Sound of Silence

Day 1

Saren awoke to the sound of silence.

Of course there was always the hum of the Virial’s systems. But these noises were so familiar he had to invest conscious effort into really hearing them. This morning, there was absolutely nothing else. No baretaloned footsteps. No humming of popular alien tunes. No dinging of plates and utensils. No groaning while weight-lifting. And later, there would be no sweaty smell in the commons, no unwashed dishes, no scratch-marks on the floors.

An End is Like a Little Death

Last night I finished a novel that I started writing more than seven years ago. It wasn’t the first, or the last novel that I wrote with enthusiasm up to the 90% mark just to burn out on the last hundred yards. I am, of course, happy that I finished it. It’s a quiet kind of happiness: not the kind to make one jump up and down and clap their hands with glee, but more like relief that something that was wrong has finally been righted. I’m also hopeful that it means I might some day finish my other abandoned works and lighten the load of debt and guilt they’ve been weighing me down with.

But at the same time, I’m sad. Sad that it’s done and in a way — gone. A story is born inside the author’s mind, and there it grows and shifts and changes, and so long as it’s not written, it has a peculiar freedom to go in different directions, a potential to develop in different ways. The act of writing turns it from imagination to banal reality and thereby robs it of some of its magic. Infinite possibilities collapse into imperfect words. In a way, a story dies as it’s created.

An Exercise in Self-Critique

A few weeks back, I was exposed to a Tumblr meme inviting writers to extract the first line from their ten latest works and see if some pattern will emerge. I accepted the challenge and indeed found some patterns — none of which are good. At about the same time, I started regularly listening to the marvelous writing podcast, Death Of 1000 Cuts (“making you an awesome writer one cut at a time!”) produced by the novelist, creative writing teacher and stand-up poet, Tim Clare. Among other things, this podcast features refreshingly honest and incredibly illuminating critiques of story beginnings submitted by courageous novice writers.

Thus inspired, I decided to make a series of posts in which I’ll take a critical look at the beginnings of some of my own stories. I’ll keep the excerpts under 250 words, and I’ll paste them whole before taking them apart one sentence at a time.

The first victim: Ghost in the Machine.

Misfire Fills

This is a complete archive of the “Misfire Fills” by Misfire Anon, originally posted on Mass Effect Kink Meme in reply to orphaned (misfire) prompts. The originals were numbered, but untitled. The titles were added by Smehur.

Full list of Misfire Anon works

Washout

BY MISFIRE ANON

He stopped and listened, frozen mid-pace between the workbench and the Marshal’s ornate, wooden desk. He waited for the background groans to subside before answering his ringing omni.

“Reporting.”

Astau’s voice buzzed over the channels like a swarm of stingless flies, traveling between the skyscrapers from fifty kilos to the east and half a kilo down. The short, black syllables blurred into one another. “I’m no further. Any progress on your side?”

“None.”

“Did you ask him about the other mercenaries?”

Saren glanced at the Marshal’s wall clock. Enamel face. The moons’ light painted it silver and violet. “Not yet. I’ll update you before two, at the latest.”

“We can’t let this opportunity go to waste. Be subtle if you can, but you must procure that information.”

He flicked his mandible. “Understood.”

Virmire

BY MISFIRE ANON

He stoops, picks up a stone, and flips it nervously between his talons. The stone is oval and a curious shade of blue-grey. He thinks that if he were to wet it with water from the ocean, it would perhaps turn a different colour. Darker. The waves lap at his feet. He is too anxious to try.

Saren Arterius does not like to speak, not with words. That would be Nihlus, who could convince a krogan into believing he was a hanar and a hanar into a krogan. He prefers action. But it would be rude indeed to ignore the Matriarch that stood not three paces before him, and she expects words. Sovereign breathes down his back. Almost literally, since the ship hovers above them, nestled in the stratosphere. His spine tingles. Another watches from behind his cybernetic eyes.