I am finally starting my experimental play-along story this coming Friday, February twelfth. The notion I currently have (subject to change due to lack of interest, me writing myself into a corner, or general confusion) is to write an opening paragraph and then leave instructions for those willing to comment on how to guide my next installment. I'm thinking along the lines of (this is just a potential example):
For the next installment, I will need a location (landmark, city, or other nonspecific place), two nouns and two verbs. Please leave your comment with all six requested items. Commenters one and four will determine the nouns, commenter two the landmark...
Or something like that. Depending on how crazy you all get, I might have to be more specific, like:
Give me an animal, a piece of furniture...
As you can tell, I haven't yet ironed out all the kinks. I think it will be much more fun to figure it out as we go. Or, it could be disastrous, which would still be fun for you; nothing increases the merriment factor better than watching a writer crash and burn. As I am in the fantasy genre, I will be starting the story with a fantasy plot in mind, but since you all will be in the driver's seat, we'll just see how that works out.
My overall hope is that this experiment will be an exercise in creativity and flexibility on my part. As a reward for your participation, you get to torture the hell out of me.
Don't say I never did anything for you.
So, barring any blackouts from Snowpocalypse II, I'll be seeing you all on Friday.
Monday, February 08, 2010
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
Commenting Changes
As of now, any responses will have to be approved by me before posting. I really resisted this action before because I didn't want my friends to feel like their comments were under scrutiny or think they were being judged as if they might not be worthy for my silly little blog. But--big, hairy but--the douches with the crawlers and Taco Bell-stained sweatpant, basement dweller jobs are spamming the shit out of this profile and I'm spending more time than I'd like deleting ads for weight loss pills, dick stiffeners and all sorts of other nonsense. And it has finally pissed me off.
Do you remember when the teacher in elementary school would get so fed up with that one kid who was dancing around in his chair, flipping up his eyelids and making armpit farting noises that she would make EVERYONE put their heads down for five minutes? Well, that's pretty much what's happening here.
Kids, thank the armpit farter, because now I have to cull through your comments before they post.
In unison now:
"THANKS, ARMPIT FARTER!!"
Do you remember when the teacher in elementary school would get so fed up with that one kid who was dancing around in his chair, flipping up his eyelids and making armpit farting noises that she would make EVERYONE put their heads down for five minutes? Well, that's pretty much what's happening here.
Kids, thank the armpit farter, because now I have to cull through your comments before they post.
In unison now:
"THANKS, ARMPIT FARTER!!"
Sunday, December 13, 2009
Happy Holidays!
I just wanted to bang out this short post to tell all my interweb friends to have a happy, wonderful holiday season. I've been holding off on posts while I figured out what sort of internet presence I'd like to have and I've got a few New Year ideas in mind.
Once the holidays end, I'm planning a five-week interactive short story which will happen here and will also post on my facebook page for others to read. I'm thinking of something like the literary version of improv comedy; I'll start off with an opening paragraph and readers can comment with verbs and nouns that hint towards where they'd like to see the story go or try to back me into a writing corner by giving me the worst possible scenario they can think of. I will not be able to argue, back out or whine, and the first five or so responders' noun and verb must be included in my next installment. The story will continue for five installments, and end, hopefully, with some sort of satisfying finale.
The second thing I have on the agenda is a mega-flash fiction drive on my twitter page where I will post 120-character fiction at least once a week. Anyone can play along, just RT your own story.
So, that's what I have planned for the future. But, for right now, I'm going to go bake like June Cleaver on crank and enjoy my house, my kitties and my man--and then later enjoy my family, friends and my yearly trek to Florida. So, look for the fun to start the second week of January.
Until then, be healthy, well, and happy, my friends!
Wednesday, November 11, 2009
Literary Recklessness
In an attempt to get myself back into a rigid, impermeable, impervious, impenetrable writing schedule I singed up for NaNoWriMo. I started out strong, got sidetracked, then re-sidetracked, and now I'm about seventeen thousand words behind. I think it's safe to say I'm not going to "win" this year--at least not win by the organizers' definition.
In my opinion, I'm already winning; I'm planting my butt in the chair every day and writing. My prose is not the most brilliant (in fact I think it's safe to say I could let my cats tap dance across the keys for two hours with similar effect), but it is a consistent flow of semi-intelligible words formatted into sentences and paragraphs, and, hey, that's the reason I signed up for this gig in the first place.
Honestly, I'm rather enjoying this guerilla style of writing. As I have routinely stated, I am an obsessive mess. It's not that I shoot myself in the foot; I never stop aiming the freakin' gun. I organize, chart, plot, think, write, re-write, re-write, re-write, re-write. I get a paragraph down and then dissect it for four hours. I am, in many ways, my own worst enemy. This little experiment is teaching me to stop looking back (even if I have to shrink my screen to the size of my current paragraph to do it). It's teaching me that a first round of mainly crap is okay as long as I fix it later, and waiting to fix it later is even more okay. And you know what all this is making me realize?
Writing is fun again.
Who'd've thought?
In my opinion, I'm already winning; I'm planting my butt in the chair every day and writing. My prose is not the most brilliant (in fact I think it's safe to say I could let my cats tap dance across the keys for two hours with similar effect), but it is a consistent flow of semi-intelligible words formatted into sentences and paragraphs, and, hey, that's the reason I signed up for this gig in the first place.
Honestly, I'm rather enjoying this guerilla style of writing. As I have routinely stated, I am an obsessive mess. It's not that I shoot myself in the foot; I never stop aiming the freakin' gun. I organize, chart, plot, think, write, re-write, re-write, re-write, re-write. I get a paragraph down and then dissect it for four hours. I am, in many ways, my own worst enemy. This little experiment is teaching me to stop looking back (even if I have to shrink my screen to the size of my current paragraph to do it). It's teaching me that a first round of mainly crap is okay as long as I fix it later, and waiting to fix it later is even more okay. And you know what all this is making me realize?
Writing is fun again.
Who'd've thought?
Wednesday, September 23, 2009
The Coward
This is a post I just wrote for a Red Room blog contest on saying goodbye. I'm going to share it here because I feel compelled to, and if I don't do it today, then I won't ever. Too much like picking at what's under a bandaid, if you get my drift.
*************
THE COWARD
I was a coward. Hospice had been called and my grandmother’s doctor had told us the end of her life was very near. The thought of her leaving this world left a hole in my heart, a rushing vortex of pain and disbelief. I tried to imagine my life without its most steadfast, loyal and giving part, but I couldn’t. Even though my grandmother had become frail and gaunt, even though the lack of oxygen from the COPD sometimes made her crazy—evil crazy—even though she was an entirely different woman from the stoic survivor I had grown up with, spent summers with, I couldn’t imagine her not being around.
So, I stalled.
I wasn’t oblivious to the wrongness of my choice. The guilt of avoiding my farewell chewed through me like some caustic beast, gnawing at my chest, nibbling the chasm of grief even wider. Still, I couldn’t move to do what I knew was right. If it hadn’t been for my sister pushing me to come, I probably never would have seen her again. But my sister—in the way only a sister can—told me to remove my head from the southernmost reaches of my torso, and get a move on.
Even with my marching orders in hand, I stalled. I called my best friend from high school—a frequent recipient of my grandmother’s endless generosity—and told her my grandmother was dying and that I had to go see her, but didn’t want to. Immediately, my friend stepped up, volunteering to come along, to say goodbye with me, to keep me company. Again the indecency of my actions, of publicizing such a personal interaction, weighed on me, but my fear was too great. To stand in a room and stare unblinkingly at death was a feat beyond my capabilities. My parchment-thin will sheared in half, and I brought along a human barrier.
Her bedroom was dark, save for the lamp curving over her wingback chair. She smiled and I kissed her, trying not to notice the odor of decay, not to yearn for her usual light, powdery scent. She had discarded her glasses, either too forgetful to put them on or too disinterested in the world of the living to care to see what was happening around her. My friend and I sat on the edge of the bed opposite her chair, both staring in discomfort at the gaunt figure half devoured by cornflower blue fleece pajamas. My sister had set up the meeting like a tea party, with cookies, drinks and my grandmother's old photo album. We thought the album might give her a chance for some closure, to say goodbye to the past and the people she loved. She didn’t want to hold it. So, my friend and I flipped through the pages, turning the book to her every once in a while when my memory failed to identify some smiling grayscale woman or man. My grandmother answered my questions with detached obligation, her eyes never lingering too long on any one frame.
I pushed on, knowing she didn’t want to participate, but too deeply enmeshed in the charade of nothing’s wrong to extract myself. No one ate or drank. The darkness of the room seemed to intensify, the walls closing in around us like a cage—like a box. Had my friend not been next to me, surely I would have bolted. Finally, my grandmother told me she didn’t want to look at the pictures anymore, that I should take them home with me. I clenched my teeth against the tears, as I had for so many years when she talked about dying and what she wanted me to have when she went. Back then her instructions always devolved into a joke and a retelling of how her own mother labelled the undersides of objects with masking tape so there would be no confusion as to who got what when she was gone. But, it wasn't a joke anymore. Instead of acknowledging the admission of defeat behind her gesture, I deflected the truth like Wonder Woman with her bracelets, saying she might want to have them around to look at later.
What must have been only a forty minute visit seemed to last days. The alarm clock radio by her bedside ticked away the seconds as slowly as if the internal mechanisms were succumbing to a deep freeze. Finally, I could take it no longer. I told my grandmother we had to get going. My friend said goodbye, gave her a hug and a kiss and then left the room. Alone at last, I leaned over to give her my own kiss, again missing that familiar scent, the reassuring smell of her presence. When I pulled back our eyes locked. In her gaze I saw it, I saw the goodbye that should have been said. The rush of unspoken words flowing from her eyes to mine could have knocked me over, had I let them. I leaned in and kissed her once more, then said—like I always had, like there would actually be another time—“I’ll see you later.”
She died not too many days after. My chance to redeem myself, to set things right had passed. Over and over again I have said goodbye to her in my mind, but it doesn’t count. It will never count. I had my chance and I ran. For the rest of my life I will carry those unspoken words in my heart. I will go on saying goodbye, and she will go on never hearing me.
*************
THE COWARD
I was a coward. Hospice had been called and my grandmother’s doctor had told us the end of her life was very near. The thought of her leaving this world left a hole in my heart, a rushing vortex of pain and disbelief. I tried to imagine my life without its most steadfast, loyal and giving part, but I couldn’t. Even though my grandmother had become frail and gaunt, even though the lack of oxygen from the COPD sometimes made her crazy—evil crazy—even though she was an entirely different woman from the stoic survivor I had grown up with, spent summers with, I couldn’t imagine her not being around.
So, I stalled.
I wasn’t oblivious to the wrongness of my choice. The guilt of avoiding my farewell chewed through me like some caustic beast, gnawing at my chest, nibbling the chasm of grief even wider. Still, I couldn’t move to do what I knew was right. If it hadn’t been for my sister pushing me to come, I probably never would have seen her again. But my sister—in the way only a sister can—told me to remove my head from the southernmost reaches of my torso, and get a move on.
Even with my marching orders in hand, I stalled. I called my best friend from high school—a frequent recipient of my grandmother’s endless generosity—and told her my grandmother was dying and that I had to go see her, but didn’t want to. Immediately, my friend stepped up, volunteering to come along, to say goodbye with me, to keep me company. Again the indecency of my actions, of publicizing such a personal interaction, weighed on me, but my fear was too great. To stand in a room and stare unblinkingly at death was a feat beyond my capabilities. My parchment-thin will sheared in half, and I brought along a human barrier.
Her bedroom was dark, save for the lamp curving over her wingback chair. She smiled and I kissed her, trying not to notice the odor of decay, not to yearn for her usual light, powdery scent. She had discarded her glasses, either too forgetful to put them on or too disinterested in the world of the living to care to see what was happening around her. My friend and I sat on the edge of the bed opposite her chair, both staring in discomfort at the gaunt figure half devoured by cornflower blue fleece pajamas. My sister had set up the meeting like a tea party, with cookies, drinks and my grandmother's old photo album. We thought the album might give her a chance for some closure, to say goodbye to the past and the people she loved. She didn’t want to hold it. So, my friend and I flipped through the pages, turning the book to her every once in a while when my memory failed to identify some smiling grayscale woman or man. My grandmother answered my questions with detached obligation, her eyes never lingering too long on any one frame.
I pushed on, knowing she didn’t want to participate, but too deeply enmeshed in the charade of nothing’s wrong to extract myself. No one ate or drank. The darkness of the room seemed to intensify, the walls closing in around us like a cage—like a box. Had my friend not been next to me, surely I would have bolted. Finally, my grandmother told me she didn’t want to look at the pictures anymore, that I should take them home with me. I clenched my teeth against the tears, as I had for so many years when she talked about dying and what she wanted me to have when she went. Back then her instructions always devolved into a joke and a retelling of how her own mother labelled the undersides of objects with masking tape so there would be no confusion as to who got what when she was gone. But, it wasn't a joke anymore. Instead of acknowledging the admission of defeat behind her gesture, I deflected the truth like Wonder Woman with her bracelets, saying she might want to have them around to look at later.
What must have been only a forty minute visit seemed to last days. The alarm clock radio by her bedside ticked away the seconds as slowly as if the internal mechanisms were succumbing to a deep freeze. Finally, I could take it no longer. I told my grandmother we had to get going. My friend said goodbye, gave her a hug and a kiss and then left the room. Alone at last, I leaned over to give her my own kiss, again missing that familiar scent, the reassuring smell of her presence. When I pulled back our eyes locked. In her gaze I saw it, I saw the goodbye that should have been said. The rush of unspoken words flowing from her eyes to mine could have knocked me over, had I let them. I leaned in and kissed her once more, then said—like I always had, like there would actually be another time—“I’ll see you later.”
She died not too many days after. My chance to redeem myself, to set things right had passed. Over and over again I have said goodbye to her in my mind, but it doesn’t count. It will never count. I had my chance and I ran. For the rest of my life I will carry those unspoken words in my heart. I will go on saying goodbye, and she will go on never hearing me.
Tuesday, September 01, 2009
The Walk of Shame
Liz eased onto her feet. The sheet, which had wound its way around her foot sometime during the long night’s thrashings, trailed her like a train. She shook it off with impatience, more mindful of her body’s nagging soreness than the ridiculous irony of the image.
He had left before she had awoken. The room was a shambles, his belongings scattered across the floor as if abandoned in hasty disgust. In the bright morning sunshine the electric surge that had filled Liz’s heart at the apex of their encounter seemed all but drained away. She felt small, weak and exposed.
“Oh. You've awakened.” Frank stood there, hair mussed, clothes disheveled. He avoided her eyes as he gestured to the far corner. “Your dress is over there.”
“Thank you,” was all she could manage. Liz picked up the soft black garment, puddled it on the floor at her feet and then stepped in, aware of the odd pull of tightened muscles across her back. She struggled with the sleeves for a few moments, wondering if he was watching, wondering if he was aware of the toll their riotous night had taken on her. If he knew he made no attempt to assist her as she fumbled with the buttons. After a few moments of struggling she abandoned the top two, leaving a gaping V at the top of her shoulders, followed by a series of odd bulges and gaps where she had incorrectly fastened the fabric. She turned back to Frank and forced a small smile. “Better?”
Frank’s eyes, hooded with guilt, shifted to the door. “I have work.”
Liz started to nod, but then shook her head. “No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I will not.” She stamped her foot. An aching throb traced up her leg. Was there anywhere on her body their transgressions had not touched? Liz caught the warning arch of his eyebrow, the downward tug of his mouth and altered her tone. “How can you act this way? After last night--?"
“I am busy, that’s all. I told you, I have work to do.”
“And you don’t have time enough to spare me a moment now that your conquest is complete? Have you checked me off of your list, yet?" He didn’t answer and Liz choked back the lump in her throat. “How can you be this way?”
“I am not being any way,” Frank said. He ran his hand through his hair, tousling it even further. “I do not have time for this.”
“And I have no inclination to allow you to leave without admitting last night was special. You… My body… Touched everywhere. Your hands traced the most intimate parts of me. Last night we connected as no others have. Admit that, and I will leave you alone.”
“Of course!” Frank shouted. “Of course it was intimate. I was there! I was! But it is no longer last night. It is tomorrow.”
“I see.” Liz fought the tears that threatened to overspill. “It is tomorrow, and you have work to do.”
“Marvelous; you’ve got it. That is only what I have been telling you for the past five minutes.”
“Then do not let me keep you one second longer.”
He slid from the room like a scolded child, his shamed relief staining the air. Liz limped past the gurney to the window. The leaded panes mimicked the tracery of stitches across her face, the fine, careful lines Frank had sewn all over her body. He had made her. From castaway corpses to single being, he had made her, infused her with this life, and then cast her aside. She pressed her forehead against the glass until it hurt, staring out at a world she would never enter, straining away from the world she would never leave.
“You’re a bastard, Frank,” she whispered. “You’re a bastard.”
He had left before she had awoken. The room was a shambles, his belongings scattered across the floor as if abandoned in hasty disgust. In the bright morning sunshine the electric surge that had filled Liz’s heart at the apex of their encounter seemed all but drained away. She felt small, weak and exposed.
“Oh. You've awakened.” Frank stood there, hair mussed, clothes disheveled. He avoided her eyes as he gestured to the far corner. “Your dress is over there.”
“Thank you,” was all she could manage. Liz picked up the soft black garment, puddled it on the floor at her feet and then stepped in, aware of the odd pull of tightened muscles across her back. She struggled with the sleeves for a few moments, wondering if he was watching, wondering if he was aware of the toll their riotous night had taken on her. If he knew he made no attempt to assist her as she fumbled with the buttons. After a few moments of struggling she abandoned the top two, leaving a gaping V at the top of her shoulders, followed by a series of odd bulges and gaps where she had incorrectly fastened the fabric. She turned back to Frank and forced a small smile. “Better?”
Frank’s eyes, hooded with guilt, shifted to the door. “I have work.”
Liz started to nod, but then shook her head. “No.”
“Excuse me?”
“I will not.” She stamped her foot. An aching throb traced up her leg. Was there anywhere on her body their transgressions had not touched? Liz caught the warning arch of his eyebrow, the downward tug of his mouth and altered her tone. “How can you act this way? After last night--?"
“I am busy, that’s all. I told you, I have work to do.”
“And you don’t have time enough to spare me a moment now that your conquest is complete? Have you checked me off of your list, yet?" He didn’t answer and Liz choked back the lump in her throat. “How can you be this way?”
“I am not being any way,” Frank said. He ran his hand through his hair, tousling it even further. “I do not have time for this.”
“And I have no inclination to allow you to leave without admitting last night was special. You… My body… Touched everywhere. Your hands traced the most intimate parts of me. Last night we connected as no others have. Admit that, and I will leave you alone.”
“Of course!” Frank shouted. “Of course it was intimate. I was there! I was! But it is no longer last night. It is tomorrow.”
“I see.” Liz fought the tears that threatened to overspill. “It is tomorrow, and you have work to do.”
“Marvelous; you’ve got it. That is only what I have been telling you for the past five minutes.”
“Then do not let me keep you one second longer.”
He slid from the room like a scolded child, his shamed relief staining the air. Liz limped past the gurney to the window. The leaded panes mimicked the tracery of stitches across her face, the fine, careful lines Frank had sewn all over her body. He had made her. From castaway corpses to single being, he had made her, infused her with this life, and then cast her aside. She pressed her forehead against the glass until it hurt, staring out at a world she would never enter, straining away from the world she would never leave.
“You’re a bastard, Frank,” she whispered. “You’re a bastard.”
Monday, August 17, 2009
You Want to Know About Heroes?
This is a reposting of a "blog" entry I did for a Red Room contest about heroes. Of course, I couldn't let the dark side not have a representative. Apparently, they didn't want to hear from the dark side. Sigh.
Hee hee.
**************
I can shatter bone. With no more effort than it takes you to grab a pencil, I can pulverize your femur. With a flex of my quads I can leap to the top of your house, and with a swipe of my arm, I can topple it. As a child you gazed with longing at candy-colored comic books, wishing to be all that I already am.
They cry. All night. Voices in the dark, shouting, screaming, pleading. They scurry across the earth, unable or unwilling to pry themselves from the role of victim. "It's too hard," they say. "It's too hard. Help me."
I did, at first. To shut them up, to win myself a decent night's sleep. I saved the first one. A sweet-bodied guy with shining chestnut hair and eyes to match. As I convinced his assailants they had chosen the wrong victim, he took in the carnage I wrought with those dark, wide eyes. After the electric terror faded, after the sting of being rescued by a chick had eased from them, I found those eyes were the same as the rest of him--sweet and grateful. I let him thank me. All night. He eventually dozed off, but the screams kept coming. I stared into the blackness and wished for them to stop. The sirens echoed their wails--one passing so near it started my boy out of his exhaustion. He rolled onto his side, blinked those stupid doe eyes at me and said, "Aren't you going to help them?"
I got up fast, was out of there before the shape of my head had smoothed from the pillow. I left him lounging in bed, confident that now he was safe, his hero was going out to save the rest of the world.
I went and got a drink.
Then another.
Then another.
Behind me, some bastard at the pool table smacked his girlfriend in the face for sloshing his beer. I let him.
There were other times I felt more generous. Times when a rapist was found mangled and stuffed in a trash can. Times when a serial killer stopped killing and the cops thought they'd somehow lucked out and managed to jail him on unrelated charges. But for each of those times there were scores where I heard, and did nothing. Times when I just didn't feel like getting involved.
I can still hear them. Despite the four window air conditioners I have running at full-tilt, despite the music I play so loud it throbs my eardrums and gives me vertigo, I can still hear them screaming for me. I turn up the volume, and pray for sleep.
So, what do you think of me now, kids? Do I fit inside your hard-lined squares of colorful ink? Do my words fill in the bubbles?
Am I your hero, or what?
Hee hee.
**************
I can shatter bone. With no more effort than it takes you to grab a pencil, I can pulverize your femur. With a flex of my quads I can leap to the top of your house, and with a swipe of my arm, I can topple it. As a child you gazed with longing at candy-colored comic books, wishing to be all that I already am.
They cry. All night. Voices in the dark, shouting, screaming, pleading. They scurry across the earth, unable or unwilling to pry themselves from the role of victim. "It's too hard," they say. "It's too hard. Help me."
I did, at first. To shut them up, to win myself a decent night's sleep. I saved the first one. A sweet-bodied guy with shining chestnut hair and eyes to match. As I convinced his assailants they had chosen the wrong victim, he took in the carnage I wrought with those dark, wide eyes. After the electric terror faded, after the sting of being rescued by a chick had eased from them, I found those eyes were the same as the rest of him--sweet and grateful. I let him thank me. All night. He eventually dozed off, but the screams kept coming. I stared into the blackness and wished for them to stop. The sirens echoed their wails--one passing so near it started my boy out of his exhaustion. He rolled onto his side, blinked those stupid doe eyes at me and said, "Aren't you going to help them?"
I got up fast, was out of there before the shape of my head had smoothed from the pillow. I left him lounging in bed, confident that now he was safe, his hero was going out to save the rest of the world.
I went and got a drink.
Then another.
Then another.
Behind me, some bastard at the pool table smacked his girlfriend in the face for sloshing his beer. I let him.
There were other times I felt more generous. Times when a rapist was found mangled and stuffed in a trash can. Times when a serial killer stopped killing and the cops thought they'd somehow lucked out and managed to jail him on unrelated charges. But for each of those times there were scores where I heard, and did nothing. Times when I just didn't feel like getting involved.
I can still hear them. Despite the four window air conditioners I have running at full-tilt, despite the music I play so loud it throbs my eardrums and gives me vertigo, I can still hear them screaming for me. I turn up the volume, and pray for sleep.
So, what do you think of me now, kids? Do I fit inside your hard-lined squares of colorful ink? Do my words fill in the bubbles?
Am I your hero, or what?
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