Rogue's Gallery.

Well, another November is wrapped up. As has the October before it, and the September before that. Those were probably the longest three months of my life that didn't have a final exam in them... but now it's over, and I'm able to talk about Batman.

You see, this summer, I finished the latest revision of "Pile O' Bones", my novel about a Saskatchewan vampire hunter. I've sent copies out to those who asked about it, and one or two people were even polite enough to inquire about a sequel. I proposed that in Book Two, our hero would venture to Alberta, where a dark and foul force is preying upon Newfoundlanders in the oil patch. And then, the hero follows this villain to Newfoundland, where he has to confront this evil before he corrupts the very spirit of St. John's itself.

I liked the idea for a little while, but then I realised the horrible truth: One backdrop the first time (the best one), and two for the second, to make up for the first's absence. I was following the same pattern as the Batman movies!

But maybe that's not a bad thing. Let's take a look, shall we? Behold, then: The Adventures of Norton Swift, Paranormal Investigator!

1. "Batman". Villain: The Joker.

Book One takes place in Saskatchewan. Why does Saskatchewan resemble the Joker? For no reason at all. That's why it's funny! (But seriously, this decision was already made for me, in a way.)

2. "Batman Returns". Villains: Penguin, Catwoman

I already planned that I'd feature Newfoundland and Alberta in this novel, and it's and easier match than I thought. For the Penguin, you have the sea, birds, umbrellas, and strange mannerisms. And Alberta as Catwoman? Well, Alberta is a lady's name. Catwoman is something of a Wild Rose herself. And unlike most other Batman villains, she's in it for the money.

3. "Batman Forever". Villains: Two-Face and the Riddler

After two books of adventures, it makes sense that Ron would eventually be called into the heart of the country: Ontario and Quebec. The beautiful part here is that both villains describes both provinces equally well.

4. "Batman and Robin". Villains: Mr. Freeze, Poison Ivy, and Bane

These matches are all blindingly obvious: the Northwest Territories, B.C., and PEI. Also, there's the added bonus that this book would take our hero from "Coast to Coast to Coast". In fact, that would probably be the title of this one.

5. "Batman Begins". Villains: Scarecrow, Ra's Al Ghul

The Scarecrow isn't quite a perfect match for the Yukon, but we'll accept it out of respect for Sam McGee. And Ra's Al Ghul is an powerful immortal, who controls a distant empire, who sees Batman as a potential ally as well as a rival. That's not a province - that's the good ol' United States of America. It looks like Ron's finally stamping his passport in Book 5.

6. "The Dark Knight". Villains: Joker, Two-Face

And here, a return to the two provinces that most need a second appearance: Saskatchewan because it's his home, and Ontario because Toronto will remain absent from the third novel, but feature prominently here.

There you have it! A map of all future adventures! So, we still have to travel to Nunavut, Nova Scotia, New Brunswick, and Manitoba. I think I know two of those analogues already:

The Ventriloquist = New Brunswick. That most bilingual of provinces, long knows for being able to speak with two voices. Not only that, but they have a mild public image that somehow co-exists with their fiery Maritime spirit.

The Mad Hatter = Manitoba. Chiefly because of the Metis trappers and the Northwest Rebellion, but I'm sure it wouldn't be too hard to find other examples of crazy Winnipeggers.

So, all we have left to find are Bat-villains for Nunavut and Nova Scotia. Any suggestions?

notes from the water.

Greetings, all:

I'm writing this from the fine city of Lethbridge, where my team, the Prairie Fire, is getting ready for the B Division final tomorrow morning. We missed the bottom of the A Division by 1.5 seconds... But there's also something to be said for not having to race against the professionals. Regardless, we're in pretty good spirits right now - not only because of the final, but also because we just won $250 for having the best chant/song of the festival.

Perhaps I should also mention that I wrote the song, in addition to being the only one on the team that sang it, while everyone else clapped and added background vocals.

I'm not sure whether I should be proud if having gotten paid for my writing, or if I should be proud of having gotten paid for my singing...

Oh, who am I kidding? I know that I got paid for the air guitar solo I did with my paddle, screaming "meedleymeedleymeedleymeeeee" until the microphone cut out.

I can live with that.

Queue and eh.

Joe asked:

"Denton! Crystal and I forgot to ask you a very important question. Would you freak out if you were being chased by velociraptors?"

* * * * *

Thanks to the barren expanse of prairie around him, they didn't have any way to sneak up on him, and so, bereft of any other game, they charged. That surprised Eddie a little; he'd hoped they'd just circle him until they saw a moment of weakness. Or maybe he just looked weak. Regardless, there was no mistaking it. A trio of raptors, bearing down on him. Eddie knew he had a few seconds (in truth, he had eighteen) to collect his thoughts.

Running was out of the question. His car was still over the hill, far too distant to offer any sanctuary. There was a small riverbed down to the side, but he'd be more likely than the raptors to twist his ankle on a piece of lost driftwood in those dry reeds. Had he been unequipped, he might have run screaming like a lunatic. Had he been armed, he probably would have taken two or three panicky, futile shots at the small, fast targets before they ran him down, screaming all the while. Such thoughts entertained him somehow as they flashed by, but he cleared his head and focused on his inventory (he had thirteen seconds).

He had a towel draped over head, to provide a bit more shade to his neck. He had his shovel, rusty but trusty, firm in his hand. His backpack was slung over one shoulder, holding some fruit leather and a water. And in his other hand, the blasted map that got him into this mess in the first place. Quickly, he dropped the map and started wrapping the towel around his left arm. With any luck, that would be the first thing they bit. He slumped the backpack off into his left hand, and timing things carefully, threw the pack off to the side before they got too close. One of them paused, and another veered towards the pack. That was good. Maybe he could take them one at a time. (Four seconds.)

As he gripped the shovel tight, he smiled to himself. He always wondered if he'd freak out in a situation like this -- not that he'd ever know for sure, until the moment was upon him. Apparently, he would, but he'd freak out going head-first into the threat. Knowing that made him want to survive just a little harder; and with that, he knew he was ready. All right. One at a time.

Swinging his shovel up to strike, he screamed and charged.

Merry Christmas, Richard Matheson.

Happy Holidays, everyone.  I'm sorry this present isn't gift-wrapped, but here it is:  the sort of Christmas movie that I'd make for you guys, if I could.  Enjoy.

I AM SANTA

The monsters didn't like the cold.  It was obvious from their stiff gait and blue lips.  Most of all, it showed in how the larger monsters were in the rear, pushing them forward, rather than in front, leading them on.  They ran in packs, but that didn't mean they liked working together.  Between the climate and their miserable morale, it would take them weeks to reach his base.  That would give him just enough time to make his preparations.

It was going to be close, but he was used to being busy in December.  It almost gave matters a sense of normalcy.

He didn't plan to be here when they arrived, but he was sure he'd want to return, so that meant defences.  The first thing he did was abandon his house.  It was the place where he felt safest, but feeling safe and being safe were two different things.  It was also the place that held the most memories of the missus, though, and that was what made his decision so hard.  He was a sentimental man, and he just couldn't walk away that easily.  Reluctantly, he gathered up some of his most precious keepsakes, and moved them to the workshop, where they'd be safe.

There was the blanket she'd made for him, that one Christmas when he had a terrible cold, but he'd stubbornly refused to let anyone else do his job.  After that Christmas had passed, that blanket was always the first one they reached for when the northern winds got through the windows.  It was a symbol of their love, and a symbol of their marriage.  He held it up delicately, but it was still every bit as durable as the night she'd made it.

There was the grandfather cuckoo clock his helpers made for him.  It was a masterpiece; a clockwork recreation of the entire assembly line that they used back in the days when everything could still be done by hand, and a jack-in-the-box was the most complicated toy they had to worry about.  No camera could ever have captured an image of the workshop the way that clock did.  His staff had actually given him that gift that one strange Christmas after they unionized.  He'd always been a bit surprised by that, and on those short July nights, when things moved so quickly, he'd admit to himself that he'd taken it as an insult and a betrayal at first.  That clock had been their way of saying that there were no hard feelings, and he was still the only person who could do his job, and the only one they'd trust with it.  It had surprised him, finding out just how badly he had needed to hear that.  It wasn't easy moving the clock to the workshop, but he simply refused to abandon it.

The other thing that came with him was an oil painting of Mount Fuji.  She'd painted it herself, when they were on vacation one summer.  People thought they knew what he was like just because he was a celebrity, but she had it a dozen times worse being his wife.  If she hadn't sacrificed her own career to follow him up north, he knew she would have been a famous painter.  And she especially loved the mountains.  He carefully wrapped the painting up in the blanket, and locked them both away in the strongest chest he had.  Even if the monsters did break into the workshop, they'd be safe long after he was gone.

They were still coming; he could hear their howls on the wind.  Of course they would.  There was no one else left to kill.  But it wouldn't be easy -- a great many of their number had frozen completely solid in the frigid nights, and they would never move again.  Hordes of others had fallen through the ice, when it could no longer support the sheer mass of their numbers.  Others had thought themselves clever to take the safer routes, but then they'd discover the mines he'd set out for them.  He was determined to make his death as hard for them as his life was for himself.

The previous Christmases, he'd treated as just another war.  Something that he wasn't supposed to interfere with.  Even when it looked like the monsters were winning, he'd refrained from helping that year.  He'd convinced himself that just by doing his job, he was helping to boost the morale of the survivors, but now he was tormented by thoughts of all the good he could have done that year besides just handing out extra food rations.

It was too late for that now, though.  All his life, he had been the living embodiment of the spirit of giving.  Now, he was the last man on Earth, and there was no one left to give any presents to.  But there was still hope.  There was always hope.  Hope was the gift he gave himself nowadays.  And so, on Christmas Eve, when he was better equipped for travel than any other person on Earth ever had been, he prepared for another trip across the globe.  He hitched up his four remaining reindeer, armed the defences around the workshop, and lifted up, up into the sky.

If there was just one child left, anywhere on the planet, he was going to find them, and protect them.  He had to.

He was Santa.

A stunning revelation.

All right, my subconscious and I usually get along pretty well. I trust him, and he's honest with me. We don't talk much, but we know the other's routine well enough to compensate for it. We're like roommates that communicate only through notes on the fridge:

"Aqua: Really appreciated that impulse purchase yesterday. It's a great shirt. Thanks! -Denton"

"Dent: Glad you liked it! I'll be out hunting story ideas for a day or two -- let me know what you thought of "Stardust" when I get back. -Aquadeo"

(So what if I named my subconscious after my Internet handle? I had to name it something, and "LukeDuke76" was taken.)

Anyway, I think I might have to have a man-to-superman discussion with Aquadeo tonight. And it's not because he keeps eating my breakfast cereal. You see, my November novel is about the adventures of some wayward ghosts, lost in their city. With no residence, and no possessions, all they can do is wander the streets, trying to focus on a small area that they can become familiar with, so that at least they've got a semblance of home. They're told by another ghost of a great being, "The Caretaker", which will come for them, and take them on to their intended destination in the afterlife.

However, when the Caretaker does appear... well, this is where I wanted to put in a Godzilla attack. Of course, a giant radioactive lizard might violate some copyrights, so I designed my own monster. I call him Nodrog. Nodrog is what you'd get if an 19th century foundry became possessed, and started absorbing all the mud and brick and asphalt around it to grow arms and legs. It picks up a layer of pavement with every step. It has smokestacks jutting out of its back like spines, acting as exhaust pipes. On its face, under two glowing yellow eyes, is a nigh-immobile weld of rebar and plate, frozen in a toothy grin. Its real mouth, however, is in the center of its chest, huge, gaping, and all-consuming.

Now, it may be a monster, but it's still the Caretaker. Therefore, it absorbs ghosts into itself when they come too close, and those ghosts forever lose their individuality, sucked up into the Caretaker's collectiveness.

Now, I was having a fun time writing my novel up until today... but now, I've got the Caretaker lose in the city, chasing these ghosts through the city streets, eating and destroying everything it passes along the way.

Have you noticed the problem yet?

I'M WRITING A PAC-MAN FANFICTION.

What have I done? How did this happen? And how long had Aquadeo known, and simply decided not to tell me? Believe you me, I would have preferred finding this out before I'd written 40,000 words. Ugh.

Now, don't get me wrong -- I still like the novel, I'm still having fun, and I'm still going to finish it. On the other hand, this is going to take a lot more editing than I initially thought.

Can't Stomp The Signal.

That's the working title, anyway. It'll make more sense once I explain just what's going on in this year's novel. Behold, then, the master document which describe's this month's efforts, in full.

It all started out with a decision to combine Godzilla-style monsters with "The Secret of NIMH". The connection between super-radioactive lizards and super-intelligent rats is the idea that there are all these little things living inside the giant monster, controlling its actions, the same way a parasite can influence the behaviour of its host. Then, I realised that although "Watership Down" isn't nearly as creepy as NIMH, it's a far better book about life in an animal colony.

The next revelation was about the Godzilla mythology: According to the latest movies, Godzilla is actually the fusion of all the souls of those killed in war by the nation of Japan. Hence, the insatiable desire to destroy Tokyo. It's a bizarre concept, but it provided an important idea: what if this story was about a colony of ghosts, rather than super-intelligent rats?

Then, I shifted the story to a different section of the parasitic life cycle. A deer is infected by a tapeworm, it's eaten by a wolf, the tapeworm then matures and mates inside the wolf. Parasite eggs end up in wolf droppings on the grass, which are eventually eaten by deer. Godzilla (the wolf) might be cooler, but the reader can identify with Tokyo (the deer).

So how do the ghosts affect the monster's, and the city's behaviour? And why? Answering the second part is easy -- like in the movie's theory, the ghosts get absorbed into the giant monster. He's their gateway to the afterlife. The first part is trickier, but I finally settled on this: the electromagnetic spectrum. Easy for a giant monster to detect from a distance, and a good yardstick for the development of a city.

In other words, the more the city communicates (radio, TV, cellphones, Internet), the likelier it is to attract the great beast from the depths. Thus, you have ghosts haunting people and places (which is bad), trying to get them to communicate more (which is good), in order to destroy the city -- which is bad for the city, good for the ghosts, and most of the ghosts don't even realise what's going to happen. Hopefully, there are enough different motivations and perspectives in that setup to keep things interesting.

There you have it: my novel in a big, ugly nutshell. Still no characters, still no plot. There are lots of things I haven't considered in the slightest, which is just how it should be for NaNoWriMo. And now you know exactly what I'll be blathering about for the next forty days and nights.

By the way -- if anyone has a better idea for the title than a "Firefly/Serenity" reference, let me know, okay? Thanks!

That rancid stench of ink... I'd know it anywhere.

November is drawing near, and you all know what that means: National Novel Writing Month! Yes, once again I'm going to pollute this blog with the effluence of my consciousness. Say goodbye to my thoughtful observations, and say hello to Denton's stream of consciousness. It's going to be wild, frenetic, and slightly unnerving, and all of you lucky people are going to get dragged along for the ride. For instance, I've discovered a way to put a hairball the size of a shrub into my novel, only to throw the idea away twenty seconds later. (In case you're wondering, it would be a garbage truck that got bitten by a werewolf, and no, that's not making it into the final draft, although it's inspired me to write a small subplot about garbage collectors.)

If you'd like to give it a whirl, there's still plenty of time! Just sign up with www.nanowrimo.org by November 1st. You don't need a backstory, you don't need a main character, and you don't need a plot. You just need to have faith that you can come up with something and run with it. Even if it starts poorly, thirty days of writing will mean that by the end, your writing will be considerably more polished. The trick is that most people won't write for thirty days unless they have a deadline of some sort. Thus, NaNoWriMo addresses both concerns at once. You see? A win-win situation. Go on, sign up so that I have a few more friends that can share the experience. It'll be fun.

(And let me be slightly less subtle for a moment: If I've been a guest at your wedding, then I'm challenging you personally. Come on, you can do it... I've read your e-mails, and we both know that you could write ten novels out of what happened in Howorko's basement.)

I still need an artist, though.

I haven't talked about my Agent Casey project in a while, but I've been using Script Frenzy as an excuse to flesh out some of the ideas, and I'm particularly proud of recent developments.

First off all, his department. Even if he is a CBC secret agent, he's still a government employee. Thus, his bureau has to have a suitably archaic, unweildly, and redundant name... such as the Ombudsman's Council of Canada (OCC). Even better, it's le Conseil du Ombudsman du Canada (COC), en Français. If I ever make this public, I'm registering www.occ-coc-gc.ca in a heartbeat.

Also, Agent Casey needs a last name. Fortunately, Casey is a codename, which leaves me free to use a fictional surname befitting a fictional Canadian secret agent: Intrepid. Casey Intrepid. I'm not sure about that yet, but it'll work if nothing better comes to mind.

Finally, I've got the title for my first story arc:

The Madness of Namxaw La: That's Al Waxman Written Backwards

And yes, it would appear exactly like that on the cover.

Hey, I'd want to read that.

I Want to Believe.

I have one friend who dislikes it when I use ostentatiously Canadian terms, such as "metre" or "Sam Roberts". Well, he's going to hate this idea. But write it I must, for it has seized me as few other ideas ever have.

It's clear that the CBC engages actively promotes the "Canadian Image", even if it's restricted to the image the government longingly wishes were true (i.e. more like New Brunswick). But what if the CBC's plan didn't stop there? Surely more goes on behind those closed doors than contract negotiations...

Ladies and Gentlemen, I contend that the CBC has a Black Ops division.

* * * * *

It was formed in the early 1980s. The British Invasion was over, and America wanted its MTV. The culture wars were over, and Canada had lost before it had even fired a shot. There were still some resistance fighters struggling in the mountains, but the main priority now was simply to hold the defences, and set up a skunkworks to develop as much quality Canadian Content as possible. The man chosen to lead this project was none other than the Voice of Doom himself.

With Mr. Greene at the helm, the project (nicknamed the "New Wilderness") became a huge success. The staff was confident that in another few years of genetic, cybernetic, and social engineering, they'd be ready to bring their creations out into the world. In fact, the workload was so great that the Director was forced to fake his death in 1987 so that he could continue his work uninterrupted.

Unfortunately, the New Wilderness was still a government program at heart, and a few years later, it was all but eradicated by budget cuts. A few projects were brought out before they were ready to make a half-hearted attempt, but most were released harmlessly into the wild (i.e. Vancouver).

A few, however, had been incarcerated. These were the defects, evil recreations of beloved Canadian icons. There in the basement of the New Wilderness they languished, until the cutbacks gave them a chance to escape. Resentful of the government which had betrayed and abandoned them, they named themselves The Hinterland, and went underground to assemble a few soldiers of their own -- and undoubtedly plan their revenge.

I'm sure someone must have filed a report about that, but, this is the government, after all. The decommissioning was quietly forgotten and laid to rest.

Then, in September of 2001, it was woken up. While CSIS frantically researched every Canadian security initiative in the last thirty years, the existence of the Hinterland was rediscovered. They had been making inroads into music and television, using the low Canadian dollar to finance their projects with American investors. The time for defence was over -- the CBC had to act. They re-commissioned their Black Ops division, now with a new mandate: they were no longer meant to nuture quality Canadian programming, but suppress it -- until the Hinterland was cut off from its source of revenue and brought to justice. Also, the world was now speaking of war. Whatever the CBC did, it had to do so quietly, and without attracting American attention.

They needed a new Director. One who knew how Americans thought. One who knew the art of blending in, becoming someone else. One that could inspire absolute loyalty from an organisation rife with informants. The CBC knew who they wanted, and when he agreed, they wasted no time. On Sept. 18, 2001, a press release was issued, sadly informing the people of the nation that their beloved friend and teacher, Ernie Coombs, had passed away.

The next day, Mr. Dressup assembled his agents inside the building once known as The New Wilderness -- now re-christened as Butternut Square. There, he drew out their assignments on an easel, and outfitted them each with their Tickle Trunks: high-tech disguise kits that let them wear any identity they needed. Any other spy gadgets they needed, they'd have to barter for with "Alligator" Al at the Trading Post. They were still running on a government budget, after all.

It wasn't much, but they had one last asset: One of the first things Mr. Greene had done in his tenure was set up a children's creche in the middle of downtown Toronto. There, children who showed the right potential were quietly sent to live together, to be monitored as they relentlessly tested each other. For the most part, it had been a disaster, with one child after another getting lost in the melodrama their surroundings provided. But there was hope still, and Mr. Dressup was confident that he could find some youth there with the ability and the desire to accept the code name... Agent Casey.

With a whistle, Mr. Dressup put on a hat, and stepped out the door. He was going to Degrassi Street.

I wanted Harrison Travolta; I got John Ford.

I've always found 'meets' descriptions to be a necessary ugliness in marketing. You know the sort: describing Kung Fu Hustle as "David Zucker meets The Shaw Brothers", or Serenity as "John Wayne meets Buffy the Vampire Slayer on the Millenium Falcon." I always cringe when I see those sorts of phrases in advertising -- they compliment neither subject nor object of comparison.

The other danger to them is the lack of focus. In 2004, I tried writing a novel entitled "The Quoxcerpt", and I had pitched it to myself as "Saturday Night Fever meets Indiana Jones". Awesome like a glee bomb, right?

Unfortunately, it put me in a situation familiar to all Canadians: defining my identity by what it resembles, then trying to prove that it doesn't. In the end, the novel turned into "Xanadu meets Cory Doctorow", which wasn't quite the same thing.

And yet, here I go again. A concept so bizarre that I can't turn down the challenge of writing it: The Secret of NIMH meets Godzilla.

I have no idea how this is going to turn out, but I'm definitely enjoying the research -- in addition to the horrible, wonderful movies, I've bought copies of Mrs. Frisby and the Rats of NIMH, Watership Down, and an undergraduate textbook on parasitology.

Don't put that glee bomb away just yet.