The Unlikely Planner - Guest Post by 'The Undying Love' Author Greg McCabe

Guest Post:

Are you a planner or a pantser?

            This question, or a variation of this question, is probably as old as fiction writing itself. Do you plan out your stories or do you write them by the seat of your pants?

            If you asked ten of my closest friends and family members if they thought I was a planner or pantser, I’d bet that just about all of them would guess that I was a pantser. It just seems to fit my personality. I often live life by the seat of my pants. I love unexpected adventures and hate firm itineraries on vacations. So it just seems natural that I’d fly by the seat of my pants when writing.

            However, when it comes to the novel creation process, and writing in general, I’m a die-hard planner. I know it doesn’t sound like a very creative-writer-literary-thing to say, but I plot out my entire story and the majority of my characters before I even sit down at a computer.

            I was shocked myself when I discovered this about my writing process. In fact, years ago, when I first decided to write a novel, I sat down and tried crank out a book by the seat of my pants. I had a title and a rough idea of the story and that’s about it. I didn’t have characters or locations or twists or any details for that matter, I just sat down and started typing. It was disastrous. I must have stared at a blank computer screen for an hour before I was able to type three or four sentences, and those sentences were so awful I deleted them from existence for all of eternity. I was terribly dejected by the entire experience and figured my writing career to be over for good.

            A couple years later, I found inspiration in zombies, then read some articles online about planning out a novel and found one that made the most sense to me. Then I jumped in and began creating my debut novel, The Undying Love. It took almost three years to complete, but I did it. Yep, I wrote a book. Then I went out and even got it published. I consider the entire project to be one of the most rewarding experiences of my life, and I couldn’t have done it without planning.

            My planning process looks a little like this: I start out by handwriting pages of notes about the book including a short summary, a long detailed summary, detailed character descriptions, and even sketches of what’s forming in my head. I then write out each scene with a quick one sentence description in an excel spreadsheet (the spreadsheet just makes it all easier to manipulate). These scenes then become the chapters of my book. As a write the first draft, I’m constantly going back and tweaking the spreadsheet and my notes. My notes serve a constant source of reference as I’m writing out each scene.

            Yes, without planning, I’d never have achieved my dream of becoming a published author and I’d probably still be looking at a blank computer screen. I still remember the name of the book that I started years earlier and never finished. It was going to be titled Running the Streets. One day I’m going to go back to that idea and write that book, but this time I’m going to have a plan!

* * * 

The Undying Love by Greg McCabe

Synopsis:

For Diane and Jackson, life is just about perfect. They’re healthy, happy, and madly in love with one another. Unknown to them, a virus is sweeping across the globe that instantly kills the infected and turns their corpses into mindless, murdering cannibals. In short: zombies have taken over the planet.

Diane and Jackson find out about the epidemic the hard way when their wedding is crashed by friends and family who have succumbed to the virus. Now, fighting for survival, they're faced with unthinkable decisions.

Follow their story across Southeast Texas as they meet unforgettable characters and face challenges that will put their love, and lives to the ultimate test.

Purchase Links:

Amazon: US, UK, Canada, Germany, France, Italy, Spain, Japan, Brazil, India, Mexico

CreateSpace

Smashwords

About the Author:

Greg McCabe is a proud Texan. He was born and raised in Midland, Texas, received a degree in Speech Communication from Texas A&M University, and currently resides in the Lone Star State. He enjoys spending time with his wife, Mandy, his daughter, Annabelle, and his dog, Walter, as well as traveling, sports, movies, reading, and writing. He enjoys all genres of fiction, but seems to gravitate towards horror and science fiction. The Undying Love is Greg’s first book.

Journal of Rosa and Bella - A Post Apocalyptic Life - Part 2

August - September 2012

Me and Bella - just us two left in this dying world; ever silent, beautiful, baby Bella - staring at me all the time – accusingly. She was sent to drive me mad, I tell you. There is never any input from her sky blue eyes. Though the sky blue of which I speak is not the sky of today, her gaze is more dirty, pond water, blue these days. Her toothless grin never points at me, anymore. Though, she only had a couple of teeth to lose, at her age. Mine have mostly gone now, too. No man will ever fall for this dried up walking corpse, but I still apply pink lipstick.

There may also be others, I remind myself; other scavengers like me, but invisible to me, hiding somewhere. They wouldn’t want me in their gang though – it’s like school all over again. Ah school – I so loathed it, but I'd go back to it in a heart-beat.

Perhaps everyone melted away. I know we liquefy – I see it all over the place. I see myself dissolve like a Madame Tussaud's wax statue, under a UV lamp. I smell it too, the rotting flesh all over the world – the ubiquitous and now, familiar stench. I don’t scratch it off, it falls off when I undress, or bathe. So, I don’t do those activities anymore.

At least the pain is less evident, where the first few layers of skin have gone. That’s a blessed relief for us both.

Yes, there is almost certainly, no one else left.

What was I saying? My memory!

Oh yes: Itching! God, that’s the worst; all day and night. I itch almost to the point of numbness. Bella is very good and so much better than I - at coping. She has a secret. She used to cry often - like babies do, but for weeks now (or is it longer – time is difficult to hold onto, now) she barely makes a sound. And she never, ever scratches? I don’t even know if she itches like I do, but if she does, she has learned to block it out.

My clever girl, with her secrets.

September or October 2012

I found a gun. And one bullet.

The question now – at least for me – is whether to abandon Bella to her own devises when I taste the sweet nectar of the bullet, or to kill her too. It’s for the best. It’s a no-win situation; either way I do wrong – I know that. I could smother her – or drown her – or break her tiny neck. But could I? How do you actually kill your own child?

But is leaving her survival to chance alone, a much more disturbing cruelty? God knows? Ah, God - he has forsaken us.

I’d love to talk to Bella again – to hear her little mumbles. She’s so silent, so private.

She is quite slow when it comes to speech. She was beginning to say the odd word before the world went mad – before the bombs. But, over the last eight or nine months, she just stopped. I don't recall the day it happened - it just did.

She just sits around in her pram all day. I put her to bed every night and put her in her pram every day, and she’s happy as Larry (who ever Larry is, I doubt he’s really happy anymore). Bella never complains, even with all this misery around her. I was lucky to have her, I know. Some babies are a pain.

She’s changed so much. Her blue eyes – how they used to sparkle – no more. Her blonde curls have fallen to the floor; her pink skin has grown ashen - peeling off like gift wrap tissue. Sometimes I even imagine she is dead, but I ignore such thoughts. They’re just the craziness sent to haunt me. I wouldn’t allow her to die after all – I’m a good Mom. Its craziness.

Where was I? Yes - I’m decided then, just because I am crazy and hopeless, just because I see only years of pain and loneliness ahead of us, it doesn’t mean my tiny three year old daughter feels the same way – she must live on - alone if needs be. She’s adapted so much better than I had. They say the young do though, don’t they?

Plus, I only have one bullet.

I’ve tried to talk to her about it, but she’s no great conversationalist. I rarely get her attention these days. She barely even blinks at me, she certainly doesn't want to make life and death decisions.

But I have to. I’m only twenty one, myself. She should share in this decision, surely?

Poor Bella, you will not attend school, work towards a career, travel to far off lands, or marry a Truelove. Neither will I. Hell, it’s doubtful she’ll even reproduce as the fall out is ultimately going to affect fertility – isn’t it? I’ve not had a period since...?

November I think – 2012.

The bullet – The gun.

Her eyes are blank. They don’t see me anymore. I can’t put her down to sleep – I can’t lay her down. It’s all so final then.

Wake up - Dearest Bella.

November or December 2012

To whoever reads this, to whomever finds me and my sweet Bella, please be kind to us – we’d love a shared grave.

And good luck to you, in this awful place we leave behind.

shah wharton (c) 2010

Journal of Rosa and Bella - A Post Apocalyptic Life - Part 1

I have to take a moment to thank Cathy Stucker and BloggerLinkUp. BLU has been responsible for linking me up with my incredible guest bloggers Shaman Elder Maggie, Kate George and Danica Davidson this month. Today I'm lucky to have a tale contributed by poet/short story writer Shah Wharton. She's originally from the West Midlands, UK, and now lives in Dubai.

Journal of Rosa and Bella - A Post Apocalyptic Life - A Short Story by Shah Wharton

21st June 2012

I never knew how precious life was until six months ago, today. The Americans, the Iranians, the British – and then the world, all went mad. We were dying you see. Along with the planet. But no one wanted to stop it. Instead this.

The scientists had said it for years, and the Mayans forecast it correctly, to the day – The end of the world as we know it. There was a song too, I believe?

In times gone by, I would pray for a lotto win, or for a job offer, or a great exam result. More than once - I’m ashamed to say, I wasted prayer-time on winning the reverence of this or that man; “Please Lord, let him call me.” Lately, I look out to the ruddy sky line and pray for the living to stop fighting and reunite; not solely for us, you understand – but for all mankind who are left to walk around our fried planet. I doubt there are many.

How did it get to this – Jesus, what a nightmare? It’s so damn stupid. I sit here wondering why I used my vote on such a mad man. He took us to war and then to a full scale nuclear holocaust. My baby will inherit nothing but cancer and solitude.

28th June 2012

I believe there have to be others. Before long, madness would be the only alternative companion; well, apart from baby, Bella.

Indeed, since the wars and the bombs and Earth’s revolt; along with losing my family, friends, neighbours, weight and hair, I’ve also begun to lose my marbles, it seems. I talk to myself all the time now; though I think I did that a little before dooms-day. But now I see colours which dance on my breath, and nightmares pop up like hallucinations during wakefulness. This could be the pollution, the radiation - of course. However, at least twice I thought I saw people, who turned out to be a bin or a tree, and I have begun to feel increasingly suicidal.

I push such thoughts away – obviously. I kiss my Bella, holding her tight beneath the great big ruddy/blue sky. It’s beautifully odd.

We wait. We wait for survivors to find and liberate us from the fearful confines of our house.

July 10th 2012

I do realise that being suicidal might appear to be a contradiction, after reading my original statement about life appreciation, but not so. I do love life. Life itself isn’t the problem. I loved the life I had before the planetary demise, which I mournfully took for granted: The mom who would understandably lament each man I brought home; the dad who barely noticed me around his dinner table, yet felt such disappointment at my illegitimate pregnancy; and the menial job I originally took to pay off student debts, whilst awaiting a more worthy career opportunity. I remained there for over three years. I had Bella to look after.

Yes – I miss my old unappreciated life. I miss my old unappreciated family and friends.

Now life is too close to death. And therein lies the temptation. In fact, death and dust and radiation are all there is.

There were many looters in the mayhem of the aftermath. No doubt many of them have died since. Others must have moved away, leaving us behind. I should have trusted mankind a little more back then. We could have been with other people now, if I had. Instead, I took my Bella and hid - like a coward. I haven’t seen a single soul in over two months now, and the food supplies are running out fast. A stray Collie looked appetising yesterday. Would I eat it – probably not? I certainly couldn’t bring myself to feed it to Bella. I’d fear it might be infected – if it killed me, so be it. But not her. I doubt we’d be able to chew it anyway. Soft gums?

Bella has rice, mostly, though she left most of it again today. She has a shrinking appetite and bored taste buds.

August 2nd 2012

I thought I saw a policeman chatting with Bella on Wednesday. I put her outside in the garden, whilst I read a book I’d found on next doors, bedside table: ‘Great Expectations,’ no less! I rushed over to her, to save her or to meet a friendly man – whichever it would turn out to be. She’d laughed at something he said, and I wanted to hear the joke too. Instead of sharing, she hid him from me. When I challenged her about it, she said nothing and her expression gave little away. Poker-face. I hate that. I took her indoors immediately. She will earn her next treat. Bad Bella.

August 19th 2012

Suicidal ideas go round my head on a loop now. I spend hours away from home walking and talking things over with myself. I can't trust Bella. I tried to find food in the few shops still standing, which are filled with rotting corpses and little else. I got more rice.

I considered that if the normal social order was restored today, I might be sectioned and swiftly diagnosed with a multitude of disorders, and diseases. “She is a clear danger to herself, and society!”

There is no one to secure me. Poor Bella has only me – her crazy mother. Why should that have made me laugh? It did.

To be continued...