"Part One is up 'n done," says I, wiping me bloody hams of the whole sodding mess.

(Would you believe I'm presently reading Treasure Island)

And there it is, lock, stock, and barrel, the whole bloody mess that is part one of Sunder, my literary tribute to the B-Movie genre. (This means that I have finished the first draft of part one.)

The ending of part one presented me with the closest thing I've ever known to writer's block. In this last chapter, all I needed was to find the portal to the next world and zap, let them port and be done with it. So why did it take me so many days to write a measly 2,440 words? Because the ending needed some sort of kick in the pants. By this point in the story, my readers (should I ever acquire some) as well as myself, would be sick of the damn hell trees. I needed to spice things up, so even though there was one last battle with the forces of darkness, I glossed over the final hell tree encounter and moved quickly on to the cave portal.

And there I became stuck. I was standing on the precipice of completion. All I had to do was end the thing.

The problem was that everything leading up to this point made it impossible to just say they found the portal and vanished. There had to be a problem. That, it turned out, was a problem for me.

Clay is standing before the portal with Mark.It's only a few feet away. Where am I going to come up with a conflict at this point? Is it time to bring in the machine gun toting naked women as suggested by course instructor, Zette? No, I want to save the naked women for later.

So for days, I half heartedly stabbed at the chapter hoping an idea would come before I lost patience and just had them port with the ease of turning on the TV. A solution did come, of course, and it was so simple I didn't even realize I had found it until I had finished writing it. I had even mentioned the problem earlier on but had overlooked it's potential. The solution, as I said, was simple. If you came upon a pile of stones you suspected of being a portal to another world, how would you go about triggering it? And there you go, a perfect little dilemma to frustrate the boys before they can port to Part Two.

I can now say the first draft of Part One is complete.

It's now time to move on to the more funner stuff: ZOMBIES.

One more Chapter to Go... before the next one

I just wrapped up chapter sixteen. Only one more chapter until Clay moves on into Part Two. This chapter contains the climax for Part one and, believe it or not, I'm satisfied with the result.

For months, I've lived with the knowledge that my resolution to part one might present a problem. The difficulty being,this chapter depicts the shortest battle, as opposed to the longest. Wham, bam, thank you, mam. Over and out. Please take all your belonging with you when you exit.

But the point is that, for now, I believe it works.

Of course, that's only the author's opinion. He'll have ample opportunity to change his mind once the critiques start rolling in.

Still Pluggin' Along

Clay and Mark have almost reached Lemon Town, the quintessential one horse town, comprised of a truck stop, service station, and restaurant. This is where the final conflict takes place before they hop over to the next world in Part Two.

A snippet from chapter thirteen:

Coming upon a light colored Prius, high centered on the edge of a shallow ravine, Clay shinned the flashlight onto the driver's window and found it shattered. Curiosity moved him to investigate. Drawing closer, the grisly remains of a driver could be seen seated behind the steering wheel. What remained of the broken window was splattered with the same dark substance that coated the area below the black cavity in the side of the driver's mummified head. 

Clay ran the light about the interior of the vehicle. He then opened the door, and holding his breath, reached across the corpse and took ownership of the handgun clutched in the man's grip. He then rejoined Mark, who had stayed back from the car.

Clay handed the flashlight to Mark and had him hold the light while he examined his new sidearm. Clay's knowledge of handguns was limited, but he found the model imprinted on the Clot Python barrel. There were four unspent 3.57 rounds  in the cylinder. He slipped the pistol into a coat pocket and said, “Funny what a little iron can do to raise your spirits. I'm already feeling a bit more optimistic about introducing myself to Dog and his friends.”