Worst Idea

This was the worst idea ever. I do not want to write any more posts. I'm posted out. I'm tired. I don't feel like writing, especially when I can't really come up with anything terribly compelling to write about! But I said I would, so I'm going to try. I mean, fuck it, I'm a writer aren't I? And I'm complaining about having to write too much? That's some weak-ass bullshit right there.

So here we go. Gotta write something.

I guess I'll write about my novel. I wrote a novel during National Novel Writing Month two or three years ago. I then spent the next year going through and editing it. I then sent it to a select few and received suggestions. I spent another year editing and have sent it out again. I feel like it is very close, though I have heard a few things that make me disappointed in myself, for not having caught it, or knowing those places needed improvement but glossing over them.

The novel, Blood and Ashes is the first of a fantasy series set in a world where practicing magic is unlawful and punishable by death. Using magic has to do with creating a connection to another world, full of power, taking that power and manipulating it with your will. Usually, it is a conscious decision but there are a special few inborn with a connection. For them, it is not a choice to use magic, it will happen, over and over. These are called "mageborn" and are hunted throughout the land. They are killed or captured, and if captured, transformed through a gruesome ritual into a hyper-violent soldier. Into this world come three mageborn into a central city, unknowing of their power. Blood and Ashes is their tale of escape and realization, a frantic fight for their lives, and the webs others have woven for them.

It still needs work, unfortunately. I have considered hiring a professional editor but, considering the length of the work, that would cost hundreds of dollars and is simply not something I can afford at the moment. I'll do what I can, and I think it is close to being a finished product. Then comes the publishing question.

Do I go the traditional route, writing a query letter and trying to sell agents/publishers on my story in a few hundred words? Where I will not hear back for months, or perhaps at all, only sending to more and more? Or the other route, self-publishing(I like the term 'Author-publisher, coined by Chuck Wendig), where the market is over-stuffed with authors all selling themselves and their stories to readers?

I don't know. This November, I'm unsure whether to write the sequel or work on a few other projects I'm mulling around in my mind. I will just have to figure something out.

Anyways, that's a little bit about a project I've been working on for years. Will it actually become a product of some kind? Yes. Eventually.

Beating the Block

AAAAAAaaaaaaaagh! Writing a scream or a yell is always a conundrum. Is it just a string of a's? Do you add that "gh" on the end? Maybe throw a couple other letters in there? Some u's, perhaps? Who knows. 

The reason for the yelling? I have no idea what to write. Maybe missing yesterday's post is affecting my brain-box. It halted my creative train. It felt good, just rolling along, the posts coming quite easily. The fateful block has impeded my progress. Just gotta write. Write write write, write through the block. 

Just keep writing, just keep writing. Here, quick! Flash-fiction!

Here's my idea, doubling the old Raymond Chandler advice: If you don't know what to do, have a guy with a gun walk into the room. Why not have two?

Mix-Up

The corpse lay on the floor, blood drenching the white faux-fur rug underneath. Lightning crashed outside, illuminating the room in violent flashes. Furniture cast quick dark shadows, a chair and a couch. Two silhouettes faced each other. 

One reached a hand and flicked on a stand lamp. Light filled the room, glinting off the guns. 

"Well," one of the figures, a man wearing a black suit and holding a gun with a silencer on the end. "This is awkward."

"He was mine, goddamnit," the other said, pulling off a black ski-mask. He wore a black get-up that looked light and easy to move in, something a thief might wear. He too, held a gun with a silencer. 

The two guns pointed at each other. 

"I didn't see your name on him," the suited man said with a smile. 

The man with mask frowned. "I hacked the security system, snuck in through the back, knocked out the maid in the back without making a sound. I planned this."

The other shrugged. "I made good with the butler and talked my way in. Then I bludgeoned him from behind. I'm not much for hiding and sneaking like a petty thief."

"And I ain't much for pretty-talk and shmoozing." 

There was a moment of silence. 

"I believe we are at an impasse."

"I shot him, fair and square."

"So did I."

"You should just turn around and leave. I'm a quicker shot than you."

"Now, now, let's be professionals." The finely dressed man glanced at the corpse. 

"We can't split him."

"No, I'm sure our employers wouldn't allow that."

"Who hired you, by the way?"

"It would be highly unprofessional to give away my client."

"Yeah well shit, if it's the same guy who hired me, it was mighty unprofessional of him to hire two hitmen."

"You have a fair point."

They sat down on the couch, guns pointed at the floor. 

"Handy," the man with the mask said, dropping the ski-mask and offering a hand. 

"It suits you," the other man said, taking the hand and shaking it. "I am known as The Pro."

Handy nodded his head. "I've heard of you. That Pell job sounded like hell."

The Pro shrugged. "Things happen. The client acted...unprofessionally."

Handy laughed. "You sure dealt with him, from what I heard."

"I handled the situation."

"And now, our situation?"

"I'm thinking. In all my years, this has never occurred."

A door opened into the room. "Sir, sir are you there?" The butler called, rubbing his head. He gasped, seeing the room. 

Handy moved first, standing and firing two bullets in a blink. 

The butler staggered back, falling. 

The Pro looked at his companion with raised eyebrows. "You weren't bluffing. You are quicker than I."

Handy shrugged, as if uncomfortable with the compliment. "I got quick hands," he said. He walked over and checked the butler's pulse. 

The Pro got up, putting a finger to his lips. He walked over to another door, the one Handy had come from. 

It opened, revealing the maid with a phone to her ear. She was saying something when she saw The Pro standing in front of her. He was a large man and she couldn't see the room beyond him. 

"Miss, miss," The Pro said, his voice loud and commanding. 

She stopped, her mouth open. 

"Close the phone, your master needs assistance, immediately!" 

She took him in, the exquisite suit, the chiseled face, clean-shaven, hair black with flecks of gray. His soothing voice, in control, sounding as if he belonged. She closed the phone. "Who are you?" She asked. 

"A friend, dear miss, a friend. Someone attacked your master and ran, please, come quickly." He turned and gestured into the room. 

She took a couple steps in, eyes widening. She opened her mouth to scream when The Pro's hand clamped around her mouth. 

He wrapped an arm around her throat and choked her into unconsciousness. He let her down gently.

"Nicely done," Handy said, walking over. "We don't know if she said anything before she hung up, though." 

The Pro nodded. "Indeed, we should make our way out quickly."

"Look, I understand if you don't want to give up your client, you got your code or whatever, but if we got screwed over, I ain't letting it go. I'll go first."

The Pro hesitated, before nodding. "Very well."

"It was the girl. She didn't say her name but you know who I'm talking about."

The Pro nodded. "The daughter, she hired me as well."

Handy shook his head in disgust. "Who does that?"

"A young woman who doesn't understand the world we live in."

"She will soon enough," Handy snarled. 

The Pro sighed. "Let us not be too harsh." He gestured to the corpse. "Perhaps we can visit her together and explain the situation."

"Then she's paying me double," Handy spat. "And you too."

The Pro nodded. "She will surely have enough money, now." 

Time Flies

I nearly didn't make yesterday's deadline. I really didn't actually. I published with my flash fiction half-finished and half-thought. I cheated and edited it today to be something more complete. I still don't really feel satisfied with it. It's not a great story or good writing, it just kind of is. Which is all it needs to do, it just needs to exist. That's the purpose, the goal, to get words out there, so it works.

The idea came from a fiction challenge by the author Chuck Wendig who has a wonderful blog and great tips for writers. The challenge was to use a random song title as the title of a piece of flash fiction and write from there. I just used my library and the song that came up was titled "Day Six" by Explosions in the Sky and I listened to it as I began my piece. I think it came out okay, sloppy and fast but that's what nanoprep is all about.

Writing these posts is as difficult as expected. There are simply days I don't find the time. Well, that's not being honest. There are days I put off writing, thinking I can just do it later, then realizing I need to rush something out so I can get some sleep so I'm not a zombie at work the next day.

So here it is. I'm watching the Giants attempting to get their first win of the season while attempting to rush out a blog post last minute, tired and frantic and just typing whatever comes across my brain. sakdjgsajdlkghasjldhgsjlkadhfjlaskdhfjlkasdhjlkfhasjlkdfhsdjlfhsdjlfhslfasd. Yep, stuff like that.

Creativity is zero, imagination is down. I got nothing. I need a haircut. I need to shave. But here I am. Putting in the work. The same thing I'm going to need to do in November if I'm going to write 1667 words a day. Work ethic is a really important thing. You need a good work ethic to really lead a successful life, in my opinion. It's something you get taught early, at a young age. It's driven into you, ingrained, etc. So parents, make your kids work.

I asked a student the other day if he ever does chores at home. He shook his head. I asked if he ever did anything he didn't want to do, at home. He shook his head again. I sighed. What was I supposed to tell this kid? How was I supposed to convince this kid to work hard at school when he never does at home? How is it possible to teach him that sometimes he has to do things he doesn't want to do, if he always gets what he wants at home? It doesn't work, there's not much you can do.

That's the truly tragic part of special education, or education in general. There's only so much you can do, at school. The home piece is truly far more important and development-affecting than school. We can try though, and we can do a little good, and it feels good when we help students succeed.

This is a truly rambling blog post, but oh well. At least it's up on time.

Day Six

"Is it safe?" Lacy asked. Her voice had lost its quiver of fear. Now she just sounded tired and weak.

Darrin shook his head, peeking downstairs from the upstairs hallway. He could see figures moving, shambling through the kitchen and living room, their eyes dull and lifeless. But they were alive, alive and violent. And they'd taken over the first floor of the house.

"They're still there," he said, moving back from the stairwell and into the bedroom.

She nodded, looking down at the floor. Light filtered in through the edges of curtains blocking the windows. She looked emaciated.

Six days of being stuck, prisoners in their own house, starving.

He sat on the bed, looking at the wall. His stomach gnawed at him from the inside.

She put a hand on his back. "It's okay. They'll leave. They will."

He stood up and searched the room, much as he had done before. But there wasn't anything that could be called a weapon. No guns or knives or baseball bats. He shook his head, thinking of the old movies that played before everything went to shit. The heroes had always had access to some kind of weapon. But he didn't have any guns and the only knives they owned were in the kitchen. And who kept a baseball bat lying around if you don't have any kids?

"You can't go down there," she said.

"I have to. We're starving."

"You don't have a weapon." She stood up. "They'll tear you apart."

He opened the closet door, still searching. "I'll create a distraction and sneak into the kitchen. These things aren't smart, they don't think." They just kill, he thought but didn't say.

She turned away.

He left the bedroom and went into the bathroom. A haggard face stared at him from the mirror, scraggly beard, messy hair and weary eyes. He ignored it and looked around. Toilet brush, electric shaver, bottles of shampoo and conditioner. Nothing useful.

He went back into the bedroom.

She held a knife in her hands. It had a short sharp blade and a black handle. There were tears in her eyes. "I'm sorry..." she whispered, offering the handle towards him. "I had it in my purse, from when I walked home alone at night in the city. I found it a few days ago."

He took it, inspecting it. It felt strong and easy to use. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't want you to go downstairs." She stepped forward. "Don't go. Just let them leave. Then we can go downstairs and-"

"They aren't leaving," he said, turning away. "And we're starving." He went to the stairwell and listened. He heard shuffling steps and low moans.

He crept down, step by step, thankful they had carpeted stairs. He skipped a step that always groaned and reached the bottom.

The stairwell opened into a narrow hallway that had doorways into the kitchen, living room and a wash room.

He took slow breaths. There was nobody in the hallway but the sounds of feet and groans were louder.

He went to the kitchen, peeking in. He gulped.

Two of them shuffled around the island, staring into nothing. Their clothes were ripped and bloody. Though they moved slow now, that could change in a moment if they saw food. They were worse than animals.

One stepped past the doorway. He walked up behind it and stabbed it in the back of the skull. The man went down, gurgling.

The other, a pale woman, turned, eyes widening and mouth opening.

Darrin couldn't get the knife out of the skull.

The woman moaned and scrambled right over the granite countertop. She slammed into Darrin, carrying them both to the floor.

Darrin slammed his forearm into her throat, keeping her gnashing teeth away.

Her saliva dripped onto his face. She raked her nails against his neck.

He shoved, trying to push her off but she held on to his arms, straining and biting the air. His arm grew tired, her face inching closer. He swore in an agonized whisper, over and over. He was going to die. He saw her tongue out, reaching for him, inches away.

This was it. This was death.

He almost felt relief. It would be over, the hunger, the pain, the depression. Just...gone.

Lacy stepped forward and plunged a large kitchen knife into the pale woman's temple.

The woman's head dropped, lifeless.

Darrin's strength gave out and he let the corpse fall on top him. He gasped for breath, looking at the wall. Did he feel regret?

Lacy pulled rolled the body off and helped him up. Her hands shook and her eyes were wide. "I killed her," she said.

Darrin shrugged, feeling nothing. He wondered if he was in shock. "We have to get the food," he said, struggling to feel like anything mattered. He wiped blood from his face.

A growl came from the doorway behind him, which led to the entryway. A short man snarled, seeing them.

Darrin moved without thinking. "Back up the stairs!" He said, shoving Lacy into the hallway.

The man charged.

Darrin grabbed the countertop of the island and kicked out, catching the guy in the chin and laying him out.

"Darrin!" Lacy called out.

Darrin went into the hallway and saw Lacy pushing the door to the living room shut, but hands and arms stuck through the jam, blocking it.

"Leave it," He shouted.

Something slammed into him from behind, tackling him into the stairs.

"Not now," Darrin said. The time to die had passed. Now he had to live. He slammed his elbow back again and again, until he heard a sharp crack and the thing on top of him slumped to the floor. There was blood on his arm. The short guy lay face up, face mangled.

"Lacy, now!"

She left the door and ran to the stairs.

Darrin hurried her up and followed, seeing at least three more people rushing through the open door.

They sprinted up and into the bedroom.

Darrin slammed the door shut and locked it. He could hear growls and yelps.

Something slammed into door, making it shake.

"The dresser," Lacy said.

Darrin nodded. It was a heavy wooden thing, polished and beautiful, an antique.

They got to the side and shoved it in front of the door, before collapsing onto the ground, gasping for breath.

Darrin's body shook, muscles tensing and relaxing. He gasped for breath. He tried to get up but he couldn't. The door shook but didn't move.

Lacy lay next to him.

He managed to put an arm around her and pull her close. That was all he could do. They were too hungry, too tired.

And they were stuck back in the bedroom without food.

Tomorrow would be the seventh day.



...

It's Coming

"Nanowrimo is coming…" He whispered, glancing out the window. 
Leaves were changing colors and falling to the ground, more every day. 
The fireplace crackled but he could not feel the heat. 
A chill wind shook the hut. 
He blew on his fingers and looked at the scrolls on the table before him. 
"Blank…" he said, tracing his hand across the smooth papyrus. 
He placed a cup of ink on the table nearby and took a quill from within his vest. 
He dabbed the quill into the ink and began writing. 
"It is time to prepare," he said. 
Soon, the scrolls would be filled with writing, pages upon pages. 
He wrote.

Books

Let's talk about books. I like books. I enjoy reading all kinds of things, from fantasy and sci-fi to crazy post-modern novels about the meaninglessness of our lives. Any way you look at it, books are pretty rad. They are stories from another's mind, translated into text onto paper, which we then transmit into our own minds via reading. We are essentially reading another person's mind in the past. Literally, someone was thinking the very thing you read when they wrote it. That's a pretty cool thing. I like that. I can read your mind, man. Just write down what you're thinking and send it to me. 

Of course the method of transference isn't perfect. There is much lost in translation, which is a good thing. I think there is much 'added' in translation as well, if that makes any sense, which it might not. What I mean is that when a writer puts their thoughts into paper, so much other junk comes with it, from their past, their lives, their experiences. Things they had no idea they were thinking goes onto the page without them even realizing it. We see it, as readers. We see not just what they were literally thinking but also that extra baggage. Of course it's not perfect but it's there. We read into it, we come to it with out own baggage, and as we read these thoughts coming from our own experiences, we see things nobody else will. Think about it. Even if you and I read the same book, line for line, word for word, we actually read different books. I will see things you did not and you will do likewise, simply because of our different pasts. That's amazing. That's why it's fun to talk about books you've read with others. They'll show and try to tell you what they experienced, meanwhile you'll attempt to describe your own understanding. I say 'try' and 'attempt' because that is what they are, you cannot communicate your entire experience to another because they have not lived the life you live. It's fun to talk about, though. 

Telling stories is awesome and honestly, I wish I was better at it in oral form. My dad is fantastic at it. He gets his whole body into the story and really makes you feel like you were there. He uses voices, facial expression and jokes. His stories are pure entertainment and it's enjoyable to listen to the same one over and over. Though, to be honest, this particular enjoyment is partially because he tends to change a story every time he tells it, until who knows what truly happened? But it doesn't matter. It's a story. Truth is beside the point that it's funny, it makes you laugh, feel and think. 

Think about it some more. When someone tells you something that happened to them, they aren't telling you the "truth". They are telling what they experienced, colored by their past and personality. This isn't a bad thing and doesn't mean that everybody is lying to you all the time. We can't get outside our own heads, so we just cannot be unbiased or neutral. We always bring things to the story, and that's a great thing. That's why when you hear a story, you feel like you know the author/teller a little better after, because you get more than just the plot, the sequence of events, you get their feelings and thoughts, their reactions. 

To sum it all up....

IT'S AWESOME. PEOPLE ARE COOL. LISTEN OR READ SOME STORIES. 

...THERE ARE LOTS OF STORIES IN BOOKS SO PICK SOME UP SOME TIME.

Oh man I gotta write another blog post...

Third day, third post. This is already getting hard. I should've written earlier but I was lazy and put it off and now I'm throwing words out like yesterdays garbage. That's a weird phrase, "like yesterday's garbage"? Who creates so much garbage they fill up a trash bag in a single day? Nobody.

Oh well, let's get on with it then. What's on the docket for today? Docket is a good word. I like the sound of it. Just say it out loud. "Docket." It's a very serious-business type term. Anyways, there is nothing on the docket for the day. I'm writing by the seat of my pants. It's very difficult. The seat of your pants is not a very good writing tool.

Let's talk fantasy. Why not? The fantasy genre is pretty fucking awesome right now. You've got awesome old-school stuff, crazy new-fangled hybrid genres, and just damn good writing coming out right now. The Wheel of Time recently finished, a 14-book epic of unfathomable scope. You've got gritty and unexpectable George RR Martin with Song of Ice and Fire (aka Game of Thrones). Is unexpectable a word? Apparently not but it should be. It means you can expect nothing in that series. Martin suckerpunches you in the nuts over and over and doesn't let up, but it feels good. It feels good because authors just don't murder likable characters that often. It feels fresh. It feels good, exciting, awful and amazing.

You've got fantasy mixing with the modern, like Dresden Files where fantasy meets the modern world and a hard-boiled detective-wizard solving magical crimes. It's fantastic! And fun, and downright hilarious at times. You've got all these shows with old fairie tales reimagined in modern times, and even though they might be awful, at least they're trying.

Fantasy is in a really good place right now, becoming more and more commonplace, with movies and novels exploring, with new ideas. I've got an idea for a fantasy-western story which sounds really awesome in my head at the moment. Genre-mixing is a great thing.

I'm feeling tired and this post is probably pretty bad. Probably won't be in my top ten of all time, but then, writing one every day isn't about writing great posts, it's about quantity. Output.


 Enjoy your daily word-vomit