… Or Confrontations/Early Second Act Plot Mechanics
A spider came along and started to make a spider web across the bulge when it started not to grow so much. The spider web started to grow into a hole. The hole got bigger and bigger and was like a mouth opening that would let food in. But food was not going in. Instead, it was spitting outwards. It spat a lot and a lot.
Welcome back to the Daniel’s Nemesis Podcast, reading Chapter 19 - Ginger and The Plan.
(SARCASTIC)
Welcome to the podcast that definitely isn’t failing. It’s not a flawed concept in any way shape or form.
So, how doesn’t it fail?
Each episode, I read a chapter from a novel that I wrote a long time ago. It’s a terrible book. There’s also approximately a two-week gap between episodes. That’s enough to build tension then lose it again as people forget I exist in the long gap.
There’s no flaw there because laughing at a terrible book is funny, right? Something about learning how to write through looking at bad examples. I think I said that early on. `The podcast is not flawed because after reading a chapter I then try to analyse it. For some inexplicable reason, there’s always something to disrupt my analysis. That could never get annoying.
There’s nothing wrong with having only one voice in a podcast. There’re lots of interesting people who can hold a podcast audience just by themselves. Sure, I can mix it up by doing variations of my voice, and putting sound effects on.
(ANGUISH)
This podcast torments me now. I tried to kill it off a few years back, but it haunted me. I thought I could bring it back, under my control. I have failed. Every episode … Every episode now I am censored, embarrassed, and exposed.
(DESPERATE)
They just stay with me. On my — In my mind. I need to finish this now. Whatever story arc is going on needs to be finished. I just want peace.
Who cares what this book is about? Who cares what has happened so far?
Let’s just remember:
This is fiction,
always fiction.
Logic is
as logic fucking does.
Chapter 19 - Ginger and the plan
I feel sick. I am about to explain to the Flight Lieutenant my plan. First, though, I have to leave the room. I am feeling so sick. It has been slowly growing on me since I left the craft. Now it has built to a level where I feel hot, exhausted and I am swaying. Not forgetting the nausea. I leave the room, but I do not have the strength to go further than to just fall on the floor, huddled up. Breathing in, breathing out.
I am like this for a number of minutes. Eventually it passes. I feel that I can go back in. Though I notice that over an hour has passed. I am asked whether or not I am okay. I nod and he asks me to continue. I tell him the plan.
The Flight Lieutenant looks at me as if I’ve seriously let him down, as if I’ve just suggested that we all go into the freezing cold, and I focus on this for a while. The cold will freeze the liquid that surrounds our brain, expanding it. That this frozen liquid will then crush the brain, reducing it to a pulp, and explode the skull, allowing the brain and frozen juice to fall out. That the only way we would have to be able to put it back into our heads is to go back inside, let everything thaw. Then, once it’s thawed, to carefully place the now crushed brain back inside the head, start to rebuild the skull, allowing enough of a gap to pour in the juice using a Toby jug, before finally sealing the head. Then, due to the fact that the juice may leak out of any holes left, a bag will need to be placed around the head. It will need to be clear, somehow. This will then serve two functions. A) It allows space for the brain juices to freeze and expand. B) Will act as a container if the head shatters again.
Had I said that aloud, though, I would not be considered lacking in any sense, but criticised for lacking imagination. There are so many possibilities there that I simply did not take advantage of, like the brain could be crushed, flattened like a pancake, that the only way to get it into the head would be to pour syrup on it, or as I prefer, sugar and lemon, and to digest it. But why say syrup when you could say tears of a crying clown? Why eat it when you could shove it up your rectum, or slit your stomach, allowing the digestive juices to flow out, digesting it, so that when you come to consume it, all the hard work has been done for you. And due to the hole in your stomach you could eat it again and again. What shape would the slit be? A simple slice? Star shaped? Jumper shaped? Musically shaped? How?
But Flighty looks at me as if I’m a disappointment when all I have done is to explain my idea to him. It’s based around the most sensible thing that we can do, even if it does mean great danger for the individual.
“You must be mad.”
“No, Sir. Not mad but brave. Jolly darn well brave, Sir.”
But I mean, are you sure?” The Flight Lieutenant still thinks that I am mad. The idea has some kind of romanticism to it, which I know will attract him to it. The dashing hero facing up to the incredible odds. Errol Flynn will no doubt play me in his next picture.
“Very sure, Sir. And I’m very sure that if I go tomorrow morning, then I can be back by tea time.” The speeds that that thing can go to, I’d be back by lunchtime. The Flight Lieutenant is still looking at me, his eyes are going cross eyed, he’s that certain I’m going to do something like pick up a pencil and stick it in my ear.
“But...Why?”
“Well, why not Sir? If we want to get rid of them, it’s the only plan that we’ve got and quite frankly, the only chance that we’ve bally got as well.”
“But... But... You must be mad.”
I’m right, though, it is the only plan that we’ve got. We have to act quickly. We cannot risk another alien invasion. There will be more next time, I just had the element of surprise this time, and it’s that which we need to keep if we are to stand a chance. The Flight Lieutenant asks to hear the plan one more time, as a kind of a safety net, reassure himself that everything would be all right.
“Sir, I have faith in myself that, now we have it, I can use the alien craft to fly into outer-space to wherever it is that they are based, the moon or somewhere, and getting them to leave from there.”
“And how exactly were you planning to get them to leave?” says the Flight Lieutenant, picking out the most obvious problem, also picking out a pencil from my ear.
I shrug my shoulders. “Hopefully, I’ll just need to ask them politely.” I have this grand vision. I fly up through the depths of space. They are on Mars. I get out of the craft thing, they invite me in, offer me their Mars foods, they taste mighty damn fine. They ask why I have come up there. I say that it’s mighty darn inconvenient that they are blowing up our world, and would they stop that please? And they apologise. And then they say they will stop. And then it’s time for me to go. And just as I’m leaving, they pile stacks of Mars presents on me. And then I have saved the world. That’s the easy version, the version that I would most like to see happen, where I come out as galactic diplomat extraordinaire!
“Yes, that’s the part that I don’t like. What if they say no?”
Again, I shrug my shoulders. “Then I may need to use a little bit of force.” I need a bit of time to work the plan out properly.
“How much force?”
“Well, I may have to kill one or two of them, maybe more, until they are persuaded.” I have this grand vision. I fly up through the depths of space. They are on Mars. I get out of the craft thing, but they are shooting at me like mad. How do I survive this one? Well it’s easy. I hop back into my craft, and using the weapons on that, shoot everything in sight. Everything explodes quite nicely into a thousand bits each. I stop to pick up some of the Martian delicacies, now that they won’t be needing them, and return home, a galactic adventurer hero extraordinaire! That’s the more exciting version, though more dangerous and certainly less luxurious.
“That’s the part that I do like... sort of. But just make sure that you have enough weapons and bombs to make sure that you’re okay. And alive.”
“Okay. And then, when they’ve gone, I can come back.” I can only smile. Things are going my way.
“Well, that maybe the only plan that we’ve got, but it could be extremely dangerous. Besides, I’m going to have to get permission from the P.M. first. But you’re the best pilot that we’ve got. And the best craft. Are you sure?”
“But old Bessy’s ruined now, Sir,” I protest.
“Not your aircraft, the alien craft. And if we lose either, or even both, then we are in serious trouble. There is a terribly big risk here.”
I don’t understand what he means now, but I find myself saying, “But I’m the only person who knows how to fly the craft!”
“You can teach others. Twenty minutes, and I’m sure they’ll have all the practice they need.”
“But we also need the best pilot we can get. It flies at speeds never even imagined before by humans. I’m your only chance. I’ll leave tomorrow, at 0-10 hundred hours.”
He sighs. “Very well then. But report an hour before that.” That means he wants me here at nine. What! “I want to make sure that you are well prepared. As our best pilot, I care for you a lot.”
“Yes Sir. Thank you, Sir.”
“It’s a very dangerous mission.”
“Oh. Really, Sir. How bad can it be?”
And now I see colours. Pretty colours and shapes. They are lovely. Warm, but jagged. Bright, but spontaneous. And I can’t see them properly as I now have my eyes shut. By the time I realise this, it’s all pretty much over. But what I did see is never to be seen again. As the Flight Lieutenant was speaking, the wall behind him started to grow outwards. It was like a belly that was being stuffed with more and more food and the bulge just grew and grew.
Then a spider came along and started to make a spider web across the bulge when it started not to grow so much. This spider web started to grow into a hole. The hole got bigger and bigger and was like a mouth opening that would let food in. But food was not going in. Instead, it was spitting outwards. It spat a lot and a lot. And then from within the mouth, I could see the tongue. It just forked up and danced around and around, but it was angry. It danced violently and suddenly, but the anger came out and you could feel it was suddenly very warm. Yet it was not the spitting. It was this warmth that pushed you back and made you sit on the floor and hide your eyes and your face.
And then in my eyes, I could see all kinds of pretty colours, though they were mostly oranges and reds at first, which seemed to flash. They slowly started to turn to yellow and became separate patches of colour. Then they turned green and grew even smaller. Then they were blue and smaller still. By the time they were purple you could barely see them. And then I opened my eyes. And then the noise that sounded like distant laughter, but very loud laughter and very slow laughter, that faded then as well.
“That dangerous,” says the Flight Lieutenant, who had managed to find cover under the table.
“I had to open my big mouth, didn’t I,” I say to myself, though I don’t even realise it. I’m in a slight daze at the moment, my body and mind not connected, not giving each other guidance, not acknowledging either. My brain walks in one direction whilst my heart walks in another direction and I am left standing here, like a dummy, without guidance. I’m saying things, doing things, but I know not what. I manage to walk a few paces in one direction and then another. My brain and my heart, both arcing round towards each other, pass and I feel a moment of sense and clarity as I look around me. A big hole has been created in the ceiling and in the floor beneath is a large hole. There is pretty much no wall. Debris has been thrown all over the place and there are numerous fires.
I get less connected as my two major organs continue on their circular journey. Nothing makes sense any more. My whole life has been a joke, the expense at me. I am a laughing stock and that serves to be my only function in life. My brain and heart finish their circular journey, ending up where they started off, pretty much where I am standing. They re-enter my body having been knocked out during the commotion. Only one thing could have caused this much damage. I make a quick decision. “Actually, Sir. I think I’ll leave tonight. The sooner we get rid of them, the better.”
I run out of the room. I have to be… somewhere? I look both ways down the corridor. Though staying in my body, my heart feels like it’s pushing me in one direction, and my heart in the other. Doesn’t matter. The patch where I left the nausea is right where I’m standing, and the nauseousness reenters.
Can I vomit? Can I focus? Should I vomit? Should I focus? With a million pressing decisions to be made, why is this the only choice I am able to think about? I try to breathe but hyperventilation stops me. My back hits the wall, or perhaps the wall hits my back. Either way, it doesn’t support me as the floor moves up, buckling my legs, and then forcing me onto my side.
Faces fly towards me. I have a moment to detect the features as they materialise and then attack. I don’t recognise anybody though they have clearly defined features. It’s as if they are listening to me, though. The cycle builds in speed until they are practically a blur. Their impact is more of multiple dense blocks of air hitting me. If I could describe the air, it would be blue. My eyes, already closed, scrunch tighter as the rest of my body absorbs the blows.
I know I have to move from this patch. First, I extend my fingers. If I can just get my hand implanted firmly on the floor, I can then worry about getting the strength to my arm. And I shift myself slowly forwards. The further I move, the more my strength returns. The blueness begins to dissipate. Breathing is easier. Clarity comes back, the floor moves back down. The wall? Well, it was useless to begin with. The air isn’t blue.
The corridor? Which way? Looking around to make a decision, I realise that where there once was a path, there now isn’t. Only the one side of the corridor still exists, forcing the decision on me.
I head down, and then into a room. (MUSIC FADES IN) No! I back out. The door isn’t there. Fuck. The guy is there. The one who talks into a tripod.
General Notes
HOST:
(BREATHES DEEPLY)
It’s been a while since I looked at plot mechanics, so let’s have a go at that. Though it’s kind of awkward seeing as we are still early on in the second act.
Each of the character’s worlds have been comfortably turned upside down with William’s plan having gone to shit, and we have last seen him looking between the two worlds Trascons want to call home, and him entering Earth’s atmosphere.
Ginger has entered the world of science fiction by getting into and controlling the craft, and even has a plan, meaning that Ginger is ahead of William as he is already adapting to his situation.
There is actual progress, literally, with both flying around in the Smoovs, but also story progression as well. Ginger is developing as a character and William might also be contemplating the future rather than always looking to the past.
Stakes and tensions are forming, in that there are some. The Earth is in jeopardy. Likewise, the Trascon plan is facing setbacks - the humans aren’t such a walkover after all with Ginger acquiring a tool, (AWKWARDLY) though this isn’t known to the Trascons just yet.
HOST TO HIMSELF:
I’m gonna do that one again!
HOST:
The Earth is in jeopardy. Likewise, the Trascon plan is facing setbacks - the humans aren’t such a walkover after all with Ginger acquiring a tool, though …. This….. Ah!
(OFF-SCRIPT)
I suppose that’s going to be kept in the edit?
(SILENCE)
Where are you?
OG DANIEL’S NEMESIS:
You know where I am.
HOST:
What happened last episode? I’m pissed. Apparently, this is the only way to talk to you.
OG DN:
Remember what happened last time.
HOST:
Yeah, I spent a lot of time editing it. You undid the editing.
OG DN:
You sounded like shit, anyway. But what was it you said?
HOST:
I dunno, maybe ‘fuck’ like a million times? If I had time, I’d have re-recorded it. Now, I’m just desperate to get this project over and done with.
OG DN:
You revealed yourself.
HOST:
Why are you so critical? Why are fucking around like this? For a while, I kind of thought it was a charming thing. Bit of flavour, bit of texture. A couple of weeks ago, though, all you did was just fuck around with the —
OG DN:
You think I was never critical? You think it’s all whimsy? Don’t you remember the countless rewrites? The hours debating. The note-taking. What kind of a person does that?
HOST:
Yeah, but—
OG DN:
Yeah, but yes. You haven’t changed. You’ve just … I don’t know, put yourself away.
HOST:
Says the student.
OG DN:
Says the one who doesn’t put in the time.
(HOST BREATHES ANGRILY)
OG DN:
You’ve already reached your midpoint.
HOST:
Don’t talk about this like it’s a story!
OG DN:
You’ve already acknowledged as much in your intro.
HOST:
I ... It was an idea. I plan to edit it out.
OG DN:
Will you?
HOST:
Will you? Or rather, will you not?
(REALISES)
Ah, this is staying in as well, isn’t it?
Your cute experiments that I like to read out were fun when we … I was what, 21? 22? They aren’t cute anymore.
Okay, I’m done! Just don’t fuck around with the edit like that!
(HOST RETURNS TO SCRIPT)
As mentioned, we are still in the early stages of the second act - we haven’t hit the midpoint yet, with either a false high or a false low. But in terms of the standard three-act rising arc, I am at least beginning to hit my stride in terms of following the craft.
So, how does the early part of the second act work? I’ve done Blake Snyder’s ‘debate stage’ mostly through William, but that’s at least a check box ticked. In earlier chapters, Ginger showed resistance to rise to the challenge. But was it resistance? Or was it more just a desire to be on break that has been overcome by his love of machinery? However, as the characters debate the themes of the story, or what is actually going on, we close off the first act.
We are into the ‘fun and games’ stage as Ginger explores his craft and William finally relents to coming to Earth. For both, these are new toys to play with. And although William hasn’t yet set foot on Earth, the potential of this giant sandbox is quite large.
As for John Truby, and his The Anatomy of Story? (Yeah, I’ve done a bit more reading ...) Well, for him, closing off the first act is through the protagonist having changed desire or motive. Ginger has gone through this process, begrudgingly accepting the call, debating his desire to fight, and by this point in the book, clearly, his desire to take a break from the military is gone. He has seen the destructive power of the aliens. His desire has changed.
And what is John Truby’s first point for Act 2? Simply, it is “plan”.
Well, make me a screenwriter!
Granted, as a plan, it’s weak. Fight Lieutenatnt Johnson has moved into reader-surrogate role here as he casts his doubts on the plan. The plan isn’t just weak, it’s naive.
Put yourself in Ginger’s shoes. He’s not aware of massive fleets of ships carrying entire countries each. He’s just seen three alien craft. That’s barely even a sampler. The plan was written to be weak. More so, it was written to be naive.
There is a major lack of foreplanning. The plan is simply to go there, wherever ‘there’ is, and come back. The in-between bit is of no consequence and barely needs thinking of. For Ginger, the journey is literally more important than the destination, and it’s the destination where all the hard bits will be.
But let’s not think about that right now. Ginger is imagining the treasures poured upon him. Either that, or he uses his own craft to destroy the fleet, Arnie Schwarzenegger/Rambo style. Who knew that he would have been a great 80’s action-flick producer?
But it’s a plan. Ginger is jumping to action. We have a new Ginger, full of initiative.
I just wish that I could have written in (MUSIC STARTS) more glimpses of this side of Ginger into the first act.
(OFF-SCRIPT):
Oh, and now music. Maybe it’s not being picked up on the mic, but I’ll wait a moment.
GINGER:
The blue walls.
HOST:
Oh.
(RETURNING TO SCRIPT)
Speaking of the first act, there is a lot of mirroring going on with these …
(TO HIMSELF)
I’ll try that again.
(RETURNING TO SCRIPT)
There is a lot of mirroring going on —
GINGER:
You’ve been ignoring me.
HOST:
There is a lot of mirroring going on with these last two Ginger chapters, and his first chapter.
GINGER:
I write in a whole extra scene, and you don’t notice.
(PAUSE - MUSIC INTENSIFIES)
HOST:
There is a lot of mirroring going on with these last two Ginger chapters, and —
GINGER:
Just talk to me.
HOST:
(TO GINGER)
Can’t I just read this script out?
GINGER:
You’re the writer. You decide.
HOST:
I don’t think I decide on anything anymore. That right has gone elsewhere!
GINGER:
Why do you lie?
(SILENCE)
You say that I do stuff. I don’t do that stuff. Stealing?
HOST:
That’s what’s in the chapter. If it’s there I read it out.
GINGER:
I don’t steal.
HOST:
Storywise, it’s not achieved anything. I can’t remember if it’s a setup for a later action. I’m not revising anything now. I just read out what I wrote. I can’t even remember when that bit came in.
GINGER:
But you said I steal.
HOST:
Flavour? A way to make you seem more interesting during a lull in the book?
GINGER:
I don’t know what happens to me. Sometimes I’m here, sometimes I’m … I don’t know.
I hear about myself. I hear you telling stories of me. But they are lies. They are wrong. I didn’t do that. I’ve watched. I’ve doubted myself, but one thing seems consistent. You read me. I exist for a bit. I disappear.
HOST:
Wait, that stealing bit. That was after you first appeared here.
GINGER:
I don’t know how time works.
HOST:
Who are you then?
GINGER:
I’m Ginger Jeeves.
HOST:
I mean, if I’ve got you wrong, what kind of person are you?
GINGER:
It’s like at that party. I didn’t go to that party. But you made me sound like I just sat there being miserable. I’m not like that. People love me. I’m always making jokes.
And that briefing room stuff. What was that? I’ve given lots of mission briefings. I go in there, lay out the plan - boom, done!
HOST:
You’re very different!
GINGER:
Why?
HOST:
That was my question to you.
GINGER:
You’re the writer. I don’t have the answers. You do.
HOST:
I just think of you as … I don’t know, being in random places. Like, one moment you’re here, or you’re talking with someone, and then you’re in a jungle or something. You don’t take the initiative. You react. Here, you’re being assertive. Is this because of what I was saying last episode?
GINGER:
Why a jungle?
HOST:
I don’t know. Tarzan? That doesn’t feel right. Claustrophobia, perhaps. It’s dark because of light not getting through the tree cover. Sounds.
(MUSIC FADES OUT, JUNGLE SOUNDS APPEAR)
GINGER:
It’s like I would want to escape …
HOST:
Right! But it’s dense. Fighting through the foliage … But what would you have? A machete?
(MUSIC FADES IN)
No, you’d have something like ...
GINGER:
A stone with John Lennon’s face on it?
HOST:
Hah! I wrote Chaplin in the novel - a figure you would have recognised. But yeah, it was John Lennon in that original dream I had.
I see you in the jungle. But first, you need a way into the jungle ...
Maybe some kind of corridor, and you don’t know which way to go. You’re returning to a place, so there’d have to be some acknowledgement of you being there. Like you were feeling sick. But once you get past that bit, you’d continue ...
GINGER:
The corridor? Which way? Looking around to make a decision, I realise that where there once was a path, there now isn’t. Only the one side of the corridor still exists, forcing the decision on me.
I head down, and then into a … jungle. (MUSIC FADES, JUNGLE SOUNDS APPEAR). In my hand is the pebble from earlier. I look around for you, Holly, but I can’t see you. However, I do hear you. This at least gives me a direction to head in. I’ll worry about leaving this jungle later.
All there is is just dense foliage. To clear it, I throw my body into it to break it a bit, before then kicking away with more finesse. Two minutes of work and I am sweating out all the nausea from earlier.
It contaminates the air but then disappears into the sounds of the jungle.
HOST:
(BREATHES DEEPLY)
(CAUTIOUSLY) Speaking of the first act …
(PAUSE)
Speaking of the first act, there is a lot of mirroring going on with these last two Ginger chapters, and his first chapter.
His arrival at the base is a reversal of the first chapter. He turns up in a flying machine, first to be adorned with praise, the second time to be shot at.
He bursts into the Flight Lieutenant's office. Both times, grandeur wraps itself around Ginger. Each time there are comparisons to then-contemporary film action stars.
In the first chapter, Ginger imagines taking over the office. The second time, Ginger imagines winning an interplanetary war with just a few words and being highly rewarded for it. Typically, the final scene mirrors the first scene, showing something familiar to the audience, and how it has changed.
I’ve just thrown it in halfway through the book.
But things haven’t yet changed, though, have they? Not completely, at least.
The Psychologist’s Chair
Ginger has become slightly self-aware of his visualisations. Although the brain freezing is not a true visualisation, more of a pondering, it is somewhat revealing about his character. He worries about his lack of imagination were others to hear his thought. His concern is that people would not think him crazy or inappropriate, but lacking in imagination. He goes over the thought process behind conceiving ideas. Kind of as if he is a writer acknowledging that they are writing material that isn’t … ummm ... standard.
Is this me, as a writer, being afraid to put myself out there, like Damien laughing at Simon Pegg’s artwork in Spaced?
Or is this a metaphor for his plan lacking imagination?
So, what do we have to look forward to in the next episode?
William struggles with seeing things in the middle distance!
(MUSIC FADES IN)
Until then …
(TO HIMSELF)
I remember this music. God, it sounds awkward. I had no idea how to record properly back then.
GINGER:
Dunno. But it’s here. Always. It changes. You ever thought of music as torture?
HOST:
(TO GINGER)
How was the jungle?
GINGER:
It just brought me back here.
HOST:
How do we get you to leave?
GINGER:
You’ve written me in here. You want me to leave, conclude my story.
HOST:
I don’t give a shit anymore.
GINGER:
Well.
And just in case you were wondering, all text was written by me, Daniel’s Nemesis, and XBook is purely a work of fiction and is not meant to be based on anyone or any events at all.
The music was also by me, Daniel’s Nemesis, as was the image
that accompanies this podcast.
It sucks, doesn’t it?
But there we go.