PlotBus

Well, if you’ve hung around here a few months, you know there are two things that keep me from blogging–writing, and getting hit by a bus. Guess which it was?

I blame–oh, I forget who it was (because I can’t take personal responsibility, no). I was banging my head on my desk in frustration at the publishing thing (that whole thing about NOT being published? Yeah, that.) and someone suggested some short stories might get me some writing credit. So I was looking through my files seeking a short story or three I was certain were in there, and I came across character notes.

Character notes. Two simple words that cannot convey the power of what I stumbled across in that dank, dusty box, hidden away for who knows…okay, it was a computer file. In my living room. Which is frequently dusty, but rarely dank. And the file was created in August anyway.

So. Character notes. Back in August I got flattened by an image. That’s it. I saw a boy, fourteen or so, clinging to a railing and all bandaged up, determined to get where he was going. His name was Ayleo. And he had something to do with someone named Zord. And might be mute–or faking it. But no matter how I poked, that was all I got. So I put it down and put it away for later.

This week when I looked through my files, I saw that name. Ayleo. And I knew he wasn’t human.

My guys, I’ve said before, enjoy being mysterious. Obnoxious. Assholes. Alluring. (okay, they like to dance along ahead of me, dropping hints and clues that don’t make sense and laughing as I hurl bricks at them because I’m quite aware they know a LOT more than they are telling me.)

Not human. So what?

Never ask a writer, “so what?”

So…if he’s not human, what is he? Why does he look human? Is Zord human? Who is Zord?

Zord is at the end of the hall. Ayleo is trying to reach him.

Why?

Oh, now you’ve opened up a can of worms. He’s fourteen and injured, it can’t be ’cause I want to write smut. Maybe…Zord is hurt worse than he is?

So what?

Ayleo needs to help Zord. They’re partners.

Sorta.

And on, and on, and on. ‘Cause I’ve trained my brain like that, and my guys were luring me on with hints and pictures, and there’s nothing better than a new story when you’re fed up with the old stuff.

Yeah, so it’s my own fault after all.

Guess what I’ve been doing all week.