I like a Justin Timberlake song...

...kinda




oh, and i'm also kinda writing some stuff. not exactly sure where it's going, it's most just random whatevers right now. that isn't the important part, though. this song is sweet.

Ding!

I am trying to write 500 words a day (as a minimum), that's about 1 page single spaced. I've been keeping up on but just in case anyone is curious, I am trying to keep the logs going, so DING! 500+ words written today.

Main story's current word count: 37,700

Word Counts Baby!

I have to write. It makes the crazy go away. Not all the way away, but I seem to get through the day easier. Lately, I've been all over the place with my writing. I have a city I've created called Redpine for the everyday sort of fiction. One of the stories is called Kittens: Free or Best Offer and there is nothing supernatural going in the story--I mention this because most of you have read some of the first draft of Lucky One. But, I have decided to focus again on Lucky One as I have the story pretty well mapped out at this point.

I am striving to finish the first draft and am working on it every day, even if it's just a little and I've allowed myself to go back for some light editing, which can either add or subtract from the overall word count--which is how I'm measuring my progress. Word count for today before I've started in on the story is: 31,356.

I work today and don't usually have the mental capacity to sit down and write, so I have to sneak in some writing--even though my wife is home today.

Hatred Keeps Me Going

Hatred for YOU that is.

Should you be worried? For the most part, no. I don't know where you live and I don't like traveling so much, so this all worth it's weight in gold. But don't be too quick to dismiss my anger! You never know when it will be convenient for me to ruin you!

Here is a little bit of dialogue from yesterday, the Bastard's little girl's birthday, iff'n* you care.



*'iff'n' be some swagger talk I tooks from Mr. Mitchie thar.

And Next!

Yesterday, after 8 hours of glorified babysitting (I work at a teen-youth transitional facility) I came home and soaked in the love of being a father. My daughter, 12, is at an age where she simply can't ignore these social events printed on our calendars. I'm a known grump when it comes to holidays and have said making Halmark a little richer doesn't make me feel any more accomplished as a father. My son, 5, is excited anytime presents and cake is involved--that it was NOT my birthday took some explaining.

So, there was no card involved yesterday. A favorite meal of mine--roast with mashed potatoes, fresh bread, coupled with German Chocolate cake (from scratch) and homemade dressing.
I also was gifted a snazzy pocket notebook with a textured cover with a sewn in bookmark and matching band that wraps around the notebook to keep it closed no matter what you've got folded and stuffed in there--oh and a nice green cover, my stated favorite color. I also got two Zebra writing utensils, a pen and pencil combo, as I also have a little known preference for the solid, fine lines.

After all the merrymaking, stuffed stupid with dinner, desert and attention, I waddled over to my computer and pulled up my words. Feeling fat and stupid, I didn't work on anything new. I opened Lucky One out of habit and the first draft of "Kittens: Free Or Best Offer" that I was going on about the other day (first draft ended at 4,233 words spilling over 8 pages). I read through some of my fiction but wasn't feeling it. I closed "Kittens" and added some light verse to Lucky One, maybe 500 words total.

But I was okay with that. I wish everyday could be a 4k word day, but I've accepted it can't. Now, I have all day ahead of me but my wife has the day off and it's summer, so both my lovely children will have free reign of the house too. How much you think I'll write today?

Well! It's all about me!

The original concept for this blog was to be a shared place for some fellow writers. And it still is, but we all have our lives and schedules and I still invite you all to contribute (or if you know someone who might want to join and post) I encourage you to!

But in the meantime, my own constant writing has continued. I am still working on Lucky One and then I also have been trying some short stories, something I can refine I send off to someone who publishes such things.

The funny thing is the short stories seem so much different than Lucky One. They aren't scifi by any stretch of the imagination but I am compelled none the less to write them. Today I wanted to get a first draft done and I have spent all day cranking it out and am almost done with it--this post is actually kind of a break.

Anyways, I want to start using this blog to talk about my own writing process, if for nothing else than for shits and giggles (in that order, if you please).

So today I started working on a short story I had in the back of my mind for awhile now, loosely based on the experience I had trying to give away kittens. It seemed like it would be a quick and easy write, but at 4,045 words and a day spent writing (children and the wife won't be ignored) I am wondering what my daily average will be.

Stay tuned I guess! I write everyday but sometimes it's no more than a couple hundred words.

[A Man Named Jim]

 

He had never taken a class to hone his fighting ability, he had just always kind of been good at it. His frame was bigger, lithe and relaxed in a fight. He considered that his advantage. He always saw the fight coming and he made himself relax and just deal with it.

            The fist time he took money in exchange for his natural abilities was to help out a friend. She needed a safety, someone who knew where she was going and could come get her if need be. It was a decent kickback but it was easy money for me. I was living on a small budget and that included a lot of loose time.

            That last time scared her out of the business. Jim was sitting in the swanky out of town hotel, out on the balcony that faced the sea, smoking a cigar. The phone sitting on the glass patio table rattled and chirped. The text read, “Helkj.” He grabbed his sledge hammer and left.

            She and the John met downstairs at the bar and got a room that they checked in together. She insisted on this process to lessen the chance of a surprise and need to text Jim.

            The last text he had gotten said “414.” Fourth floor, room 14. Same floor as Jim’s room. You can’t just put your shoulder down and charge through a hotel door. They’re pretty tough now days. They’re not invisible by any means. A well aimed, solid chop from his sledgehammer sheered off the door. He switched grips and rammed the handle through what was left of the door knob and kicked the door open.

            It’s a noisy way to make an entrance, but given the situation it’s also the fastest. A definite downside is the guy on the other side of the door can’t help but hear you coming. But Jim was ready for that.

            The room was a mess, the few things in the room were everywhere, the dresser with the mounted TV was face down, her clothes were scattered. He wasn’t surprised though, she was a fighter. She was on the bed naked with her hands bound in front of her with a belt. Blood was smeared on her face and there were dark red lines crisscrossing her ribs, crying long red streams down her pale skin. He was naked too, a long, thin silver knife in his hand, flying across the room, going towards his pile of clothes atop which sat a big, shiny silver revolver.

            Jim liked to keep the play quiet and personal. He was beyond irritated that he instead of charging with his knife he was going for his gun. Jim had played this part out in his head a hundred times with a hundred different outcomes. That there might be shots exchanged was too likely a thing to be ignored, and according to his friends who knew about such things, most times in a firefight no one shoots shit. So Jim had practiced and practiced with his piece.

            Jim had gotten good. By the time the nude man had his hand around the handle and was swinging it wide to square his shots, Jim fired once, blasting through his opponents wrist before the revolver’s trigger could be squeezed.

            The gun and gore went flying and Jim holstered his piece. He cleared the distance between him and his enemy quickly and just as the wounded man was starting to scream, Jim punched him squarely in the face with his right and then sent him reeling towards the hotel bed by landing a full force, swinging left. He was on the man before he stopped rolling, sitting across his chest and pinning the man’s arms under Jim’s knees, Jim punched him rapid fire until the man was a semiconscious, bleeding mess.

            Jim was relaxed, the fight had been fluid for him. But he was mad in a way he had never been mad before. He found the silver knife and unhooked the belt binding her hands wrists together. He helped bind her wounds using strips of the gurgling fellow’s clothes and did what he could to get the handle on the door to stay to create the appearance of normalcy while she finished getting dressed.

When they were both finished, he told her, “We’re gonna walk out of here calm as cows, ok?”

            She nodded and he stood over the bleeding man and remembered he had a knife. “Why don’t you go wait out in the hall,” he said evenly.

            She didn’t though She stood there, rooted, considering everything about the way Jim was eyeing the ruined man on the floor. “Are you going to kill him?”

            Jim met her stare, it was honest. “Yeah, I think so.” There was freckle of blood leaking through the side of her dress. The neckline was stretched out. “Yeah. It’s the for the best I think.”

            The man tried to say something, it might have been “No,” or “Please,” or who knows what, it was too wet to understand. They stood there staring at each other until she said, “I want to help.”

            Again, her eyes were honest and Jim nodded. “Okay. But we gotta hurry.” He handed her the knife, hilt first.

            “Can I use the gun?”

            “Too loud.”

            She bit lip and then said, “Okay.”

Wut Doin'?

I have been training at a new job that starts at 7am--haha, just kidding. They want you there at 6:55am.

I don't want to talk about it.

But, I do sit in a room all day (and will for the next five-ish weeks) and while it may look like I am a studious note taker, really I am writing free hand. Not Lucky One though, I do that at home.

But, I am going to type up what I've been jotting down and to see what you guys think.

Just saying. . .

Oh, let your writing friends know about the site if you want. I pitch it as writers who write and like to talk about writing. (Writing Writers Talking was taken :( )

Idea Generation and Development

Hey all, I was wondering what process(es) work best for you for story idea generation and development. What I mean by that is, when (and how) do you get ideas for stories, and then how do you go about developing them. I find myself coming up with great ideas for opening scenes all the time, but then have no idea where to go from there. And when I sit and try to force something out . . well, bad things happen and I have to wash my pants.

So, if you don't mind sharing, what has worked for you in the past? Do story ideas come to you out of the blue? Or can you methodically generate them at will? Or is it a hybrid?

This Just In!

I hate you all.

Chime in on Chapters

Do you guys have a general preference for chapter headings? Do you like titles or prefer the bare bones numbering?

I remember the Dragon Lance books being horrible with their chapter names because they just told you what was about to happen. "Chapter 11: Raistlin's Betrays The Party"

In tenth grade I was all about the roman numeral's for chapters, but I think I'm over that now. It doesn't annoy me or anything, I've just come to really hate any and all things roman.

Rollin' rollin' rollin

Hello people!

I dunno what you guys are up to besides the general facts--working, pregnancy, being a dick, etc, but I figure one of the things writers have to deal with is the fact that the creative process continues weather or not we want it to. For me, that means dividing my creative time--I'm not working but I am the stay at home parent (and if anyone can convince my five year old I'm something other than his big hairy toy there's a cash reward in it for you) and, as near as I can tell, my wife hates me and all writers and has nothing but contempt for the craft--so it can be tricky deal.

I like talking about writing, so I was wondering how you guys handle the demands of writing. I like to work on shorter stories while working on a main story. I've done that before but this time I am more committed to my main story.

Exciting...for me!

Most everyone here knows about Lucky One, and that I've been pluggin' away at it, which is true. But, since I have decided its not going to be a serial, I'll be changing more than expected on the second draft. I mention this because a couple of my friends didn't get to read the 5 installments I posted--and nor will they. Not like were originally. Here, for the interested, is my game plan.

I suspect from what I have planned it will be a typical 3 part story. Part 1 will still be about the same content wise and will have the same starting off point. Part 2 will be more about how the whole situation came to be for most the characters, and finally part 3 will conclusion. When I have finished part 1, I will begin the rewrite. After the rewrite, I'll send it out for you all to have a look see.

But, in the meantime, I'll continue along with my scattered approach to writing. Lucky One will be my main focus but I'll still work on the occasional short story as the mood fits. Anything novel-length will be limited to planning and scheming.

Not that you care, or that I expect you to.

The Bastard's favorite song.

He's been having a hard time finding the lyrics, so I figured this would be a good place to post them for him to see.

Open your eyes I see
Your eyes are open
Wear no disguise for me
Come into the open

When it's cold outside
Am I here in vain?
Hold on to the night
There will be no shame

Always
I wanna be with you
And make believe with you
And live in harmony harmony oh love

Melting the ice for me
Jump into the ocean
Hold back the tide I see
Your love in motion

When it's cold outside
Am I here in vain?
Hold on to the night
There will be no shame

Here's a youtube link if you would all like to share in his happiness.
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=eSMeUPFjQHc&feature=related

Soooooo good.

WALTER
And monies, and this is thy home-work, boy.
Wherefore silence? What impudence is this?
Thou art killing thy father, Laurence! O!
This hath no end; he never will speak word.
I take thy parchment back, and turn to plans
Of secondary contingence. Look well.
Behold thy car, the corvette, crimson-stain’d,
And see what befalls sinners evermore.
[He raises his sword, and smites the car]
This befalleth when thou firk’st a stranger ‘twixt the buttocks, Laurence! Understand’st
thou? Dost thou attend me? Seest thou what happens, Laurence? Seest thou what
happens, Laurence? Seest thou what happens, Laurence, when thou firk’st a stranger
‘twixt the buttocks?!
[Enter CLOWN]
This be what befalleth, Laurence! This be what befalleth, Laurence!

It is official!

We've gone public.

I heard that there were superbowl invites on this blog...

And so I log into the internets for the sole purpose of finding said invites. I look on the blog, and what do I find?

NO
SUPER
BOWL
INVITES!!!!!!!!

I don't know why anyone still talks to me

Lord o Mornin: yo!
The Bastard Himself: Yo back!
Lord o Mornin: sup, man?
Lord o Mornin: just watched a really good film
The Bastard Himself: Yeah?
Lord o Mornin: yeah, New Moon
The Bastard Himself: ...oh.
Lord o Mornin: lmao
Lord o Mornin: just kidding
The Bastard Himself: let me go wake up my 12 year old
The Bastard Himself: you two can gab
Lord o Mornin: lol
Lord o Mornin: no, it was World's Greatest Dad
Lord o Mornin: it's a satire
Lord o Mornin: Robin Williams
The Bastard Himself: Never heard of it
The Bastard Himself: but I do like Robin Williams
Lord o Mornin: Written and directed by Bobcat Gothwaite
The Bastard Himself: I hate to be there when his manic is replaced with depressive though...
Lord o Mornin: ahh
Lord o Mornin: well, you may not like this
Lord o Mornin: a more serious williams role
Lord o Mornin: but it's waaay hilarious in it's satire
Lord o Mornin: while being very dark
The Bastard Himself: What Dreams May Come
The Bastard Himself: Patch Adams
Lord o Mornin: ahh
Lord o Mornin: no
The Bastard Himself: Good Morning, Vietnam
The Bastard Himself: don't you talk ugly to me!
The Bastard Himself: I said I like Robin Williams!
Lord o Mornin: more the Final Cut meet's tarantino, meets mel books
The Bastard Himself: ...fuck you Brett.
Lord o Mornin: are you drinking again?
The Bastard Himself: No!
The Bastard Himself: You three-meeted me!
The Bastard Himself: a-squared+b-squared+c-squared=jibberish!
Lord o Mornin is typing a message.
Lord o Mornin: ummm . . ok . . I was told there would be no math . . .

A post of a different color

Hey all, been awhile since I posted anything here. I was just beset by an idea today and it ended up in a short little story that's not really like anything I've done heretofore. So I fingered I'd put it up here and torture y'all with it. This is a writing blog after all . .

So, I'm welcoming any criticism or comments or complete lack of response.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Friday

The goddamn table was dirty again. He stood there looking at it for what must have been five minutes, clock ticking, staring at brown semicircles of coffee mug footprints and crusty red clumps marking the passage of spaghetti from plates to the mouths of the children. There were several dried up spots of milk, small islands of flaky mud on a sea of chipped formica. He knew the sink would be full of unwashed dishes without looking just as he knew the oven would be cold, barren of supper.

He knew the kids were gone. Sleeping at various friend's houses. It was friday, after all, and there were rituals to be observed. Even on a friday like this one. And they didn't know. He wondered if things would be all that different if they did know.

He set his briefcase on the table and hung his jacket by the door. Routine. He needed routine right now. Checking the fridge gave him the options of half a plate of dried spaghetti, pre-mixed with sauce, or the makings of a sandwich. He opted for the spaghetti, eating it cold with a generous helping of salt. Washing it down with half a glass of milk, he added his dishes to the sink and went to break her the news.

She was in bed, of course. Still in the same nightgown she'd put on the night before. Earlier this morning was more the truth. He snapped the light on and she looked up, shading her eyes.

"When did you get home?" she rasped.

"Just now. Ten minutes ago. I finished the spaghetti."

"Spaghetti? I was going to make some for supper. Tell Danny to start some water for me."

"He's at Ryan's house. I finished what they didn't eat already. It's friday."

"Oh." She closed her eyes. "Turn off the light please."

He stood there looking at her, his fingers twitching slightly. For the first time in years he wanted a smoke. More than that, he wanted to get drunk. Smashed. The way she was most nights.

She looked at him again, irritated.

"Can you turn off the light? What's wrong"

"I . . ."

The phone rang. He walked around to his side of the bed and answered.

"Jim?" Forest's voice was thick.

"Yeah."

"Have you heard?"

"Yeah."

"I'm sorry, man. I really am."

"I know."

"Have you talked to anyone else? Mary?"

"Yeah, she called me at work."

"She ok?"

"Yeah." He closed his eyes, suddenly tired.

"Listen, Jim. We're really sorry, both of us. If you need anything . . . "

"I know. Thanks."

He hung up, not knowing how many more calls like this he could take. There'd been several already. He sat on the edge of the bed face in his palms.

"Who was that?" she asked.

"Forest."

"What did he want? Who called you at work."

He didn't answer, not wanting to go through with this anymore.

"Jim? What did he want?"

"Hank's dead."

"What?"

"Hank's dead. This morning."

"How? What happened? Was he drinking again?"

"No."

"Then what happened?"

"Car accident. On his way to work."

"He was driving? I knew it. He was drunk again. You're just covering for him! You always cover for him!"

"No. He wasn't driving. He was hit by a car when he was walking to work."

"When did he get a job? He was still drunk, no matter what you say. I know your brother and he was drunk."

"He wasn't. He's had a job for months now. Back at the shop."

"Right. You're just covering for him. He's dead and you're still lying for him."

He'd known this would happen. He knew she'd react like this. His brother was dead and here she was accusing him of lying. Hank had been sober and working for months. She'd been drunk for years and hadn't held a job for more than three weeks in longer than he could remember. He was afraid he'd be filled with rage, but he only felt tired. Empty and tired. When was it going to be his turn to break down?

He stood up and looked at her again.

"Do the kids know their drunk uncle's dead?" she asked.

"No."

"Well, don't expect them to be sorry."

He knew his kids loved his brother, just like Hank loved them. Had loved them.

"Turn the light off, my head's killing me."

He didn't move for a few moments, then he walked out of the room, switching the light off and closing the door.

He left the front door open, though, and the dishes in the sink.

The kids were upset when he picked them up, wanting to stay with their friends. They understood after he explained. The hotel was nice. They spent some time in the pool and he ordered pizza.

Sometimes, although very rarely, I see something truly beautiful in this world...

and since I am a born killer, I murder it and cook it up for dinner. 3 cheers for hunting season!