled his wine and sipped it.
Julia waved a finger at him. "In this city, you can't take anything for granted. If I were to tell you about the novel, what we see tonight may turn out to be a radical interpretation, something altogether different."
"You don't seem to be expecting much," he mused.
"Quite the opposite, actually. I'm expecting great things -- I just don't expect that they'll necessarily be the same great things exhibited by the original work."
They shared a look for a moment. Then: "That's fair."
Julia smiled. "Suffice it to say, the novel doesn't belong to any of the types you seem to anticipate. It's a masterful blend of the four."
"I'll take your word for it."

Excerpt from "A Tale of Two Princes"

Khomnus mansion was quiet -- in fact, not simply quiet, but hanging in what seemed to be a pause in speech, an ear-straining silence of the most unnerving sort. All those in the mansion waited for a sound to be heard in the night, eyes open as they lay in their beds, breathing shallow from tension, as if in a trance.
In a roomy bedchamber, cast in silver by the moonlight spilling through a window, was Julia Khomnus: pale, cold, and asleep. Only she, it seemed, in her poisoned unconsciousness, was impervious to the mansion's eerie stillness.
Only she and Balthazar Trietus.
He appeared from the shadows cloaking the perimeter of the chamber, stepping across the carpet without a sound but for the rustle of his dark clothes -- he seemed quite like a ghost -- with his intent, icy gaze and such a calm expression on his face, and skin so pale it very much seemed to glow in the moonlight.
Upon reaching Julia's bedside, Balthazar grew still: his eyes grew deeper, and his brow furrowed as if some annoying fly insisted on buzzing about him as he watched her. After a while, though, he seemed to decide that lingering in his enemies' home any longer than necessary was not at all wise -- quickly, but with eerily fluid motion, he extracted from various pockets throughout his person a small phial of alcohol; a cotton swab; a syringe; and a tiny bottle, capped with a rubber membrane and containing a small amount of clear solution, and placed these items neatly and silently on the bedside-table. Without pausing for a moment, Balthazar checked Julia's pulse with two tapered, slender fingers at various points upon her right arm and, having located a vein quite near enough to the skin, picked up the phial and the cotton swab, emptying the measured contents of the former onto the latter. The phial vanished back into one of Balthazar's pockets, and once he had swabbed the determined spot on Julia's arm, the cotton disappeared as well. Every action was practiced and rehearsed top perfection beforehand: the swiftness and care of their execution was infallible, even as Balthazar lifted the bottle of solution, upturned it, and with the syringe pierced the rubber membrane. Once the syringe was filled to the desired measurement, Balthazar pocketed the bottle and leaned over Julia, inserting the syringe into the crook of her elbow and gently easing the plunger down until the syringe's contents were gone.
Stowing the syringe, Balthazar retrieved the swab and cleaned Julia's arm, before returning it once again to his pocket. Then, gently, he put the back of one hand to Julia's forehead; the same intent, deeply contemplative expression on his face.
"Soon," he muttered -- more to himself, or even to the cold, empty, silent air of the room, than to Julia -- "Soon, this war will be over, and I will find my throne waiting in its wake." Balthazar allowed the corner of his lips to rise in the faintest of smiles.
And then he was gone.

Trippy

My last post reminded me: I forgot to post up pictures of the time I spent with my brother during this last trip to Chicago.

Gina and the Boogie (Addison) at Wannabe Beach.

Little Emilio.

Isaac, about to throw a fit.

Big Emilio, Little Emilio, and Addison.

Ponderings of Fraternity

I read The Kite Runner, which turned out to be an amazing book. I can't thank Silvia enough for finally putting it in my hands. And it's got me thinking.
In my experience, at least, fraternity isn't limited to blood. It's a bond that can form anywhere, under the strangest and most unexpected of circumstances; a bond that can withstand any number of troubles. I can name six people who might not be my blood, but who I know would never turn against me, and who I would never turn against.
But I can't help but wonder when it comes to the one man who I can call my brother in blood. If not for the familial relation -- or at least the knowledge of it -- would we be capable, as friends, of being as close as we are today? Would I call him whenever I were in need of support, or would I turn to someone else? Would he have named his firstborn son after me, or perhaps have given the honor to another? Would I have written stories of his friendship and company, or would a different name have struck the page? And would he have chosen me as one of those at his wedding to stand behind him?
I really don't know. I hope that the former, rather than the latter, answers are true, but I can't tell. I've never put much stock in hypotheticals, as you can't judge the outcome without living the circumstances, but this book just struck a chord. It just made me wonder.
Because I love my brother. And I look up to him more than anyone else. Some might think this unwise, as he is a 23-year old UPS driver and father of three, but I beg to differ. That guy busts his ass day-in and day-out to support his family, he shows his wife and children more love than one would believe is possible after an exhausting day at work, and he listens to whatever you have to say. He's more of a man than anyone else I know; he does our family proud.
I don't know what I'd do without him.