Demons and such

Facebook Ate My Blog

2007-10-24T17:04:00.000-04:00

Is there anyone out there?

[cricket sounds, tumbleweed rolls by]

Just in case any one still drops by to check updates, or ends up here after a Google search, I'd like to apologize for this blog having gone dark. To tell you the truth, I thought there'd be more to say about the process of writing a novel...but it seems most of the writing has in fact been done on the book, and very little on the blog. That, and facebook ate my blog.

Okay, facebook did not literally eat my blog, but let's just say finding old friends and reading about what they are doing has taken over much of my non-productive time (fortunately, it hasn't impacted the actual writing of the novel). If you're not on facebook yet, I'm hesitant to tell you to register, as it can become a inescapable inter-dimensional prison akin to the flying rectangle that trapped General Zod and his cohorts. Enter at your own risk.

If you already are on facebook, though, send me a friend request! I really want to know what you're up to, and see your photos!

Apologies aside, I'd feel bad about not giving any info about where the project's at, so here goes:

I'm finished with the first draft

I've printed out a few copies for people to read and comment, if you're interested leave a comment and I'll try to get you one (though you might have to share it with someone else)

I'm rather pleased with the result, but there's still lots of polishing to do

After reading Miss Snark's defunct blog, I'm starting to think my initial draft is too long. Way too long.

As far as the last point goes, I'm considering my options, which includes cutting it down, splitting it in three books, or just hoping that I'll somehow manage to find an agent with a 240,000 words manuscript.

I've only got two more months before going back to work. Tempus fugit and all that crap.

I'm starting the first round of rewrites tomorrow.

Well, there you go...I don't consider this blog to have gone completely dark, yet, though it certainly is as dim right now as the red star around which orbits Earth Two. Still, I'll try to give some news if anything exciting happens while I go about rewrites and such. Until then, feel free to...oh, wait, someone commented on my facebook photos! See ya!

Quebec, Quebec

2007-08-11T13:42:00.000-04:00

As previously mentioned, I'm back in my hometown of Quebec City, writing from the St-Jean-Baptiste Public Library, which is situated inside the old St. Matthew Anglican church (next to one of the oldest cemeteries in the city, as it happens). This is a beautiful place to write, in one of the most beautiful cities in North America. This is a good place to start chapter 85, which I needed to change after realizing that I'd already told all that was supposed to be in it back in chapter 83. Oh well, back to the drawing board! I suppose it's my fault for wanting to have precisely one hundred chapters (there's a reason for this, by the way, but I'll let the readers figure it out for themselves...)

Sometimes, when I tell people I'm from Quebec City, I get asked if I ever plan on coming back to live here. That question always makes me a little uncomfortable, because I'm always afraid the answer (which is, "probably never") will be misinterpreted. I grew up in Quebec, it's a city that I know very well, and it is indeed beautiful. The St-Jean-Baptiste neighborhood is culturally vibrant, and the Summer Festival is one of the best music festivals out there (better than the Jazz Festival or the Francofolies). Still, when I come back these days, I simply don't feel like I'm home anymore. As much as this may disappoint some of the family and friends still living here, I must conclude that I'm now a Montrealer through and through.

It's hard to say exactly when the switch occurred, or what caused it. I do miss a few things when I come here, such as the fact that there are so few people of other ethnic backgrounds on the streets, or that there's no subway (apparently, the rock on which Quebec was built is too hard to be dug out at an affordable price). Perhaps it's because I associate living on my own with Montreal, while Quebec City represents my younger years, forever lost as time rushes by. In any case, I still love the city, and the fact that I feel a bit more like a tourist whenever I visit isn't necessarily a bad thing, as I find that I appreciate its unique beauty (and changing cityscape) more than I perhaps would if I was still living here. For whatever that's worth, I'm happy to be here today, and to begin a new chapter of my book in such inspiring surroundings.

Free

2007-08-04T18:32:00.000-04:00

As I write these words, I'm on day 4 of my long-awaited sabbatical leave. I would have written this entry on the first day - and in fact that was my intention - but the first three days of my vacation turned out to revolve solely around sleeping, eating and going to the movies (in this case, the Simpsons and the last Harry Potter). I didn't produce a single line, save perhaps few e-mails here and there. Only today did I, beset by all manners of remorse, finally sat down to continue writing, restructuring the events of some of the recent chapters as well as pushing the current one forward. The final result was not a great gain in overall completion (barely pushing past the 205,000 words mark), but fixing up quite a few things that had been bothering me lately.

I have to admit I'm still having a hard time realizing that I won't be coming back to work in the coming days. I've been working full-time for the past ten years, now. This is clearly going to take some adjusting to. On Wednesday, day one, I was so restless I actually did some cleaning around the house. Those who know me will likely be surprised by this, but I think I needed to clean stuff around to clean stuff inside...in fact, I'll be doing more tidying up as the weeks come, and I get to scratch out items from my long-standing "to do" list (such as getting a driver's license, for example).

Of course, all of that comes after the book. I must maintain the discipline acquired over the past two years, even if I no longer have the framework of a 9-to-5 job to prop me up. I feel like I'm at the top of a cliff, holding fast the bar of an airglider, ready to jump. It's kind of scary, but also exhilarating. I owe it to myself to make the most of the ride.

Off-topic: articles about my grandfather and his culinary invention popped up in Quebec City's Le Soleil last week, as well as Le Journal de Montréal today. I think a certain reader of this blog is somewhat responsible for the flow of this information, and for that I'm very grateful. Un grand merci à toi, mon grand! ;-)

An update long overdue

2007-07-24T16:36:00.000-04:00

Hey everyone, just a quick word to say that, yes, I'm still around, and yes, the blog is still alive (though obviously not very active, the last entry being three months old). What can I say...time flies when you're trying to write your first novel and finish the development of a video game at the same time.

As it is, work has been extremely busy since April, but I've managed to write a few chapters more. I'm currently at 204,915 words, and starting chapter 84, which means I've only got 16 more to go! I've also been pulling more hours at work, but the good news is that I'm leaving for my five-month sabbatical in just seven days! I'll definitely write more entries as I enter the fabled land of full-time writing (and revising).

I'll also be spend a couple of weeks travelling in August and September. Right now the plan is to go to Quebec City to spend some time with my family, then go sailing with my friends for a couple of days, then I'm probably off to Sardinia for a week or two, and then another yet-to-be-determined European destination (I'm partial to Istanbul myself). So for a few weeks this literary blog will become a travel blog of sorts, though always from the writer's point of view.

On a sad note, I learned yesterday that my grandfather, René Brousseau, passed away on Sunday night. He was a gentle, quiet man who had lived through many hardships, including the death of his first wife and daughter. He also had a claim to fame in being the inventor of the Mae West cake, an iconic part of Quebec's snack food heritage. He never spoke much, but his easygoing disposition and cheerful outlook on life made everyone like him. He will be fondly remembered.

Bye, grand-papa...dis bonjour à grand-maman pour moi.

Photo: René Brousseau in St-Siméon-de-Bonaventure, ca. 1940

Demons and such, chap. 7-10

2007-04-29T17:44:00.000-04:00

Following the first excerpt of the novel's first draft, here are the next four chapters, which introduce some more characters, including Ghislain Barbe's quirky William Reynolds (a younger version of him pictured at right).

I'm still playing with the idea of eventually putting up the book's entire first part (34 chapters) on this web site. I don't want to give away the entire book - which is not even done in the first place - but it's interesting to get feedback on how the story begins. Please feel free to post any comments you may have about these few chapters, even if you didn't like them!

***

“Gauthier,” the Chief’s voice said on the intercom, “my office. Now.”

Lieutenant-detective Patrick Gauthier sighed and got up from his office chair, picked up the Dumont case folder and walked towards the Chief’s office. The Major Crimes division was relatively quiet on this Tuesday afternoon, but by the sound of the Chief’s voice it might have been the calm before the storm.

As he passed next to the department’s secretary desk, she waved to him. She was a large woman in her early 50s, always smiling but with a razor-sharp tongue. He always made certain to remain in her good graces. An angry Chief he could handle – she was something else entirely.

“Hey Josephine, how are you this morning.”

“Why, very well, thank you sweetie. Oh, I almost forgot. There’s a Mr. Reynolds here to see you. He’s been waiting for 20 minutes.”

“Reynolds? Who is he?”

The secretary shrugged.

“He said he had a meeting with you at 10. He did look kind of familiar. I think I’ve seen him around here before. Maybe he’s from Ottawa. He speaks French with a cute English accent.”

“Is it the Mounties?” Patrick asked, referring to the federal police force.

“I don’t know, dear. He doesn’t look like a cop or politician, he seems more like a professor or something. He reminds me a bit of Woody Allen.”

“Well, I don’t know any Reynolds,” Patrick said with a smile, “so he’ll have to wait some more.”

He continued towards the Chief’s office. Coming up to the door, he suddenly felt a cold chill down his spine. He knew that feeling all too well. Something was going on. He knocked on the door.

“Come in!”

Patrick opened the door and walked in. The Chief wasn’t alone. Sitting right across from him was Pierre Dumont, Lysanne’s father and the current Minister of Indian Affairs and Northern Development of Canada. He got up and stretched his hand out.

“Patrick. How good to see you.”

“Minister,” Patrick replied, shaking the minister’s hand.

“How many times do I have to tell you to call me Pierre.”

The Chief cleared his throat. He clearly disliked the privileged ties between his investigator and the embattled politician that could still make or break his career. The Chief had political ambitions of his own, and Dumont was the real deal, an experienced power broker in the halls of parliament.

“Well, everyone here is on a tight schedule, so let’s cut to the heart of the matter. Gauthier, the minister has some important news regarding the case.”

Patrick looked surprised.

“Really?”

“My daughter’s alive, Patrick.”

“That’s wonderful news, minister! Were you contacted by the kidnappers?”

“Well...no, not exactly.”

The Chief cut in.

“Why don’t we show lieutenant-detective Gauthier the tape, minister?”

“Of course, of course.”

The Chief picked up the remote and pointed it at the monitor next to this desk. After a little bit of static, an image came on. It was a surveillance camera filming the sidewalk on some kind of highway – or bridge, rather.

“These images were captured by the Jacques-Cartier bridge security cameras last night,” the minister explained. “This is from one of the central cameras, near the St-Helen’s Island access.”

Gauthier looked at the black and white video. Cars sped by but there was nothing else of interest. He then noticed a couple on the sidewalk, some hundred feet or so, walking towards the camera. A tall man wearing what looked like an expensive suit, and a blond girl in a black skirt, fishnet stocking and a jean jacket. The girl seemed a bit drunk, as she sometimes stumbled.

As the couple came close to the camera, the girl gave a quick look at it. The Chief rewound the tape and freeze-framed it at the precise moment when the girl looked into the camera.

There was no doubt about it. This face he had seen countless times over the past sixteen weeks. They were all looking at Lysanne Dumont, the minister’s daughter.

“Do you see, Patrick? Lysanne’s alive. She’s alive!” the minister said, his voice cracking a little bit.

Patrick nodded. He wanted to remain as professional as he could in front of the Chief.

The minister wiped a budding tear from his eye and shook his head.

“Did any other cameras catch them?”

“Unfortunately, no,” the minister continued. “The surveillance system was on maintenance that night. Only two cameras were working, and this is the only one that saw them. All we know is that they were walking north, into the city.”

“We’ll have to search the area for possible clues.”

“Already done,” the Chief said. “I had Vincent comb the place last night. They found nothing of note.”

“I see.”

Patrick opened up the Dumont file took some notes on the back of a case report summary. This was a major development, but it did raise some worrying questions. The tape clearly showed that Lysanne wasn’t trying to escape her companion, and in fact leaned on him once or twice.

“We’ll need to identify the man walking with her, see if he’s in our files.”

“Patrick...” the minister hesitated.

“Yes?”

“On that tape, Lysanne looks a bit...strange...”

“We believe that the minister’s daughter may have been drugged by her captors,” continued the Chief as the minister’s face sunk in his hands.

Patrick put his pen down.

“That seems likely. However...”

The minister looked up at Patrick.

“What is it?”

“Well, minister, you’ll have to start considering the possibility that this may not be a kidnapping at all. We must also consider that your daughter may be a willing participant in her current situation.”

Letting out a grunt, the Chief laid back in his chair. The minister straightened himself and took on a somber tone.

“Patrick, you know that such a prospect is unacceptable for a man in my position...”

“Well, we have to...”

“Do you know what would happen to me if word came out that my daughter has fallen in with the wrong crowd? I’m already in enough trouble as it is...”

The minister sighed, then carried on.

“Tell me, Pat, why do you think I was given Indian Affairs in the last cabinet shuffle?”

Patrick didn’t know. He had never taken much interest in politics. He knew a shuffle meant that ministers traded places, and that some won and others lost.

“Let me enlighten you about being the Minister of Indian Affairs and Northern Development, Patrick. It’s nothing but a bureaucratic nightmare and a political dead end. I was supposed to get Foreign Affairs or Justice. Hell, I would have settled for Intergovernmental Affairs, or even Transport.”

“What happened?”

“As you may know the Prime Minister has announced that he’ll be retiring in nine months, and I’ve made no secret of my plans to run for the party’s leadership. There are some within the caucus that say that my ambitions are hurting the party. Somehow they convinced the Prime Minister to punish me for this, by giving me the job no one else wants.”

“You’re still a minister,” Patrick said.

“Barely. I think my rivals wanted me to stay in the caucus so they could further enjoy my humiliation.”

He took a pause, glancing at the Chief, then back at Patrick.

“This is difficult for me to say,” he continued. “You must understand that, initially, the kidnapping of my daughter, my dear, precious Lysanne, gave me some sympathy. As weeks go by, however, many of my allies are starting to feel that it could become a liability...what if I was seemed as too emotionally distraught to be an effective, decisive leader? Now, can you imagine what a field day my adversaries would have if they learned that my 22 year-old daughter was hanging out with petty criminals?”

The Chief tried to reassure Dumont.

“You don’t have to worry about this, minister; no word of this will leave this room. Gauthier will carry on with the investigation using this new evidence, and I’ll handle communications. You have my word on that.”

“Thank you,” the minister replied, settling down. “Patrick, ever since you were a little boy you’ve had this amazing flair for solving problems. Please, please find my daughter.”

8

For five years the demon Arhiman kept a discreet yet vigilant eye on little Anaxana, watching her as she grew up, without ever arousing the suspicion of the priestesses that raised her.

This wasn’t especially difficult: the very nature of demons – and of the Law that binds them – has always made them into natural spies. Most of the times, he would hide in the shadows, slipping in the night air, unseen by the mortal inhabitants of Akhet. At other times he mingled with them in human form. His favorite guise was that of a merchant from Thebes, who always brought the most exquisite perfumes and incenses to the remote area. His generous contributions to the temple had made him quite popular with the high priestess, who did not realize that behind the magical veil lay the enemy of her goddess.

Over the course of his “visible” trips to the temple, Arhiman had also befriended Anaxana’s nurse and often visited her. He never failed to inquire about the infant’s health, though he avoided being seen by her while in physical form. There would be a time and place for a proper introduction, and the demon was as patient as one would expect of his kind.

The girl’s development was nothing short of remarkable: at nine months she could already say a few words and stand on her own, without help. By the time of her first birthday, she could walk by herself and make simple sentences. At two, she could form complex sentences and express her inner feelings. She would impress her nurse by recalling her early days, almost to her birth.

“She tells me that when she was two weeks old she saw the Goddess in the desert,” the nurse had once confessed to an attentive Arhiman.

“Two weeks? How is this possible?”

“I have never seen anything like it. She also tells me the Goddess saved her and gave her some of her milk, and that’s why she learns things so quickly. I know it’s only a child’s imagination, but I cannot help but marvel at the beautiful things she says about the Goddess.”

“Well, perhaps the Goddess did bless her,” the demon had ventured, omitting to mention that had seen it with his own eyes.

Arhiman kept his watch. By the time of her third birthday, Anaxana had learned how to read hieroglyphics and could perform simple mathematical operations. Her memory of the past seemed even clearer. One night, over the communal dinner, she claimed that she was the illegitimate child of a former initiate of the temple and one of the Habiru laborers, who had fled the high priestess’ wrath.

This did not endear her to the priestess, who remembered only too well how she had driven off the unforgivable sinners into the desert. Disturbed by the child’s uncanny recollection of this event, the priestess had scolded her in front of everyone and had her stay inside her room for a week, with only a little bit of bread and water every day. Anaxana had spent the time writing the story of her birth in simple pictographs on her bedroom wall.

By the age of four the precocious child talked with the assurance of a teenager, though in her heart she remained a little girl still. To soothe the high priestess, she had expressed the desire to become an initiate of Isis, devoting herself to the temple, maintaining that she owed her life to the good intentions of the great goddess.

As much as the priestess still distrusted her, she could not deny the child’s wish to formally join the temple. She already knew a good deal about the cult of the goddess, and most of the priestesses were in fact quite fond of her. And so, despite her sometimes-unsettling talents, young Anaxana soon assisted them as they faithfully performed the temple’s daily rituals, holding incense sticks, blowing out candles and sweeping the altar of Isis clean.

As for Arhiman, he patiently waited for the time the gifted child would finally begin her true apprenticeship. This time finally came on the day marking the beginning of the Festival of Opet, the mother of Osiris. At dusk, the demon came to the five-year old girl as she sat in the temple with all the other novices, under the watchful eye of the high priestess, while the faithful came to pay homage to Isis. He lay in the shadows across the large room, watching her from afar, occasionally chuckling at the pointless rituals staged by the priestesses.

Ana.

Anaxana looked up. The demon’s voice had been but a whisper, but she had heard his call.

Ana. Come to me.

Making sure the priestess didn’t notice her, she left the other initiates and wandered off between the large stone columns, looking for the voice that beckoned her in the dimming light. She walked with a slow, assured gait, much more like an adult than a young girl of five.

Come, Anaxana.

Anaxana walked across the great hall to the alcove where Arhiman was sitting. He had chosen to appear as an elderly Habiru man with a long gray beard.

The young girl stopped in front of the old man and smiled, her wide, dark eyes curiously exploring the heavy wrinkles that scarred his face, then the dark ebony walking stick on which he leaned.

“Good girl,” he said. “You could hear me all the way across the room?”

“Yes I did, “she replied proudly. “The priestess said I can hear better than all the other girls. Sometimes I hear something, and no one else can.”

“I know, dear little Anaxana. I know all about you.”

“Why do you call me that? That’s not my name!”

“Of course it is. It is your true name. But you know this already, don’t you? You’re playing with me!”

The old man let out a soft, friendly chuckle. She seemed surprised to see such an old face laugh. Biting her lower lip, she glanced around to see if anyone had noticed them. There wasn’t - Arhiman had made sure of that. This meeting was too important to have it ruined by a chance happening.

She looked back at the demon then sat next to him in the alcove. She leaned over, smelling him. He smelled of almonds and camphor, which made Anaxana flinch for a second.

“Are you a spirit?” she asked eagerly.

Her question startled Arhiman for an instant. She was even more exceptional than he thought.

“Now, sweetheart, I’m just an old man that likes to tell stories to little children. Would you like to hear a story?”

She looked away, shrugging her shoulders. The answer had disappointed her. Arhiman lowered his voice further, so much that no sound appeared to escape from his mouth, and yet young Ana could hear him clearly.

“Would you like to hear a story about spirits?”

She turned back to him, a wide smile on her face.

“Yes, please!”

“Aren’t you scared of spirits?”

“Sometimes...Most spirits try to scare me, but some are nice, like the Goddess.”

“You have seen spirits?” the demon asked, intrigued.

“Not for real, only in my dreams. I never see them when I’m awake. I’m afraid to.”

“When I’m done telling you my story, you will never fear them again. Come and meet me at the small hill north of here, just a bit further than the Nehet tree Pharaoh gave to the Temple. Do you know which hill I’m talking about?”

“Yes, but I can’t go out at night! The priestess said so,” Anaxana complained, a worried frown on her brow.

“We won’t tell the priestess. Or maybe you don’t really want to hear the story...”

“But I do, I do! Can’t you tell me now?”

“No Ana. No one can hear this story but you. And you mustn’t tell anyone about it, ever. Do you understand?”

Anaxana nervously glimpsed back across the hall; the severe-looking high priestess had noticed that one of her novices was missing.

“Yes,” she said in haste.

“Will you come tonight, then?”

“Yes. I have to go back, or she will be mad at me.”

She hurried back. The priestess caught her by the arm and indeed started to scold her, asking her what she was doing and who she was speaking to. She could not see Arhiman, who had turned into a thin dark mist, hovering above them in the heavy incense-filled air. Young Ana kept silent. The priestess hit her in the back of the head and started to drag her out of the room, pulling her by the arm. Anaxana started to sob quietly.

A wisp of Arhiman’s discorporate body drifted down near the priestess’ head, just as she was raising her hand again. The smell distracted her for a second, then the now-invisible demon let out a mighty roar.

LET HER GO, YOU BITCH!

Stricken with sudden dread, she let go of Anaxana, who ran all the way back to her room. She stood motionless in the dim candlelight, shivering, blood slowly trickling from her nose and ears. Arhiman could not harm her directly, but the Law didn’t prevent him from scaring humans witless. From this day on, the high priestess never hit young Anaxana again.

9

Patrick Gauthier stared at the acoustic ceiling tiles of his office, counting them over and over. He often did this when trying to wrap his mind a particularly challenging problem. The Jacques-Cartier bridge surveillance tape has turned an already-delicate case into a minefield. There was the definite possibility that the minister’s daughter had not been kidnapped, but rather was a willing participant in her own abduction. That would explain why there never were any ransom demands.

His office phone rang. It was Josephine, the department’s secretary.

“Patrick, Mr. Reynolds is here again to see you...”

“He is?”

Reynolds had come to see him the previous day, but had left before Gauthier had gotten around meeting him.

He looked at his watch. Half past four. After poring over the surveillance tapes for almost two days, trying to make sense of it all, Patrick welcomed the opportunity to focus his mind on something else for a while.

“All right, I’ll see him. Is room B available?”

“Give me a second...yes, it’s free.”

“Okay, just show him in and tell him I’ll be right there.”

He hung up and collected his thoughts. On his desk was the printout of Lysanne Dumont glaring into the surveillance camera. Her gaze made him uneasy. She didn’t look at all like she was being led against her will. She didn’t look scared, or nervous, or troubled. In fact, her face showed a complete lack of emotion. Patrick had seen this kind of coldness before, on the face of hardened criminals and murderers as they received their sentences in court.

Making out the face of the man walking with Lysanne proved a bit trickier. The guy kept looking down to the ground or away from the camera. He probably knew it was there. He was tall, around six feet two, and of slight built. He seemed to float in his suit a little. Nice suit, too. Patrick wondered if organized crime wasn’t involved. Mafia? That seemed unlikely...the Italians wouldn’t kidnap a minister’s daughter, that’s just bad for business. They bikers wouldn’t either, for that matter, and from what he could tell the man wasn’t Asian. At least the Asian gangs were reliable on that point: they rarely hired outside their own people, while the other criminal organizations had started to be more inclusive.

There was something about it that just didn’t look right. There was more to this, Patrick could feel it, and when he felt something he was usually on to something. He didn’t seem to be keeping her against her will. That meant that she was either drugged, or brainwashed, or that she had fallen in with the wrong crowd of her own free will.

He closed the file and put it in his top drawer, locking it under key, got up and started walking towards interview room B. On the way he stopped at the monitoring station, where a lone officer sat in front of a dozen security monitors, feet resting on the console.

“Hey Steve, how’s it going.”

“Hey, Mr. Pat, sir, doing fine.”

“Listen, can you record interview B for me?”

“Sure thing boss. Who’s the guy? Looks a bit like that actor, you know?”

Patrick looked at the monitor for the small interview room. William Reynolds was sitting at the table, hands on his lap, staring into emptiness. He did look vaguely familiar. Receding hair, large rectangular rimmed glasses, a rather small nose. His sideburns, old-fashioned brown corduroy suit and double-width tie made him look as if he was stepping right out of the 70s. He reminded Gauthier of a writer he’d seen on the back of a science-fiction book. Isaac Asimov, to be precise. He had read that robot book at Sophie’s suggestion. He hadn’t really liked the movie – he didn’t really care much for science fiction – but the book turned a good read, with some clever logical puzzles.

“I don’t know, Steve. I have no idea. Looks familiar, though.”

“Michael Caine. That’s who.”

“Yeah, a little. Well, I better go find out what he wants. Thanks.”

“No problemo.”

Patrick entered interview room B.

“Mr. Reynolds. Lieutenant-Detective Patrick Gauthier, nice to meet you.”
Reynolds instantly came out of his daydreaming and rose up to shake Patrick’s hand with a sincere smile.

“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Gauthier.”

Patrick sat across from him. His voice, and his slight British accent, seemed very familiar to him. It was a trustworthy voice, very pleasing to hear. He felt well-disposed towards this distinguished person.

“Tell me, Mr. Reynolds, have we met before?”

“I don’t believe we have, detective. I have only been in this city for a year or so, and in this time I’m afraid my interactions with the Montreal police force have been limited to asking for directions on the street. Oh, and chatting with your department’s charming secretary, of course.”

“Of course. So, then...what can I do for you?”

“Detective, am I right in stating that you were the individual most responsible for the arrest and subsequent successful prosecution of Wallace Bartholomew Valera.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow. He hadn’t heard the Villeray Vampire referred to by his real name in months.

“Uh, yes, you could say I played a part in it...”

“You’re too modest, Mr. Gauthier. That was a brilliant investigation, one for the books, if I do say so myself.”

Patrick had a bit of a trouble with being complimented. Deep down he felt being put in a position of vulnerability.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Reynolds, but...are you a journalist, or a writer?”

Reynolds smiled.

“Ah! Forget my manners, Mr. Gauthier. I should have introduced myself in a more thorough fashion. William Reynolds, chair of the faculty of comparative mythology, Oxford. I’m on sabbatical, as it happens.”

“Comparative mythology?”

“Oh yes, the study of parallel symbolism, myths and deities in multiple religions, both ancient and contemporary. It’s not a very active field of research these days, I’m afraid.”

“I see.”

“I am also a specialist of sorts on religious relics. Originally I came to study the reliquary of Frère André, however I’ve found that there’s an impressive amount of artifacts to be found peppered across the province. Fascinating.”

“You don’t say?” Patrick said with feigned interest.

“Why, did you know that in a small Eastern Township church I visited, I found what I believe to be one of the three nine-inch nail used in the Crucifixion. The metal showed some telltale regional characteristics, and there were ancient bloodstains on it. The priest let me perform a carbon dating on a small sample, and the result turned out positive. Unfortunately he wouldn’t let me keep the sample for DNA analysis. Anyhoo, exciting stuff. Were it not for the fact that I’d lose tenure at Oxford, I’d be tempted to live here permanently!”

“Yes...All of this is related to the Villeray Vampire, right?”

Patrick was beginning to think Reynolds was perhaps not entirely there. It wouldn’t be the first time he’d had to deal with eccentrics who believed that Wally Valera was a real vampire.

“It may very well be...or rather, to the instrument Valera used to kill and drain his victims. A short, rusty metallic tube with a pointed, razor-sharp end, a little like a hollow metal pen...”

“Yes, I know what object you’re talking about. Valera tried to stab me with it when I arrested him.”

“Well, I have reasons to believe that this is actually the Quill of Elijah, a minor religious artifact dating from 12th-century Turkey, from the medieval city of Antioch, to be precise.”

“Ah. That’s quite old.”

“Indeed. I’ve studied court photos and descriptions and they seem to match the object. Of course, the only way to find out for sure would be to study the actual artifact itself.”

“So, you’d like to inspect the exhibit.”

“Precisely. I was told it was returned here after the trial, pending its eventual disposal. I hope it’s not too late...”

Patrick looked at his watch. Quarter to five. He still needed to look at today’s Jacques Cartier surveillance tapes, four days’ worth in fast forward.

“Well, it probably is for today, the officer in charge of the property room is already gone. He’s about to retire, you know, and he leaves at around four thirty. But rest assured, it’s still down there. You do realize this involves a lot of paperwork, however...”

“I have the signed authorization here. I wouldn’t want to waste your time, detective. I simply want to inspect the artifact.”

Reynolds took out a piece of paper and gave it to Gauthier, who took it without looking at it. For a second it seemed as if there had been a peculiar reflection in Reynolds’ glasses.

He was really a charming fellow.

“Well then, everything’s in order. Perhaps you’d care to come back tomorrow morning?”

“Splendid. If you need to contact me for anything, here’s my card.”

Reynolds gave his card to Patrick. It was a plain card with Reynolds’ name on it, as well as his address in London. On the back was scribbled his temporary Montreal address and phone number.

“Okay, so I’ll see you tomorrow, then.”

He showed Reynolds out of the room and walked him to the front entrance.

“Thank you again for your help,” Reynolds said, shaking the detective’s hand.

“Someone is coming to see you,” he added as he walked down the steps to the front door.
Gauthier looked behind him, trying to see who Reynolds was talking about, but there was no one there. He turned back to Reynolds, only to see that he had gone.

“Well hello there, lieutenant-detective.”
He looked up at the stairs leading to the second floor to see Sophie walk towards him, carrying a box full of office stuff.

“Hey Sophie,” Patrick said, giving a last glance at the front door.

“What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, I was just...never mind. What are you doing around these parts?”

She picked up a paper from the cardboard box and handed it over to Patrick.

“Say hello to your new partner, sergeant-detective Sophie Bernard. I finally got the promotion, and it seems the Chief wants me to assist you on the Dumont case!”

“What? How come no one asked me about it?” responded Patrick, taken aback. He immediately regretted sounding so negative; he didn’t want to hurt Sophie’s feelings. Still, he liked to work alone, and having his lover as his partner didn’t seem like a good idea.

Sophie looked away uncomfortably.

“I’m sorry, Sophie, I didn’t mean it to come out like that. I’m just a little surprised, that’s all. I knew you wanted to come over to Major Crimes, but I didn’t think it’d be so soon...or that they’d put you on this case.”

“Hey, don’t worry.” She lowered her voice. “What’s ours is ours, and the rest is business, okay?”
Gauthier nodded.

“If you say so, officer – I mean, sergeant-detective!”

“I mean it, sir. Or maybe you don’t think I can help on the case?”

“Come on, Sophie, you know I don’t think that,” Gauthier replied, giving her a little nudge on the shoulder. “I think you’re a very good cop, and you’ll make a great detective. And you’ll start by getting us some coffee. You’ve got to get up to speed on the Dumont case, and there’s a lot of ground to cover.”

She smiled. “All right. Hey, what’s that in your hand?”

Patrick looked down. He was holding a blank sheet of paper, and he had no idea why. Once again he had the feeling, the same one he had at Sophie’s apartment, a couple of days earlier.

“I don’t know...I guess I wanted to write something down. Never mind, I can't remember. So, anything but anchovies, all right?”

"All right," Sophie replied with a amused nod.

10

For almost two days Archie had holed up in his sparsely furnished apartment, incapable of going out. He knew it was only a matter of time before the landlord showed up. He had prepared a suitcase with all the things that were dear to him, letters, photographs and such. For two days he waited, but no one came. As the fear and shocked subsided, Archie found himself increasingly hungry and restless.

Why doesn’t he come and kick me out already. Let’s get this over with.

He looked again in the fridge and cupboard, but he had already eaten the few scraps he had left. He paced around the three white rooms of the small apartment, looking at the walls, thinking how he never got around to painting them. Or put up posters, or pictures, anything. The bare walls were driving him crazy. This was like a mental ward cell. He had to get out, but he was afraid to. He was afraid the landlord would see him and remember that he hadn’t paid his rent despite his final warning. He was also afraid of running into the murderous pimp – and probable drug dealer – who had sent his own girl to a watery grave.

However, there was no denying that he was losing his mind in here, with no food, no money and nothing to do but wait for the other shoe to drop.

Maybe he made a mistake. Maybe he thinks I already paid him.

He walked to the front window and looked down at the street. It was almost ten P.M...the landlord wouldn’t come by at this hour. He was safe for another day. But why the delay?

Maybe he had an accident. Maybe he’s dead. Maybe...maybe you’re a fucking idiot!

He had to get out. He was so hungry.

Better to drink another tall glass of water, that’ll help.

He made his way back to the kitchen. His cat, Louise, looked up at him at meowed. She was hungry too. Fortunately, she still had some dry food left; he filled her bowl to the rim and petted her as she ate.

“Poor little Louise...I couldn’t even take proper care of you.”

Tears swelled in his eyes. He would have to take her to the animal shelter when he got out.

And then I’ll have to take myself to the homeless shelter...

Perhaps he could try to hitchhike back to New York, try to find some old friends who could lend him their couch until he got his life back on track.

One thing was certain: he no longer entertained the idea of killing himself. Seeing that poor girl plunge in the dark waters of the St. Lawrence River had scared him off the idea.

For sure she’s dead. The fall. And the water’s so cold!

He still couldn’t fully comprehend what happened, how quickly she had moved, how she had twisted the metal bars...she must have been so addicted to the drug the Goblin had thrown off the bridge that she lost all common sense.

She didn’t even say a word as she fell. No screams. Nothing.

That has to be it. There was no other reasonable explanation, and though he might be losing his mind he was not crazy yet. He knew what he saw.

Louise rubbed herself against her master’s leg, purring with satisfaction. Ah, to be a cat, loved and fed everyday without having to lift a finger. He picked her up and held her close to him, burying his face in her fur.

At least you still care about me, even if it’s only because I feed you.

The pure, unconditional love one got from a pet was always a great source of comfort for him. Even now, everything seemed a little less dark with this small, warm, fuzzy life-form huddled against him.

No way am I leaving you, kitty cat. Fuck the shelters. We’ll find a way. We’ll survive.

Louise licked his forehead with her raucous tongue, purring even louder. It was as if she was trying to heal the mental wounds of the nice man who fed her, then jumped out of his arms to the ground. She walked up to the sofa and started to scratch her claws on its side. That was one of Archie’s last pieces of furniture, along with a small table, a chair and a futon mattress. He had sold or pawned pretty much everything else.

Suddenly, Louise stopped scratching the sofa and twisted around, looking at space. She looked around for a moment, as if an invisible fly hovered along the walls, then started licking herself. Archie smiled.

Diane used to say she saw spirits.

Someone rang at the door.

Fuck. Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuck.

The bell rang again.

He hesitated. Perhaps if he didn’t move, whoever was at the door would go away.

The bell rang a third time. No point in delaying the inevitable. He walked to the door and opened it. His heart stopped.

“Mr. Steel! Finally, you grant us the pleasure of your company!”

Standing in the doorway was the ever-smiling Goblin, still in his burgundy suit. Next to him was Lysanne. Alive and well, and ravishing in a red low-cut dress. Her hair was done, her make-up non-garish, and she even let on a hint of a smile. She looked a lot better than the first time he’d seen her – never mind the fact that she’d jumped off the Jacques Cartier two days earlier.

Archie couldn’t find anything to say.

“At a loss for words again, are you? We’ll have to fix that! Come on, you must be starving. Let’s go get something to eat!”

***

(Illustration of William Reynolds by Ghislain Barbe)

Writing the book (part two)

2007-04-23T12:56:00.001-04:00

It's been some time since my last blog entry - twelve days to be exact - and while I'd love to say that this was because I was busy writing the book, that would unfortunately be a slight exaggeration. As usual, progress is steady but slow, with only one new chapter completed over the past two weeks. To make up for it, here's the followup to the story about how I started working on the book, as well as an important related announcement.

In the first part of this epic tale, I recounted how the story that would become Demons and such started out as a comic book based on some role-playing characters I had created, as well as how I had finally decided to take a leave of absence from work in order to work on the book full-time.

I had made my decision in the fall of 2004, following the completion of the second Scooby-Doo game I had designed at Artificial Mind & Movement. I had approached Denis, my Game Executive, in order to discuss this. He was very receptive, and soon I had received his approval for the unpaid leave of absence. The details, mainly 'when' and 'for how long', would be worked out after the Christmas break.

Fate, however, had decided otherwise. At the Christmas party two friends and colleagues, Jean and Oz, had asked me how I would love to design a game or two for Nintendo's new portable console, the DS. I was intrigued by this little machine, with its dual display, touch screen interface and wireless capabilities. As it happened, the newly-formed DS team was in a bit of a bind, having no designers on board yet. Thinking about it over the holidays, I finally decided to postpone my sabbatical leave for a few months and help out the DS team.

In retrospect, there might have been something else to this decision. I had put the book project on the back burner for so long, I think I might have been a little scared to actually start it - not to mention the financial hit of going six months without a salary. Whatever the reasons, I ended up doing two DS games for A2M (almost simultaneously, too, which I do not recommend to anyone): a port of Scooby-Doo! Unmasked and the first-ever Kim Possible game in 3D.

Once these projects were done, I once again started to plan my break from work. I was becoming obsessed with the book, and felt that I really needed to get a start on it. However, as the poet said, 'the best-laid plans of mice and men often go awry.' Another A2M project (a PS2/Gamecube adaptation of the movie Monster House) was stuck in limbo after the lead designer had quit to go to UbiSoft. Denis asked me if I would mind postponing my leave of absence one more time to lead the project to completion. Again, I accepted.

As Monster House got underway, however, it soon became clear that I could no longer wait to start the book. The story and the characters wouldn't leave me alone, and even started creeping up on me at work. I though about quitting, but at the last moment I told myself I would at least try to start working on it during my free time. It might take longer than I had first planned, but at least it would keep going forward. I was reminded of a Dino Buzzati quote (though I have forgotten the actual words) in which he urges a young writer to write every day, even if it's only a line or two.

And so I began to do what I had thought impossible, to write an epic novel while working full-time as a game designer. At first I worked at home, mostly on week-ends and at night, but I soon realized that I needed these rest periods to unwind from work and spend some times with my friends. As it turned out, my house was also not a very good place to write for me. So I took some of the money I had put aside for my sabbatical leave and bought a laptop computer (my first in over twelve years). I then started to write during lunch hours, going to the wireless-enabled café across the street so I could access an online dictionary and wikipedia - my two most important writing aides.

I have been doing this ever since, writing for about 45 minutes every day of the week (except those times when I have lunch with Ghislain). The amazing thing about this is that, so far, it has been working very well. I found out I was at my mental peak during that time of the day, and that I could easily phase out the activity around me, reducing it to a strangely comforting background buzz. I've also adjusted to writing on a laptop keyboard, as opposed to the larger ones found on desktop, and now actually prefer it.

The greater part of the book (over 90%, I'd say) has thus been written in cafés, libraries and occasionally the Eaton Center food court, though the latter is a bit too noisy for me, even with headphones on. I know this isn't for everyone, but if you're trying to work on a personal project while working full-time, I suggest you give it a try. Sure, you might feel a bit antisocial for not going out to lunch with co-workers, but you might find that your project actually gets somewhere, instead of just taking up valuable real estate in your mind.

And now, for the aforementioned announcement: after putting it off for more than two years, I will finally take that sabbatical leave. The four-month break will happen after the current project, which should be done by July (well, my contribution to it, at least). I'll hopefully be able to finish the first draft of the book, and perhaps complete a first rewrite by year's end. I still need confirmation from my boss' boss, but so far it seems as if it's not going to be a problem. I'll post further developments on this blog as they come.

Until then, keep on writing, every day, even if it's a sentence or two!

Kurt Vonnegut leaves for Tralfamadore

2007-04-12T10:57:00.000-04:00

The celebrated writer Kurt Vonnegut, author of such influential classics as Slaughterhouse-Five, Breakfast of Champion and Cat's Cradle, died yesterday at the age of 84, following head injuries he suffered during an accidental fall last week. So it goes.

It's not often that the death of someone I don't personally know affects me emotionally, but for some reason the news of Vonnegut's passing really saddens me. It was only recently that I discovered this unique writer, who often blended science-fiction and satire to paint a sometimes bleak but always profoundly human portrait of our world. I also saw him on The Daily Show last year, and found him very endearing. He seemed like the kind of man you would just like to meet and have coffee with (along with some of his trademark Pall Malls). I remember his criticism of George Bush to be both scathing and funny.

Perhaps the reason this affects me so is that I actually read both Slaughterhouse-Five and Hocus Pocus this year, in the course of writing my own book. While I was somewhat surprised by their occasional levity, I was deeply touched by both of them. In fact, I had put a few not-so-subtle references to the man and his work in my novel (I'll refrain from revealing them here so as not to spoil the surprise). I guess I somehow entertained the unlikely notion that he would at some point read the book and get a kick off of these. This will of course never happen now, but I will leave them in as my personal homage to his genius.

It's a cliche to state that an author goes on living after his death through his books, but like many cliches it has a ring of truth to it. I will pick up another one of his books tonight, maybe Cat's Cradle as it's been recommended to me by a couple of people. If you have not yet had the opportunity to read his books, I wholeheartedly encourage you to do so. You will not regret it.

Rest in Peace, Mr. Vonnegut. You have done well.

Kurt Vonnegut in 1991. No copyright information.

The Plan

2007-04-04T13:36:00.000-04:00

There hasn't been much progress on the actual book this week. This contrasts with last week, which saw a crucial chapter come about in only four days. As it sometimes happens, however, new ideas have forced me to postpone the next chapter until I can sort out a new sequence of events. These past couple of days have thus seen an overhaul of one of the most important tools I use in my writing: the plan.

Though this will seem like stating the obvious to some, I simply wouldn't have been capable of going this far along such an ambitious undertaking without some sort of plan delineating the story. This document - which is now in its seventh iteration - has served as both a roadmap and a safety net as I've moved forward in the production of the book's first draft. I wholly recommend using something similar to anyone who wishes to embark on any long-term writing project

To elaborate such a plan, I've found Microsoft Word's "outline" mode to be particularly useful - and one of the reasons why I still use this program at all. As it happens, I now use the open-source software OpenOffice.org to write on the actual book. A Linux version of this excellent Office alternative is available, and the word processing component is more than adequate for this task (my laptop uses Ubuntu Linux as its operating system). OpenOffice, however, lacks a decent Outline mode, therefore I still keep a copy of MS Office around just to work on the plan. Apparently, the OpenOffice developers are working on this feature, though it will probably take a couple of months before it becomes part of the program.

This is what the plan looks like for the first six chapters of the book (note: I haven't updated these in a while, and so it may seem a bit different than the excerpt I've published here last week).

Day 1: Spring in Boston

Farid reflects on the fact that he will have to move soon

A old friend of his from Palestine recognized him

Wonders why Yasmina hasn’t warned him

Glimpse of his philosophy

Ends on him making plans to burn down his house, the body of his friend lying in ice in the tub

Day 1: Archie and Hari

Archie asks his friend Hari to help him out

Archie is an American writer and compulsive gambler

He also goes to see strippers and prostitutes

Hari gives him the money but doesn’t want to see him again until he’s cured

Day 1: Patrick and Sophie

Detective Patrick Gauthier wakes up from a nap

He is at his mistress’ apartment

Her name is Sophie and she’s a cop as well

Day 1: Archie meets the Goblin

Unable to resist Archie goes and gamble

He meets with the Goblin and Lysanne

The Goblin offers him 20$ for a sentence

Archie accepts and gambles the 20$

Anaxana saved from the desert

Isis appears as a sandstorm

She is heartbroken over Osiris’ cyclic mortality

She finds Anaxana with her dead parents

Remorseful, she picks up Anaxana and feeds her

She brings Anaxana to one of her temples

One of Set’s demons follows them from a distance

Day 2: Lysanne’s dive

Desperate, Archie goes to the J-C Bridge with the intention of jumping off of it

He learn he lost all his money

He meets the Goblin and Lysanne

Lysanne dives off the Bridge to catch a small object the Goblin threw overboard

As you can see, every chapter is broken down in a series of bullet points representing the bits of information that must absolutely be conveyed in them. This gives me a "shopping list" of story elements around which I weave the narrative, adding more details as needed.

I also use different colors to identify each storylines (i.e. Farid in red, Archie in blue, Gauthier in green, etc.). This helps to ensure that they always alternate, as well as making it easier to review them separately. I also indicate which day the chapter takes place, in order to make it easier to manage when characters refer to something that has happened in the recent past.

The cool thing about having such a document at hand is that, while it gives a general idea of where the story is going (something which can be very reassuring during the inevitable moments of self-doubt), it is also a living, changing document, which can be updated as needed. This is what I've been doing this week, at the temporary expense of moving the story forward. As such, it is an important part of the whole writing process, and one that I fortunately enjoy very much. I hope this short insight into this aspect of the project will encourage others to make use of what is, in my humble opinion, an essential tool for writing any long piece of work.

Writing Spot: Grande Bibliothèque

2007-04-01T16:43:00.000-04:00

As I write these words, I have only 15 minutes left before I get kicked out of the 2nd floor of the Bibliothèque et Archives nationales du Québec, the Quebec National Library (also known as the Grande Bibliothèque). This is one of my favorite places to write, though I only come here during the week-end, when it unfortunately closes at 5PM. A small section on the ground floor does stay open until ten, but it's cramped and usually packed with UQAM students - not very conducive to novel-writing, unfortunately.

In his fascinating non-fiction book On Writing, Stephen King speaks of the importance of finding one's own writing space, and making sure that it remains inviolate from the vicissitudes of the real world (all right, he doesn't actually use the word "vicissitude", but that's still what he's saying). This is nothing new, mind you: Virginia Woolf had spoken of the necessity to have "A Room of One's Own" in her 1929 essay of the same name, and the idea of the writer toiling away in his own private space is probably as old as the profession itself.

I myself cannot seem to write much in my room. To be faire, it's simply a bedroom, not a workroom or office or anything like that. In my mind it serves a single purpose: the room that houses my bed. I do spend time surfing the net in there, but I'm hard-pressed to do anything creative in that space - I actually find it easier to write in the dining room.

Contrary to what King suggests, I've found not one but many writing spots over the past year an a half, and as it happens they are all public spaces (with wireless Internet access so I can browse Wikipedia and my online dictionary when I need to). One of them, and probably still my favorite, is the "Grande Bibliothèque". There's something about being in the same building as a million books that just gets me to write. It is both humbling and inspiring. Also, the building itself is beautiful, with lots of wood inside and large windows to let the light come in. If you are in Montreal and have not been there already, you owe it to yourself to go at least once. With around eight to ten thousands visitors daily, it's one of those few large government construction projects that has become a resounding success.

If you go there on a Sunday afternoon, check out the East side gallery on the third floor...you might just see me there, toiling away at the book. If you do, don't hesitate to stop and say hi - but keep your voice low as to not disturb the others!

Next week I'll present another one of my favorite writing spots. I'll also try to write part two of the "About the book" story, which is running a bit late.

Note
Two days ago I passed a meaningless, yet important milestone when I reached the magic number of one million characters in my book. That's one million letters, numbers, punctuation signs and spaces. One million keystrokes. Wow. Now I know what a million looks like, and believe me, it's a lot!

As of today, the current status for the book is: 75 chapters; 491 pages; 182,510 words; 1,004,325 characters.

Virginia Woolf, by Vanessa Bell 1912. © National Portrait Gallery, London.

Demons and such, chap. 1-6

2007-03-27T13:48:00.000-04:00

As I metioned previously, I will be putting excerpts from the book online from time to time. I don't plan to provide the entire book here (as this could conceivably make it less attractive from a publisher's standpoint), but I thought that some of you might like to get an idea of what it's about.

Click on the 'Read more' link below to check out the first three chapters of the book (about ten pages in 'paperback' format). Please be indulgent in your critiques, as these are the very first pages I wrote twenty months ago, and I like to think that my writing style has improved since then (I hope it has, anyway...). Enjoy!

Update: I've decided to add three more chapters to this excerpt. It makes for a slightly longer read, but I think it's worth it as it really gives a better idea of what the whole book's about.

***

Demons and such

A novel

***

Shackled for a thousand years atop a lofty tower
The sun at noon forever bound to rob me of my power
Neret-Anath, my lonely jail, mirage within a maze
Of gleaming spires and empty streets and gardens set ablaze
While in the fleeting world of men the histories unfold
God’s mysteries are found and lost, the young grow weak and old
Kings and bishops live and die, great empires rise and fall
I sleep and bide my time until the day I rule them all

***

Farid looked out the window of his Massachusetts Avenue apartment. He creaked it open, letting some of the evening air flow inside. It was already getting warmer outside, more than one would expect for early April. The broom shrubs in Chester Park were exploding with small yellow flowers. This would be a beautiful Boston spring, but he wouldn’t be around to see. The dead body in his bathtub was grim reminder that he had no choice but to leave and probably never return.

The thought of moving out depressed him, but there was little else he could do. There were many unanswered questions in his mind, but this wasn’t one of them. He simply could not risk another encounter like the one that had taken place earlier that morning.

Farid had been strolling in the Commons, doing what he liked best: enjoying the warming rays of the sun, breathing in the fresh air and emptying his mind. As imperfect as it was, the physical world was not without its simple pleasures, and Farid allowed himself these long walks after a mind-numbing night’s work as a watchman at the Boston Aquarium. To him, these walks were as refreshing as a good night’s sleep, which he rarely had – in fact, he never slept more than one or two hours a day.

He was about to sit down on a bench when someone called out a name he hadn’t heard in what seemed like ages.

“Khalil!”

Startled, Farid had glanced around nervously. Instead of sitting down, he kept on walking, picking up the pace. Once more, the voice had shouted the name he had tried to so hard to forget.

“Khalil bin Haidar!”

Farid had frozen, as if he had suddenly realized he had stepped unto a minefield. Khalil, son of Haidar. No one had called him by that name in a long, long time. Four years, to be exact.

He had heard the footsteps of a man running behind him. For a moment, he had thought about running himself, but it was too late.

“Khalil, it’s me, Dawud!”

Slowly, Farid had turned around, his deep-set, melancholic eyes meeting those of his old friend from Palestine, Dawud al-Qadir. The last time he had seen the tall, brawny man with a broken nose, clean-shaved face and short, curly hair, they were running through the streets of Jenin, trying to get away from Israeli soldiers.

“My brother,” Dawud had said, taking the smaller Farid in his arms, “I can’t believe it is you! We all thought you were dead, a martyr! How did you survive? Did the Israelis take you? Did they question you? And how did you ever manage to come to America?”

Farid had tried to respond to Dawud’s numerous questions with vague responses, saying that it was a very complicated story, and that he had some business to attend to, but Dawud would have none of it. Despite his initial suspicions, he had invited his old friend to his place, promising to tell him everything once they got there.

Stepping away from the window, Farid walked over to the closet and pulled out his old backpack, the same one he always took with him whenever he had to leave and find a new place to live. He quickly went through his clothes, picking up some black t-shirts, underwear, socks and two pairs of jeans. He also took an old black hooded sweatshirt and a black wind jacket. No colors.

Why didn’t Yasmina warn him about Dawud right when they met that morning? She was always there to alert him when he was about to get in trouble. He would see the reflection of her face in a car window, or he’d catch a glimpse of her silhouette in the crowd, or he’d hear her sweet voice inside his head. She always warned him when there was danger around, so he could turn around and avoid it. She was always there to watch his back. Unless...

Unless this was something that had been planned all along. He was meant to run into Dawud. Dawud was meant to come to his place. He was meant to attempt to kill Farid, who in turn was meant to find out about it before he did. This was a sign. Farid had to move, it was necessary to accomplish the Grand Mission. After two years, he had come to believe that it would take place in Boston, but obviously he had been wrong.

He felt on his neck the warm caress of Yasmina’s breath. She was still with him, always his protector. At that moment, he knew that he would soon be called upon to carry out his mission and finally repay his debt. It was now a matter of weeks, maybe a few months at the most. His next destination would be his last.

So this was it. He would move. But where? He would find out soon enough, he thought. He’d go to the train station, as always, and follow his instinct, guided by Yasmina’s wisdom.

He walked into the bathroom and took a few personal items. He briefly looked at Dawud’s twisted body, at the empty, lifeless eyes that stared back at him. He shuddered at the thought that he’d have to take him out of there and lay him in his bed. Strangely, that would probably be harder to do than it had been to strangle him a few hours ago – and that had proven quite difficult, given that Dawud had always been much stronger than him. Nothing a length of piano wire couldn’t handle, however.

Poor Dawud. He was no longer a threat to anyone; now he was only his old friend from the West Bank, an old comrade-in-arms from a previous life, a life he had all but forgotten since his first death, when he had been saved, reborn, when he had first heard Yasmina’s sweet voice inside his mind. If it hadn’t for the fact that he had really come into his house to kill him, they might still be reminiscing about the good old days, sipping mint tea on his back porch.

There was no point in considering what might have been. Yasmina had warned him that his erstwhile friend planned on shooting him as he prepared the tea, drawing his attention to the reflection on the side of his chromed toaster, where he had seen Dawud discreetly attach the silencer on his pistol before putting it back inside his jacket. Dawud could have killed him there and then, but for some reason he had chosen to wait a few more minutes. Perhaps he had found it difficult to betray an old buddy, or perhaps he was simply looking for the perfect moment. Whatever the reason, it had given Farid the chance to act first.

Closing up his backpack, Farid sat at the window again and took one of Dawud’s cigarettes. He had quit three years before, but since he only had a few months to live he figured he could allow himself this luxury.

As soon as he’s finish the smoke, he’d go back into the bathroom to shave his head, mustache and beard. After that he’d put Dawud in his bed, go down to the basement to get the gas cans and bring them upstairs. He would then wait until about 2 AM, empty the gasoline on the bed, then set up a remote detonator he had jury rigged from his cell phone. He then would leave through the trap in his attic so no one would see him exit his house. From there he would make his way from roof to roof until he reached the apartment building on the corner of the street, which had an open rooftop terrace. He would get back down on the street, one anonymous face among countless others.

Once at a safe distance, he would call his own cell phone with Dawud’s, triggering the detonator, setting his bed – and likely his house – on fire. He would then discard Dawud’s phone in a trashcan and head for the train station. All traces of Dawud al-Qadir would disappear, along with any memory his long-forgotten friend Khalil bin Haidar of Jenin.

2

“I don’t know, Arch. I don’t know what to say anymore...”

Hari put out his cigarette in the metal ashtray and looked towards the front of the café. There were few customers. Slow night in downtown Montreal, just another rainy Monday evening. He turned back, opened his mouth as if to say something, then shut it, looking somber.

Across the table was Hari’s longtime friend, Archie. Weary, gaunt, sitting on one side of his chair, as if he was about to get up and run out. Archie wore a gray raincoat that was plainly too large for him. It made him look like a film noir detective on a hunger strike.

“Listen...I know you’ve got no reason to believe me, but this time it’s different. I can do this. I can feel it.”

Archie tried his best to look convincing, but he could see his friend wasn’t buying it.

“Can you, Arch?” Hari said in a calm, firm voice. “I’m sorry to be blunt, but you’ve been trying to quit for years. Every damn time I’ve been there for you, and you’ve always said the same thing...and then a couple of days later you’ve always been back shoving money in those machines.”

A long silence fell between the two friends. They were so different, both of them. Archie was the archetypal tormented writer: a slender man in his early thirties, with deep-set grayish eyes and short black hair, he wore only dark clothes, preferably gray or black. Hari, on the other hand, was a rather plump man of East Indian ancestry, born in France, where he had lived there until the age of twenty. A designer for a local video game developer, he lived quite comfortably – enough to help his old college buddy in times of need – but spent too much time sitting in front of a computer for his own good.

At the front of the café, the owner was arguing with a tall, elegant man, although the latter didn’t seem to talk back, but simply kept smiling at the owner. Something about how the man’s girlfriend was scaring away customers. Herself rather tall at about five feet ten, she stood behind him, head slowly swaying, wearing a tattered jean jacket, a black skirt and fishnet stockings. Her eyes heavy with make-up stood out against her extremely pale face, which was framed by shoulder-length dirty blond hair. She stumbled a bit, as if she’d had a bit too much to drink.

“A pimp and his girl”, Archie said. “I’m sure of it. She’s completely wasted.”

Archie had published a single novel, a somewhat autobiographical story about a writer falling in love with an erudite prostitute, and who paid for her services by writing the story of her eventful life for her. The book had been quite well received by the critics, but sales were poor. Heartbroken, he hadn’t written any other book since, living for some time on inheritance money – which had soon dried out due to his pathological gambling habit – as well as on small copy writing contracts for ad agencies.

“You would know, I guess.”

“Aw come on, Hari, that’s low.” Archie lowered his voice. “I haven’t paid for sex in months.”

“Yeah, well you also told me you kept away from video pokers, and obviously that hasn’t been the case. And we both know what the first you did was whenever you won...”

Archie said nothing but he knew exactly what his friend meant. Strippers and hookers. Ladies of the night. Hari sighed and lit up another cigarette. Back at the front of the café, the tall elegant man – still smiling – was now whispering something into the owner's ear. The owner then stepped back, looking at the tall man with a mixture of fear and puzzlement, but Hari and Archie no longer paid attention.

“You know what you need, Arch? You need a girlfriend. A real one.”

“Yeah, like that’s always worked out, Hari. Remember Diane? Remember how I hid all those gambling debts from her? Remember how she left me when I told her? Yeah, I’m a real catch!”

“Arch, you need to find someone you care about enough that you’ll start taking care of yourself. Because I can’t. I can’t help you anymore, Arch.”

Arch, looked up, worried. This wasn’t supposed to happen. He needed that money. He felt as though he might start to cry.

“Hari, my landlord’s going to throw me out if I don’t pay. I’ll have no place to go, man.”

“I’m going to help you one last time, Arch, one last time. I’ll give you the money.”

“I’ll pay you back, I swear.”

“No you won’t. I’m giving you the money. I don’t want to see it again. And I don’t want to see you again either, until you’ve really cleaned up your act. I’m serious, Arch. I’m dead fucking serious!”

Hari took a deep breath.

“How much do you need?”

Archie didn’t answer, his throat swelling with shame. At the front of the café, the tall elegant man was now walking out, his girl in tow. The owner was still standing in the same spot, petrified, as if a doctor had told him he only had a few months to live.

“Arch, how much?”

“Eight hundred dollars.”

“Eight...Jesus, how much have you...no, I don’t want to know.”

“That’s six hundred for the rent, seventy-five for the phone bill...”

“I don’t want to know, Arch. I’ll just write you the check and get the hell out of here.”

“I...well, you can’t...I don’t have a bank account anymore.”

“What? Since when?”

Archie didn’t want to get into how the bank had figured out he was depositing checks from himself in the ATMs. He’d do so in order to get some money in advance, a few days before getting some money for a contract, counting on the processing delay. The bank found out, eventually, and threatened to sue him for fraud. In the end they just canceled his account and left him with a blotch on his already tattered credit record.

“A couple of weeks back. I haven’t had the chance to get a new one yet. Hey, there’s a bank machine right around the corner...Hari, I won’t gamble it, I swear!”

“I don’t care if you gamble it, Arch. I’m giving you the money. You want to dig your own hole with it, fine. Just don’t ask me to help you get out of it, because I won’t.”

3

“Wake up, lieutenant-detective...” a woman’s voice said softly, speaking in French.

Patrick stirred slowly in the bed, still half-snoring as he came out of sleep.

“What...” His hoarse voice barely made it out of the pillow.

“Come on, Patrick, you know you can’t sleep here. It’s almost 10. You’ve got to go home,” the voice insisted gently.

Patrick opened his eyes and sat on the bed. He took a look around. He was in the bedroom of his younger colleague, Montreal police officer Sophie Bernard. The images slowly came back to him. They had just made love. He had held her in his arms. He had kissed her mouth, her neck, her breasts. He had gently held her nipples between his lips. She had brought him to the brink of ecstasy with her sprightly tongue. He had taken her aggressively, with fire in his blood, pinning her arms down as he exploded within her womb. Her blissful moans had filled the room. Exhausted, he had collapsed on the pillows...and there he was.

“Mmm...did I fall asleep?”

“Yes you did,” the woman replied, smiling. She walked over to the other side of the bed and picked up her blouse. “Took you less than five minutes, too!”

“Aw, Sophie, I’m sorry.”

“Hey, don’t worry about it. Everyone knows the Chief has been busting your ass on the Dumont case. With the hours you’ve been pulling off, I’m surprised you managed to stay up as long as you did.”

She came over to him and sat on his lap, rubbing his short blond hair.

“You were great.”

She gave him a tender kiss, then got up and picked up her belt.

“Well hey, you know, now I’m wide awake again...” Patrick said with a smile.

“Now, now, lieutenant-detective Gauthier, you know I’ve got my rounds, and you’ve got your wife. You’ll have to hold that thought until next time.”

She finished putting on her uniform. It was indeed getting late, and his suburban house was a good 30 minutes away from Sophie’s Plateau apartment. He looked at the bedroom walls, adorned with posters announcing popular alternative Rock concerts and museum exhibitions. There was also a tall library full of books, mostly French literature, with a few American best-sellers here and there. She had quite a few biographies as well, and even a few philosophy books. He always though Sophie had too much culture to be a cop.

He liked action movies, watching Hockey with the boys at the pub, fishing and the Sunday paper’s crossword puzzles. He didn’t read much – though he had read all the Harry Potters, and had in fact quite enjoyed them. When he was a kid, he used to collect comic books, cheaply-printed French translations of DC and Marvel classics such as Superman and Spiderman. His favorite were Daredevil and Batman, because they often fought organized crime, and it made him think that one day they might come to clean up his gang-ridden neighborhood.

Sophie and he had been discreetly seeing each other for about two months now, ever since they had first met at the station. They met once or twice a week, whenever their conflicting schedules allowed.

“You know,” Sophie continued as Patrick looked for his underwear under the covers, “you really should talk to the union rep about the Chief. You could file a complaint...”

Patrick found his underwear and slipped it on. He didn’t want to file a complaint. He liked his job, and he was good at it too. Things were a little hectic right now, but nothing he couldn’t handle.

It was true that the case of Lysanne Dumont was a political hot potato that put a lot of pressure on the entire department. It’s also true that the case should probably have already been sent to the Royal Canadian Mounted Police, or arguably the Sûreté du Québec, considering that the missing person was the daughter of the current federal Minister of Indian Affairs. But as it turned out, Patrick got the case because the minister, a friend of his father, had specifically requested that he lead the investigation. After all, his reputation as a brilliant detective was not undeserved: a year ago, he had almost single-handedly solved the case of the Villeray Vampire, Montreal’s sole serial killer of the past twenty years.

Be as it may, the Dumont case had been dragging for almost four months. The lack of progress had fueled the turf war between the municipal, provincial and federal police forces. The Chief expected results, and soon. He’d do his very best to provide them.

“I’ll be fine, Sophie. I’ve seen worse.”

“All right honey, it’s your ulcer...now hurry up, I’ve got to go.”

He stood up and looked in the mirror. He still had a pretty good shape for a 43 year-old man. He was a bit chubbier, and had a bit more wrinkles, but his body was still strong and his rugged face was still pleasant to look at. A strong jaw, straight nose, narrow green eyes, wide shoulders. Women were still attracted to him, and he knew it.

He looked at Sophie as she put on some make-up in the bathroom. She didn’t put on too much when she did her rounds, but she always used some eyeliner to make here ice-blue eyes come out. She had a pretty round face, black curls, and a well-toned, almost sculptural body, eyes that looked deep into your soul...but what Patrick like above all else was her smell. Whenever they’d been some time without seeing each other, his first smell of her would drive him crazy with desire.

It helped that they both got along great, though neither could tell if this was still a casual friendship, or something more. That she was 16 years younger than him wasn’t so much a factor as the fact that Patrick wasn’t really interested in leaving Nathalie, his wife of twenty years. He would joke that the latter was too good of a lawyer, and that he needed to be careful in case she hired a private investigator to catch him in the act, but in fact he knew she didn’t care that he came home so late, or that they had stopped having sex altogether, and he knew that she was seeing someone as well. It was as if they had a tacit agreement between them, that they both were free, but that neither one of them wanted to break what they still had between them.

Patrick was a good judge of character, something that helped him a lot in his investigations. He was rarely wrong about someone, and it seemed to him that his wife was as comfortable with the current situation as he was. All things considered, everything seemed to be fine.

So why was there that nagging impression at the back of his head that something bad was about to happen? He often had very strong and sudden intuitions, which as a kid he called his very own 'spider sense', but it was hard to tell these from his protective instincts towards his young colleague.

“Hey, Sophie.”

“Yes, hun?”

“Be careful tonight.”

She turned to him, smiling. She often had to remind him that she was a big girl and able to take care of herself. Still, he could never help feeling a bit protective towards her.

“I’ll be fine, Patrick.”

Patrick said nothing and looked out the window again. Sophie turned back to her bathroom mirror.

“Why are you worried, hun?” she asked, putting the last of her eyeliner. “Are you having one of your special feelings again?”

He shrugged.

“Nah. Still, you should keep an eye out for trouble. It’s a full moon and the Canadiens made the playoffs tonight. There’s bound to be some action downtown, even on a rainy Monday.”

4

Archie walked lightly as he headed back to his apartment. He felt as though a weight had been taken off of his shoulders, even though his pockets were $800 heavier. It had stopped raining; the night air was crisp and light. This was going to be a beautiful spring, he felt it. He’d stop gambling, get a few contracts. Turn his life around.

You got to turn your life around, man. You have to, or you’ll lose everything. Hari’s right. Stop gambling, pay your debts, and find a girl. A real girl. Pay the rent, pay the bills...

Arch started thinking. He didn’t have to pay all the bills right now; the phone wasn’t due for another two weeks. He could delay the heating bill for a couple of weeks as well; after all they hadn’t sent the first warning yet. Truth be told, the only thing that really mattered was the rent, which was six hundred dollars for a minuscule one-bedroom apartment – not that he had much furniture left anyway. That left him an extra $200. If everything went right, he’d get a copy writing job next week and would do his best to sweet-talk the agency girl into getting an advance for the following week.

Three hundred dollars for two weeks. That’s plenty. I don’t need more than $150 for food, less if I put a bit more macaroni and cheese on the menu. So that leaves me with at least $50.

Archie started to walk a bit faster.

Now, I’m going to need to take the subway to the agency at least three times, I don’t want to be late, I might as well buy a six tickets, that’s about 12 bucks...that leaves me with about $40 to spare. I could stop at the Jacques Cartier pub...

Archie was almost there anyway. The Jacques Cartier pub was near the entrance to the Jacques Cartier Bridge, one of Montreal's main access routes. This was a rather dingy part of town, complete with tattoo parlors, street prostitutes and squeegee punks on the corner. Archie imagined that the pub must have belonged to some criminal gang, maybe the bikers. In any case the beer was cheap and they had five video poker machines, so there was always room.

I have to turn my life around. First thing I do, starting tomorrow morning.

Reaching the corner of Ontario and Papineau Street, Archie looked around to make sure no one he knew was around, and then quickly entered the Jacques Cartier pub. The place was quiet. No bands tonight. Behind the bar, a cute waitress in a skin-tight t-shirt smiled at him. He walked up to her and ordered a beer, then went straight over to one of the machines and fed it a $20 bill. It asked him how long he wanted to play before it would ask him again. Using the touch screen, he chose an hour then looked at the choice of games the machine now displayed in front of him. Deep down he knew that all of them were basically the same, eye candy on top of a computer algorithm designed to gradually make him lose money. But there was a small chance that he’d win, and that would make the difference between a dreary, lonely week and one where he could at least go out a couple of times.

I wonder if Natasha is working at the Scandale tonight. I haven’t seen her in a while...I could always go there later, if I get lucky.

He picked his favorite, the poker game. He was a pretty good poker player, although on these machines it didn’t make any difference. If the computer decided that this was a losing turn, there wasn’t any strategy you could take to change the outcome. All you had was the rush, the quickening of the pulse as the cards came up, each with the tempting promise of easy money. He set his bet at the maximum, two dollars fifty. No sense in playing low when starting. Make your bets small when you’ve got almost no money left.

Queen of spades, queen of hearts, four of diamonds, three of clubs, seven of hearts. Nothing.

Archie had first tried one of these machines a year ago, five years after he’d arrived from New York. After the death of his mother – his father had died when Archie was eight years old – he felt like he needed to get out of the city. The West Coast just wasn’t his thing. He didn’t particularly care much for the sun. Above all, he wanted a place where he could find inspiration for his first novel. He thought of Europe, but flying was one of his few irrational fears, along with heights and drowning.

Six of hearts, nine of hearts, nine of clubs, nine of diamonds, king of diamonds. Two fifty. No change.

Some friends of his had recommended Montreal, in the Canadian province of Quebec, as a great alternative to the old continent. As it happened, one of his college friends, Hari Celeste, had been living there for a couple of years. He immediately fell in love with the city and the easy-going French-speaking people who lived in it – though he spoke little of the language, his efforts always won him the sympathy of others. He applied for residency after a few months and lived off his inheritance, hanging out in cafés, working on his book. He took his good time, and wrote it in two and a half years of bohemian leisure.

Ace of clubs, two of clubs, four of clubs, eight of diamonds, five of clubs. Damn. So close.

Fascinated by the working-class neighborhoods of the city, he started to hang out in some of its less sophisticated pubs. When he and his on-and-off girlfriend Diane would break up after one of their fights, he’d sometimes end up in those places where the soft touch of a woman’s skin could be briefly obtained for a fee. A bit of an introvert, Archie found it easier to deal with strippers: they didn’t want anything else from him than his money, which he still had plenty of. Even so, he often made friends with them. Some of his regular girls would tease the “horny American writer” when he would come in and sit at his usual table.

Jack of hearts, three of clubs, six of diamonds, seven of spades, joker. No gain.

Once in a while, strippers weren’t enough. He would pick up one of the local papers and browse through the escort service ads and call a girl over. Partly out of guilt, he’d always prepare the apartment before she arrived. He would dim the lights, burn some incense, and spruce up his mini-bar. In a way, he wanted this to be as pleasant for his guest as it could be. Afterwards, he’d take some time to talk with them, try to get to know them a little.

Four of clubs, queen of diamonds, joker, jack of hearts, seven of spades. No gain.

It was in a strip club, le Scandale, that Archie had first tried one a video poker machine. After spending a hundred dollars over the course of an hour, he hit a lucky streak that won him over six hundred. The machine automatically stopped you when you went over five hundred, printing out the coupon which you redeemed at the bar, as a sign that it was now time to go home. Holding the wad of cash in his hands, with the girls cheering him, Archie was almost instantly hooked.

Three of diamonds, king of hearts, five of hearts, nine of hearts, ace of clubs. C’mon, sweetie, give me a big one.

It didn’t take long for his inheritance to melt away. The book, which by now had been published, didn’t make nearly as much money as he’d hoped for, and he had to start doing small copy writing jobs for ad agencies, which he had done before leaving New York.

Ace of diamonds, nine of clubs, ten of clubs, eight of spades, eight of diamonds. C’mon, sweetie, give me a big one.

He was forced to leave his expensive Plateau apartment to move into a small flat in the less glamorous Centre-Sud neighborhood, in front of a small park where junkies would regularly congregate to shoot up.

Five of spades, three of diamonds, six of spades, nine of hearts, ace of clubs. No gain. C’mon, sweetie, give me a fucking big one right fucking now.

Unable to cope with the truth when he finally told her five months ago – he did after all owe her quite a lot of money – Diane left him for good. This time, she also took most of their mutual friends with her. They hadn’t spoken since.

Six of diamonds, four of hearts, ten of hearts, queen of clubs, ten of clubs. Shit.

Archie looked at the machine, his teeth clenched. Twenty dollars had evaporated in less than a minute. He hadn’t even touched his beer. He fished another twenty dollar bill out of his pocket. After all, that was the gambling budget he’d set for himself. 40 dollars and then that’s it. His last gamble, for good. He was going to enjoy this one.

Yes. Bet lower. Let it last. Let it last long enough to get to that lucky break.

He inserted the bill into the machine and selected poker again. This time he used smaller bets, and switched to a different game once in a while. While playing Eight Lines he got six sevens; that brought him to $50. Enough to cover his losses, but not what a real gambler considers a real gain. He kept on playing on those fifty bucks for about another half hour before it was gone as well.

Damn it! Why couldn’t you have paid just this time! It would have been the perfect send-off. But no, you had to suck it all out of me!

As he stood there, wondering if he should risk another twenty dollar bill (and eat a bit less over the coming days), he did not notice that the tall elegant man he’d seen earlier had wandered inside the bar along with his intoxicated female companion. In fact, both of them were walking towards him, the man smiling, the woman looking as if she had long ago lost all will to live.

“Excuse me,” the tall, elegant man said, “but aren’t you Archie Steel, the writer?”

Startled, Archie turned around to look at the man. His heart started to pound so hard that the sound in his ears droned out the tall elegant man’s voice as he turned to his girl to confirm that, indeed, he was Archie Steel, the writer.

This was Archie’s biggest worry, that someone would recognize him as he played the machines. This is why he loved these little dingy bars – none of his former friends ever hung out in these places. And no one he didn’t know had ever recognized him based on the little photo on the back of his book, which was just fine with him.

“I’m sorry,” Archie replied cautiously, “do I know you?”

“Ah, where are my manners! I’m awfully sorry about that, let me introduce myself.”

The man did a little bow, while his friend stared straight at Archie with dead eyes.

“Akshay Kumar, at your service...but you can refer to me by my nickname, everyone does.”

“And what would that be?” Archie reluctantly asked.

“The Goblin” the man replied, his smile even wider than before. He did have somewhat of a puckish face, with wide round eyes, a slightly hooked nose and hair that was greased back and apparently combed with the greatest of care. He was wearing a dark burgundy suit and matching pants, with a white silk shirt beneath.

“So, what, you’ve recognized me from my book?” Archie said, sounding more arrogant than he would have liked. But then again, this guy was interrupting.

“Of course,” the Goblin replied, without losing any of his enthusiasm, “an excellent piece of literature.”

“Okay, well, great! I was, uh, I was just on my way out, but it was nice to meet you.”

The Goblin motioned towards the video poker machines.

“Are you done playing already? Too bad, it’s a lucky night.”

“Yeah, well I don’t have any money left, so...time to go home.”

Archie started to walk away.

“I’ll give you twenty dollars if you write something for me.”

Archie stopped and looked at the Goblin. The man’s eyes were so dark it looked as if he did not have any irises, but just two large pupils.

“What do you mean, write something for you?”

“A single sentence. Anything. The first thing that comes into your head.”

Archie glanced at the Goblin’s girl. She was looking at the Goblin, focusing on his words, though what she was thinking at this precise moment remained a complete mystery.

“Twenty bucks for a sentence?”

“Sure. Such talent as yours is priceless. Here,” the Goblin said as he pulled out a pen and a small hardcover book from inside his suit, “you can write anywhere in that book.”

Archie looked at the book. It was an old printing of the Mahabharata. He shrugged and took the book.

“If only publishers were as generous as you...” he muttered as he wrote down a few words on the book’s inside cover. He then handed it back to the Goblin, who took it and read the sentence out loud.

“’She looked at him like a junkie would her last dose, with a bitter blend of hatred, shame and desire.’ Ha! Very good! See, Lysanne, the nice man wrote something about you!”

He tried to show the words to the girl, but she was now looking out the window. Outside, a driver was shouting insults at a squeegee kid.

“Well,” the Goblin continued, putting pen and book back inside his suit before taking out his wallet, “here’s your fee.”

“Thanks,” Archie muttered, taking the money.

“My pleasure,” the Goblin replied. “But tell me, Mr. Steel: why did you change your name? I’m curious”

Archie was caught off-balance.

“What?”

“Your real name is Archie Stein, isn’t it? Well, Archibald to be exact. I was wondering why you changed your last name to Steel.”

Who is this guy? Archie wondered. He hadn’t given out any interviews or published anything under his real name. Had he met this guy before? He did seem familiar the first time he saw him, but now he was pretty sure he’d never seen him before.

“Well,” Archie said, collecting himself, “that really not something I’d care to discuss right now.”

“Of course, of course. I’m sorry for asking. Well, we will take our leave now...Oh, and a little tip: don’t go higher than $450. If you keep playing after that you’ll lose it all. Have fun!”

Archie stared at the Goblin and Lysanne as they made their way out of the bar. After they had vanished from view, he sat down in front of the machine and remained thoughtful for a moment. As someone came and asked him if he was using the machine, he nodded and slipped the Goblin’s money inside it.

5

The sandstorm tore through the dunes with a thunderous roar, sending tons of dirt in the air. The man, already weak from dehydration, had been the first to die. He had endured painful thirst all day in order to spare his lover and their child from it. His sacrifice, however, had been in vain, at least in part: the woman’s last breath was now escaping her body and losing itself in the howling wind. Their mule, of which they had lost sight four hours ago when the storm had started, lay lifeless a mere fifty feet away. But the baby still lived, its body tightly wrapped in linen, its half-blind eyes staring inside the heart of the storm.

Inside the heart of the storm was the ancient and powerful being known to the people of Egypt as Isis, though she had been worshiped under many other names in many other places. Her disincarnate body now cut through the desert, leveling it with all of her vast power. It was an awesome, overwhelming sight, and yet the baby’s eyes looked straight into it the mesmerizing vortex of light and darkness.

The wrath of the goddess was as great as her pain was deep. Once again, as it had done every year for a hundred years now, life had escaped her lover’s painstakingly restored body, and the latter had collapsed into dust. Once again, Isis was robbed of Osiris, her imperfect enchantment unable to undo the spell of his rival Set.

The two gods had been at odds from the very first moment that Osiris – or at least, the being that would one day be known as Osiris – had decided to break from ancient tradition and help humans develop agriculture, which in turn had led them to establish permanent settlements. Now humans built cities and knew writing. Civilization had sprung, and humans were teeming.

Set, who believed that humans were to be kept in a primitive state for the good of all, laid out an elaborate trap against his rival. Though he could not destroy him, for they shared the same essence, he devised a powerful spell that would harness the power of the sun to split Osiris into ten thousand parts. The spell was so long and complex that even Isis, the great sorceress, never caught on to it, until the very day the desert had shaken and the sun had risen to the west. Tricked by his half-brother into casting the cursed spell, Osiris had been engulfed in a ball of thermonuclear fire.

Set and his minions had come afterwards to collect those parts that were still active and seal them in iron pellets. He hand then scattered the pellets throughout the globe, from the heights of the Himalayan peaks to the depths of the pacific rifts.

The power of Isis, however, had proven as great as her love. Upon hearing of Set’s deed, she had parted her own body into a thousand ghostly shells and roamed the globe over the next two thousand years to retrieve every single pellet. Then, using part of her own essence, she had reactivated those parts of Osiris that had survived the blast, nurturing them back to life, until they had grown and gained in power and reformed as her beloved companion.

It had soon become apparent, however, that Isis’ counter-spell was flawed. Osiris had kept growing as the season passed and then, a mere four months later, he had started to die again. It took just a few hours for the body of the god Osiris to break again into ten thousand parts. Isis understood that, for her beloved brother and lover to live, she would have to recast the spell over and over again, once for every time this planet would circle the sun.

And thus was broken the heart of Isis, whose soul mate was condemned to be forever half-living, unable to fulfill the glorious future they had planned for humanity. She had kept a strong ally in Horus, who had vowed revenge on Set, but already there were signs that their coalition was weakening. Set of course claimed victory, though he understood clearly that he had created a powerful enemy in the great sorceress.

In fact, while the sheer power of the storm that raged through the Nubian Desert was an echo of the great goddess’ frustration, it was also a show of force. Isis knew one of Set’s demons was following her from a safe distance, and she wanted him to report the power of her awesome anger to his master.

And so it was, in the thirty-second year of the reign of Amenhotep III, pharaoh of the eighteenth dynasty, that a great sandstorm swept through the Nubian Desert. It was so violent that even the oldest among the old did not remember ever witnessing anything comparable, so powerful that the young would talk about it until they were elders themselves, and so swift and sudden that no one could hope to survive it, and certainly not a couple and their baby fleeing through the desert on an old mule.

Then, through some unexpected occurrence, the goddess mind’s eye noticed the infant, just as it looked back at the goddess. The goddess the saw three small figures half-buried in the sand. Immediately the wind started to lose some of its strength. In her rage, Isis had inadvertently breached the Law of the gods and directly endangered human beings.

She took human form and approached the three, aware that both the mother and father had died, choked by the sand, but that the baby – a girl – had somehow survived. She recognized the mother as an initiate of her cult, and the father as a Habiru laborer, both from a small town some fifteen kilometers away. Through her insight Isis understood that the couple had fled the world of men in order to hide the offspring of their forbidden love, and had unfortunately walked straight into the path of the raging goddess.

Isis felt the presence of Set’s spying demon as it drew closer. He was one of his lieutenants, known to humans as Arhiman, a spirit of strife and discord. She did not know, however, that – far from being a loyal subject – the demon had been cast out by his angry master and had only crossed her path by happenstance...

At the goddess’ feet, the baby girl cooed. Isis knelt down and picked her up, slowly unwrapping her from the layers of cloth his mother had put around her. The baby’s eyes were now wide open, and she smiled to Isis as she looked upon her naked face. Isis wondered how this newborn could bear to look at her alien beauty and not be blinded by the sight. The goddess could smell that her blood was that of a simple mortal. And yet her eyes were wide open and she looked at the goddess and smiled, as if Isis was her own mother.

Around them, the storm quieted down until it was nothing more than a gentle rustle skimming of wisps of sand from the dunes. Incredibly, amazingly, the anger was gone. Perhaps there was after all a way to atone for the unjust taking of the baby’s parents.

Tenderly, Isis pressed the child against her breast, offering her godly milk to the little girl. As she carried her through the desert, her nourishing essence entered the small organism, strengthening and transforming it. Thus, the goddess bestowed the Gift on this frail being that succeeded in touching its soul. She also gave her a secret name, as gods and demons are wont to do when they create an offspring. Intrigued, the demon Arhiman followed from a safe distance, as he began to understand something important was happening.

Two days later the goddess left the infant at the gate of one of her minor temples near Akhet, a small town on the east bank of the Nile, about halfway between Memphis and Thebes. The priestesses found her and took her in, deciding to raise her as one of their own. They took her not knowing she was the child of the disgraced initiate they had forced into the desert a week ago.

They gave her the name Neret, the vulture, because three of these birds had been standing close to the baby when the priestesses found her, yet hadn’t attacked her, and Anath, daughter of Ra, because she had been found in the light of the rising sun. Arhiman, however, had heard the name that Isis had given to the infant. To him, Neret-Anath’s was really called Anaxana, a magical symmetrical name, which could not be reversed.

The demon decided to stick around the temple for a while, as an idea took hold in its mind. It would study this child who had touched the heart of a goddess and received some of her precious essence in return. It would follow her closely, making sure nothing happened to her. It would make her his pupil, the golden apple that would sow discord among the gods, and thus the fate of the world would forever be changed.

6

Archie stumbled aimlessly towards the Jacques-Cartier Bridge. His heart pounded hard in his chest as his mind ran in circles. In the distance, the large digital clock on the Molson brewery showed five to 3 in the morning.

You lost it all, you moron. You fucking moron. Everything’s gone. Gone. You lost it all. There’s nothing left. No money, no apartment, no friends, nothing. You’ve got nothing.

He kept replaying how it happened in his head.

As soon as he started playing with the Goblin’s money, he hit a lucky streak. He made steady progress until he reached about two hundred dollars, at which point he started to lose again, until it evened out at around $140. He stayed around that amount for about fifteen minutes before hitting the aptly-named “fever” mode, which brought his total to three hundred and fifty dollars. He then went down again to two hundred, and stayed around there until he got four jokers playing poker. At two dollars and fifty cents a play, this paid $250 - a hundred times the initial bet. He now had exactly $450 in the machine’s bank.

Archie hesitated for a moment, his fingers hovering above the “play” button.

This was ridiculous, that Goblin couldn’t know that he’d win. This was all pure chance, a fluke against the odds. It had happened to him before, two or three times.

He was $50 away from the limit. It seemed a shame to stop there. Maybe he would play a little longer, and stop at $400 if it got down to there. After all, he’d still have ten times what he put of his own pocket. That was quite enough to have a good time, see some girls and eat some decent food until he got another contract.

He pressed the play button, but got nothing. And as he pressed it again, and again, and again, he kept losing his bets. At two-fifty a shot he was down to four hundred dollars in about two minutes.

Well, with all the good luck he’d been having, the machine was bound to correct the odds a little. But Archie wasn’t ready to stop quite just yet. He could afford to go down to $350 and still come out winning...and he might just as well get another lucky play and break past $500.

Archie kept playing, and he kept losing a lot more than he won, until he got to $350. And then to $300. Then $250.

He had lost two hundred dollars in just over twenty minutes. His luck was bound to return. If you don’t risk it, you won’t win it.

The bad luck continued.

Two hundred dollars in the bank.

One fifty.

One hundred.

Fifty dollars.

Twenty.

Ten.

Five dollars. He was down to five dollars. Where normally he would have played at fifty cents a shot, he left his bet at two dollars fifty out of sheer frustration. Two button presses later he had no money left in the machine.

It was the machine, he was sure of it. He had beaten the odds too quickly, so it must have fallen in “shark” mode or something. It didn’t play fair. It wasn’t going to pay, no matter what.

He couldn’t leave it there. He got up and sat down in front of the next machine over. Making quick calculations in his head, he figured he could spare another twenty and still pull it through. After all, he did like macaroni and cheese.

The fever had set in, and there was no turning back. Archie kept slipping twenties into the machine, who made him win a little, and lose a little more. As surely as water flows down from mountains to the sea, the longer he played, the more he lost, until he only had his rent money left.

He couldn’t get another extension. His landlord was not the friendly type. He would throw him out. But he couldn’t go for two weeks without any money! As the video pokers cycled through their demo modes, showing perfects scores and jackpots, he came to the conclusion that his only choice was to keep playing, and win back all the money he had lost. He changed machines again and started playing, betting high in a desperate attempt to get a big payback.

One hour later, he had no money left at all.

He slowly drifted out of the Pub, which was about to close. It was a quarter to three in the morning. Stunned, disoriented, he started walking south, slowly coming to grips with what had happened. He had gambled it all and lost. He had nothing left. He couldn’t get back home.

Something has to happen. There has to be a way out of this. There has to be.

For the first time in his life he saw no exits, no escapes, no ways out of any kind.

Almost unconsciously, he started walking up the pedestrian access to the Jacques-Cartier Bridge. He needed to get out of the streets but couldn’t bear to go home. He wanted to be above the city, as if he could float away and not have to deal with this. Just like he felt, only an hour ago, when he had all this money.

The night air had chilled down a couple of degrees, and it was windy on the bridge. Why had he come here? Was there no hope left at all? Often, submerged by shame and guilt, he had thought about ending his life. He had wondered how he would do it. The ‘easy way out’ promised by a lethal cocktail of pills and alcohol? Or would he go out with a bang, confronting his fears once and for all by jumping off of the bridge.

The city had put a fence to prevent people from simply stepping over the railing, however as Archie looked up the metal beams above he saw that it was pretty easy for any determined, desperate soul to climb into them and jump from there.

Is this it? Is this what it's finally come to?

He looked up the structure again. Grabbing the base of a large vertical beam, he started climbing up, using the worn rivets as footholds. The metal was cold and dusty, and flakes of the old green paint fell off under his finger, but he kept climbing until he was about ten feet high. Getting above the fence seemed quite difficult, however. He stopped, looking down at the dark water beyond.

“I take it you didn’t follow my advice...”

Startled, Archie slipped and almost lost his grip. He turned his head towards the voice, the same voice he’d heard earlier in the pub.

Down on the walkway stood the Goblin, looking up at Archie with the same smile plastered across his face, his glum-looking girl still at his side.

“So, you lost it all, then?” the Goblin continued.

“What’s going on here?” Archie asked harshly, his surprise slowly giving way to anger. “Have you been following me?”

“Now, Mr. Steel, why would I do such a thing...though, if you ask me, it’s a good thing I decided to take a little stroll on this magnificent cantilever bridge. It seems you were about to perform some dangerous undertaking.”

“That’s none of your fucking business, you freak!” Archie shouted. “Leave me alone!”

Ignoring the insult, the Goblin extended a helping hand.

“Only if you promise to climb down, go back to your apartment and write us another fine novel to enjoy.”

“Leave-me-the-fuck-alone!” Archie repeated, putting extra emphasis on every syllable.

“I don’t think you realize what a jump from this height would do to you.”

“I don’t care!”

“Well, perhaps a demonstration is in order.” The Goblin turned to his girl, who until this point had kept staring at Archie with her lifeless, mascara-laden eyes. “Lysanne, would you be a dear and jump off the bridge?”

“What?” Archie asked incredulously.

Lysanne turned to the Goblin and slowly shook her head.

“All right, all right...I guess I should offer the right compensation...” the Goblin said as he rummaged through his pockets. “Ah! Here we go.”

He took out what looked like a small black coin to Archie. Upon seeing it, Lysanne seemed to instantly wake up from her stupor as her eyes opened wide and her back straightened up. She rolled her hands into fists and changed her stance, slightly bending her knees as if she was ready to leap at the Goblin. She didn’t look like a drugged-out junkie anymore, thought Archie, but rather like a great cat about to pounce on its prey.

The Goblin tapped the small metal object on the walkway’s railing. It gave out a ringing metallic sound.

“Yes...this should do...you lucky girl! Don’t ever say I don’t treat you well!” the Goblin said with a giggle. He then turned and threw the little object off the bridge.

What happened next made Archie lose his grip and tumble down to the walkway in shock. Lysanne leaped up the fence, grabbing the bars and twisting them apart as if they were made out of rubber. She then slipped through the gap and jumped into the darkness. Getting up, Archie ran up to the gap just in time to see her splash into the black water, some 160 feet below.

“Did you see that?” the Goblin said, looking down as well. He could hardly contain his excitement “Whooo-wee! What a splash!”

Archie looked at him, horrified. He tried to speak but nothing would come out.

“What’s the matter, Mr. Steel?” The Goblin’s bulging eyes sparkled with malice. “Can’t find the words? That’s quite the predicament for a writer!”

The Goblin let out a long hysterical laugh, as if he’d just pulled a prank on an old college buddy. Archie took a step back, still unable to say anything, then turned around and ran away. He ran as if his life depended on it, like a hunted animal, fleeing the Goblin’s hideous laughter until it was but an echo in his panicking mind.

***

So there you have it, the first six chapters as they currently stand. Comments are welcome - as long as they are constructive! ;-)

New Feature: Expandable Posts

2007-03-23T15:48:00.000-04:00

After some tinkering with the Blogger template (which, as it turns out, is a bit more complex than I first thought), I've added a new feature to the blog: expandable posts. Click on the "Read more" link below for more details.

By showing only the first paragraph or so of a post on the front page, this feature will allow me to put longer articles without making the entire front page reach ungodly lengths - something which would have happened as soon as I would have started posting excerpts from the book.

I will use this feature in most articles from now on (if only because the "Read more" link appears whether there's additional content or not...). In fact, I've already reformatted the previous posts to make use of it.

Expect more improvements such as these as I delve deeper into the Blogger code!

Numbers and Letters

2007-03-21T13:05:00.000-04:00

After a week of rewrites (and two evenings of Wii-related procrastination), I can finally turn the page on chapter 74 - literally - and continue advancing another one of the book's storylines. Time for some numbers!

As of today, the book stands at:

484 pages
179,781 words
989,554 characters

The case could be made that counting pages and words is utlimately a futile exercise. Novelists (unlike, say, translators) are not paid according to word count, and there are no inherent advantages to writing a long book as opposed to a shorter one. In fact, one could argue that some publishers might be a little wary of putting massive roman-fleuve on the shelves, especially from unpublished authors. I for one never set out to write a 600+ page story; it just happened that way.

I think the reason some writers are a bit obsessed about their book's word count is that it gives them a sense of perspective. Hemingway counted his words at the end of every writing session, and then went on his merry way to get plastered (or 'tight', as he would say) at the local watering hole. He also wrote down his weight every morning, which might indicate a trace of obsessive-compulsive behavior, but I digress (yes, I've done that too...)

The fact is that when you embark on such an intimidating project as writing a book, especially one that'll take a good two years out of your life, you need to figure out some way to measure your progress. You need to reduce the whole thing to something you can easily comprehend, so that you can say to yourself at the end of the day: "I don't know if this is any good, but at least I wrote 500 words." Otherwise, you may have the impression that you're swimming in Jell-O, with lots of jiggling around, but no idea of progression whatsoever.

With this in mind, I'll be indicating the number of words at the end of every new post on this blog, so that we can all know that this thing is indeed moving forward, if ever so slowly.

(Hemingway at Finca Vigia, from JFK Library archives)

Letting go

2007-03-18T15:44:00.000-04:00

It's sunday afternoon, the day after St.Patrick's day, and even though spring is officially just a few days away it feels as if we're right back in the thick of winter (which, incidentally, wasn't that thick to begin with). I thought I'd be done with chapter 74 by now, but in keeping with the current spirit of let's-go-back-a-couple-of-weeks, I've spent some time rewriting a couple of chapters instead (67 and 71).

Rewrites are a tricky thing. An essential part of any writing project, they allow the writer to extract the jewel from the rough mineral of the first draft (whether the jewel turns out to be a diamond or a cubic zirconia is another matter entirely). The danger with rewrites is that they will slow you down as you work towards completing that first draft. The temptation to fine-tune everything as you go may become irresistible, and ultimately that may cause progression of the entire book to grind to a stop. With this in mind, I decided at the beginning of the writing process that I would complete the entire first draft without doing any rewrites whatsoever, and thus increase my chances of actually finishing what I set out to do.

Of course, rules are meant to be broken, which brings me to the main point of this article: letting go. One of the reasons rewrites are important is that they allow you to re-examine ideas you thought might have been good at some point, or scenes that were interesting, and see them in a wider context. The risk, of course, is that sometimes you'll find that the ideas don't really work out as much as you thought, or that those interesting scenes serve no real purpose but to distract from the main story. When this happens, you mustn't hesitate: individual ideas that don't serve the book have no place in it. You have to let go.

I was reminded of this implacable truth this week as I got some negative comments from a reader concerning one of the more recent chapters I've written. She has been a very good reader so far, always providing me with very pointed feedback, and yet my initial reaction to her criticism was to think that she was wrong and simply didn't "get" that particular chapter, I did end up going back and carefully (if reluctantly) re-reading it. I then realized that she was right, and that many of the ideas and scenes I had written in it were confusing, superfluous, and ultimately not very good.

Obviously, I could have just let it aside and waited until the second draft to fix it - after all, that's been the plan all along. I certainly don't expect to write a novel in one go, unlike the character of Archie Steel in the story! That said, knowing that there was a big chunk of junk to remove in such a recent chapter did make it harder to go on, so I put chapter 74 on hold and fixed chapter 71 (as well as 67, which was related). Having let go of those troublesome paragraphs has been liberating, and I now feel better about finishing the current chapter.

Far from being a fluke, this situation mirrors the development of the entire story, which has changed dramatically since the characters first came to life twenty years ago. Some of the ideas that were central to the original comic book I eventually dropped when I started turning it into a novel. As hard as it was, letting go of these ideas has been a good thing. The run-of-the-mill heroic fantasy romp has become something which I believe is more unique and original, and which will hopefully appeal to a larger readership.

Writing is about making choices between what is said and what isn't. Sometimes the choices are painfully difficult, but there is only one thing that really matters, and that's to have as good a text as you can write. With this in mind, one should never get attached to any story element that can possibly come in the way of this final goal.

(Original comic book cover by Ghislain Barbe, 1993)

Slow week

2007-03-15T00:09:00.000-04:00

When you work on the same project, every weekday (and some week-ends) for any reasonably long period of time, some weeks are bound to be slower than others. Bouts of decreased productivity are a natural part of the writing process, and as such one shouldn't worry about them too much. The simple truth is that creativity is not a well that risks running dry overnight, but rather a sea that ebbs and flows constantly.

Of course, that's a lot easier said than done. I've spent the last ten days struggling with chapter 74 (out of 100), having gone so far as to eradicate two whole pages in one swift blow of the backspace key. The two pages that replaced them were marginally better, but I'm still not very enthusiastic about the chapter as a whole. I'm sure it'll improve once I do rewrites, but I do miss the mildly exhilarating feeling of a job well done.

It's hard to tell why some chapters only take a couple of days, while others - similar in word count - can take up to two weeks. Sometimes it's the characters, who suddenly become harder to understand, as if they tried to hide things to their author. Other times it's just a bad week, either because of "real work" worries, mood-altering weather, or a disappointing date (yes, I'm still single - women, like publishers, are more comfortable with published writers than aspiring ones). Finally, sometimes you're just not quite ready to fully develop that part of the story - which is particularly frustrating when you've decided to right the whole thing sequentially, as I've done.

Whatever the reason, it's important to take it in stride and not give in to the sneaky demon of self-doubt. Slow weeks will happen, and they will pass. It's not a race, or even a marathon; it's a trek through the wilderness. Sometimes the underbrush is just a bit thicker than usual, that's all.

(Moonlight, by William Turner)

Writing the book (part one)

2007-03-14T01:24:00.000-04:00

As I previously noted, I am currently working on an English-language novel titled Demons and such, a cross-genre tale mixing elements of historical fantasy and crime novels, set against a backdrop of magic, religion and literature. I officially started working on this novel around a year and a half ago, my first backup copy being marked "Aug. 29, 2005." I had, however, thought about writing it for much longer than that - too long, in fact.

The idea for the novel burgeoned about ten years ago, as I toyed with the idea of using characters Ghislain Barbe and I had created for a medieval fantasy comic book (such as Feanna, seen below, which however does not appear in the first book). These characters had always stuck around in my head, and I wanted to tell their story once and for all. I started to revise the original story and tried to see if there was a novel to be found in there. Unfortunately, for most of the past decade I was too scared, full of self-doubt, or just plain lazy to sit down and start writing the actual book. I would take notes - mental notes, mostly - and then shove them in a corner and try not to thing about it.

The characters, however, would always come back, and kept making the story grow, until the spun a tale that was quite different from the original idea, while still incorporating it. After seven years of misguided self-procrastination, I finally decided that I needed to see this project through. I would write it before I turned 35, which is when you officially stop being "young" - at least according to the Canadian Council of the Arts' grants program.

I began planning a sabbatical leave from work, putting some money on the side, so that I could work full time on the book (the first of a potential trilogy, if it actually got published and sold well enough). To me, the idea of writing while continuing to work full-time on video game development was utter nonsense. I was convinced I didn't have the stamina - or the mental fortitude - to embark on these two very different but equally demanding creative efforts at the same time.

I would be proven wrong.

Tune in next week in the second half of this article.

(Illustration of Feanna by Ghislain Barbe)

Once upon a time...

2007-03-13T11:34:00.000-04:00

Greetings everyone...I've been toying with the idea of creating a blog to follow the ongoing development of my novel, Demons and such. Never one to do today what can be pushed back a couple of months, I've finally decided to get down to it - after having written 3/4 of the first draft.

Still, there's lots more writing to do before it's done, and I'll try to post interesting tidbits about the experience of writing a 600-page novel while working full-time for a video game developer, whenever time allows.

I will also post some info about the book itself, as well as chapter excerpts.

For my french-speaking friends: désolé pour l'anglais, mais puisque le livre a été écrit dans la langue de Stephen King, il en sera de même pour ce blog...j'essaierai à l'occasion d'ajouter des articles bilingues lorsque ce sera pertinent.

Cheers!

(Philosopher in Meditation, by Rembrandt)