I found a whole series of notes I made before – sometimes years before — writing Shimmer. I don’t remember writing any of these notes. Which isn’t necessarily surprising – I’ve re-read any of things I’ve written and there are sometimes pages and pages I don’t remember writing.
These were notes I was taking while working on another manuscript, Powdered Milk. I usually do that — take an increasing amount of notes on the next project while finishing the current project. It keeps me from panicking about finishing the current project. And it my mind in two places.
A very tall building. Maybe an insurance company. With lots and lots of file cabinets. (And one day we have to open them up.)
Somebody using computer boxes to make a fort entrance to their cubicle
As a kid I had dreams (or, I’d started having dreams where I could fly. I didn’t launch myself off of buildings, though. Didn’t take firm Superman steps that catapulted me up into the air. Instead I only brought my right leg up to my chest, in a moment lifted the left, my tightly curled body hovering a few feet off the ground.
The Vice President of Sales is reluctantly telling me that Kenny G. is, really, not very good.
So much of my life is conducted from the sitting position.
“We’d entered a period of half-finished projects.”
“I’m looking forward to this movie. I think it’s going to be sordid.”
Lying. It is definitely about lying.
And, probably, money.
And definitely a big, growing company with lots of turnover. whole divisions. whole floors.
And there is a sales office and other offices, out in the field, removed from the home office.
“I’m sitting in a Holiday Inn outside Cincinnati watching Spectravision at 2 in the morning, just five hours from a meeting, and I still haven’t gone to sleep.”
The constant effort to keep one’s office clean — the floor, the shelves, the desktop, the unique and separate parts of the desktop, the computer, the emails, the desktop of the computer. The ants crawling in through windows after a rain. Even here on the 23rd floor.
Collabra, Marimba, Outlook, Copeland. Naming, we are constantly attempting to name, to make sense of, define. We call our computers anmials, our programs people, our areas countries, our floors continents. We have code names, we have cover names, we have version numbers and subverion roll outs.
No sleep. Employees coming and going. Hiring and company meetings and memos and emails and small and large and all kinds of meetings.
But what is the product?
Somewhere out of NYC, some office that does “data processing’ and that is really retyping all the information from one legacy system to the new system. And maybe the growth, the investment, something was built on the notion that they had found a solution to bridge the gap — implicitly, they’d done it through a computer. But, they hadn’t. They’d lied.
They (he?) bury the cost by having the same typing group do other things — check processing, payroll, mail processing. Something.
Maybe there are multiple groups. That bridge — originally so simply a task — broken into a series of smaller steps, all coded and blind-boxed, and kept in order by barcodes and maybe an all-important customer code.
And the customer code is a single point of failure.
The multiple groups, maybe some parts of the bridge are handled by independent contractors who type and retype one part of the piece and then pass the information along.
No one can know what they do. Or who they work for.
Maybe these groups are separate companies, owned largely by the main character (or characters). Maybe he had to turn to some outsiders, who now are holding this against them.