Ok for the first time in many years I just forgot it Monday, last week. I had just put Barbs on the plane for six weeks with grandchild in England, and came back to cope as I usually do, by just working until I am exhausted, and sleeping, and doing it again. At the moment it is mostly digging post holes under the house. This is actually worse than it sounds. Firstly, the holes are around 4-5 foot deep, into dry gravel, and hit a layer of dry clay at 4 foot. No space for a space for a pick-axe or mattock, so it is hit it with a crow-bar and haul out the bits. Fun. Anyway, 3 dug, one post in, busy with no. 4, 23 to go. Yes, I do use an auger where possible. Mostly, it is not.
I made the serious error of thinking I’d reach down – lying down – into the hole, and scoop the gravel into a bucket. Which sort of worked – until I tried to get out of the hole. Pretty much from hips up is in the hole. And there is nothing much to push out on. I could yell my head off – this is remote rural Australia – and even if I wasn’t down a hole, muffled by dirt, there is no-one to hear me. I got to thinking it saved half the cost of a funeral if I was stuck there. My phone was in my pocket – as reachable as the moon, and it might be a week or two before anyone missed me. Well, Barbs might message me… but it might be a while before she got someone out there to do a wellness check. I was on ambulance call (beeper in pocket) so it would have been me they called…
And here we have a typical story scenario – or perhaps just a great cartoon. Person with their legs kicking in the air, stuck down a hole. And just how do you get them out? Let’s say they’re you lead character, who, in general, the writer wants to be an active participant in solving their own problems. So: no convenient rescue. You’re a good writer, you’ve already used your ration of two co-incidences per book (after that, suspension of disbelief gets difficult.
You’re a pantser, so your normal process is getting your characters into dire trouble and then thinking of a way to get them out. Or… sometimes deeper in. This latter approach seems like a great idea until you find they’re so deep in trouble, there is no way out by their own efforts — and either they need rescue or die. I have got there (both in life and story). It’s a poor thing to do in a story, in my opinion.
In this case, deeper disaster was not called to serve. Instead, the rim of the bucket I had in there to fill was enough for me to push on and lever myself up on. From there, only chest deep wriggling, scrabbling and pushing did fine, if not for my dignity, at least my future.
I resolved to be a plotter. I am sure this resolve will last, until next time.
Mad Genius Club 
13 responses to “Oops.”
I love creating “oops” situations, either comically or sometimes with serious consequences. They offer a lot of insight into the character, how he ruefully or responsibly takes the blame for the cause (or not), how he involves his friends (in the incident or afterwards telling the tale), how he gets teased by others, how he recovers from near disaster (possibly after a lengthy set of attempts), or even how an inconsequential situation turns out to have important or even tragic consequences, creating a dire atmospheric change or dread for the story actions. (“the bullet missed you when you stumbled into the river yesterday, but it hit…)
Dave. [I’m shaking my head here.] At least throw a rope down there, eh? We plan for disaster, not smooth sailing. Maybe get a ladle, or make one? Long handled spoon, perchance? Or a buddy? Still, I must not scold. I’ve done dumber things, and recently, so I have no business speaking out of turn.
As it happens, I have a story about this. (Because of course I do, being stuck in a hole like that is my worst nightmare.)
This is the first couple of pages from The Demon Slayers. Ahem:
Erwin was an unremarkable boy, trapped in a remarkable situation. There was nothing special about him at all, or so he thought.
He was wiggling and pushing his way through a jagged crevice in the rock, in the pitch black. This was normal for him. He did this sort of thing all the time. It was how he stayed alive. He regularly crawled through places that even a demon would refuse to enter. The remarkable thing was what he had with him, and the fact that he was a bit stuck.
His escape route was just a little too small for the book he had stolen. His mother had taught him that theft was almost always wrong. He was quite sure she had included the word “almost” to cover things like his present purloinment.
What he had done was steal the List of Unholy Names, a book that belonged to the greatest sorcerer in history. Using the List, the necromancer Varlian had raised an army of fiends from the deepest reaches of the shadow realm. To do that, the evil sorcerer had denuded the countryside of peasants, his victims of choice. He had also conquered many foreign lands and taken their peasants. As the appellation “necromancer” indicated, someone died every time Dread Varlian cast a spell. Varlian preferred that unimportant farm workers die. Less trouble that way.
With the List of Unholy Names, the necromancer was invincible. Demons could be raised at his merest whim. Select a victim from the dungeon, perform the Ritual, and another demon crossed the Veil from the shadows to do Dread Varlian’s will.
Without it, Varlian had no more power than an average witch. Rumor had it that’s exactly what he was. A jumped-up hedge witch who had slain his way to the throne.
Such tales were apocryphal. No one was still alive from the time of his ascendance, 276 years ago. There were a lot of people not alive due to his rise to power, entire legions of slaves and captives had been consumed to fuel his army and his appetites. Both were extensive.
Erwin was essentially a captive of the sorcerer’s court. Upon his arrival to that brooding pile they called a castle, he had decided he was not going to be one more victim. But the only plan he could come up with to avoid it was utterly insane. Steal the book, raise a demon to protect him, and run away. Escape without a powerful protector was impossible. Between the guards and the demons, he’d certainly be caught and killed. Or worse, caught by a demon. That thought gave him a shudder, and he had to pause in his work for a moment to get over it. He pushed futilely, trying to move forward and away from pursuit.
The damned book didn’t fit! Erwin probed about with his fingers, trying to find the obstruction. He was building up a picture of the hole in his mind, finding all the bits that stuck out, and trying to imagine a way to twist and turn the fat, iron-bound tome. He didn’t hurry or fret, he knew that wouldn’t help. He put the demons out of his mind with an effort and kept concentrating on the task. Finally, he hit on a combination of sliding, twisting and rotating the book. It grated forward through the tight spot and out into the relatively open place beyond. That space was large enough for Erwin to turn over in, practically a dance hall.
“Thank the gods,” whispered Erwin, easing himself over the pointed rocks and resting in the slightly more open space. Now that he was in the easy part of the crack, he admitted to himself that trying to get that book through this hole had been suicidally risky. Ripping a few pages out would have been nice, but the magic didn’t work that way. He needed the whole thing to summon the demon.
It was the same god looking after him that watched over drunken men and little children. He vowed to burn a candle to it as soon as he could. A really nice candle, made of real wax, not plain old mutton tallow. The God of Lost Causes had worked a major miracle for him this time.
I like what I’ve read so far. You’re a good writer.
Starts warming up purchase fingers…. I can hope, hey?
Yep. Soooon….
I am the worst procrastinator. It’s true.
I had a kind of the same situation involving a bookcase that was rather heavy and my right arm. I am in a town and I probably could have rousted a neighbor but I decided to figuratively roll for damage and pull. I don’t have much of a scar. I would like to say that I learned my lesson but a subsequent adventure with a water heater indicates that I did not. But both of us need to stop that.
I enjoyed what I read so far. You’re a good writer.
I had a kind of the same situation involving a bookcase that was rather heavy and my right arm. I am in a town and I probably could have rousted a neighbor but I decided to figuratively roll for damage and pull. I don’t have much of a scar. I would like to say that I learned my lesson but a subsequent adventure with a water heater indicates that I did not. But both of us need to stop that.
Glad you’re okay, Dave, just when TXRed reposted an archive post and your behalf and I dimly remembered something about you having health scans so I got worried.
Yes. The stray bit in the eye hit a bit too close to home. Of course, with me it was “The doctor thinks the pellet in the eye might help.” No, it didn’t. /shrugs
If I hadn’t done similar, I’d laugh.
Actually, that’s a reason to laugh.
And some guys wonder why women outlive men.