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****Danny Adams’s
DAYWORLD: A HOLE IN WEDNESDAY is
#80
in the never-ending series called INSIDE
THE EMOTION OF FICTION where the Chris
Rice Cooper Blog (CRC) focuses on one specific excerpt from a fiction
genre and how that fiction writer wrote that specific excerpt. All INSIDE
THE EMOTION OF FICTION links are at the end of this piece.
Name of fiction work? And were there other names you considered that you would like to share with us? Dayworld: A Hole in Wednesday. There were no other names I seriously considered; this was a work started (but never finished) by someone else – my great-uncle, the science fiction author Philip José Farmer – and he came up with the name when he wrote the opening chapters several decades ago. I liked the name too, but even if I hadn’t, I still almost certainly wouldn’t have changed it.
What is the date you began writing this
piece of fiction and the date when you completely finished the piece of
fiction? I started writing it in August of 2015,
giving myself a deadline of Christmas to finish it. I just barely made it,
finishing up, if I remember right, two days before Christmas. As for when Phil
Farmer wrote his portion, nobody is exactly sure. It was likely either in the
late 1970s or early 1980s.
Where did you do most of your writing for this fiction work? And please
describe in detail. I have a small writing room
that was originally meant to be, I think, a nursery. It’s tiny and with a small
closet, but cozy for me, not many distractions (except bookshelves lining the
walls), and a view of a forest stretching out from my backyard (which admittedly
can also be distracting). The tops of the computer and monitor are filled with
trinkets, knick-knacks, souvenirs, and other sentimental objects that have at
least some connection, if thin, with my writing, writing life, or other
creative pursuits from over the years, like a window quartz (for occasional
staring into if I’m stuck on some plot point), a small NCC-1701 USS Enterprise, and a tiny warning traffic
cone that says CHAOS AHEAD.
(The computer, a desktop that’s about a dozen years
old, is bulky, and the 20-year-old monitor even moreso, so there’s plenty of
room for stuff on top of them.) There are also a couple of small display
shelves with more small items ranging from geodes and artifacts I’ve found to a
metal model of the Red Baron’s Fokker Dr.I triplane. (The plane in part is
another nod to Phil Farmer.) At the time of year I’m writing this (mid-summer),
I’ll also have a box fan blowing on me.
What were your writing habits while
writing this work- did you drink something as you wrote, listen to music, write
in pen and paper, directly on laptop; specific time of day? My habits then and now are pretty sparse when I’m sitting
down for the first draft. Pre-writing, editing later, coming up with story
ideas – those are all over the map. I can do those anywhere (including the
noisy cafeteria at the college where I work), while listening to music, having
a TV on in the background, or whatever else. But when I sit down to write new
material I like to be as quiet and shut away as possible. (I even somehow
manage to ignore my cats scratching on the door.) I might have a (non-alcoholic)
drink nearby. Otherwise, that’s all. I typically write from late morning to
early afternoon; this is partly due to my work schedule, but conveniently it’s
also when I seem to get my best work done.
What is the summary of this specific
fiction work? This is a prequel to Phil Farmer’s
famous Dayworld trilogy, in which
overpopulation and other factors became so wretched that you’re only allowed to
live one day out of seven – the rest of the time you’re in suspended animation
while other people live in your apartment, have your job (even if you’re the
president), and so on. The worst crime is “Daybreaking” – illegally living
across all seven days of the week.
Jerry Carson is just an ordinary guy who doesn’t want to rock any
boats. But when his wife miscarries, and he realizes many other women are
miscarrying in this age of supposed medical miracles, he starts an
investigation that ends up forcing him to become a Daybreaker. In doing so he
comes into contact with a secret group composed of Daybreakers who are working
to bring the whole system crashing down – and set up a new
only-the-strongest-survive society from the ruins.
“Stoners”, by the way, are the coffin-like containers that people
use to stay in suspended animation for six out of seven days.
Can you give the reader just enough information for them to understand what is going on in the excerpt?
Jerry has broken
through the “hole in Wednesday”, his Day, into Thursday, but his investigation
and explorations aroused suspicion and he was captured by a doctor and would-be
dictator named Marks. When the scene picks up he has escaped and is on the run
just barely ahead of Marks and the authorities. He is guided into and through
an underground labyrinth by an anonymous voice he has been hearing through an
implant in his skull, which claims to be a member of a anti-government movement
called the “Reductionists” and which has promised to help him figure out the
truth of not just his situation, but the Dayworld at large.
Please include the excerpt and include
page numbers as reference. The excerpt can be as short or as long as you
prefer. Pages 143-146
Jerry lunged into a different world.
On the surface nothing appeared different.
The twelve flights of stairs he bounded down were nothing more than stairs,
although the walls were still blank and pulsing, devoid even here of the paintings
and entertainment programs that normally filled the spaces and the minds of
those who passed on the escalators. The light seemed a little dim, which could
have been the result of the alarm or Jerry’s constricting blood vessels forcing
tunnel vision
on his eyes, he couldn’t tell
which. But the world he left behind last Wednesday was gone, forever
irretrievable, and the farther downward he ranged, the deeper his drowning in
this black and unimaginable unknown felt.
And
helpless fury. Fury at himself for daybreaking, for learning things he could
never unlearn. Fury at himself for managing to connect the timer with Linda’s
miscarriages. Fury at Marks for dragging Jerry into a thorny net that mortified
his flesh with every move, and fury at the Reductionist voice in his skull that
resumed speaking the moment Jerry burst into the stairwell.
“Now
having cast your lot with us, Mr. Carson,” the ubiquitous voice told him, “we
have a job for you.”
Jerry
didn’t reply, partly because he was having trouble breathing, partly because he
was concentrating on not tumbling the rest of the way down the stairs, and
partly because the statement only added to his fury.
“At
the bottom of these stairs is another exit across from the public one. You will
take it. In doing so you will also add significantly to the time you are given
to evade pursuit.”
Jerry
had thought he was in good physical shape, but was exhausted enough when he
reached the bottom of the staircase and already so used to running downward he
stumbled over the last step, nearly falling into the door the voice had
described. But there was no obvious way to open the door, no keypad or frequency
receptor. Only a small dark bubble atop the doorframe which Jerry recognized as
a biometric scanner for entry
access. It was a sure bet the
scanner would refuse to recognize Jerry, and more than one failed scan, if that
many, would trigger an alarm.
“How do I . . . ?” Jerry began, but a
whirring emanated from the door as it slid open just enough for Jerry to slip
sidelong through.
“Proceed,” the voice said with infuriating
calm. Jerry complied. These halls and the stairs the voice directed him through
were sheathed in white metal, bright with sourceless lighting but without
pulsating walls, and no artwork or vidfeeds either. It was as if the labyrinth
was sentient and wanted to be as nondescript as possible, forcing any
unauthorized person to guess blindly as to
their location and purpose.
The only indication this buried place was used by human beings was an
alphanumeric designation on each otherwise featureless door, and the name
Burroughs at every intersection.
There was a slight downward angle to the
floor, barely noticeable but after a few lung-wracked moments Jerry was sure he
had descended enough to now be several stories under the building.
Into the underworld figuratively and
literally, then; some back corner of his brain wondered how far and long his
Tartaran descent would last, this Faustian trade of one devil for another.
But then, if his grandmother truly had
been a spy, it seemed she was one long enough to still be so when Jerry was
around, meaning subdecades, not a prospect Jerry relished, and the thought only
served to fuel his mounting anger.
He wondered if the corridors were shielded
as well, if his emotions as well as his location were hidden from Marks. It seemed
logical, particularly given the voice’s comment about gaining more time. But
Jerry didn’t want to gamble any more than he had to on whatever additional time
he was given, and in just a few seconds he was back at a full run and turning
every which way, ever downward, as the voice in his skull snapped directions.
Now and again a door blocked his flight.
Those requiring key-frequencies to open popped open automatically, no doubt at the
Reductionists’ command. With others, Jerry punched in each code as the voice
recited it to him.
The door designations switched from
alphanumeric to a name with a number attached, but not using any logic Jerry
could determine. He reasoned these must be more secure areas and each designation
represented a code. Ten at one door exactly like the others, which was to say
completely blank aside from the non-revealing designation KRUBERA-7208, a dark
cavern opened before Jerry.
When he entered it was completely black,
for just an instant, but long enough for him to hear his footfalls absorbed by
a vastness of which he was only instinctively aware. Light found him slowly,
rising up from the floor like cold white lava as more melted down the walls.
All of the multiple sources of light coalesced on Jerry and followed him as he
obeyed the instruction to continue moving forward. The farther he walked the
more his illuminated island reached out with probing tentacles to touch
objects around him,
surrounding him, filling the Brobdingnagian abyss.
Jerry realized with horror that he was in
a stoner chamber—but one where the growing light was touching hundreds of cylinders,
which seemed to be made of gray paper, mounted horizontally and vertically for
stories above him on thick silver rods into the darkness and silence.
In
the darkness beyond he sensed thousands more, all with the feeling of their not
being opened or even touched in an extremely long time. Longer than Jerry’s own
lifetime. None of the stoners he could see were empty. Each had a nameplate,
with a chip Jerry guessed would provide scanners with the occupant’s personal
information, along with their illness or crime.
“And now, Mr. Carson,” the voice said, “we
begin adding some pieces to the whole, and rearranging those already in place.”
Jerry found himself barely able to breathe
again, but this time it had nothing to do with exhaustion. He was walking
slowly among the stoners, the chase relegated to the backmost corners of his
overheating brain, with a near-reverence he could not explain.
A few names stirred something familiar in
his mental corners, but looking at the faces did nothing to help. These stoners
barely had more than small viewing slits rather than the large windows of those
in the rest of the NYC domes, so all they afforded was a glimpse of the face
and none at all of any clothing.
“What do you want me to do?” Jerry asked,
then said it again when he realized he was whispering.
“These are prisoners, Mr. Carson.
Political prisoners. I will give you names, and you will free them.”
Why is this excerpt so emotional for
you? And can you describe your own emotional experience of writing this
specific excerpt? This passage marked a
transition in a couple of ways. For the character of Jerry Carson, it was a
turning point, and a point of no return. Once he crossed this last threshold
there was definitely no turning back. He could never try to sneak back to
Wednesday, live the normal and simple life he had before.
For me, this was close to where Phil Farmer stopped writing and I
picked up his work. Even having finished one of his books before, I was still nervous
about the whole process. For that previous book - The City Beyond Play – he
had been able to guide me through the process to an extent. He passed away some
years before Hole in Wednesday, and at the point of this excerpt, I was
close to where I left off and was committing to writing a story that was as
much my creation as his without that guidance. He was a master (and literally a
science fiction Grand Master); I was still a novice by comparison.
So there was a lot of anxiety at this point both personally and for
where the story went from Jerry’s flight - but also a lot of excitement. I
wanted to write a book was worthy of his series, but I was also thrilled to be
able to play in his universe, one I’d been a fan of for years. Even after
working on the book for a little while by this point, reaching this scene and
going beyond it really felt like plunging into that universe for the first
time.
Were there any deletions from this excerpt that you can share with us? And can you please include a photo of your marked up rough drafts of this excerpt. I didn’t have very many deletions, honestly – which for me is extremely unusual. Typically my first drafts are hugely overwritten, and I end up cutting out big swaths. This time, though, in imitating Phil Farmer’s much more concise voice, my pendulum swung far to the other direction. At numerous requests from my editors, I had to get used to adding material rather than subtracting.
Other works you have published? I also helped finish the last of Phil Farmer’s books that
were published while he was still alive, a short novel titled The
City Beyond Play, from PS Publishing. For a nice while I had an early medieval
/ post-Arthurian historical novel out titled Lest Camelot Fall, but
sad to say it disappeared when its publisher (Musa) went under in 2015. I’ve
toyed with the idea of self-publishing it, though haven’t done so yet. I’ve
also published a number of short stories and poems (mostly science fiction and
fantasy), a few essays (including one on Harry Potter’s parallels with King
Arthur for Salem Press’ Critical Insights
series), and lots of anonymous speculative fiction book reviews for Publishers Weekly.
Anything you would like to add? Speaking of emotion…my uncle was the man who got me
seriously interested in writing when I was 12 years old (right), something that latched
on then and has never let go, and it was a longtime dream of mine to
collaborate with him. It took years – when The
City Beyond Play originally came out in 2007, I was 36 and he was 89. There
are a lot of reasons why it might not have happened, and almost didn’t. But
when he passed away just two years later I was overwhelmed with gratitude that
I’d been able to do it. I tried imagining how I might have felt if I hadn’t or hadn’t
been able to, and I didn’t like the feeling coming with that imagining. So I
would say to anyone reading this that if you have a creative project of your
heart that you want to do but for some reason you haven’t done it yet, and
there is any possibility that you can
– get going!
Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/Madwriter
Twitter: https://twitter.com/Madwriter1970
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Dayworld: A Hole In Wednesday
https://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2019/09/80-inside-emotion-of-fiction-dayworld.html
Science Fiction
Dayworld: A Hole In Wednesday
https://chrisricecooper.blogspot.com/2019/09/80-inside-emotion-of-fiction-dayworld.html
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