The Planck Factor

“I know, I know. I’ve been working on it slowly over time. Almost done, actually. I’m just going over it again to make sure it doesn’t completely stink.”

“Well, okay.” She delivered a probing gaze. “Just don’t let it interfere with your real work here.”

“I won’t,” I said. “Promise.”

“Uh huh,” she replied. She pointed two fingers toward her eyes, then at me. “Don’t forget.”

She picked up the manuscript again. “Who knows? With some real effort, you might even prove your original point.” She scanned the pages.

That was as close to a concession as I would ever get from Shelley.

“This almost reads like a movie script,” she added. “All high concept and big action and suspense. Not that it’s bad. But if you can make it more than just that, you could make it amazing.”

Later, I drove home after a long day at the library, followed by a shift at the bookstore. It was almost nine. I was beat and starved. Lunch had been a cup of yogurt and a banana. More like an appetizer than a meal. As I’d shelved books, my thoughts had been so consumed with the story, half the customers who asked me questions were treated to a dazed look and the cogent response, “Huh?”

Show, don’t tell. Weave in backstory. Truisms, guides, rules, pointers—call them what you will. It was the kind of stuff writers heard all the time. Yet, somehow, writers were always bending these rules just a bit. Bending them to serve their own purpose. Inserting huge chunks of backstory so colorful you didn’t mind reading it—even though conventional wisdom said to do

so would slow the narrative. And adverbs. Never use an adverb. Oh, really? Well, I wish I had a dime for every adverb I’d read, even in the best-written books. Never say never.

After parking in front of my building, I grabbed my shoulder bag and knapsack and hiked the stairs to my condo. Despite my skimpy lunch, I cringed at the thought of making dinner. Maybe I’d scramble a couple of eggs. Order take-out Thai.

I was starved but too tired to even think of what to eat and whether to make it myself or leave the cooking to someone else.

I tossed my shoulder bag onto the couch and the manuscript onto a pile of waste paper. I used the blank sides to print drafts: waste not, want not—and I couldn’t afford to waste anything. Take-out would be nice, but expensive. The scrambled eggs were sounding better all the time. I figured I’d do some writing, then decide.

I sat at my desk and turned on the computer. Simply watching it boot up gave me a vague feeling of dread. Opening the word processing program would only increase my anxiety. Here we go again, I thought. How many times do I have to review this? How many iterations of the same thing must I churn out before it’s perfect? As perfect as I’ll ever get it, anyway.

I took a deep breath and began to work.

Alexis

Alexis arrived home and hauled her laptop and files up to her apartment. She was just putting the key in the lock when she thought she heard someone whisper her name.

The whisper came from the darkened landing above her, making her whirl with such force she almost dropped everything. She peered into the gloom but saw nothing. Eugene, Oregon, was a small and relatively safe town, but no place was completely safe, was it?

Her hand trembling, she quickly turned the deadbolt and reinserted the key to turn the knob.

“Alexis.”

She yipped in fear. This time, there was no mistaking it. Someone was up there.

As she turned the key and hurled herself against the door to get in, the voice said, louder and closer now, “Alexis, it’s just me. It’s Swede.”

Alexis gaped at the tall figure looming above her on the stairs. “Jesus Christ,” she said. “What the hell are you doing, Swede? You scared the shit out of me.”

Swede drew close and said, “Let me in. Quick. We need to talk.”

Alexis backed inside, and the tall, dark-haired man followed. He closed the door, turning and leaning against it, as if someone were on the other side threatening to break it down. Swede was breathing hard, his eyes closed.

How Alan Sweetser got a nickname like Swede was anyone’s guess. He might be many things, Alexis thought, but Swedish wasn’t one of them.

“What in God’s name are you doing here?” She got a good look at him and her voice softened a bit. “What’s wrong? Jeez, you look like hell.”

Swede brushed curly, dark locks back from a pale forehead shining with perspiration. He took a shuddering breath, opened his eyes--a startling lucid green--and said, “Someone followed you here. They . . . I think they’re after something. It may relate to Daniel’s research. Our research, that is.”

Alexis, who’d been gaping in astonishment, laughed--a sound as harsh as ripping fabric.

“What the hell would I know about your research?” she said, making it sound like an accusation. Poking a finger into Swede’s chest, she hissed, “You two were thick as fucking thieves about what you were doing. Daniel never discussed your precious research with me. Would’ve thought you guys worked for the CIA, from what little either of you told me about it. And you, of all people, know that goddamned good and well!” Her voice had climbed to a wail by the time she reached the end of her speech. A fleeting memory of Daniel’s face brought grief bubbling to the surface of her consciousness. First one tear, then several others. The next thing Alexis knew, she was sobbing, over all the wasted time, the meaningless arguments, the wedge that research had driven between Daniel and her.