Give Me The Dumb Idea
Chipping through the writer's block
Hi friends. If you’re new here, I’m writing a book 200 words at a time, Monday through Friday. Each Monday I post the last week’s progress, raw and largely unedited, along with some reflections on the past week’s writing.
If you’re here primarily to read the story, you can find the start of the novel here. If you’re mostly interested in the weekly introspection on writing (and occasional life update), you can find that down below.
“Okay, you can’t say things like that and then act like you’re not trying to spook us,” Orion said with an eyeroll.
Gruber shrugged. “It does not affect me how terrified you are. My job is to guide and warn. Whether you heed it or not is your choice.”
“No, it’s my choice,” Basil said. “And I say ditch whatever bee is in your britches about ghosts, Orion, and obey my commands. Or at the very least, don’t do stupid shit that puts your ward and my crew at risk.”
“Why does everyone assume I’ll do something crazy?” Orion threw up his hands. “I don’t want to go on a soggy abandoned dock, ghosts or no.” He paused briefly. “But for the record, it’s not because I’m terrified. Let the record show I’m not worried at all—”
“Just stay on the boat,” scowled Basil. “And consider resting your poor tongue for even just an hour. It’s earned a rest with how ceaselessly you work it.”
As Orion huffed in indignation, Ren, Odo, and several of the crew began to disembark. Others turned to their own tasks, leaving the wolf to sputter without his captive audience.
As the sailors on shore began to trek further from the ship, Gruber sighed and disembarked, hopping after the party. Ren looked up from where she was examining a section of dock planking, surprise evident in the arch of her whiskers. “Thought you were staying on the ship.”
“My job is to guide,” Gruber said. “Seems like y’all could use more guidance at the moment.”
“We weren’t about to trek out of sight of the ship, if that was your worry,” Ren said, standing from her work. “But this section of dock has significant water rot. We might need to take some planks from structures further inland.” Two other sailors—a burly beaver named Crag and the young mouse who’d been plucking bone shards from her leg the night before (Milly, if memory served Gruber)—stood nearby, tools in hand and flanked by a small pile of planks they had just pried loose. Even to Gruber’s untrained eye, the planks looked worse for wear, dark in color and soft to the touch.
“Let us try the first building then,” Gruber said, pointing up what used to be a path towards a small set of stalls that likely held wares and goods in better days.
Ren nodded, and the small party trudged forward up the slight hill towards their destination. As they marched, Gruber scanned the tree line further upshore, the empty buildings, the fog that never quite dissipated.
“So what actually happened here?” Odo asked as they walked. “You said bodies were found, but that was years ago, right? What killed them?”
“Not that many years. Three. Maybe four. This was a regular stopover point for ships heading to Vahn. Small settlement—an innkeeper, a few dock workers, a provisioner. Maybe twenty animals in total.”
“Not anymore, I’m guessing,” Crag said.
“A merchant vessel came through,” Gruber continued, his gaze never stopping its sweep of their surroundings. “Routine stop to sell some supplies. But when they docked, no one came to greet them. No movement at all. They found everyone in the tavern.” He gestured toward the building with the fallen sign. “All of them. Every resident of the island. Dead.”
“How?” the young mouse asked quietly. “Disease? Poison?”
“Mutilated.” Gruber said. “Lacerations on every body. Messy cuts and lashes, as though from tooth or claw or mandible. The bodies then piled haphazardly, one on top of another in the center of the room.”
“Blood magic,” Odo said immediately, his voice dropping. “Had to be. That’s the only thing that could—”
“Perhaps,” Gruber interrupted. “The merchant crew thought the same. They reported it to the authorities in Vahn, and an investigation was launched. But by the time officials arrived… the bodies were gone.”
“Gone?” Ren straightened, paws drifting to the hilts of her scimitars—an unconscious movement. “Gone where?”
“No one knows. No trace of them remained. No blood, no bodies, nothing. Just empty rooms and abandoned possessions.” Gruber’s tongue flicked out, tasting the air. “The investigators searched for three days. Found nothing conclusive. Wrote it off as... unexplained circumstances. Recommended the port be avoided until further notice.”
“And sailors being sailors,” Crag said, “they decided it was haunted and spread the word to stay away.”
“Not without reason,” Gruber replied. “Two more ships stopped here after that, before word spread. Both times, crew members went missing. Vanished from their vessels in the night, never to be found.”
Odo whistled low. “And you think it’s the spirits of the dead? That they’re bound here now, taking revenge on anyone who dares to stop?”
“I think,” Gruber said carefully, “that something happened here that defies easy explanation. Whether it’s vengeful spirits or something else, sailors learned quickly that this port brings death. So they avoid it. I guide them around it. And everyone stays alive.”
“Except we’re here now,” the young mouse said nervously, her eyes darting toward the tavern.
“We’re being careful,” Ren assured her, though her own tail had started to twitch. “We stay together, we work quickly, we leave. Nothing more.”
They arrived at the abandoned merchant stalls and returned to their task with renewed urgency. The wood here seemed in much better condition, and the crew quickly set about prying up planks and stacking them for transport back to the ship. The work went faster now, driven by a shared desire to be done and gone.
Gruber maintained his watch, his unease growing with each passing minute. The fog seemed thicker now, pressing closer. The shadows between buildings seemed to shift and writhe in ways that couldn’t be explained by the weak sunlight filtering through the mist.
“That’s the last of the good ones,” Odo announced, hefting a long plank onto his shoulder. “Should be enough for the repairs.”
“Then let’s move,” Ren said. She and Crag each took armfuls of wood while the young mouse grabbed the tools they’d brought. “Back to the ship, quickly now.”
They were halfway down the dock, moving as a tight group with Gruber bringing up the rear, when a bellowing roar tore through the air.
It came from the Duskhawk.
“Move!” Ren barked, dropping her load and breaking into a run. The others followed suit, planks clattering to the dock as they abandoned their salvage in favor of speed.
Gruber’s powerful legs launched him forward in great bounding leaps, overtaking the running mammals. His heart pounded—not from exertion but from the certain knowledge that his warnings had been insufficient. Something had happened. Something was wrong.
They reached the gangplank and thundered up onto the deck, where chaos had erupted. The crew was gathered near the starboard rail, voices raised in panic and confusion.
“What happened?” Ren demanded, pushing through the crowd.
“It’s Benji,” Ari said, her face pale beneath her fur. “He’s gone.”
🐸
How to Write When You Don’t Know What To Write
Last week I talked about not knowing where the story is going at this point. The confession is, ending a chapter with “Port’s haunted” felt really good, but having to write the haunted port arc is much more challenging. What should happen? What makes sense and drives towards the story and eventual ending that I have the loosest of ideas about for these characters?
Middles of books (and any story) are notoriously the hardest part to write. Beginnings are fresh and exciting, endings are satisfying to land, but filling in every step from point A to B is challenging.
When I’m unsure what I want to happen, when I’m not writing towards an idea but rather in search of one, one of my favorite exercises is the “bad ideas list.”
The exercise is simple. Write up a list of the dumbest things that could happen next. Things that make no sense, that are trite and cliche and tropey, just the worst ideas possible.
Writing lists is much easier than writing prose. And bad ideas are much easier to conjure up than good ones. You’re forgiven the burden of “making it good” and “being genius” when you’re jotting things down like “rocks fall, everybody dies” or “they meet a friendly ghost named Casper and hug instead of die and everyone goes along their merry way.”
But among the dung heaps of stinkers, little seeds and sparks get the chance to germinate and potentially sprout tendrils of new directions to explore. And with any luck, those new growths will take root within the stone wall of the writer’s block and break it up over time as you feed, water, and nurture it to grow.
Long winded way of saying, “Benji goes missing bc [SPOILER, REDACTED]” came about as an amalgamation and inspiration from a whole bunch of dumb and cliche ideas.
Thanks as always for reading, and see you next week!