I want to participate in National Novel Writing Month, but I need your help.
I'm working on two novels right now, each with completely different tones, settings, characters, and goals. Every time I try to work on one of them, I end up wanting to work on the other one. Then when I start working on it, I get ideas for the first.
The truth is, I just need to focus and settle on something that I can feasibly write in a realistic amount of time. I doubt that time will be one month, but who knows?
Anyway, the point is that I don't know which novel to work on, so I would like some feedback. I'm going to post two excerpts from each of the novels I'm working on over the next several days, with a brief introduction, and ask for feedback so I can decide which to work on during NaNoWriMo.
With that out of the way, here's my first excerpt.
Novel: Somnolence
Genre: Mystery, Supernatural, Neo-Noir
Premise: A police detective finds himself not only unable to sleep, but unable to dream. Shortly thereafter, he discovers a disturbing trend: suicide rates in his city are skyrocketting. Is there a connection between his inability to dream and the increasing malaise in his city? Can he solve the mystery before it kills him -- or worse, before he kills himself?
John was a profoundly unhappy man, sitting alone in a dim, smoky bar, emptying glasses of beer like there was gold at the bottom. He took no solace in it, but with each pint, the madness of his life that constantly rung in his ears got a little bit quieter. He slid his empty glass forward and was promptly provided with a full one, as though the glass had instantly refilled itself. He had put a sizeable dent in it when he suddenly noticed that the stool beside him was no longer vacant.
“You sure can drink,” the stool’s occupant said. His voice was quiet and thin, like the hissing of air from a deflating balloon, and he spoke in slow and measured syllables, as though to meld them into one long, continuous word. John merely scoffed at him.
“What’s it to you?”
“Oh, just a passing fascination,” the man hissed again. “I like people like you. You are undoubtedly a terrific loser.”
John thrust his glass down onto the bartop and clenched his fists, turning to face the man at his right.
“Say that again if you’d like me to break my hand on your face.” The man on the barstool gave him a lithe smile that curled at the ends of his thin lips, revealing a row of straight, pearly teeth.
“You misunderstand me,” he said quietly in placation. “What I mean is that you undoubtedly have something that you do not want. Something you wish you could lose. That is all.”
John looked the man over carefully. His stature reflected his voice -- thin and wispy, like a puff of smoke in an overcoat. His face was lean, but his smile seemed to stretch impossibly far across it. John grunted and turned back to his beer.
“What about it?” he asked, finishing his pint and grabbing the next one that seemed to materialize in front of him.
“I can help.”
The words were simple, but there was a sudden edge to them. The man seemed to be speaking now in the sharp and precise tone of a salesman. John looked back over at him with a newly piqued interest.
“How’s that?” he asked, placing the glass back down and eyeing over his unwelcome companion. The stranger's smile had not faded.
“Think of me as a dealer of sorts. I take things that people do not want in exchange for things that they do. Men like you are my most frequent clientele. You have something you wish you could lose. Conversely, I am sure that there is something you wish you could gain. I am simply offering my services to facilitate this transaction.” John smirked sarcastically in disbelief.
“I see,” he said, taking a drink. “Well, I’m sorry to tell you, but my problem can’t be taken care of so easily.”
“I assure you it can,” the man said, reaching into his coat and pulling out a card. It was white with gilded edging. At the top, written in decorative golden font, was the word LOSE. The man placed the card on the top of the bar beside John’s pint glass.
“This is all you need,” the man continued. “Simply write whatever it is that you wish to lose on this card, and it will be lost. Then,” the man flipped the card over, revealing the word WIN at the top in the same decorative lettering, “simply write whatever it is that you wish to gain on this side. I will complete the transaction and our business will be concluded.”
John stared at the card for a moment, then looked back up at the man. His eyes had sharpened and his mouth had closed and twisted into tight-lipped earnestness. As much as John wanted to dismiss the man as a lunatic, something about his expression and the tone of his voice made him think otherwise.
“Well,” John said, more slowly, “like I said, it’s not something that can just be wished away. I’m stuck with my lot in life, whether I like it or not.” The man placed one hand on his cheek and tapped the index finger of his other hand thoughtfully on the edge of the card, subconsciously drawing John’s attention to it.
“Is it your job, perhaps?" the stranger asked, tapping his finger slowly. "A boss you despise? Work that you hate?” Tap-tap went the finger. “Or is it, perhaps, more personal? Your home?” Tap. “Your neighbors?” Tap. “Your wife?” Tap-tap.
The last word was said with particular sharpness, John wincing a bit at it. The man smiled again, flipping the card back over.
“Ah,” he said, drawing out a thick, black pen from inside his coat, “that is what it is. You hate your wife.”
“I don’t--” John started, but stopped short as the pen came to rest beside the card. The word LOSE seemed to glimmer in the soft, hazy light.
“It’s not that I hate my wife,” he started again. “It’s just that...well, I don’t think I’m cut out to be a family man. I thought getting married would make me happy, but it didn’t. I thought having a kid would make me happy, but it didn’t. The responsibilities, the pressure, the total loss of freedom -- I only see now that I never wanted any of it. Now I feel...trapped.” The stranger nodded sagely, as though to comfort him.
“Of course, of course. I see it all too often. As I said, men like you are my most frequent clientele. If you wish to return to the simpler life of a bachelor, without the responsibilities or the burdens of a family, I am more than eager to help. You simply have to write it on the card.”
John took a long, serious look at the card on the bartop and the pen resting beside it. He drummed his fingers nervously on his pint glass.
“Then what?” he asked. The man grinned again.
“Then you simply flip the card over and write what you want in exchange. It could be anything. Wealth. Power. Possessions. Anything you desire. Surely you see that this is a most beneficial transaction for you. You lose something you do not want and receive something that you do. I will handle the particulars, and you can simply reap the rewards.”
John took a slow, steady drink of his beer, then shook his head sternly.
“Oh no,” he said, “I get it now. This is a ‘monkey’s paw’ kind of thing. I’ll ‘lose’ my family, then the cops will show up and arrest me on suspicion of murder. That’s how this works, isn’t it?” The man simply laughed.
“John, you may be inebriated, but you are clever. I will admit that I have not been entirely forthcoming, but that is rarely necessary, so I must beg your pardon. The responsibilities of your family will be taken from you and given to someone who wants them. They will hardly know the difference. Meanwhile, you will be liberated, and even compensated. However, there is one stipulation that I feel obligated to divulge; as with any business transaction, I do require a small fee: In exchange for my service, I wish to show you my world.”
John arched his eyebrow quizzically. The man shrugged slightly.
“That is what I call it, anyway. Consider it a glimpse into my life. I have many things that I am proud of that I do not often get to show others. Trophies, you might say. I would simply like to take you there once. After that, you will be free to do as you wish. You will no longer be beholden to anyone but yourself.”
The man’s voice was still sharp and thoughtful, and his words felt practiced and carefully chosen. However, there was an undeniable attractiveness in his offer. John thought for a moment, then picked up the pen and scribbled on the card, much to the man’s delight. He then flipped the card over and studied it for a moment.
“You say I can take anything I want?” he asked. The man nodded once.
“Anything at all. Whatever your heart desires.” John nodded in return.
“There is only one thing I want,” he said as he wrote carefully on the card. He picked it up and handed it to the man, who read it with a grin.
“You are clever, John,” he said as he placed the card back in his pocket. “I am most pleased to have done business with you today.” John nodded.
“Now, I guess we can see this ‘world’ of yours,” he said, finishing his pint.
“Indeed, I am most eager for that. Ah, but it is late, and you must be tired. Our trip will be postponed for the time being. Nevertheless, the deal has been made in good faith, and so I only wish for you to enjoy it. Go home and get some rest. I will even cover your tab for the night.”
John raised his eyebrows in surprise, then nodded, thanking the man for his generosity. As he left the bar and began his trip home, a soothing sensation began to come over him. By the time he had reached his empty house, there was an indescribable warmth in his heart. As he laid back in bed alone and switched off the light, he felt completely at peace. John was happy.
As John nestled comfortably into the hazy twilight of pre-sleep, he heard a muted whisper echo in his ears.
John…
He grumbled and turned over in his bed, ignoring the sound. He was soon roused by yet another whisper.
Why…
John craned his neck in annoyance and looked around the room. His eyes seemed blurry and unfocused, as he could not seem to make out any details of his bedroom. He looked at the clock beside his bed, but only saw a jumbled mess of numbers.
John…
There was a bit more clarity this time. The voice was unmistakably his wife’s. What was this, then? Had he been dreaming? He swung his feet over the side of the bed and rubbed his eyes. He took another look around the room, but still was unable to make anything out in the darkness. He looked behind him to see what his wife wanted, but the bed was empty.
Please...stop…
He turned back as he heard the voice coming from the other side of the room. He suddenly noticed, in a small patch of moonlight, his open bedroom door. He lifted himself from his bed and stumbled to the doorway, his floor seeming to stretch away from him as he walked. He eventually came to rest sleepily against the doorframe and peered into the hall. Across from his door, he could see, just barely, the door of his son’s bedroom, which also seemed to be ajar.
Why...John…
His wife’s voice was definitely coming from their son’s bedroom. He stepped into the hallway and walked blindly in the darkness, carefully making his way towards the only thing he could see. As he reached the door, he peered into the bedroom. Though it was nearly pitch black, he saw, in another small patch of moonlight, his son sitting up in bed with his back against the wall. His head was nodded down and he seemed to inexplicably have his arms stretched out against the wall behind him. John looked around the rest of the room, but could not see anything else.
Daddy…
This was his son’s voice. Had it been his voice all along? John lurched forward in the dark room towards his son’s body. As he drew closer, the silvers and blues of the moonlight on the bed began to take on a dark crimson color. He wondered at this change as he labored in his sleepy state to move forward. As he came to the edge of his son’s bed, he saw the glinting crimson streaks running from the edge of the bed to the wall. He followed them with his eyes until he divined the source: two black metal nails embedded in his son’s hands.
Why...Daddy…
John’s expression twisted into one of horror and shock as he reached out to his son. His head was hung down, his face obscured in the darkness; the crimson streaks flowed freely from the wounds in his hands, down the wall and across his bedspread. John’s eyes screwed up in tears as he ran his hands along his son’s arms, unsure of how to free them. He suddenly heard another voice behind him, once again his wife’s.
Don’t do this...John…
He quickly twisted around and saw, hanging limply from a rope in the middle of the room, the body of his wife. He jumped up from the bed and stepped towards her, but stopped short with a sickened gasp as the moonlight illuminated her bulging, bloodshot eyes.
"Welcome to my world, John."
The unmistakable hiss of the stranger’s voice caused John to spin around in place, coming face-to-face with a billowing pillar of black smoke, adorned with a blank white mask with an endless, mocking smile.
“What…” John started, through tears and sobs, “what is this? What’s happening?” There was a raspy cackle from somewhere behind the mask.
“As I told you, this is my world. How do you like my newest trophies? Oh, I have been enjoying them ever so much.”
Why...John… his wife’s voice choked out behind him.
Why...Daddy… his son’s weak and tiny voice mumbled beside him. John began to shake with terror and rage.
“What the hell is this?” he screamed. “What the hell have you done to my family?” The cloud vanished in the darkness, then the mask pressed up against John’s ear, causing him to reel back in fright.
“Your family? Oh, John, they are not your family. Do you not remember? You lost them. This is what you wanted, John. The responsibility for your family was taken from you and given to someone who wanted it: me.”
John looked back and forth between the disfigured face of his wife and the mutilated body of his son, then turned back to face the mask, only to be confronted with more crushing blackness.
“This isn’t what I wanted!” he screamed. “You lied! You deceived me! You knew I didn’t want this!”
“Of course I knew,” the mask hissed behind him. John spun around to face it. “You knew as well, John -- but you did not care. You only cared about what was best for you, John. I never lied -- you lied to yourself.”
John’s eyes clenched shut as the voices of his son and wife echoed quietly, raspily, behind him.
“I was wrong!” he screamed at the darkness. “I made a mistake! Please, take it back! You made the deal, so take it back! Undo it!”
“A reversal? John, you are too clever to think that I could do such a thing.”
“Why the hell not?” John screamed, his chest quaking uncontrollably. The pillar of smoke sprung up in front of him and the mask emerged from within it, a gilded card floating beside it.
“This is your card, is it not? John, is this not your handwriting? What do you see here, written on this card? What gift did you accept in exchange for your family?”
John strained his eyes through the tears and saw, clearly and undeniably written in his handwriting, the word happiness.
“This is what I gave you, is it not? Well? What do you say, John? You got what you wanted -- but what about now, John? Are you happy with our deal now?” John trembled, wiping his eyes.
“Of course not! How could I be happy with this?” A soft cackle trailed after the mask as it and the card disappeared into the billowing smoke.
“Then how can I reverse the deal, John? How can you lose something which you do not have?”
“Fine, then!” John shouted. “Take something else! I don’t care what!”
The pillar of smoke dissolved into the darkness. “What would you have me take, John?” The voice resounded from every corner of the room. “What do you have left that would be worth depriving me of my new trophies?” John trembled as his mind raced, the anguished voices of his wife and son ringing louder and louder in his ears.
“Me! Take me! You can have my life in exchange for theirs!” The cackle echoed from all around him.
“You? You think that you are more valuable than them? One life in exchange for two? How could I consider such an exchange equitable?” John’s fists clenched and he roared in anger.
“Well then what the hell do you want?” he screamed at the top of his voice. The mask rushed out of the darkness, the tip of its nose just barely brushing against John’s.
“Alright, John. I do want your life. However, to offset such a disproportionate trade, I require a very, very large fee.”
John stood unflinching from the inhuman mask as the black smoke curled out of its empty eye sockets. “Anything,” he whispered. The mask cackled again, then twirled around the smoke pillar, disappearing into the darkness. The room faded slowly away, and John fell silently into the empty void.
John awoke alone in bed, his pillow stained with tears. He rolled onto his back and rubbed his face, then looked up at his bruised hands, the perfectly circular scars in their centers burning in his eyes. He got out of bed and looked into the wall-mounted mirror above his nightstand. His eyes were sunken and hollow, and one of his cheeks was still swollen. He walked out of his bedroom and into his den, where he took out a piece of paper and a pen from his desk. He wrote studiously and silently for several minutes, then placed the pen and paper down. He walked back into his bedroom and retrieved his revolver from the closet, placing it against his head.
Detective Kolchak ruffled through some papers as he leaned back in his chair, legs stretched atop his desk, feet carelessly brushing against his lamp. He looked up from the papers in his hands at the detective across from him, hunched over his desk, diligently filling out some paperwork.
“Hey, Sam,” Detective Kolchak said, idly chewing his cheek. Detective Cohen grunted once. “You finished up the Thompson case, yeah? The suicide?”
“I’m trying to finish it now, Jazz,” Detective Cohen said dryly in response, effecting a rather impressive scowl despite having only one eye. Dixon smirked, thinking back to the first time he had seen his partner’s face, and what a stark contrast it made to the one he was looking at now.
“Well, fill me in. That note we found was another weird one, huh? I’m curious what you could make of it.” Detective Cohen sighed as he flipped a sheet of paper over and began working on the one beneath it, his eyepatch bobbing up and down as his brow shifted between studious concentration and annoyance.
“I couldn’t make anything of it, Dixon.”
Detective Kolchak drummed his fingers on the top of his desk, then swung his feet down, nearly sending the lamp flying through the window in the process.
“Yeah, but didn’t it seem kind of...symbolic of something? I mean, I’ve seen my share of suicide notes, but something felt different about this one. He kept mentioning this ‘deal’ he had made, and taking responsibility for his family. And there was that thing he said about a ‘fee’. Something about losing his will to live. I don’t know, it seemed...off.”
“Well, what do you want? He was clearly unstable.”
Detective Kolchak arched his eyebrow in curiosity.
“Oh, ‘clearly’, was he? What were you able to find out about him?”
Detective Cohen sighed and placed his pen down, rubbing the bridge of his nose in fatigue.
“Well, it turned out we had a pretty extensive file on the guy. It started about twenty-five years ago with the apparent murder-suicide of his parents. When police arrived on the scene, they found his mother hanged, his father dead from a self-inflicted gunshot wound to the head, and John’s hands nailed to his bedroom wall with a nailgun. Apparently, he was forced to watch as his father hanged his mother from his bedroom ceiling before shooting himself.”
“Christ,” Detective Kolchak said with a grimace.
“He’s been through extensive psychotherapy since then,” Detective Cohen continued. “He’s been diagnosed manic-depressive, antisocial, borderline personality -- and probably more -- and put on nearly every drug known to man. How he even managed to start a family is something of a mystery.” Detective Kolchak raised his hand to his cheek and thumped it casually. "What family did he have?" he asked. Detective Cohen nodded once, a grim pallor hanging over his face.
“Right, I guess you didn’t know. He had a wife and son. We managed to track them down a few days after we began work on the case. Apparently, they were staying with the wife’s sister a few states over. According to their testimony, Mr. Thompson had come home one night in a drunken rage and began assaulting them. From the sound of things, this wasn’t the first time this had happened, either. I guess enough was finally enough. After the wife left with the son, Mr. Thompson must have snapped.” Detective Kolchak tapped his cheek in thoughtful contemplation.
“Hmm. Did you find out where he was drinking that night?” Detective Cohen stretched back in his chair and hummed in reflection for a moment.
“I’m not sure,” he said, finally. “I think it was a blues club downtown. Why?” Detective Kolchak shrugged.
“Maybe we should talk to the owner,” he said. “He might be able to shed some more light on the case.”
“I don’t really see the point,” Detective Cohen said, hunching back over the desk. “It’s an open-and-shut case. I’m finishing up the report now.” Detective Kolchak leaned back again, swinging his legs back up onto the desk. The lamp remained, remarkably, unmoved.
“Well, let’s stop by when we get off anyway. As an unofficial follow-up.” Detective Cohen looked up from his paperwork to see a sly grin on Detective Kolchak’s face. He chuckled and shook his head.
“You just want a drink, don’t you?”
“So what if I do? You know, we’ve been to a dozen bars since we started working together, and all of them have been terrible. Maybe this will be it. Lucky number...er, thirteen.”
“Hey,” Detective Cohen said in reproach, “I liked the last one. You’re the one who wanted to leave, Jazz.” Detective Kolchak groaned.
“Are you seriously going to call me that from now on? Look, I just don’t like jazz, okay? Maybe a blues club will be more my style.” Detective Cohen sighed.
“Alright, alright, we can check it out -- but I’ll never make it out of this office if you don’t let me finish up this report.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Detective Kolchak said, looking out the window. He did want to get a drink with Samuel, but the truth was that his thoughts were still stuck on John Thompson’s suicide note. Something about it didn’t sit right with him. Maybe they would find some answers at this blues club. If not, maybe they would at least find a decent bar. He was willing to settle for that.