Working on writing a story/novel, need your help

[Dan the Man]

Here's my idea for an epic western, and I'm just kinda using this thread as an idea dump.

Characters -

Jacob Tecumseh Prentice, the Hangin' Judge: Known and feared for his "Hellfire and Brimstone" brand of law & order in the Oklahoma Indian Territories, his Honor takes the bench again in the rough & tumble mining town of Purgatory, New Mexico.

Nathan Cunningham, Sheriff of Purgatory: Once a member of the famous Pinkertons, Cunningham's two loves in life are money and justice. Unfortunately, they are both jealous lovers.

The Outlaw, Henry Blalock: Mean as a cuss, tough as leather, and quick as a rattlesnake, Henry Blalock roams from frontier town to frontier town, trying to make a living and clear his name. But trouble follows Henry like his shadow.

Jeremiah Flint, the Union Pacific Man: Driving spikes down across the frontier, Jeremiah is the mule on which the railroad rides across the west. But when the Man shows him the same prejudices as he's seen on the plantation, Jeremiah looks for a different flavor of freedom.

Lieutenant Cody Buckner, CSA Cavalry: Cody left the sweetgrass foothills of Alabama to ride with Quantrill's band, only to find that for men like him, the war never ends at Appomattox.

Three Feathers, of the Comanche Nation: This proud warrior stands witness to the final days of his nation, and is no longer content to barter away his peoples' birthright.

Father Miguel Pacheros: Founder of the Purgatory Mission, the old priest walks in to town to see the sunday morning hanging. He carries a bible and a gun, and the promise of divine retribution.

Abbott Carlos Perron: Carrying the word of God and an old six shooter that'll never shoot, the Abbott goes searching the deserts of New Mexico for the pistol's rightful owner.


I'll add more to this as I go, and feel free to comment, recommend things, and toss ideas around.

[Cyrel Annat]

Looks good so far and I wish you luck with the project. If you come across any extra ambition, I'll be happy to take it off your hands. I'm severely lacking in the drive to get my own project going.

[ReaperFett]

Avoid obvious names.

[Dan the Man]

Which of the above names are obvious?

[Lilaena De'Ville]

Tecumseh, obviously. :rolleyes

Sounds good - is this going to be along the lines of the Western Myth story you wanted to write?

[Dan the Man]

Yep, this is one & the same. I've brainstormed the general direction I want to go with it.

[Dan the Man]

Originally posted by Lilaena De'Ville
Tecumseh, obviously. :rolleyes

I'm not ripping this from any genre, but instead from history.

Tecumseh was a legendary and warlike indian chief, from the Shoshone nation. He rallied all of the indian nations west of the Appalachians at the turn of the 19th century to drive the white man from America. He formed fragile alliances with many other nations, and even fought alongside the British against the Americans in the war of 1812.

Further, Tecumseh had an indirect legacy, in the form of his namesake being the middle name of one General William Tecumseh Sherman, one of the most hated and villified murderers and invaders of the Union horde.

When you consider the incredible power of strife, violence, and derision that these two men caused, and the threat to any American future they posed, it makes more than a fitting nod for my story's antagonist, even if it means I pay homage with a history book ;)

[CMJ]

What's the general arc? Where are you going with it?

I've been having a severe case of writer's block with my own stuff for awhile. Maybe helping another project along might get my own stuff rolling again.

[James Prent]

:lol I was actually being non-serious, because I don't think Tecumseh is an obvious name at all.

[Dan the Man]

Originally posted by CMJ
What's the general arc? Where are you going with it?

I've been having a severe case of writer's block with my own stuff for awhile. Maybe helping another project along might get my own stuff rolling again.

I'll give kind of a storyboard draft for what I've got so far, which is the beginning part of it:

The story starts in the town of Purgatory, New Mexico. Its Sunday morning, and there's about to be a hanging.

Judge Prentice and Sheriff Cunningham preside over the gathered crowd, who stand around a gallows configured for four people. The judge reads out the charges levied against each man (murder for all of them).

Each of the four men (Blalock, Flint, Buckner, and Three Feathers) confesses to the crimes charged against them. Judge Prentice then sentences them to hang from the neck until they are pronounced dead.

As the town prepares the condemned men for death, the priest of the mission in Purgatory, Father Pacheros, walks down the main street of town. The crowd parts for him when the realize that in addition to his Bible, he is also carrying a gun.

He chastizes the Judge for holding a hanging on Sunday, the day of rest. He delivers a fiery parable from the good book, (probably of when Jesus drove the tax collectors from the temple, but not sure). The priest is livid at the Judge's audacity. His flock are gathered in the name of death this Sunday morning, not life.

The Judge urges the Priest to return to the mission, or risk being arrested for disturbing the peace. The priest, in turn, says he and his flock won't go back till the ropes are off the neck of the four killers and their feet are planted firmly on the ground.

By now, Judge Prentice has had enough, and orders Sheriff Cunningham to arrest the priest, and for the hangman to drop the trap door. No sooner than Sheriff Cunningham steps a foot in the Priest's direction than a hail of gunfire erupts from Father Pacheros' shooting iron. Four shots sever clean four ropes, and the four murderers drop through the scaffolding, landing on their feet.

As Pacheros quickly scrambles the condemned men to four fresh horses, Judge Prentice is livid. He roars at Cunningham, ordering him to shoot the priest. The Sheriff, a religious man of sorts, understandably hesitates.

In the following seconds, Pacheros continues to ride the four condemned out of town. The situation is coming to a head, and at more urging from the Judge, Cunningham fires and hits the Priest, who slumps over his horse, which rides behind the other four, racing out of town.

Cunningham is visibly shaken, but despite it, Judge Prentice orders him to track the Priest and the four men down, and bring them back to justice.

He doesn't have to track them long. The first stop the tracks lead him is to the mission on the outskirts of Purgatory. Outside, there is only one horse. With his gun drawn, Cunningham approaches the church, only to be approached by Carlos Perron, abbott of the mission. He urges the Sheriff not to draw his weapon in the house of God. The four murderers have thundered off in a hurry, but Father Pacheros is on his deathbed. On top of that, the old priest wants to talk to the one-eyed Sheriff.

Walking inside, Cunningham stoops to his knees to acknowledge Pacheros, who is pale from blood loss. The priest greets him warmly, smiling despite being in the company of the man who has killed him.

The priest explains that this is not the Sheriff's fault, and that forgiveness can be found, not just for him, but the four who are riding hard out of Purgatory now. He quote's Jesus's parable of removing the plank from one's eye before removing the speck from thy neighbor's, which alludes that who Cunningham considers stand for right and wrong may not actually be so clear-cut.

The priest then hands Cunningham the two items he carried into town. A leather-bound bible, and a rusty old gun that doesn't look like it would shoot in the best of times. He makes Cunningham promise that whatever happens, he'll bring both to the four killers, and also to Judge Prentice.

That's all I've got, which is just enough to start the story.

The part where it gets interesting is that the gun Pacheros gives to Cunningham was made years ago by the Archangel Gabriel, who walked the earth as a humble gunsmith. It only works when fired by the righteous, and will never kill a man. It represents the theme of God's forgiveness to the unworthy, which I intend to place into the story's context on many occasions.

[CMJ]

Hmmm the opening act(which you have described in more detail than I anticipated) shows alot of promise. So, I'm guessing this at heart is a story of Cunningham's ultimate redemption. I'm not a religious man myself, but I love mythic and religious symbolism in books as long as you don't beat the audience over the head with it.

Feel free to PM or email me about the book if you want.

[Dan the Man]

Well, its mainly Cunningham's redemption, but it also goes into the redemption of each of the killers.

The fact that Cunningham is tracking down these outlaws with a gun that will kill no man is in itself symbolic of Jesus searching for his lost flock. Instead of bringing them imprisonment and death, he brings them forgiveness and life.

Judge Prentice is, to pardon the pun, the Devil's Advocate. He's the corruptor, and hides his evil behind the pure symbols of law, order, and genteel custom.

Later in the story, he himself will take to arms, and his gun is immaculate. Plated in silver with ivory grips embossed with gold leaf, its everything we've been taught to respect, cherish, and covet. It makes it very easy to think that Prentice is the good guy, if you just follow the visuals.

Whereas Cunningham and the four killers are a motley gang. The Sheriff himself has only one eye (A nod to his past career as a Pinkerton, whose symbol was the unblinking eye). He's also under the spell of money (as Pinkertons were essentially security for hire), and it'll show as his character progresses.

Blalock looks like quintessential spaghetti western outlaw fodder. He's unkempt, wears coarse five o'clock shadow, and a leathery face marked with a sneer, fierce eyes, and crow's feet.

Flint is a railroad man, with broad shoulders, bedraggled work clothes, and sweat stains.

Three Feathers is a wild-eyed Comanche in every stretch of the imagination.

Really, Buckner is the closest thing among the killers to being "refined", but its a toss-up. He's got some southern Alabama genteel throwbacks, but as he has ridden with Quantrill across bloody-red Missouruh, he has to carry a pretty heavy stigma of being a "Damn Johnny Reb Bushwhacker", and it'll definitely tarnish his appearance.

The interesting thing about the four killers, is that while their murders are just that - murders, they're not without reasons that the reader can sympathize with. Once again, this will work into their redemption stories.

[CMJ]

It's obvious you know where you're trying to get to A-Z. Heck you have the first several steps all mapped out in nice detail.

Are you looking for help on getting the second act humming along? Because honestly, you know what you're doing from what I can see.

[Dan the Man]

I'll know a little better once I start writing. I'm sure I wouldn't mind a little technical commentary, as well as some insight for different changes as I write my first draft.

[Dan the Man]

I've begun work on chapter one, which is entitled Of Saints and Killers

:)

[Dan the Man]

Here's the draft for chapter one. Comments/suggestiong/criticisms welcome. Its fairly rough right now.

<center><font size=3>1.</font>
<font size=7>Of Saints and Killers</font></center>

Sunday morning rose across the dusty expanse of New Mexico, painting the drab sand and pink sandstone in the hues of sunrise. Shadows appeared as tall, gaunt ghosts, foreboding spirits guarding the quiet of daybreak. Perhaps they were ghosts indeed. The land they haunted was indeed full of aimless men; tumbleweeds who called no house their home. Such men died young on the frontier, and their spirits in turn became rolling stones. Somewhere through the Sunday morning sunrise, they were surely out there, wandering the trails between Heaven and Hell, but never finding either for all eternity. As the sun grew fierce across a turquoise sky, the shadows retreated in reverence. Were the spirits of the night refusing to entreat upon the day and the living, or did they hear the call from Purgatory?

On the day the Good Lord rested, Justice labored obliviously to her God. She’d often turned a blind eye. Today, she’d earned a hard heart. Purgatory, New Mexico was a town living on a knife’s edge. Law and Lawlessness, she knew them well. Dapper entrepreneurs from the east coast peddled their wares. Prospectors toiled in silver mines. Killers and thieves circled them all like hyenas. Outside of the shadow of a gun, townspeople embraced the illusion of normalcy. When they found themselves under the gun, a pandemic of ennui existed that spoke volumes of Purgatory’s demons. No matter how many dollars changed hands, and no matter how much finery lined the shop windows, it couldn’t glitter away the blood in the dusty streets. More the pity to the folks of Purgatory, blood begets blood.

There would be a hanging this Sunday. Instead of scripture and hymns at the mission, the townsfolk put their Sunday best on to gather around the town square, and the white pine gallows that stood at the side of the county courthouse, like a giant skeleton picked clean by sun, sand, and buzzards. The scant bits of flesh that remained on the bones of the gallows were soon to be committed to Eternity. Four condemned men marched up the unfinished plank-board steps, and were fitted by a hooded hangman. The crowd beneath the damned began to buzz with all the potential energy of a mob. Rumors of their ill deeds spread as whispered wildfire, quickly fanned into the flames of hyperbole. An occasional jeer cut through the rumblings, piercing the dry desert air.

As the hangman drew fast the prisoners’ nooses and bindings, two figures emerged through the thick oak doors of the courthouse, and onto the broad steps below. One man stepped to the side, relinquishing the center of attention to Jacob Tecumseh Prentice, town judge of Purgatory. He was a grey-haired gentleman whose eyes were sharp and relinquished none of the intensity he no doubt held as a younger man. The judge stood directly across from the gallows trap door, and waited for the crowd’s attention before speaking.

“People of the township of Purgatory, I believe I promised you a fair shake. A chance to make your riches in the manner the Good Lord deemed fair. I promised you a town without violence; a town without lawlessness. I promised a town without the miscreants and rabble that infest every cattle-town from here to El Paso like so many fleas!”

The Judge paused, and the crowd began a small crescendo of voiced approval.

“I now intend to make good on my promises in full.”

At this, the crowd outright cheered. Prentice allowed them to die down, and continued again.

“These four that stand atop the gallows today are the curs of the frontier. They have no respect for the law, or for your lives and livelihoods!” The judge roared with a minister’s panache for hellfire and brimstone, fueling the anger of the crowd. “They’d see Purgatory become a den of thieves, and a debutante’s ball of whores!”

Prentice scowled, and waggled a defiant finger. “Well, not on my watch, they won’t! I’ve assembled before you the dregs of our town, so that they may confess their wicked deeds by their own tongue, before feeling the grip of the Law around their neck, as they so deserve. You’ll bear witness to their confession, and spread this example far and wide to the evil-doers that wish to rape and pillage our fair hamlet.”

The judge pointed out the man nearest him on the gallows.

“Jeremiah Flint!”

A broad-shouldered black man turned his eyes to the firebrand judge.

“Yessuh.”

“You stand here accused of one grievous act of murder, multiple acts of thievery against the coffers of the Union Pacific railroad, fifteen acts of horse thievery, and of being a listless and surly negro, unappreciative of the gifts of emancipation bestowed upon you. How do you plead?”

Flint considered the judge’s floral accusations for the slightest of moments, and replied, “I did all those things, and I don’t never regret it.”

The crowd gasped at Flint’s brazen defiance, and the judge cast him a look that would blanch eggshells. He let his ire rest on Flint for a moment longer, then turned his attention to the man at Flint’s left.

“Cody Buckner!”

A tawny-haired head snapped toward the judge, and an angry retort followed. “That’s Lieutenant Buckner, suh!”

Prentice accosted the blonde-haired man with a furious shout, “You have no army to fight for, you goddamned rebel! While Lee’s ink was long dry at Appomattox, you rode with Quantrill’s murderin’ band across Missouruh and all hell’s creation. I do accuse you of treason you cur, and you’ll get all the hangin’ cure that ails it!”

Buckner smiled bitterly. “If sendin’ them bluecoat carpetbaggin’ scoundrels back to the Devil that spawned ‘em is yuh definition of treason, then I reckon I’ll confess with a smile, suh.”

Considering further tirades against a condemned man to be beneath his concern, the judge let the rebel’s plea meet silence. The crowd, however, roared their ill will at Buckner. Stones and spoiled food pelted him from all directions.

“Johnny Reb gonna hang now!”

“Goddamned murderin’ Missouruh scum!”

“Can’t fight the Union with that rope ‘round your neck, hayseed!”

Prentice intervened with a wave of his hand, “ENOUGH!” Eventually, the crowd’s angry shouts died down to angry murmurs. He then pointed a finger at the man left of Buckner.

“You!” He yelled, as if calling a dog. “What’s your name, savage?”

The Comanche warrior looked to the judge for a moment, and then looked away once more. This infuriated the judge.

“WHAT IS YOUR NAME, SAVAGE?” He bellowed, waving an accosting fist in the air.

“Three Feathers, of the Comanche Nation” came the warrior’s well-metered response in English.

“That wasn’t so hard, was it?” Prentice queried, and regrouped again. “You stand accused of multiple counts of cold-blooded murder, scalping the heads of good Christian men, and contributing to the ruination of the peace between your Indian nations and the Federal government of the United States! How do you plead?”

Three Feathers seemed to stiffen, and stand fully upright as he addressed the crowd below him. “Three Feathers has done these things. As long as the white man refuses to honor a promise, Three Feathers will do these things forever. You can not kill Three Feathers with hanging rope. The spirit of Three Feathers will return with the coyote’s cry, and you will know justice only then.”

“We’ll see how well you hold up against hangin’ rope, Indian.”

Prentice retorted, to the crowd’s cheers for vengeance. He finally turned his attention to the last man on the gallows. “You! What’s your name?”

A hanging head tilted up to regard the crowd and the judge from beneath its wide-brimmed hat. As the face beneath the hat met the eyes in the crowd, it elicited gasps.

“Its him!”

“Scourge of the Gila River!”

“It’s Henry Blalock!”

“He’s killed fourteen men!”

“I counted forty!”

“He killed my baby!”

“Mine too!”

“Damn you, Henry Blalock! You’ll burn for this!”

The eyes that fell on the crowd cowed their rage into silence. They were black and depthless, like bullet holes shot straight through the man’s brain to burn away his conscience. His face was hard and decorated with the trophies of a killer’s trade. Scars adorned his face like craters on the moon, and amid the jungle of his unkempt five o’clock shadow rested a perpetual hateful scowl.
He lingered his hateful eyes on the crowd a moment longer, as if daring them to speak ill of him, lest he shoot them dead with a glance. His dark orbs then slowly traced along the throng of townsfolk until they arrived at Judge Prentice.

“I think you know my name.” He spoke in a gravelly voice, forever in want of redemption or water. The Sunday morning desert air seemed to attract an unearthly chill.

The judge seemed to almost hesitate in the midst of eyes as fiery as his own. He regained his train of thought quickly enough, however “Henry Blalock, what crime can I name that you shouldn’t now confess to? You were born on a black day, and every step you’ve walked across God’s creation has desecrated it. Your name is synonymous with murder, and your life’s story is written on tombstones. Is there anything you could possibly say now to assuage the horror your life has afflicted upon the world, before I send you to Hell as the Devil’s own?”

A silence followed, punctuated by a screaming crow perched on a distant rooftop. Blalock leaned forward, and spat a mouthful of tobacco across the white pine gallows, staining them dark. He kept his eyes on the judge, and a moment later, gave his statement.

“I did it all. I ain’t sorry for a bit of it. I reckon if you don’t kill me today, I’ll keep on fillin’ up caskets. Maybe one of em will be yours, judge.”

“You’ll be in Hell before high noon, Henry Blalock!” Prentice stormed angrily.

“I don’t think the Devil wants me in his house.” Blalock replied in his eerie rasp, “I reckon I’ve knocked enough on the door to be let in by now.”

“Hang him!” The crowd screamed. “Hang ‘em all!”

“Murderers!”

“Killers, the lot of you!”

The crowd’s fury reached pandemic proportions, and the roar around the gallows grew. Prentice allowed them to work their vexations out for a moment, and then cowed them.

“That’ll be enough!” The crowd died down, and the judge spoke again, this time to the condemned. “You four unrepentant souls have admitted your crimes. You damned murderers won’t even ask forgiveness on the gallows, so I am left with no recourse. You will all hang from the neck until you are pronounced dead. May God have mercy on your souls.”

“May God have mercy on YOUR soul, judge!” A voice rose above the din, at the back of the crowd. The mob collectively turned their attention to the rear, as did Judge Prentice.

Father Miguel Pacheros approached the gallows, livid as a lightning strike across a midnight sky. A morning wind cut through the town, flapping at the priest’s black garb. His dark silhouette cut a sharp contrast across the sun-baked sand. He spread his arms wide, so the contents of his hands could be clearly seen by all. In his right hand, he carried the good book, the Holy Bible.

In his left, he carried a gun.

[AmazonBabe]

I like it! It's got my attention!

Only things that kinda bugged me, and these things are really really minor:


At this, the crowd outright cheered. Prentice allowed them to die down, and continued again.

“That’ll be enough!” The crowd died down, and the judge spoke again, this time to the condemned.

"Prentice allowed them to die down" sounds kinda weird to me. I guess I expected it to say "Prentice allowed the cheers to die down". The other way sounds (at least to me) like the crowd itself died (or something tot hat effect).

Same thing goes for the second quote: "The crowd died down". Again I expected to see "The jeers/cheers/angry words died down". The other way it again sounds (to me) like the crowd has died.


Aside from those two minor details, I really love the story so far. I wanna read Chapter 2! :)

[Dan the Man]

Ok, changed the wording on that.

[AmazonBabe]

I'm assuming you changed it on the original draft, cause I didn't see any changes in the post?

[Dan the Man]

Yeah, I'm updating my .doc file only, since editing posts is a pain :)

[Je'gan Olra'en]

I have never been a fan of westerns and such, but I have to say that I liked this. Nice job. Professional quality.

[Dan the Man]

Thanks man. That means a lot to me.

I've really never written anything in the genre, and I've been worried about how authentic it would come out as. I've been trying to find inspiration from a lot of different sources, so I could give it the proper feel of a spaghetti western crossed with a religious epic.

[Lilaena De'Ville]

Killers and thieves circled them all like hyenas. I'd exchange hyenas for something American and western, rather than African. Coyotes perhaps? Just a thought. I haven't had a chance to read more than the first paragraph or so. :)

[Jared Mriad]

Originally posted by Lilaena De'Ville
I'd exchange hyenas for something American and western, rather than African. Coyotes perhaps? Just a thought. I haven't had a chance to read more than the first paragraph or so. :)

Or vultures, but she has a good point.

Looks like a fine read to me, Charley. I'm not much into the law biting west, but this has my interests already.

[AmazonBabe]

I'd go for vultures. The words "circle" and "vulture' seem to go better hand-in-hand than "circle" and "coyote".

Just my two cents. :)

[Dan the Man]

I used wolves.

Vultures scavange the dead and dying. Wolves attack the living.

[March Kalas]

looks like an interesting story man.

If you want it to seem more authentic, I just recently drove through New Mexico on my way to California and back. If you've never seen it before, here's what it's like. Ugly shrubland most of the way, plenty of rocky baron mountians, and more rocky, baron, ugly, cursed desert. Of course, then there is the nice area in the Midwest (beggining at flagstaff and going for about 50-100 miles, can't remember exactly) covered with pine forest and huge, beautiful mountians. Most of New Mexico is pretty ugly to me, but it's still not as ugly and baron as South California (the Mohabi Desert). If you've already seen New Mexico, then forget everything I've said, but otherwise, hope I helped you.

[Dan the Man]

My mom's sent me plenty of pictures from out there, so I'm pretty up to speed on the scenery. Lots of earth tones ;)

[Lilaena De'Ville]

Well now I've read it all, and I like it. :)

[March Kalas]

I'm terribly sorry. I confused New Mexico with Arizona. Sorry if I mislead you. New Mexico does look a lot better than most of Arizona (the mountains actually have shrubs), but still isn't much better. It really does look like a good place for a western. I remember my borther saying every now and then, "that looks like a good place for a shootout." Anyway, looks like an interesting story. How are you planning on publishing it?

[Dan the Man]

If I do end up publishing, it'll more than likely be a matter of going through a vanity press, I think.