By Michael Seese
Friends, as we speak, The Secret World Of Gustave Eiffel is sitting in the queue of my local printer. His initial estimate was one week. So by this time next week, I might be able to report that it's boxed and on its way to Paris for the American Library In Paris Book Award contest.
Let's recap:
1/8: I learned of the contest.
1/12: I wrote the first words.
3/12: I finished the first draft (with acknowledged gaping holes) at 57,323.
5/10: I finished the final draft, sent it to the proofreader, and began designing the cover.
5/17: REALLY complete at 79,600 words.
By the way, here is the cover.
I don't think I want to try doing this -- writing and publishing a novel in 5 months -- EVER again.
Wish me luck!
Aimez-vous Paris? Click to tweet.
By Michael Seese
"Well, duh!" you're saying.
OK, some days, it frustrates the h3ll out of me. And then...
When I last mentioned my current WIP, The Secret World Of Gustave Eiffel, I was working through the second revision. It's a much slower go, since I now need to get the right words--rather than any words--down on the page.
My daily word counts from the past few weeks bear this out.
3/19/13 248
3/20/13 471
3/21/13 85
3/22/13 422
3/23/13 0
3/24/13 191
3/25/13 0
3/26/13 647
3/27/13 705
3/28/13 397
3/29/13 1,275
3/30/13 398
3/31/13 160
Bear in mind, I've also been working on my taxes.
In real life, before the Eiffel Tower, Gustave Eiffel designed the railway terminal at Budapest. He is a pic.
According to the Wikipedia article (on Eiffel), one of the things that made it unique was the fact that you could see the "skeleton" through the glass walls.
An Eiffel structure with the iron visible...hmmm, where else do we see that?
The Budapest chapter was one that, on the first pass, had been really scant on the details. I had literally two or three paragraphs. So, during my revision effort, I got to this part and thought, What to write, what to write.
Then it hit me.
Between Vienna and Budapest (more or less) is Prague. (A wonderful city, by the way.) When my wife and I visited Prague a dozen years ago, an attraction we had considered visiting, but did not, is the the Kostnice v Sedlci, located beneath the Cemetery Church of All Saints. You may have heard of it as the "bone church."
Per Wikipedia (again):
The ossuary is estimated to contain the skeletons of between 40,000 and 70,000 people, whose bones have in many cases been artistically arranged to form decorations and furnishings for the chapel.
Bones...skeleton...structure...
Suddenly, I had this whole side story where the train to Budapest breaks down near Brno (south of Prague, about 55 km from the church), and Eiffel meets a stranger who offers to show him the ossuary, thereby providing the inspiration for both the Budapest station and the Eiffel Tower. (I also got to throw in some history as to why the noon bells in Brno chime at 11:00.)
Bingo!
Here is a little snippet.
“So you were going to tell me of your people, your history,” Eiffel opened.
“There is so much to say,” Rint said, “I hope four hours provides enough time.”
Eiffel soon learned that to say much of the history of the region revolved around repelling hostile armies would be a gross understatement.
Brno withstood two sieges by the Kališníci, the “Chalice People,” whose 15th century crusade later came be to called the Hussite Wars. Two hundred years later the city survived the aforementioned Swedish attack. In 1742, the Prussian army of Frederick the Great failed in its attempt at conquest.
“Such was our reputation as a city of staunch defenders, that your Napoleon Bonaparte chose to leave us alone after he marched into Austerlitz.”
“Fascinating!”
“And understand, the tales I tell of Brno represent a small sample of the adversity our entire region has had to face. Though this may be exaggeration, it seems as though as battle raged somewhere, always, within the Kingdom of Bohemia.”
“Believe it or not, my friend, I could say the same for France.”
“War!” Rint said, literally spitting to one side. The poets and minstrels strive to make war glorious. Even beautiful. War is neither. Let me tell you about war.”
Rint’s war stories were not like those of Alexandre Eiffel. They did not tell of heroics, nor make war sound romantic. They sung of struggles, sacrifices, and suffering, so much so that that Eiffel breathed a sigh of relief when Rint announced, “We are here.”
The outside, Eiffel thought, is nothing spectacular. Not even out of the ordinary. Smooth granite block walls. Gothic arch windows. Three spires, topped with iron hexagonal cupolas. It could be any church, anywhere.
“Shall we go in?” Rint asked.
“Certainly.”
Inside, Eiffel’s opinion changed the moment he looked up. The first feature which caught his eye was the chandelier. Spanning perhaps eight feet, it faintly glowed a pale, dull white, as it appeared to be carved from ivory or...
In that instant, his adjectival catalog inverted. Spectacular became spectral. Ordinary, otherworldly. Had his initial assessment included mediocre, he might now have thought macabre.
“What...what is this?” he asked.
“The locals call it ‘The Bone Church.’ I imagine you ascertain why.”
Everywhere Eiffel looked, he saw bones. Human bones. Thousands of human bones.
Feel free to share an opinion.
By Michael Seese
Considering the weekend Castle marathon (with the subsequent reviews posted here), it's amazing I managed to get any writing done on "Eiffel." But I did, surpassing 40,000 yesterday.
2/13/13 32,461
2/14/13 34,570
2/15/13 35,296
2/16/13 36,140
2/17/13 37,288
2/18/13 39,456
2/19/13 40,539
2/20/13 40,784
Monday (2/18), as you can see, was an outstanding day, despite the fact that:
1. I forgot my glasses. You should have seen me in the dimly lit coffeeshop, writing at arm's length, and
2. When I fired up my laptop in the aforementioned coffeeshop, my PC spit out an error message about not being able to start Windows, and then spent the longest 10 minutes of my life "repairing." But it seems to be fine now.
Yes, Monday was just one of those days when the words flowed. All told, I wrote 2,168. But to underscore just how in tune I was, I had completed just short of 1,000 by 11:00, and thought I would take a break. But then I thought, "Ooh! One more thing." Fifteen minutes later, I had another 415 words.
I feel I'm entering a little bit of rough patch right now. Plot-wise, the Tower is under way, and I haven't as yet decided how to keep driving the action. (I recognize the previous statement probably makes minimal sense to you; but I know what I'm talking about.) But I will press on, and hope that I find the words.
More often than not, I do. And tonight is a treadmill night; walking is usually good for 500 or so.
Onward, onward...
By Michael Seese
When I last wrote about The Secret World Of Gustave Eiffel, I was on the verge of 20,000 words. I said in that post that I hoped to "ramp it up" this past week. Well...
2/3/13 19,573
2/4/13 21,012
2/5/13 22,789
2/6/13 24,815
2/7/13 26,193
2/8/13 27,405
2/9/13 28,114
2/10/13 28,507
2/11/13 30,177
2/12/13 30,884
I'm especially proud of the days on which I "skipped a 4th digit," if you will. For example, on February 4, I went from 19K to 21K.
February 6 also was a good day. I had prepared to shut down for the night. But when I saw that my word count was 24,768 -- or 1,979 for the day -- I just had to press on to reach 2,000. (2,026 to be exact.)
My ultimate goal is 80,000 words. But my plan is to get from where I am now to the end, and total perhaps 60,000. Then, I can go back and fill in the blanks, especially at the beginning, which is very sparse. So while I still can't claim (even to myself) that I'm "there," I am "getting there."
I'd like to offer another snippet.
Let me state, probably again, that I like writing
dialogue. I really enjoy writing it. On the days I'm writing a lot
of dialogue, I have humongous word counts. It just flows. Whether it's
any good... I suppose that is for you, the readers (and ultimately the
New York Times reviewer) to decide.
Here is the set up. An important plot element centers around the decision to choose Eiffel's design as the centerpiece of the 1889 World's Fair. The chapters which lead up to this section explain that it was a rigged contest; Eiffel was going to be selected. Per Wikipedia, it was contrived in reality, too. But Eiffel was a bridge builder. Therefore, the architectural community launched a subtle (and not-so-subtle) campaign against him.
Simply pondering the scope and scale of the work which lay ahead caused his head to hurt. Eiffel rubbed his temples in an effort to silence the throbbing. When it grew in intensity and frequency, he realized that the pounding came from without, rather than within. Someone was at the door.
As soon as he opened it, he wished he had not.
“Gustave! How good to see you,” Jules Bourdais said through his sneer. Bourdais always addressed people by their first names as a form of condescension.
“Monsieur Bourdais, to what do I owe this unexpected pleasure?”
“Gustave, does one need a reason to visit an old friend?”
Bourdais emphasized the word “old.” Eiffel certainly did not consider him to be a friend. He nonetheless maintained his cordiality.
“Of course not, Monsieur Bourdais. Please do come in. Allow me a moment to straighten up."
Eiffel hurried back to his table, and hid the drafts of the Tower beneath another sheet of paper which featured several half-finished doodles, and served expressly as a decoy. When Eiffel looked up, he saw that Bourdais had shown himself in.
“What are you working on, Gustave?” he asked, coming around to Eiffel’s side.
“Nothing out of the ordinary. As you can see, just a bridge. Bridges are what I do best, after all.”
“Would this be the bridge for Breslau?” Bourdais asked, raising an eyebrow.
Eiffel tried to hide his astonishment.
“Breslau? What do you mean?”
“Nothing. So you are not preparing an entry for the Exposition?”
“Why do you ask?” Eiffel couched the question in faux-sincere innocence. In reality, he desperately wished to know the real purpose behind Bourdais’s visit.
“Even though you are an engineer, Gustave, perhaps you have had conversations with some of my colleagues in the Société Française des Architectes. Securing the commission for the the gateway of the Exposition would be a great honor for any of us. For you, I would imagine, the crowning achievement of a lifetime. So I just assumed that you would be preparing a proposal. Even though you build bridges.”
Eiffel noted that Bourdais overemphasized the last word, even more so the second time than the first.
“Oh, I am,” Eiffel said, casually. He knew that Bourdais was baiting him. But he could not resist playing the game a little.
“Oh?” said Bourdais as he scanned the table.
“Oui. As of now, I have just a few rough sketches. Nothing even remotely worth mentioning. The competition is not to be formally announced until 1 October, is it not?” Eiffel, it goes without saying, knew by heart the correct date.
“No, Gustave, it is 3 October.”
“But of course.”
“So you have not committed much to paper?”
“No. You?”
“I am nearly complete,” he boasted.
Eiffel knew Bourdais, or at least his reputation for vanity, very well. He knew that the proper mixture of prodding and ego-stroking would loosen his tongue.
“I am certain that yours will prove a magnificent fabrication. I must confess, Monsieur Bourdais, that whenever I stroll down the Pont d' Iéna, and pass the Palais du Trocadéro, I am compelled to linger for several minutes so that I may drink it in, and admire its bold Byzantine flavor."
Eiffel knew full well that “byzantine” could also be interpreted as “devious” or “surreptitious.”
“You, then, are in concordance with most of Paris. And whenever I travel by train and cross one of your bridges, I think, ‘This bridge was built by Monsieur Eiffel. I can rest secure in the knowledge that, most likely, it will not collapse.’ ”
“You are too kind, Monsieur Bourdais. So your proposal for the Exposition...will it be modern, or adhere to the classical schools of thought?”
If I have not said so lately, I learned of Jules Bourdais through my "encyclopedia," also known as Eiffel's Tower, by Jill Jonnes. For that matter, many of the characters which I am building worlds around are those real-world personalities who populated Paris at the time, and who come to life on her pages.
I am so going to have to send her a copy when it's done. (Positive thinking.)
By Michael Seese
Five figures...
Blog followers? That would be nice.
Advance on royalties? That would be REALLY nice.
No, I'm pleased to say that after just a little over a week of writing, my new novel-in-progress has reached the 10,000-word mark. Here is the official day-by-day tally.
1/12 627
1/13 849
1/14 2,126
1/15 3,805
1/16 5,433
1/17 6,457
1/18 7,117
1/19 7,374
1/20 7,671
1/21 8,339
1/22 9,201
1/23 10,252
Though I have said in the past that I tend to concern myself too much with word count, in this case, I'm a deadline. So it does matter.
I now feel as though I can share the title. It's "The Secret Life Of Gustave Eiffel." Below is another snippet.
He had just settled back into one of the plush leather chairs with a cigar and a snifter of Brandy de Jerez when he heard a minor commotion near the door. Rising from his comfortable position, he saw that the excitement stemmed from the arrival of the American humorist Mark Twain. Though Eiffel had never read any of Twain’s three (or was it four?) novels, he had heard that the Missourian was an excellent conversationalist, one possessed of a sharp mind and a sharper tongue. Reasoning that it would behoove him to secure Twain as an ally—lest his world-renowned vitriol join the already maddening chorus of critics—he followed Twain to the bar and said, “Marcel, I would like the pleasure of buying Monsieur Twain’s drink, if he will accept it, that is.”
Turning to face Eiffel, an impish smile erupted from beneath Twain’s famously bushy mustache. “Actually, I stopped in to inquire about purchasing this entire establishment. So, as long as you’re buying...” Seeing a flash of fear trace across Eiffel’s face, Twain quickly added, “Forgive me, Monsieur. I am told that my sense of humor is an acquired taste. Merci. I gratefully accept your kind offer, Monsieur...”
“Eiffel. Gustave Eiffel.”
“Ah, the man behind the Statue Of Liberty. Or should I say ‘underneath?’ It is a great honor to make your acquaintance, sir.”
A second drink arrived, and Eiffel motioned toward his chair near the fireplace.
The men sat down. Twain took a deep breath of the oakey scent, and said, “Magnificent! Now all that I require is a fine—”
Eiffel produced from a pocket his leather cigar case, and offered one.
“Monsieur Eiffel, I must say I have found that everything we Americans hear about the French—your grace, your civility, and your timing—is absolutely true. Thank you,” he said, likewise accepting a light from the match held in Eiffel’s outstretched hand. After a few puffs, he said, “At times like these, good sir, I am convinced that the almighty created man, alcohol, tobacco, and woman...in that order.”
Eiffel chuckled at the bon mot. Clearly, Twain’s reputation did not exceed him.
“I would suggest the addition of ‘humor’ in the fourth position, Monsieur Twain.”
“Touché! Very well played, sir.”
They took simultaneous sips of the fragrant alcohol.
“So, what brings you to Paris, Monsieur Twain?”
I feel that I've made some good progress, though this past weekend, I found my faith a bit shaken. I had come up with the basics -- though they needed fleshing out -- leading up to the "defining moment" in the book. But I only had 7,000 words leading up and including the "defining moment," and very little idea of what would come next.
And then from my library came a book I had ordered: Eiffel's Tower by Jill Jonnes. I'm basically scanning it, but the book has proven to be a veritable encyclopedia that details the events surrounding the building of the Tower which, as you might have guessed, is the aforementioned "defining moment." In short, it is chock full of the personalities, other than Gustave Eiffel, who were swirling around Paris at the time. (Ergo, the Mark Twain passage.) It's given me new life.
I so will have to acknowledge Ms. Jonnes in the foreword, and send her a copy when the book is published.
Let us see what the coming week brings...
