Since I won't have time tomorrow nor have I written anything new the best thing I have to do is wish any who happen upon this a Happy Thanksgiving.
Growing up I was never a fan of the large family get-together holidays but they mean much more to me now.
So gorge yourself on some turkey and all the fixings, unbuckle your belt, kick back in your favorite chair and watch some football/nap.
I know I will.
25 November 2009
17 November 2009
Other than Insomnia, What Else Has Kept Me Away from Writing?
My last post was one spent venting about something very much out of my hands, my chronic insomnia (note the time this is being posted).
This morning I'm going to touch on something that while very much within my control has become the latest culprit to suck up my writing time: Call of Duty: Modern Warfare 2.
After months of pleading with me a good friend convinced me to sign up for Xbox Live (something I'd resisted for over a year for a variety of reasons) and once MW2 hit store shelves last Tuesday I became a bit of an addict.
Granted I'm not playing every waking moment and it's given me something "constructive" to do with these early morning, too tired to write hours but I do need to keep an eye on my gaming hours. Once my sleep levels out and I can think coherently again I'll definately have to cut back on the games and buckle down.
For now though I'm thoroughly enjoying the gunning down of (and getting gunned down by) total strangers and real life friends alike.
For those of you who read this that have also been bitten by the COD:MW2 bug (or enjoy playing other games) send me an invite or a friend request on Xbox Live. I'm always looking for new people to play against online since my duties as a husband and father have 86ed my real-life social life.
My gamertag is QuasiShad and I'll be looking forward to facing off with you.
Oh and the wife would have me strung up by my toenails if I didn't drop the biggest news of our lives here too. We found out this week that, provided the little booger doesn't decide he wants out sooner, they are going to do the C-section on the 1st of December.
Let the countdown begin!
04 November 2009
Insomnia vs Creativity
A little known fact outside of my inner circle is that I frequently (read: almost nightly) have a really difficult time falling asleep.
The list of remedies is endless: excercise more, drink a glass of warm milk, try a small amount of alcohol, take a sleeping pill, don't drink soda/coffee after mid-afternoon, etc, etc.
I've tried most of the above (the ones I've avoided have namely been the ones involving ingesting anything) and have come to one conclusion.
I am naturally a night owl and given the chance my internal clock will shift to a "awake all night, into bed at 9 a.m." schedule.
The problem this creates is two fold, 1) my real job requires that I arrive in the hours immediately prior to the time when I'd most like to go to bed and 2) being up late and rising early to work every day of the week leads to an eventual zombie like stupor. Now for some the undead trance may be preferable but when you spend a good deal of your down time trying to be creative being half asleep (at least in my experience) is NOT a helpful state of mind.
Maybe this is just the mildly delusion ramblings of a sleep deprived mind but I'm really struggling these last few weeks to string together any sort of sentence that envolves story telling.
Writing like this comes fairly easy but attempting to craft a story has been all but impossible of late.
Which is why I've not updated this much in the last month because I feel guilty blogging when my work is being neglected.
Good night to all you sleepers out there, I'll be burning the midnight oil a touch longer. With luck maybe I'll be able to turn that flashing line on my screen into some prose before turning in.
The list of remedies is endless: excercise more, drink a glass of warm milk, try a small amount of alcohol, take a sleeping pill, don't drink soda/coffee after mid-afternoon, etc, etc.
I've tried most of the above (the ones I've avoided have namely been the ones involving ingesting anything) and have come to one conclusion.
I am naturally a night owl and given the chance my internal clock will shift to a "awake all night, into bed at 9 a.m." schedule.
The problem this creates is two fold, 1) my real job requires that I arrive in the hours immediately prior to the time when I'd most like to go to bed and 2) being up late and rising early to work every day of the week leads to an eventual zombie like stupor. Now for some the undead trance may be preferable but when you spend a good deal of your down time trying to be creative being half asleep (at least in my experience) is NOT a helpful state of mind.
Maybe this is just the mildly delusion ramblings of a sleep deprived mind but I'm really struggling these last few weeks to string together any sort of sentence that envolves story telling.
Writing like this comes fairly easy but attempting to craft a story has been all but impossible of late.
Which is why I've not updated this much in the last month because I feel guilty blogging when my work is being neglected.
Good night to all you sleepers out there, I'll be burning the midnight oil a touch longer. With luck maybe I'll be able to turn that flashing line on my screen into some prose before turning in.
19 October 2009
Recommended Reading: Pursuit of Honor by Vince Flynn
Continuing the trend I set with Robert B. Parker's Spenser series (wherein I read the 34th book first) is the 9th book in the Mitch Rapp series by Vince Flynn (and the first I've read).
I'm not quite finished with it but at a hair past the 3/4 mark I'm going to go out on a limb and make it part of my Recommended Reading list.
It reminds me a great deal of the early Jack Ryan novels by Tom Clancy, you know the ones before he started to dive way too deep into technical explanations (was I alone in being mildly vexed by the page after page devoted to the atomic detonation in Sum of All Fears?) and focused more on the "kick-assed-ness" of the Jack Ryan character. Not that I'm knocking Clancy's books, they were far and away my favorite thrillers growing up and maybe that's why I'm enjoying this book so much.
Mitch Rapp, Flynn's main character, reminds me so much of Ryan but is different enough to stand alone as one of the best espionage/thriller protagonists of all time.
If you like this genre, I can almost guarantee you'll enjoy this book.
25 September 2009
Because I'm In a Sharing Mood
For more than a good portion of this year I've been toiling on a Private Investigator novel along the lines of Chandler's Marlowe or Parker's Spencer (forgive me for being hard on myself but I'm nowhere near their levels but I try to channel their spirit when writing this story).
Today I figured I'd share the first chapter of my work, in what is probably the 12th draft of the opening pages of the first in a series with the character. Honestly the main character is presently one of my top two favorite creations and the female lead(s) are almost as close to my heart as he is.
You'll only meet the MC (and two thugs) here but I think its one of my better opening chapters in spite of this fact. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
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As far as I’m concerned once you’ve been stuffed in the trunk of one car you’ve been stuffed in them all. I would know; I’ve been shoved into more than my fair share of them in my lifetime. It goes with the territory I guess, I work in a profession that requires the asking of questions that some people don’t want asked. Ask the wrong person the wrong question or have the wrong person find out that you’ve been asking the “unaskable” and it’s in the trunk with you. If you’re really lucky there might just be a beating thrown in for good measure.
This particular trunk was made even more uncomfortable by the fact that the thugs hadn’t even had the decency to empty it before hand and I’d spent much of my visit with a tire iron jammed in the crack of my ass and a jack in the ribs. Given my experience being transported around in such a manner I’d love to say I’d developed a feel for how much time passes while within but sadly I haven’t. I might have been in there for thirty minutes or maybe it was a few hours. All I knew for certain was that my ass and side were both screaming at me and my legs were starting to cramp. Admittedly I was grateful when the car came to a halt and my traveling companions opened the trunk.
Today I figured I'd share the first chapter of my work, in what is probably the 12th draft of the opening pages of the first in a series with the character. Honestly the main character is presently one of my top two favorite creations and the female lead(s) are almost as close to my heart as he is.
You'll only meet the MC (and two thugs) here but I think its one of my better opening chapters in spite of this fact. I hope you enjoy it as much as I do.
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As far as I’m concerned once you’ve been stuffed in the trunk of one car you’ve been stuffed in them all. I would know; I’ve been shoved into more than my fair share of them in my lifetime. It goes with the territory I guess, I work in a profession that requires the asking of questions that some people don’t want asked. Ask the wrong person the wrong question or have the wrong person find out that you’ve been asking the “unaskable” and it’s in the trunk with you. If you’re really lucky there might just be a beating thrown in for good measure.
This particular trunk was made even more uncomfortable by the fact that the thugs hadn’t even had the decency to empty it before hand and I’d spent much of my visit with a tire iron jammed in the crack of my ass and a jack in the ribs. Given my experience being transported around in such a manner I’d love to say I’d developed a feel for how much time passes while within but sadly I haven’t. I might have been in there for thirty minutes or maybe it was a few hours. All I knew for certain was that my ass and side were both screaming at me and my legs were starting to cramp. Admittedly I was grateful when the car came to a halt and my traveling companions opened the trunk.
Sometime after they had gotten the drop on me they had wrapped my head in a hood yet in spite of this fact I was immediately aware upon the opening of the trunk that we were at the lake. The wind was coming out of the north and bringing with it a bitingly cold edge. It was cold enough that I briefly regretted not having my overcoat but considering the fact that the two fine gentlemen dragging me out of the trunk were intent on my demise I probably shouldn’t have been concerned with catching my death of cold. I took a quick inventory of my pains and decided that as annoying as the cramps in my legs and back were the golf ball sized knot on the back of my head stood the most chance of being serious. As for what raised it, I’d have put money on a good old fashioned blackjack but there was always possibility of the equally classic pistol whip as well.
As they started to herd me down the pier I briefly entertained the thought of working the cramps out of my legs, toying with the idea of spending my last moments in relative comfort but with my arms cuffed behind me it wasn’t like I could have massaged my calves. I decided then that dying comfortably wasn’t everything; not dying at all would be preferable. Besides even if I could work out the charlie-horses I’d still have been left with the burning sensations of the damn scars on my arms not to mention the Cadillac sized lump on my head. There I was being led to what would surely be my demise and I was worried about cramps and itchy scars. The things that pass through your head when you are facing certain death always did amuse me. At that point I was glad my face was covered by the damn burlap bag, I was certain that these thugs would have smashed in my teeth had they been able to take one look at the shit eating grin splitting my face.
Once we reached what was no doubt the end of the pier they turned me around and forced me to my knees. Having been here a million times before I knew what was coming beforehand but foresight didn’t unbind my hands, so to my utter lack of surprise one of my captors unloaded on me. I’m not sure if it was a fist coupled with brass knuckles or possibly my second pistol whipping of the evening, regardless pain flared white hot in my head as stars danced across my vision. My mouth and chin were bathed in blood that felt boiling in comparison to the cold air and I was certain that my nose had just been spread across my face. “Ah, watch it numb-nuts. You’ll ruin my movie star good looks doing shit like that.” I said while spitting blood into the inside of the bag. Predictably I was punched, no doubt an unassisted punch this time, in my face and kicked in the gut for my trouble. I collapsed in a heap, struggling to drag in air and fighting the urge to fill my hood with the half digested remains of the meal I’d had at Vic’s a few hours back. “Damn…boys…..you play…..you play soccer? Damn….fine….kicks the….there.” I managed to spit out before the two of them began to fire kick after kick into my chest and gut.
“Shut it wise ass,” said Thug Number One, “we don’t want to hear none of your shit.”
“Yeah, shut it.” eloquently added Thug Two in stereotypical yet familiar gravelly street tough tones. This brought laughter, pained laughter but laughter none-the-less from me and without a chance to explain what I found funny I was the recipient of a new wave of kicks.
“You ask too many questions laughing man. The boss, he really don’t like people snooping around, asking questions they have no business knowing the answers to. Nobody teach you to mind your business huh Mr. Madden? Too bad for you they didn’t, cause now we get to teach you this lesson. We’re pretty good teachers too, people we teach learn real quick.”
I really should know better but as I drew myself back to a kneeling position I said, “Yeah, you two are a regular couple of street professors.”
Again I was treated to a ballet of dancing lights and colors when I was pistol whipped upside the head and fell once more to the pier. This time the blow was hard enough that the sounds of the water slapping the underside of the pier became muffled as if I was hearing them from miles away and with cotton in my ears. I realized then that I was sliding ever closer to losing consciousness and that meant I was in serious danger of losing my life as well. If I passed out I’d have no chance of getting through this alive so I began to focus on simply not giving into the desperate need to sleep. The only other clear thought I had was amusement at the fact that when I took this case I was certain that I’d finally landed a job that would break the monotony of my usual work.
22 September 2009
Been A Bit Since I've Posted
Man has this month blown by, I mean I was aware that I'd not posted anything in a long, long while but this is a touch absurd.
This month has been busy for all the wrong reasons and as such I've not written anything new in about 3 weeks. Most of my "leisure time" has been swallowed by this OCD like impulse I've had to digest as much information about not only current events but our history as a nation from our founding forward.
It's all a part of the research I'm doing for my Dystopian novel but my time has been monopolized by TV pundits (from all sides of the political spectrum), books and websites.
I still haven't had time to fix my laptop but I did finally get the internet up and running on my desktop. I'll still have to recover my files off the laptop at some point but at least now I can install Word on my PC and start working from the comfort of my desk instead of trying to find some place comfortable to work with the laptop.
For those curious, I did have an excellent first shoot back as an amatuer glamour/pin-up photographer.
Here are a few of the more "work safe" images:
London, obviously the model in question, was hands down the easiest subject to shoot I've ever worked with and my two hours shooting with her served as the single greatest learning experience in my short time as an aspiring photographer.
For those keeping track I'm presently working on (and in some cases the phrase "working on" unfortunately means "haven't finished yet but haven't worked on in months either"):
-a private investigator novel.
-a post-apocalyptic novella
-a dystopic/Orwellian Spec. Fiction novel
-a horror/thriller novel
-an epic fantasy novel
I'm also working on a multitude of short stories but unfortunately I struggle with the shorter medium. Brevity is the biggest factor but in some cases, like one I started early last month, I find myself lacking the "chops" to write sentimental and/or emotional stories, no matter how the subject tugs at my heartstrings personally.
Well it is pushing midnight, I'm going to try to get some work done in the next 30 minutes and then I'm calling it a night.
This month has been busy for all the wrong reasons and as such I've not written anything new in about 3 weeks. Most of my "leisure time" has been swallowed by this OCD like impulse I've had to digest as much information about not only current events but our history as a nation from our founding forward.
It's all a part of the research I'm doing for my Dystopian novel but my time has been monopolized by TV pundits (from all sides of the political spectrum), books and websites.
I still haven't had time to fix my laptop but I did finally get the internet up and running on my desktop. I'll still have to recover my files off the laptop at some point but at least now I can install Word on my PC and start working from the comfort of my desk instead of trying to find some place comfortable to work with the laptop.
For those curious, I did have an excellent first shoot back as an amatuer glamour/pin-up photographer.
Here are a few of the more "work safe" images:
London, obviously the model in question, was hands down the easiest subject to shoot I've ever worked with and my two hours shooting with her served as the single greatest learning experience in my short time as an aspiring photographer.
For those keeping track I'm presently working on (and in some cases the phrase "working on" unfortunately means "haven't finished yet but haven't worked on in months either"):
-a private investigator novel.
-a post-apocalyptic novella
-a dystopic/Orwellian Spec. Fiction novel
-a horror/thriller novel
-an epic fantasy novel
I'm also working on a multitude of short stories but unfortunately I struggle with the shorter medium. Brevity is the biggest factor but in some cases, like one I started early last month, I find myself lacking the "chops" to write sentimental and/or emotional stories, no matter how the subject tugs at my heartstrings personally.
Well it is pushing midnight, I'm going to try to get some work done in the next 30 minutes and then I'm calling it a night.
20 August 2009
Any Other Writers Ever Experience This
So I was daydreaming while shuffling through the seemingly endless piles of invoices on my desk and had this flash of creativity strike like a lightning bolt out of a cloudless sky.
I continued to tug on this thread to see where it could take me and over a period of a couple of hours had an idea for an awesome action sequence. Whether or not I have the chops to translate what I see in my head into words remains to be seen but there is a much more pressing issue.
Simply put I have no story to place this scene in. Absolutely nothing I'm currently working on is the kind of story wherein this scene would make sense. Even the more pure fantasy story I've been plugging away on for months doesn't have room for this scene, unless I make some serious changes in tone and theme.
I'm seriously considering just writing the scene down (maybe in bare bones format) and filing it away to reference at a later date.
Back to the "real" work......
I continued to tug on this thread to see where it could take me and over a period of a couple of hours had an idea for an awesome action sequence. Whether or not I have the chops to translate what I see in my head into words remains to be seen but there is a much more pressing issue.
Simply put I have no story to place this scene in. Absolutely nothing I'm currently working on is the kind of story wherein this scene would make sense. Even the more pure fantasy story I've been plugging away on for months doesn't have room for this scene, unless I make some serious changes in tone and theme.
I'm seriously considering just writing the scene down (maybe in bare bones format) and filing it away to reference at a later date.
Back to the "real" work......
19 August 2009
Of All the Rotten Luck
Long story short, photography has kept my mind occupied for the majority of the last ten days or so and as such I haven't written one word more to any of my "works in progress".
Last night, after I put in a new montior for my desktop PC I decided it was time to sit down and get some work done for the first time in over a week. So I pull out the laptop, sit down, open it up and get this message when I hit the power.
"Windows XP could not start because the following file is missing or corrupt: \WINDOWS\SYSTEM32\CONFIG\SYSTEM"
As soon as that came up on the screen my heart fell into my stomach and my stomach dropped somewhere around my left foot. I scrambled to grab my backup flash drive and slammed it into my desktop. Scanning through my folders I was heartbroken to find that I had not backed up my works in over a month. Which means unless I can recover my laptop's files I will have lost over 3 chapters of my Orwellian story (ie: EVERYTHING I'D DONE) and chapter 2 of my post-apocalyptic novel (not to mention a bunch of my photography stuff but it was 99% backed up on my desktop).
I know what I need to do to try and recover the information but right now I'm still weak in the knees over what I've lost.
Wish me luck.
Last night, after I put in a new montior for my desktop PC I decided it was time to sit down and get some work done for the first time in over a week. So I pull out the laptop, sit down, open it up and get this message when I hit the power.
"Windows XP could not start because the following file is missing or corrupt: \WINDOWS\SYSTEM32\CONFIG\SYSTEM"
As soon as that came up on the screen my heart fell into my stomach and my stomach dropped somewhere around my left foot. I scrambled to grab my backup flash drive and slammed it into my desktop. Scanning through my folders I was heartbroken to find that I had not backed up my works in over a month. Which means unless I can recover my laptop's files I will have lost over 3 chapters of my Orwellian story (ie: EVERYTHING I'D DONE) and chapter 2 of my post-apocalyptic novel (not to mention a bunch of my photography stuff but it was 99% backed up on my desktop).
I know what I need to do to try and recover the information but right now I'm still weak in the knees over what I've lost.
Wish me luck.
06 August 2009
"Temporal Echoes"
About a month back I entered (and lost) a short story contest for one of my favorite magazines.
I've done some tweeking to it, made it a touch longer and am content with it (for the time being) so I thought I'd share it for my one follower (hello out there by the way) and for anyone else who stops by.
I hope you enjoy.
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The world’s violent twisting snapped to a halt and nausea washed over her as she tried to adjust to the now solid ground beneath her feet. The techs had said the jump would be rough; an understatement born of ignorance or an outright lie. Those smug little bastards in the pristine white lab coats have no idea she started to think before remembering what she had been told and how wasted her energy would be by dwelling on the lab techs. In what already felt like a lifetime ago she had walked down the corridor with the lead tech at her side. He was a nervous little gray haired man with darting eyes and clammy skin and he was nervously trying to explain to her the one downfall of the jump, there would be no coming back. “Unfortunately ma’am we’ve not yet been able to bring any of the jumpers back alive. In fact many times we are never able to even get a corpse back. We’re confident that the failures have more to do with other side than with anything happening on our end but the reality remains the same. My point is that whatever it is you are hoping to accomplish I want you to understand that you’ll likely die doing this.” Without looking at him she let a harsh laugh escape her lips and was amused by his startled leap away from her. They walked in silence the rest of the way there and she was certain the lead tech was a little afraid of her. She knew something none of these techs seemed to want to acknowledge; success or failure, she was a dead woman either way. Death was inevitable especially when you had what she had; she just didn’t want to die with the guilt she’d been haunted by since childhood. Jumping was her one chance was all she had to correct what happened that horrible day and to allow her to die in peace.
Shaking away the last of the nausea and tremors she staggered out of the alley and studied her surroundings. Nostalgia warmed her heart as she took in the city she had grown up in. It was so different from the blasted and scorched skeleton she had left behind, a mere ghost of the living thing presently surrounding her. She had forgotten how alive the city had been back before the world had torn apart and the revelation brought a pair of tears down her cheeks. Standing there wide-eyed and slack-jawed she ignored the people shooting her hateful glances as they parted around her. In another time she would have probably been humored by the thought of how crazy she must look standing there in a silver and blue jumpsuit like a nut-job pretending to be an astronaut or a space woman from the horrid Science Fiction movies she enjoyed in her youth. An image tried to flash in her mind, something about the colors silver and blue but the long lost beauty of the city had hypnotized her and she was more than happy to be distracted by its magic.
An obscenity hurled by an angry driver followed by the blast of his horn ripped her from her trance and she felt her cheeks warm in equal parts anger and embarrassment. There was work to do and she couldn’t be standing around like an awestruck moron. She spotted a newsstand on the corner and forced her wet-noodle legs to carry her to it. Grabbing the first paper she saw she checked the date, it read July 7th. Even as she blew out a sigh of relief her eyes moved to what she thought of as an old-fashioned digital clock mounted at the back of the stand. It would be happening in less than a half hour, she still had time but would have to get moving.
The newsstand sat on the corner of 8th and Main, It had happened on the corner where Main crosses 3rd. On a good day she had no doubt she could cover that distance with time to spare but after the drain of the jump she’d be pushing it. She struggled at first, fighting to produce a weak trot as she pushed through the crowd but as time grew short adrenaline allowed her to plow through the people at a decent clip. Silver and blue continued to haunt her thoughts as she ran but their significance continued to elude her. The closer she approached to the fateful corner the more the colors flashed in her mind yet she couldn’t place their importance. By the time she was within sight of the corner she was all but blinded by the flashes of color as they started tinting her vision.
She was unaware of the taxi’s approach until the impact threw her into an involuntary cartwheel. Landing in a heap on the asphalt she heard a child’s voice cry out, “Daddy that woman needs help!” Ignoring the pain that shot through her broken body she turned her head. There on the far side of the street she spotted a familiar girl running towards her. She was looking at herself and suddenly she felt like she was being ripped in half, a very odd yet real sense of duality gripping her very soul. As her eight year old self left the sidewalk into the street, she spotted her father break free of the gathered crowd on the far corner in pursuit. Seeing her father chasing after her child-self brought the memory rushing back and the realization hit her like a speeding train. More than anything she understood that the jump had been the worst decision of her life. That July day of her youth her and her father had been out shopping for a gift for her mother’s birthday. They were standing near the corner of Main and 3rd looking in the window displays when there had been a terrible accident. Wanting nothing more than to help she had run out into the street to help a woman in blue and silver who had been hurt and her dad had followed. He died because she wanted to help a stranger. NO she screamed inside her mind he died because you came back to a time you didn’t belong in. You killed him you stupid bitch! She tried to yell for the child to stay back; to say that she didn’t need help and would be okay but no words would come. Silent horror filled her as her father ran after his child unaware of the van speeding towards him down 3rd. Clinching her eyes she wept as the screeching brakes confirmed everything. She had spent her entire life wishing she could undo this day. Laying there on the merciless asphalt with her father crushed and dying not ten feet away she had time for one horrible thought as the world darkened around her. She had to face that she had caused it all along.
I've done some tweeking to it, made it a touch longer and am content with it (for the time being) so I thought I'd share it for my one follower (hello out there by the way) and for anyone else who stops by.
I hope you enjoy.
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The world’s violent twisting snapped to a halt and nausea washed over her as she tried to adjust to the now solid ground beneath her feet. The techs had said the jump would be rough; an understatement born of ignorance or an outright lie. Those smug little bastards in the pristine white lab coats have no idea she started to think before remembering what she had been told and how wasted her energy would be by dwelling on the lab techs. In what already felt like a lifetime ago she had walked down the corridor with the lead tech at her side. He was a nervous little gray haired man with darting eyes and clammy skin and he was nervously trying to explain to her the one downfall of the jump, there would be no coming back. “Unfortunately ma’am we’ve not yet been able to bring any of the jumpers back alive. In fact many times we are never able to even get a corpse back. We’re confident that the failures have more to do with other side than with anything happening on our end but the reality remains the same. My point is that whatever it is you are hoping to accomplish I want you to understand that you’ll likely die doing this.” Without looking at him she let a harsh laugh escape her lips and was amused by his startled leap away from her. They walked in silence the rest of the way there and she was certain the lead tech was a little afraid of her. She knew something none of these techs seemed to want to acknowledge; success or failure, she was a dead woman either way. Death was inevitable especially when you had what she had; she just didn’t want to die with the guilt she’d been haunted by since childhood. Jumping was her one chance was all she had to correct what happened that horrible day and to allow her to die in peace.
Shaking away the last of the nausea and tremors she staggered out of the alley and studied her surroundings. Nostalgia warmed her heart as she took in the city she had grown up in. It was so different from the blasted and scorched skeleton she had left behind, a mere ghost of the living thing presently surrounding her. She had forgotten how alive the city had been back before the world had torn apart and the revelation brought a pair of tears down her cheeks. Standing there wide-eyed and slack-jawed she ignored the people shooting her hateful glances as they parted around her. In another time she would have probably been humored by the thought of how crazy she must look standing there in a silver and blue jumpsuit like a nut-job pretending to be an astronaut or a space woman from the horrid Science Fiction movies she enjoyed in her youth. An image tried to flash in her mind, something about the colors silver and blue but the long lost beauty of the city had hypnotized her and she was more than happy to be distracted by its magic.
An obscenity hurled by an angry driver followed by the blast of his horn ripped her from her trance and she felt her cheeks warm in equal parts anger and embarrassment. There was work to do and she couldn’t be standing around like an awestruck moron. She spotted a newsstand on the corner and forced her wet-noodle legs to carry her to it. Grabbing the first paper she saw she checked the date, it read July 7th. Even as she blew out a sigh of relief her eyes moved to what she thought of as an old-fashioned digital clock mounted at the back of the stand. It would be happening in less than a half hour, she still had time but would have to get moving.
The newsstand sat on the corner of 8th and Main, It had happened on the corner where Main crosses 3rd. On a good day she had no doubt she could cover that distance with time to spare but after the drain of the jump she’d be pushing it. She struggled at first, fighting to produce a weak trot as she pushed through the crowd but as time grew short adrenaline allowed her to plow through the people at a decent clip. Silver and blue continued to haunt her thoughts as she ran but their significance continued to elude her. The closer she approached to the fateful corner the more the colors flashed in her mind yet she couldn’t place their importance. By the time she was within sight of the corner she was all but blinded by the flashes of color as they started tinting her vision.
She was unaware of the taxi’s approach until the impact threw her into an involuntary cartwheel. Landing in a heap on the asphalt she heard a child’s voice cry out, “Daddy that woman needs help!” Ignoring the pain that shot through her broken body she turned her head. There on the far side of the street she spotted a familiar girl running towards her. She was looking at herself and suddenly she felt like she was being ripped in half, a very odd yet real sense of duality gripping her very soul. As her eight year old self left the sidewalk into the street, she spotted her father break free of the gathered crowd on the far corner in pursuit. Seeing her father chasing after her child-self brought the memory rushing back and the realization hit her like a speeding train. More than anything she understood that the jump had been the worst decision of her life. That July day of her youth her and her father had been out shopping for a gift for her mother’s birthday. They were standing near the corner of Main and 3rd looking in the window displays when there had been a terrible accident. Wanting nothing more than to help she had run out into the street to help a woman in blue and silver who had been hurt and her dad had followed. He died because she wanted to help a stranger. NO she screamed inside her mind he died because you came back to a time you didn’t belong in. You killed him you stupid bitch! She tried to yell for the child to stay back; to say that she didn’t need help and would be okay but no words would come. Silent horror filled her as her father ran after his child unaware of the van speeding towards him down 3rd. Clinching her eyes she wept as the screeching brakes confirmed everything. She had spent her entire life wishing she could undo this day. Laying there on the merciless asphalt with her father crushed and dying not ten feet away she had time for one horrible thought as the world darkened around her. She had to face that she had caused it all along.
02 August 2009
Early Draft of My Untitled Post-Apocalyptic Novel
Okay I've been toiling away on this one for a few weeks. I think I've got the first chapter in a form that won't be totally embarrassing to have people give me feedback on. I've let a very small handful of people read it and its not gotten me laughed out of any rooms (yet).
I don't have a title yet but I know where I want it to go. I hope the title comes out of it naturally as I hate titles that feel forced.
Outside of the aforementioned small circle of people this is the first time I've thrown this out for a wide audience to read. I'd be lying if I said I'm comfortable with this but if I intend on writing even semi-professionally I'll have to get over the jitters of letting people read my work. It'd make it pretty difficult to do it for a living and never let anyone read what I've written.
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I don't have a title yet but I know where I want it to go. I hope the title comes out of it naturally as I hate titles that feel forced.
Outside of the aforementioned small circle of people this is the first time I've thrown this out for a wide audience to read. I'd be lying if I said I'm comfortable with this but if I intend on writing even semi-professionally I'll have to get over the jitters of letting people read my work. It'd make it pretty difficult to do it for a living and never let anyone read what I've written.
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-1-
Clawing at earth and gasping for air he pulled himself up the small hill. Rocks digging into the flesh of his hands and tearing away finger nails with each laborious pull. At the top his legs failed him and he collapsed in a heap on the sun baked grass. The beating of his heart jackhammered in his skull and left him feeling dizzy. Dizziness combined with the struggle to pull in each new breath brought tidal waves of nausea crashing down on him. Too early he pushed himself upright and was driven to his knees retching. Cursing himself he further bloodied his hands digging a shallow hole in the soil and scooped as much of his waste into it as he could. Even as he patted the earth to conceal the disturbed soil he studied his back-trail. He didn’t see anyone between him and the horizon but he was certain they were out there somewhere. No one ever got away from them for long and he’d witnessed first-hand more than a handful of escapees drug back to camp, the luckiest ones being those whose throats were already slit when they arrived.
His hand rested on the hilt of the knife he had taken off the lone guard who had stood in the way of his escape. If it came to it, he told himself, he’d take his own life before letting them take him back to camp and if luck was on his side he’d take of them with him. His only real chance of survival was to make it to some form of civilization before they found him. From his pocket he produced the decaying map he had also liberated from the guard and spread it on the dirt before him. With a finger he traced over lines printed decades before his birth, lines depicting long since forgotten roads and routes searching for the intersection where the ruins of the two Great Roads crossed. Rumors whispered among the other captives at night claimed the two roads spanned thousands of miles in divergent directions, something he would have found preposterous less than a month ago.
In all his life, a life of barely twenty years, he had not ventured more than two miles out side the confines of the village he had been born in before they had come riding out of the hills with their nets and rifles. Until that day the world had been nothing more than the water reaching as far as the eye could see to the east, the collection of lean-tos and shacks and the fields surrounding them. Now he was untold miles from his home, a man running blind in a land that had been a fairytale mere weeks before. They had chained them together and led them west, whipping them without mercy as they drove them like cattle towards the great unknown. He shuddered as he thought on how as the hours bled into days the members of his village disappeared and he tried to block from his mind the vile possibilities their vanishing may have meant. He kept his head down in the hope that by causing no trouble he’d go unnoticed long enough to find a way out. Eavesdropping on the conversations of guards or stealing glances at open maps while tending camp he marked the point where the Coastal Great Road met with its north-south counterpart as his best chance at freedom. Maybe his plan to stay unnoticed worked or maybe it was blind luck but on the day they reached the Great Intersection he was still alive and ready to move. Hours after they made camp that night, when everyone but the guards had fallen asleep he made his move. First he crushed the throat of the sole guard he encountered with a jagged rock and then looted the corpse of its knife, boots and map. He would have preferred a rifle to the knife but it was sharp and he had no choice but to make do. Had he more time he would have tried for one of their horses but they were better guarded than the captives and he saw certain death in even trying.
Stabbing the map with his left forefinger he marked where his escape had been made. He had been running for the better part of three days and by his best guess had only made it halfway to the river which spelled freedom. Law and order existed on its far shore, there he’d not only be safe from recapture but wherein he hoped to find ways to bring his captors to justice. Many nights fellow captives had spoken of a band of “justice seekers” that headquartered in the settlement south of the river but like most things spoke of in the prison camp night he was certain they were more myth than man. For now he contented himself as best he could with simply focusing on making it to the river alive.
He had done his best to parallel the ruins of the Great Road as it ran south despite the fact that do so only made it easier for those who might be after him to follow. Keeping the buckled surface of the ancient roadway in sight was the only way he could be certain that he’d reach the river but he made sure he kept clear of it whenever possible. Save for when he needed to cross a river on the remains of a bridge he kept the road just in sight on the horizon. These lands were full of uncivilized tribes and raiders who would make easy prey of anyone foolish enough to be caught walking in the open. These crooked men were lacking the organization of the men he felt creeping after him on his trail but were just as dangerous, if not more so. Encountering either group you were as likely to be killed for the clothes on your back as for the flesh on your bones so it was better to remain unseen until either you or they passed. Savage and lawless men weren’t the only dangers either. The land was full of wild beasts that were just as willing to make a meal of you as the cannibals. Bedtime stories claimed the lands were once the dominion of man but if that were true it had been in a time well before his birth. Now the animals ruled everything outside of the villages and twice since his escape he had to cut the throat of a wild hound before it tore out his. Both times he had lamented the kills, not out of empathy but because he was unwilling to light a fire to cook the meat out of fear that it’d be spotted or its ashes would further mark his trail. Tossing the carcasses as far as he could off the sides of his trail he cursed the waste of many good meals before continuing on his way.
Folding the map and stuffing it back into his pocket he gave one last look the way he came. He could almost see the trackers out there, sniffing along his backtrail. How long did he have before they caught up to him? When they did would they slit his throat then or would a worse fate await him? He took in a chest full of air and exhaled in one steady breath to ease the tension building before moving on. His legs refused to carry him at the pace he had been setting so he settled for as brisk a walk as they’d allow. The sun was all but directly overhead yet he felt as if he was carrying it on his back. Every inch of his being was aflame with pain and exhaustion begged him to stop and rest. Delay meant death or worse so he pressed on. Wiping sweat from his brow he wished for shade but knew that was as likely as his sprouting wings and soaring with the birds. Trees were everywhere he looked but their arid corpses bore not a single shade giving leaf, instead reaching out with twisted branches like the arms of death. Despite the terrible thirst cracking his lips he stayed clear of any bodies of water he found that were larger than a puddle as well. Growing up on the edge of the sea he had learned that while the land contained many creatures that want your blood deep waters hid their own vicious creatures from you until the moment their teeth pierced your flesh and pulled you under.
As he walked with the road off on the eastern horizon his eyes darted around in search of the next threat. The land was less forgiving than he had ever imagined it could be and he longed to be back in his shack or working his land. Sadness over the loss of life as he knew it exploded into anger and he spat a curse at the men who put him in this hostile land. Religion was never something he found time for, working to survive took precedence over bended knee to him but as he walked alongside the road he prayed to Whoever might be listening. He prayed that one day his would be the hand that brought justice to the treacherous bastards who did this to him and his village.
So lost in thoughts of salvation through vengeance was he that he almost walked into the center of the gathering of shacks and makeshift cabins. He cursed himself for his inattentiveness, realizing that had he done this a dozen other times he’d be dead in a ditch or on some savage’s dinner plate already. Pressing himself against the lean-to to his left he put his ear to its then metal wall. Nothing. Crouching he slipped across the narrow space and repeated the act there, still nothing. Backing out a step at a time he retreated into the high grasses north of the gathered buildings. Panic gripped his heart when he realized that he had managed to completely lose the road. He wanted to slap himself for his stupidity, not only had he slipped so deep in thought as to make what could have easily been a fatal mistake but he had wandered away from the road like a brainless idiot too.
He watched the small village for what felt like an eternity before deciding it like more than a handful of he had passed in the preceding days was abandoned. Still he stalked into the outlaying shacks like he expected attack, hand on the knife’s hilt and muscles tensed. He slipped around the outer ring of the shacks, stopping only to listen to the silence within each building. Once he checked the outer he moved to the second and final ring of buildings. Moving with a little more certainty he checked this last grouping of homes in moments. Not a soul was amongst the buildings and a quick check in a few shacks told him all he needed to know and brought not yet healed wounds to the surface within him.
The first buildings he entered had been simply ransacked. Clothing was thrown everywhere and what few things of value that may have been inside had been taken. Aside from the damage to property it looked as if the townsfolk had simply decided to leave in a hurry. The fourth building was the smoking gun. Just inside the door lay the bloated corpse of a young man with a bullet hole in his forehead. Closed inside the metal building the corpse had baked in the heat and the smell was more than he could bear. He bolted into the center of town and retched for the second time that day. Once his chest quit hitching and his body quit trying to bring his organs out of his mouth he allowed himself to really listen. Beyond the stillness of vacant town was a faint vibration he’d not heard before. Standing there immersed in the silence that only a ghost town can own he heard the buzzing fully. Flies. Hundreds of thousands of the carrion devouring insects no doubt feasting behind the closed doors of the remaining shacks. The constant thrum of their wings assaulted his mind and the images his mind conjured of men, women and children covered in writhing black masses brought another wave of dry heaving and dizziness.
Once again his legs failed him and he crumpled to the dirt as his body tried to empty its already hollow gut. He tried pushing himself onto all fours but the dizziness kicked him like a steel-toed boot in the head and he fell to his side. Waves of hot and cold washed over him as the world spun freely on an unnatural axis and for the briefest of moments he was sure he was going to be the next course in the insects’ feast. The mere thought of his maggoty corpse brought another pang of nausea down like a hammer but it also drove to the heart of his panic. Willing himself to his feet, he rose on shaky legs. Whatever had happened here and whoever had done it, he decided he didn’t want to be here if they returned. It was all too similar to what he had witnessed when he had been taken and the fear of another group finding him stirred his resolve. He decided it was worth the risk to check the three empty homes on his way out of town for any supplies like bandages that might come in handy. It took more time than he would have liked but by the time he was finished he had found the following: a revolver in working condition and some ammo, a deerskin water bag and a cowhide bag that fit comfortably over his shoulder. Stuffing his finds into the bag he shouldered it and made one last stop before leaving town, the well in the center of town. The act of pulling the bucket of water up strained the muscles but once it was up he had to restrain himself as excitement on the edge of delirium took control. A careful sniff told him the water was clean and with it he washed his blood and dirt caked hands and face. Washing the taste of bile out of his mouth was difficult because dehydration demanded that he swallow the mouthfuls of water immediately. After he was rinsed and clean he sucked handful after handful of the water down his throat until he felt like his stomach was going to burst from within. He emptied what remained in the bucket into the deerskin bag before pushing it back into the well and moving on. The water had removed his thirst but he still felt dizzy and feverish, feelings he hoped would pass once his body realized it was no longer suffering from dehydration. Rejuvenated by the water his legs found the energy he had been lacking before and he trotted southward in hoping his stupor hadn’t taken him too far off course.
The Great Road remained out of sight for the rest of the day as he moved south, running when able and walking as fast as he could the rest of the time. Lesser patches of smaller roadways showed themselves on occasion but generally he found himself walking on barren soil. He skirted the edge of two more gatherings of buildings as well as the collapsed heaps of rubble that at one point may have been one of the fabled cities from the bedtime stories his dad told in his youth. Before his escape he had seen his captors drive them wide around a similar grouping of mountainous heaps, plainly in fear of what might be within. Anything that brought fear out of merciless and armed men like them was something he decided he wanted nothing to do with while only with a knife so he gave the ruins a wide berth. As he worked his way around them he was certain he heard deep feline sounding roars like the mountain cats from his home but deeper in pitch. Gooseflesh rippled his skin at the thought of a cat even larger than those he had hunted at home and as if the thought of the hunts was a single a single gunshot went off with what could have been a wildcat’s cry of pain trailing it.
On the other side of the ruins he continued southward, covering more ground than he had in the previous two days since his escape. He was feeling more and more feverish as the day wore on and he began to curse himself for not stopping at one of the last two villages to look for medicine. Sure the inhabitants may have been hostile but they might have been friendly and willing to trade. Shortly before the sun dipped below the horizon he found a tree with a hollow area in its trunk to slip into and he decided it was time to call it a day. He put the waterskin behind his head and sat back into the hollow of the tree with the revolver in one hand and the knife in the other. He was looking at the stars and daydreaming about home when the day’s rigors caught up with him. Sleep overtook him before he knew it.
The blast of a not too distant gunshot snapped him from his sleep and he was in a crouch with the knife drawn and his finger on the trigger of the gun just as fast as he had fallen asleep the night before. His heart was racing and he searched the land visible from within the tree for his captors. In his half asleep daze he was certain they had caught up to him and was ready for a fight he knew he’d not be able to win. After a moment he slipped out of the opening like a snake and into the waist high grasses nearby. Laying there concealed by the grass he heard voices from what he guessed to be less than fifty paces away. He nearly squeezed the trigger in surprise when a second shot shattered the silence of the new day’s morning followed by a celebratory cry of “Got one!” Crawling on his belly he made it to a large fallen log and peeked over the top of it. In the field behind the tree he had been sleeping in were a man and a teenage boy not much younger than himself. They were obviously hunting and he watched over the log as the man took aim at one of the brown feathered birds in flight. The shot thundered in the morning air and one of the flock dropped like a stone. He couldn’t help but admire the man’s shot but was content to lie there until the two of them finished their hunt and moved on. He already knew better than to assume every person you encountered would welcome you with open arms. He’d already found that far too often the only arms open to a stranger in this world were the kind that fired hot lead.
The man and what was probably his son continued their hunt and he continued to watch. The whole scene reminded him of days spent with his own father and he must have been lulled by the similarities because he hardly heard the crunch of gravel and dead grass to his left. Before he could turn to face it his mind exploded with crack and the back of his head felt as if it was bathed in warm water. As the searing pain drove him into consuming blackness he heard a man’s voice yell out “Lookie at what I found here!”
A Mini-Rant About Photography
I know most of what I've written here has been about my writing but photography is something I'm nearly as passionate about and this is going to be one of those times when it rears its head around here.
Sometimes living in southwestern Ohio makes it pretty friggin hard to do any serious work in photography. Sure there is the children's portraiture and the occassional wedding but beyond that there isn't much work to be found in the pin-up/glamour style.
Its almost like my little corner of the world has a complete lack of "freespirits" who are into such things or because I'm not looking in the right places but I have the hardest time finding people to work with outside of my immediate friends. Despite the opinions of a small collection of a-holes, most of my work has gotten positive reviews so I don't think its because I'm an absolutely horrid photographer (although I admittedly do have alot to learn, but hey its a hobby right?).
I go on various photography/modeling sites and forums and I see no shortage of people who love doing the sort of classic pin-up (modern too) and glamour portraits in other areas of the country. In fact it seems California, Tennessee, Texas and other various midwestern states (even some up in the Cleveland, Toledo, Akron area) but almost none even within a 15 mile radius of my hometown.
Meh, I don't want to rant on and on about it but I think lack of a solid network of similar minded individuals played more than a little part in my hiatus.
There's always Friday though, I'll share those shots as soon as they're ready.
Sometimes living in southwestern Ohio makes it pretty friggin hard to do any serious work in photography. Sure there is the children's portraiture and the occassional wedding but beyond that there isn't much work to be found in the pin-up/glamour style.
Its almost like my little corner of the world has a complete lack of "freespirits" who are into such things or because I'm not looking in the right places but I have the hardest time finding people to work with outside of my immediate friends. Despite the opinions of a small collection of a-holes, most of my work has gotten positive reviews so I don't think its because I'm an absolutely horrid photographer (although I admittedly do have alot to learn, but hey its a hobby right?).
I go on various photography/modeling sites and forums and I see no shortage of people who love doing the sort of classic pin-up (modern too) and glamour portraits in other areas of the country. In fact it seems California, Tennessee, Texas and other various midwestern states (even some up in the Cleveland, Toledo, Akron area) but almost none even within a 15 mile radius of my hometown.
Meh, I don't want to rant on and on about it but I think lack of a solid network of similar minded individuals played more than a little part in my hiatus.
There's always Friday though, I'll share those shots as soon as they're ready.
01 August 2009
Never Ceases to Amaze
Whew,
I just looked over at my clock and realized that I've written for roughly six straight hours without a pause.
It truly does always amaze me when I get into a groove and the hours just melt away as I get lost in my own little worlds.
I started this morning working on an idea that has been brewing like a storm on the horizon for a few weeks now. The idea was initially birthed when I first started the post-apocalyptic piece I've been working on but was surgically removed when I realized I wanted the setting of my post-apoc. story to be more desolate and less Orwellian.
So I took that Orwellian aspect rolled it into a little ball and shoved it to the back of my mind where unbeknownst to me it took root. As I've been working on other things, watching the news and reading other dark dystopic novels this idea spread its roots and honestly started infecting my dreams.
Now roughly two weeks later the story was the owner of the loudest of all the screaming ideas in my head. This morning, shortly before noon I sat down at my desk and started giving it life.
Now at 5:06 pm, well a few minutes before hand actually, my laptop battery is dead and I'm taking a break. I'd share the opening three chapters on here but to be frank I don't think their fit for reading yet.
What I did get done was throughly disturbing and all kinds of frightening (at least to a freedom loving goon like myself). Maybe by commiting it to story I'll stop having the intense dreams I've been haunted by of late and get a good night's sleep for the first time in over 10 days.
In closing I offer this little bit for you to think on: "But a Constitution of Government once changed from Freedom, can never be restored. Liberty, once lost, is lost forever."
Good afternoon and Godspeed.
I just looked over at my clock and realized that I've written for roughly six straight hours without a pause.
It truly does always amaze me when I get into a groove and the hours just melt away as I get lost in my own little worlds.
I started this morning working on an idea that has been brewing like a storm on the horizon for a few weeks now. The idea was initially birthed when I first started the post-apocalyptic piece I've been working on but was surgically removed when I realized I wanted the setting of my post-apoc. story to be more desolate and less Orwellian.
So I took that Orwellian aspect rolled it into a little ball and shoved it to the back of my mind where unbeknownst to me it took root. As I've been working on other things, watching the news and reading other dark dystopic novels this idea spread its roots and honestly started infecting my dreams.
Now roughly two weeks later the story was the owner of the loudest of all the screaming ideas in my head. This morning, shortly before noon I sat down at my desk and started giving it life.
Now at 5:06 pm, well a few minutes before hand actually, my laptop battery is dead and I'm taking a break. I'd share the opening three chapters on here but to be frank I don't think their fit for reading yet.
What I did get done was throughly disturbing and all kinds of frightening (at least to a freedom loving goon like myself). Maybe by commiting it to story I'll stop having the intense dreams I've been haunted by of late and get a good night's sleep for the first time in over 10 days.
In closing I offer this little bit for you to think on: "But a Constitution of Government once changed from Freedom, can never be restored. Liberty, once lost, is lost forever."
Good afternoon and Godspeed.
30 July 2009
A Blog I'd Like To Share
I was just checking out some of the blogs over on Writer's Digest and found one that reached right into my chest and gave my heart a good ole tug.
First the blog then I'll elaborate:
Are You Too Ambitious for Your Own Good?Posted by Jane
Ira Glass has some of the best advice I've ever read for writers, at least in relation to great storytelling. He's said that you have to be willing to be bad at what you do for a long time until you actually can achieve the vision of perfection you have in your head. He even puts himself out on a limb and offers recordings illuminating how bad he was at radio when he first started. I was reminded of Ira when my writer-friend Teresa Fleming shared with me the following letter from Charles Dickens, where he responds to an aspiring writer.
Tuesday, Feb. 5th, 1867.
DEAR SIR,
I have looked at the larger half of the first volume of your novel, and have pursued the more difficult points of the story through the other two volumes.
You will, of course, receive my opinion as that of an individual writer and student of art, who by no means claims to be infallible.
I think you are too ambitious, and that you have not sufficient knowledge of life or character to venture on so comprehensive an attempt. Evidences of inexperience in every way, and of your power being far below the situations that you imagine, present themselves to me in almost every page I have read. It would greatly surprise me if you found a publisher for this story, on trying your fortune in that line, or derived anything from it but weariness and bitterness of spirit.
On the evidence thus put before me, I cannot even entirely satisfy myself that you have the faculty of authorship latent within you. If you have not, and yet pursue a vocation towards which you have no call, you cannot choose but be a wretched man. Let me counsel you to have the patience to form yourself carefully, and the courage to renounce the endeavour if you cannot establish your case on a very much smaller scale. You see around you every day, how many outlets there are for short pieces of fiction in all kinds. Try if you can achieve any success within these modest limits (I have practised in my time what I preach to you), and in the meantime put your three volumes away.
Faithfully yours.
Yikes, right? (You can read more Dickens letters here.) Here's the secret, though: If you're the writer, do you read this and think: I should just stop trying. Or do you read this and think: He doesn't know how wrong he is! Writers in training know they're not good, but they know they're getting better. And they go on to fight another day.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Now for sometime now I've struggled with the idea of pursuing what I really want to do. As often is the case when I look at anything I've done, I am by a fair margin the harshest critic.
Whether I'm taking pictures or writing pieces of any length I'm nearly always convinced that its the worst thing ever and feel this compulsion to either redo it or delete it all and walk away.
When I first read the Dickens's letter I immediately became the "if that was me, I'd walk away with my tail between my legs" author. But the more I thought about it I realized that even as cold as Dickens's letter was I discovered that I actually believe it to be inspiring. More and more I find myself viewing the people who wish to destroy your dreams by saying "you'll never make it" or "you should give up now before you embarass yourself" as fuel to push on and eventually prove them wrong.
I've been called mediocre before. I'm still shooting and writing.
I've been called talentless before. I'm still shooting and writing.
In short Dickens letter to this unnamed author has once again sparked that drive in me that wants to shove the negativity down the throats of the naysayers out there who would like nothing better than to keep any and everyone with the passion to create from doing what they enjoy.
Okay enough soapboxing, I've got tales to weave.
First the blog then I'll elaborate:
Are You Too Ambitious for Your Own Good?Posted by Jane
Ira Glass has some of the best advice I've ever read for writers, at least in relation to great storytelling. He's said that you have to be willing to be bad at what you do for a long time until you actually can achieve the vision of perfection you have in your head. He even puts himself out on a limb and offers recordings illuminating how bad he was at radio when he first started. I was reminded of Ira when my writer-friend Teresa Fleming shared with me the following letter from Charles Dickens, where he responds to an aspiring writer.
Tuesday, Feb. 5th, 1867.
DEAR SIR,
I have looked at the larger half of the first volume of your novel, and have pursued the more difficult points of the story through the other two volumes.
You will, of course, receive my opinion as that of an individual writer and student of art, who by no means claims to be infallible.
I think you are too ambitious, and that you have not sufficient knowledge of life or character to venture on so comprehensive an attempt. Evidences of inexperience in every way, and of your power being far below the situations that you imagine, present themselves to me in almost every page I have read. It would greatly surprise me if you found a publisher for this story, on trying your fortune in that line, or derived anything from it but weariness and bitterness of spirit.
On the evidence thus put before me, I cannot even entirely satisfy myself that you have the faculty of authorship latent within you. If you have not, and yet pursue a vocation towards which you have no call, you cannot choose but be a wretched man. Let me counsel you to have the patience to form yourself carefully, and the courage to renounce the endeavour if you cannot establish your case on a very much smaller scale. You see around you every day, how many outlets there are for short pieces of fiction in all kinds. Try if you can achieve any success within these modest limits (I have practised in my time what I preach to you), and in the meantime put your three volumes away.
Faithfully yours.
Yikes, right? (You can read more Dickens letters here.) Here's the secret, though: If you're the writer, do you read this and think: I should just stop trying. Or do you read this and think: He doesn't know how wrong he is! Writers in training know they're not good, but they know they're getting better. And they go on to fight another day.
--------------------------------------------------------------------
Now for sometime now I've struggled with the idea of pursuing what I really want to do. As often is the case when I look at anything I've done, I am by a fair margin the harshest critic.
Whether I'm taking pictures or writing pieces of any length I'm nearly always convinced that its the worst thing ever and feel this compulsion to either redo it or delete it all and walk away.
When I first read the Dickens's letter I immediately became the "if that was me, I'd walk away with my tail between my legs" author. But the more I thought about it I realized that even as cold as Dickens's letter was I discovered that I actually believe it to be inspiring. More and more I find myself viewing the people who wish to destroy your dreams by saying "you'll never make it" or "you should give up now before you embarass yourself" as fuel to push on and eventually prove them wrong.
I've been called mediocre before. I'm still shooting and writing.
I've been called talentless before. I'm still shooting and writing.
In short Dickens letter to this unnamed author has once again sparked that drive in me that wants to shove the negativity down the throats of the naysayers out there who would like nothing better than to keep any and everyone with the passion to create from doing what they enjoy.
Okay enough soapboxing, I've got tales to weave.
29 July 2009
I Need About 10 Hours Added to Everyday
Days like today remind me of why I quit trying to juggle my two favorite hobbies/wanna-be-careers.
For the longest time I was working on my photography skills and little else. Then my long neglected passion for writing bit my backside and I started trying to write nightly and wiggle in time to take pictures of willing subjects, do the occassional wedding and various landscapes. Doesn't sound too difficult right?
Well add to my passions the 35-45 hour a week day job, a commute that now takes nearly 40 minutes (both to and from work), the responsibilites of being a husband and father and any other "normalities" of life and one is left with very little time to devote to one's chosen crafts.
So for much of the last 19 months I've kicked photography completely out of the picture and focused the vast majority of my free time on writing (both the study and practical application of).
About a month ago I found out that I had a shot to work with someone I'd been dying to work with next week and decided I had to take this once in a blue moon opportunity. Well not to put too fine a point on it, I'm way out of practice when it comes to working with a living, breathing person. I'm trying to scramble to find time to schedule a warmup shoot or a half dozen between now and next friday.
I'm also struggling to make sense of the cacophony in my mind and write coherent short stories, novellas and novels as well. My wife finds it amusing when I say this but I've read things by other writers that tell me I'm not alone.
Each and every idea my imagination births has its own "voice" in my mind. Once the concept is birthed in my thick skull it swirls around building moment and taking a more definate shape. As time passes and it becomes a solid enough "being" it starts "speaking" to my mind's ear. The longer I try to ignore it the louder it gets and eventually I have this intangible thing in my head that it pounding it's fists against the walls of my skull in an effort to break free. Over time several of these can start their attempted jailbreak at one time and I'm left with daily migraines and a sense of confusion.
I know maybe that sounds a touch odd to those of you who don't write but that's the best way I can explain it. I've already had a horror novel, an epic fantasy, a private investigator novel and a post-apocalyptic novella swirling around in the inner reaches of the right side of my brain but over the last few weeks I've added the concept for at least one horror short, a dystopian novel in the Orwellian tradition and a character driven dramatic short (the last of which poked its obnoxious head up last night at about 2am).
Maybe I'm not alone here but with the shortness of hours available to me, I sometimes feel like I'm never going to get it all out of my head (especially once they all start stepping on each other).
Well that's enough wasted time here, maybe I'll go into my corner of the house and get something sorted out (lord I hope nothing new shows up while I'm in there).
Good night.
For the longest time I was working on my photography skills and little else. Then my long neglected passion for writing bit my backside and I started trying to write nightly and wiggle in time to take pictures of willing subjects, do the occassional wedding and various landscapes. Doesn't sound too difficult right?
Well add to my passions the 35-45 hour a week day job, a commute that now takes nearly 40 minutes (both to and from work), the responsibilites of being a husband and father and any other "normalities" of life and one is left with very little time to devote to one's chosen crafts.
So for much of the last 19 months I've kicked photography completely out of the picture and focused the vast majority of my free time on writing (both the study and practical application of).
About a month ago I found out that I had a shot to work with someone I'd been dying to work with next week and decided I had to take this once in a blue moon opportunity. Well not to put too fine a point on it, I'm way out of practice when it comes to working with a living, breathing person. I'm trying to scramble to find time to schedule a warmup shoot or a half dozen between now and next friday.
I'm also struggling to make sense of the cacophony in my mind and write coherent short stories, novellas and novels as well. My wife finds it amusing when I say this but I've read things by other writers that tell me I'm not alone.
Each and every idea my imagination births has its own "voice" in my mind. Once the concept is birthed in my thick skull it swirls around building moment and taking a more definate shape. As time passes and it becomes a solid enough "being" it starts "speaking" to my mind's ear. The longer I try to ignore it the louder it gets and eventually I have this intangible thing in my head that it pounding it's fists against the walls of my skull in an effort to break free. Over time several of these can start their attempted jailbreak at one time and I'm left with daily migraines and a sense of confusion.
I know maybe that sounds a touch odd to those of you who don't write but that's the best way I can explain it. I've already had a horror novel, an epic fantasy, a private investigator novel and a post-apocalyptic novella swirling around in the inner reaches of the right side of my brain but over the last few weeks I've added the concept for at least one horror short, a dystopian novel in the Orwellian tradition and a character driven dramatic short (the last of which poked its obnoxious head up last night at about 2am).
Maybe I'm not alone here but with the shortness of hours available to me, I sometimes feel like I'm never going to get it all out of my head (especially once they all start stepping on each other).
Well that's enough wasted time here, maybe I'll go into my corner of the house and get something sorted out (lord I hope nothing new shows up while I'm in there).
Good night.
24 July 2009
Contest Submission Update
In case there are any of you out there wondering how I fared in the short story contest I entered at the start of the month:
I was not one of the finalists.
How do I feel about losing?
Well I'm obviously not thrilled about it but I'm not beating myself up either (at least I haven't been since the day the finalists were posted).
Of course I'm biased and think that my story was better than at least one of the five finalists (and just as good as three of them) but I'm not a judge. I still voted for my favorite of the three best as it would be just poor sportsmanship if I refused to give the better writer his/her due just because I didn't make the cut.
As for the story I'm going to take it back to the drawing board and make some additions to it. I feel without the less than 800 word limit placed on it for the contest I can spin up an enjoyable yarn that tells a more complete version (more in line with my original vision) in about twice the word count.
Anyhoo its time to stop wasting words on this blog and throw some more at one of my stories.
Good night and good luck.
I was not one of the finalists.
How do I feel about losing?
Well I'm obviously not thrilled about it but I'm not beating myself up either (at least I haven't been since the day the finalists were posted).
Of course I'm biased and think that my story was better than at least one of the five finalists (and just as good as three of them) but I'm not a judge. I still voted for my favorite of the three best as it would be just poor sportsmanship if I refused to give the better writer his/her due just because I didn't make the cut.
As for the story I'm going to take it back to the drawing board and make some additions to it. I feel without the less than 800 word limit placed on it for the contest I can spin up an enjoyable yarn that tells a more complete version (more in line with my original vision) in about twice the word count.
Anyhoo its time to stop wasting words on this blog and throw some more at one of my stories.
Good night and good luck.
08 July 2009
An Update On Things
Just thought I'd pop in real quick and touch on a few things.
This past weekend we celebrated July 4th and during the fireworks show I was slapped full on with a brand new story idea. I spent most of the day Sunday committing the opening chapter to "paper" and am pleased where I am going with it.
The inclusion of my new post-apocalyptic yarn now brings my total works in progress count to four: an epic fantasy, a hard-boiled P.I. tale, a supernatural horror/thriller and the aforementioned Sci-Fi post-apocalyptic tale. And those are not counting any short stories that may pop in my head (like the one I entered in the magazine contest my last post touched on).
In addition to all the above (as well as my duties as a damn decent but far from perfect father and husband) I'm also getting the ball rolling again in my other favorite artistic medium: photography. I've not taken many pictures in the last 18 months but I feel now is the right time to slip into my old grove.
As it stands now I've got a ultra-huge shoot coming but I'm not going to say more in case something unfortunate happens and screws everything up.
I'm also still trying to get a halfway worthwhile website up to hawk my stuff and keep you all informed but a fellow can only juggle so many creative pursuits at once, you know?
But yeah thought I'd give a little update to any of my micro-legion of fans (even if each and everyone of you are people I know personally and can see daily if I tried harder).
This past weekend we celebrated July 4th and during the fireworks show I was slapped full on with a brand new story idea. I spent most of the day Sunday committing the opening chapter to "paper" and am pleased where I am going with it.
The inclusion of my new post-apocalyptic yarn now brings my total works in progress count to four: an epic fantasy, a hard-boiled P.I. tale, a supernatural horror/thriller and the aforementioned Sci-Fi post-apocalyptic tale. And those are not counting any short stories that may pop in my head (like the one I entered in the magazine contest my last post touched on).
In addition to all the above (as well as my duties as a damn decent but far from perfect father and husband) I'm also getting the ball rolling again in my other favorite artistic medium: photography. I've not taken many pictures in the last 18 months but I feel now is the right time to slip into my old grove.
As it stands now I've got a ultra-huge shoot coming but I'm not going to say more in case something unfortunate happens and screws everything up.
I'm also still trying to get a halfway worthwhile website up to hawk my stuff and keep you all informed but a fellow can only juggle so many creative pursuits at once, you know?
But yeah thought I'd give a little update to any of my micro-legion of fans (even if each and everyone of you are people I know personally and can see daily if I tried harder).
01 July 2009
Wish Me Luck
Yesterday morning I submitted a (very) short story to a magazine for their monthly contest.
This is the first time I've done such a thing and I'm anxious to see how I fare (the contest usually draws about 500 entries a month).
I'd be thrilled if I make the final five but like any sane person I'm hoping for an outright win.
The grand prize is nothing more than publication in the magazine but that's one more publishing credit than I have right now and the more of those I can display the better.
If my story doesn't make it to at least the final five I'll take it, polish it up, make it slightly longer to tell a "fuller" story and more likely than not post it here.
Wish me luck.
This is the first time I've done such a thing and I'm anxious to see how I fare (the contest usually draws about 500 entries a month).
I'd be thrilled if I make the final five but like any sane person I'm hoping for an outright win.
The grand prize is nothing more than publication in the magazine but that's one more publishing credit than I have right now and the more of those I can display the better.
If my story doesn't make it to at least the final five I'll take it, polish it up, make it slightly longer to tell a "fuller" story and more likely than not post it here.
Wish me luck.
26 June 2009
Writer's Block
I've been feeling blocked up as of late.
I think I need to destress and unwind a bit but life being life doesn't afford too many opportunities for relaxation.
I need a vacation.
17 June 2009
June Progress Report and Life News
I'm hesitant to post this as I'm more than a little ashamed of it but.......
As of last night my word count is at 35,038.
The last month has brought many changes to my life and as such my word output has suffered. While the lack of progress is frustrating I'll take the setback in exchange for good that has come into my life since my last progress check.
Your's truly will be a father of three come year's end.
As if the addition to the family wasn't enough I have also spent much of the last month working diligently with my wife to find a new home for our expanding family. As of tomorrow we will be closing on the new place and will begin moving post haste.
So while I may not have gotten the work I wanted done I've accomplished something much more magnificent instead.
Good day.
As of last night my word count is at 35,038.
The last month has brought many changes to my life and as such my word output has suffered. While the lack of progress is frustrating I'll take the setback in exchange for good that has come into my life since my last progress check.
Your's truly will be a father of three come year's end.
As if the addition to the family wasn't enough I have also spent much of the last month working diligently with my wife to find a new home for our expanding family. As of tomorrow we will be closing on the new place and will begin moving post haste.
So while I may not have gotten the work I wanted done I've accomplished something much more magnificent instead.
Good day.
29 May 2009
Why I Write
In my short life I've often been asked the question "Why do you write?". Usually this question comes from someone older than I who, having worked their fingers to the bone at a job they don't care much for but sees no point in "silly" dream-chasing, wants to point out the fallacy of such endeavours.
I wish I was of brilliant enough mind to come up with the quote by Michele Shea I posted earlier this morning.
"Creativity is...seeing something that doesn't exist already. You need to find out how you can bring it into being and that way be a playmate with God."
Those two sentences embody my love of writing. I write to simply because I enjoy it and if others enjoy it too that's all the better.
Granted I'll more likely than not never be on the level of Hemingway, Faulkner or Dickens but if that was my reason for writing I should have long ago packed it in and moved on.
I write simply for the love of story telling. Yes I have the overwhelming desire to write professionally but at its core its all As best as I can remember, my love affair with writing began as early as 2nd grade when I wrote some truly awful stories and alaphabet books. I wrote like crazy up through middle school when, and I'm ashamed to admit this, I quit after being mocked by some little punk that ripped a story I was working on out of my notebook. My preteen mind was smashed by this open mockery of my work and I unfortunately succumbed to it, ceasing to write for several years.
As a teenager I picked it up again during my time in various production classes, writing scripts, short stories, "skits" and in short everything short of poetry (I've never had the talent for it). Since then I've almost always been writng something, even if the vast majority have been things that only my eyes have ever seen. I've probably started and trashed (and sometimes started again) about four or five projects for every year I've walked the earth. More recently as I've grown and developed a slightly thicker skin I've allowed handfuls of people to view what I've done. This I feel was necessary since no one that has ever made a career of writing without exposing their work (and by proxy themselves) to the world.
Brevity has never been something I've been good at, so in the interest of not rambling too much longer let me get to the two-fold point to all the above. First and foremost I just wanted to clarify that I write because it simply makes me happy, which I feel I did. My secondary point was to point out the foolishness of not doing something that makes you happy because someone else looked down on you for it. I sacrificed fully a quarter to a fifth of my young existence not doing something I loved because some turd in middle school made me feel bad. See the problem there? If I allowed the mockery of others to derail me like that today I'd be sitting on my hands attempting to do nothing with my life. Everywhere you turn in life you'll find people who will try and break any and all dreams you have. Don't let them do it, embrace what you love even if you'll never "be somebody" in doing it. Because afterall doing something you love because you love it is what matters most.
I wish I was of brilliant enough mind to come up with the quote by Michele Shea I posted earlier this morning.
"Creativity is...seeing something that doesn't exist already. You need to find out how you can bring it into being and that way be a playmate with God."
Those two sentences embody my love of writing. I write to simply because I enjoy it and if others enjoy it too that's all the better.
Granted I'll more likely than not never be on the level of Hemingway, Faulkner or Dickens but if that was my reason for writing I should have long ago packed it in and moved on.
I write simply for the love of story telling. Yes I have the overwhelming desire to write professionally but at its core its all As best as I can remember, my love affair with writing began as early as 2nd grade when I wrote some truly awful stories and alaphabet books. I wrote like crazy up through middle school when, and I'm ashamed to admit this, I quit after being mocked by some little punk that ripped a story I was working on out of my notebook. My preteen mind was smashed by this open mockery of my work and I unfortunately succumbed to it, ceasing to write for several years.
As a teenager I picked it up again during my time in various production classes, writing scripts, short stories, "skits" and in short everything short of poetry (I've never had the talent for it). Since then I've almost always been writng something, even if the vast majority have been things that only my eyes have ever seen. I've probably started and trashed (and sometimes started again) about four or five projects for every year I've walked the earth. More recently as I've grown and developed a slightly thicker skin I've allowed handfuls of people to view what I've done. This I feel was necessary since no one that has ever made a career of writing without exposing their work (and by proxy themselves) to the world.
Brevity has never been something I've been good at, so in the interest of not rambling too much longer let me get to the two-fold point to all the above. First and foremost I just wanted to clarify that I write because it simply makes me happy, which I feel I did. My secondary point was to point out the foolishness of not doing something that makes you happy because someone else looked down on you for it. I sacrificed fully a quarter to a fifth of my young existence not doing something I loved because some turd in middle school made me feel bad. See the problem there? If I allowed the mockery of others to derail me like that today I'd be sitting on my hands attempting to do nothing with my life. Everywhere you turn in life you'll find people who will try and break any and all dreams you have. Don't let them do it, embrace what you love even if you'll never "be somebody" in doing it. Because afterall doing something you love because you love it is what matters most.
Because I'm Not Feeling Particularly Creative at the Moment....
Creativity is...seeing something that doesn't exist already. You need to find out how you can bring it into being and that way be a playmate with God.---Michele Shea
I passionately hate the idea of being with it, I think an artist has always to be out of step with his time.----Orson Welles
The position of the artist is humble. He is essentially a channel.----Piet Mondrian
I know just how frustrating it can be when you're tired and exhausted, but you still want to draw something.-----Ward Jenkins
I passionately hate the idea of being with it, I think an artist has always to be out of step with his time.----Orson Welles
The position of the artist is humble. He is essentially a channel.----Piet Mondrian
I know just how frustrating it can be when you're tired and exhausted, but you still want to draw something.-----Ward Jenkins
24 May 2009
A Book Every Aspiring Writer Must Read
I've almost learned more on style and developing my "voice" from this one book than I have from years of articles and textbooks.
If you want to write, enjoy stories about an artist at their craft or are just a King nut you have to check this one out.
20 May 2009
It's Coming!!!!
Coming soon.......
www.shadyoung.com
I'm working on the site daily.
I'll post more as the launch date draws near.
Stay tuned...............
www.shadyoung.com
I'm working on the site daily.
I'll post more as the launch date draws near.
Stay tuned...............
18 May 2009
Progress Report
When I decided to pack it up last night my latest project was sitting pretty at a hair over 33,200 words.
That puts me at roughly 51% of my projected goal.
I'd have gotten more done this weekend by "family commitments" kept me from my work.
I'm working on other shorter pieces and one much more "epic" in scale as well but most of my attention is falling on this one story at the moment.
As I move further along I'll post additional updates.
That puts me at roughly 51% of my projected goal.
I'd have gotten more done this weekend by "family commitments" kept me from my work.
I'm working on other shorter pieces and one much more "epic" in scale as well but most of my attention is falling on this one story at the moment.
As I move further along I'll post additional updates.
15 May 2009
Rebooting this Blog
Two years back I opened up this blog as an avenue to discuss my 2nd favorite hobby, photography.
Today I decided to retool this blog and use it at the first step in launching my "author's platform". My oldest love has always been writing and for much of the last year and a half has been spent reading and writing.
I've been working hard at several different projects and am looking into several different publishing options for when these projects are wrapped.
As they get closer to completion I'm planning on launching a website to sell them, be they self-published or put out by a more traditional publishing house.
Keep an eye on this site as I'm considering posting teasers and previews as well as just thoughts on things and my overall progress of various things.
Thank you for coming and I hope to make a fan of you in the future.
Today I decided to retool this blog and use it at the first step in launching my "author's platform". My oldest love has always been writing and for much of the last year and a half has been spent reading and writing.
I've been working hard at several different projects and am looking into several different publishing options for when these projects are wrapped.
As they get closer to completion I'm planning on launching a website to sell them, be they self-published or put out by a more traditional publishing house.
Keep an eye on this site as I'm considering posting teasers and previews as well as just thoughts on things and my overall progress of various things.
Thank you for coming and I hope to make a fan of you in the future.
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