Novel Ideas

I’ve been absent from here for a long while and it’s honestly been driving me crazy!! I haven’t been staring dumbfounded at the television (though I have gotten my wife addicted to The Office!) nor have I been neglecting my writing. I am happy to say that I have been rather creative in my journal and on my typewriter, both of which I have been using on an almost daily basis. The journal has been getting a workout thanks to a new pen I found called the Varsity. I have a penchant for picking expensive but nice pens, and this one is no exception. It’s a disposable pen, but what makes it unique is that it’s a fountain pen! It’s fantastic and I can’t stop using it!!
As for the typewriter, well, my Smith Corona Classic 12 has been getting a rest while I play with my new (to me) toy: 1965 Olivetti Studio 44. Not only was it a great garage sale find (for only $15 bucks!! Actual worth: around $400!) but it came with everything that was originally included – manuals, key, dust cover – EVERYTHING! It even types in a script font. The coolest thing that I found with it was the original receipt and warranty card. Amazing machine – I can’t wait to get a new ribbon and really play with it!
A majority of my time has been spent on editing my novel. Having never written one before I had no idea what I was getting myself into! I am a short story writer for the most part and those are relatively easy to edit. Of course they are 47,000 words shorter than a novel, so I’m not sure WHAT I expected, but this wasn’t it!
Nevertheless, I’m not complaining. I have a novel. I WROTE it! It’s mine. As soon as I’m done I will share it with four people, all of whom are breathing down my neck daily for me to finish it. They will proofread it and I’ll go from there. I don’t want to get too far ahead of myself.
Thanks for stopping by…I guess I should get to back to the novel…

I Miss Being A New Writer…

I was looking over my past writings today and one thought persisted long after I had tucked them away again: I miss being a new writer.

Granted, most of what I was looking at today was of questionable quality but the passion with which I wrote it, if memory serves, was intense. I still feel that passion today but it isn’t the same. Something just isn’t there, at least not at the same level. I’ve been trying to figure out exactly what’s missing and I think I have an idea or two. Maybe more…they seem to be coming to me as I type this so I’ll try to keep on track. But no promises.

I would have to say that the thing I miss the most (that I can actually tell is gone now) is the almost pompous belief that what I had just written was the best thing anyone had ever written. Ever. There was no question in my mind that when I wrote the story about a girl who loved her teddy bear named Giraffe, all four paragraphs of it, that I had basically just paid for my college tuition and set my parents up for their Golden Years. Even the silly poems about school and a girl on TV were the most important and amazing things ever put on paper. Life has changed that mentality. Well, life, English teachers, creative writing professors, writing groups and further reading. No matter how we get to the point, sooner or later we all face the fact that we simply aren’t Hemingway or Plath. I’ll give you a moment to let that sink in.

Not only were the stories and poems we wrote important to us they were the most original and inspired works since Shakespeare. One of my stories involved a man who mistook a waitress at a diner as his blind date. He was convinced that she was the one he was to meet there for dinner. I was just as convinced that this idea was mine and that it was genius! Obviously I have learned a lot since then about originality. Namely I’ve learned that there just isn’t such a thing anymore. As sad as that is to type, the truth of the matter is that there are no real new thoughts. I suppose after a few thousand years of human writing and storytelling all the plots were bound to get used up. Hopefully that fact doesn’t knock you back as much as the first.

In respect to the writing I would say that I miss the feel of pen on paper. Almost all of my old works were written longhand in spiral notebooks. I would treat them with the utmost care and gentility. They were sacred and needed to treated as such. Today, even right this moment, I’m typing on a MacBook Pro and would have to get up and go across the room to find paper. Even then I wouldn’t quite know where to find a pen. I have been known to use one of many typewriters more often than not but there is just something so organic about using the old ink and page.

Nothing is the same as it used to be. Everything must change, for better or for worse. In the case of my writing, and thanks to the points I’ve mentioned here, I have been taught some important lessons in the evolution of my craft. To me at least the most important lesson to glean from the last twenty years is that even though the ideas may not be original or of the best quality, as long as I know that I’ve done all I can to tell a good and emotive story then my job as a writer is a success.

It doesn’t even matter how I write it. (But I think I’ll go back to the pen and paper, just for old time’s sake.)

BIG NEWS!!

This may be the shortest yet most gleeful yet most tear-inducing post I’ve ever written…

MY NOVEL IS DONE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Hard At Work…

I’ve been hard at work (as the title of this post would suggest) on my novel. In fact – and I couldn’t be happier to type these words – I’m almost done! Granted, I’ve said that before but this time I think (read:hope) I mean it!

The last few times I thought I was almost done I was taken down different roads by my characters. For those of you who read this but aren’t writers suffice it to say that most writers are, at best, taking dictation for the voices in their head. The day I realized this was the most important in my writing life. Perhaps when I finish this novel I’ll be able to call it a ‘writing career’….here’s to hoping!

I’ll be posting a random bit of the novel on the “Calculated Kismet” tab of this blog when I figure out which part to share now.

Thanks for reading and supporting the Rebel!

P.S. I will be again participating in National Novel Writing Month this year. With any luck I’ll be done with “CK” by then….and as a little preview I’ll let you all in on a secret: the main character for the new novel is being introduced at the end of my current one…

My Newest Typewriter



Smith Corona Silent, originally uploaded by wordrebel.

As many of you know I collect, amongst other things, vintage typewriters. I have around 35 in my collection and just added this one a few weeks back.

It’s a Smith Corona, which I have always favored. What makes this one special is the fact that it has a Lithuanian keyboard! It’s an interesting and exciting addition!!

I’m going to try something soon using this new “banger” – I’m going to write on it, as usual, but instead of retyping it on my computer and posting it here I’m going to simply snap a picture of the page or scan it (which ever works better) and post the image here. I’ve always wanted to use my collection to blog, as I feel it a much more organic way of capturing my thoughts and now I’ll finally be able to….

Or so I hope!

EDIT:: The tag is incorrect on the picture – it is actually a Smith Corona Sterling, not Silent. It is a 1953 model.

Calculated Kismet – A Random Snipit!

She was laid to rest three mornings after in a lilac dress, with two other shades of purple framing her delicate body. The baby’s breath that lined her head gave her an angelic appearance and allowed Casey to smile even at this horrendous time. Family and friends he had not seen in years, some he had never met at all, filed into the funeral home and paid respects and half-hearted sympathies to Casey. He couldn’t help but feel that this was all so strange, almost surreal. At the same time he let his cynical side take over and he realized that he would most likely never see these people again. Truth be told he wasn’t too disappointed by this. In his estimation only about one third of the people who show up to funerals actually do so out of honest grief. The rest just want to make sure that the corpse looks worse than they do. Casey gave a small crooked smile when he thought of this, basking in the knowledge that he was vindicated, in this instance at least, in this sort of thinking. There were no rules against someone who had just lost a wife acting selfishly. In fact most would argue that if he were to act any other way there may be something wrong with him. So he continued to think to himself, as he shook hands and exchanged lilted hugs with people he hardly knew, that he was better off then they. He was honestly feeling something by her passing. This fact made what he was going through more real and more intense than whatever they were feeling.
These intense feelings also gave Casey the perfect excuse to sneak a pull from the flask in his jacket pocket whenever he wasn’t being coddled by a long-lost aunt of Marie’s. He saw no reason to make a secret of the gin he was imbibing. Even the pace he was keeping seemed not to bother him or the people around him. By the end of the second hour of visitation Casey was out of gin and unsteady on his feet. The chaplain noticed his swaying and approached him.
“And how are you feeling, my son?”
Casey had no idea who this man was. He was dressed in plain clothes, no white collar or Bible in hand. He looked like just another well-wisher. Casey didn’t like being called ’son’.
“Son? Sorry, my dad died a long time ago. Not your son.”
The priest raised his hand to calm Casey. “Please, I meant no offense. You just looked somewhat lonely over here, all by yourself and all. I thought you might have wanted some company.”
Casey felt a shot of guilt in his stomach and clenched his eyes shut. “I’m, s-s-sorry. I didn’t mean to be an ass. I’m guess maybe I’m just not taking this very well. God damn, I haven’t even cried yet.”
“Be careful with the Lord’s name, my boy. You may need to use it differently one day.” The priest smiled broadly.
“I get it. Father?”
“Yes. Indeed. Now, how did you know Miss Marie?”
“I was about to ask you the same thing, actually. I’m her husband. I, um, I was.”
“Oh but you still are. You will always be. Never forget that. Just because someone leaves you in the flesh does not mean that they leave you in the mind, or heart, or soul.”
“Thank you. I was going to ask someone about that,” he smiled. “I’m Casey.”
“Father Robert Stevens,” he extended a hand “the pleasure is mine.”
Casey reached out to shake his hand but lost his balance. The priest caught him before he could fall. “Be careful now. Maybe some coffee?”
They walked slowly to the kitchenette and Casey took a seat.

Jogging Her Memory

It wasn’t like her to trust a man. It wasn’t like her to trust anyone for that matter. But here she was kissing a man she had just met and all she could think about was what her mother would say of she saw her now.

He held her head with one hand and slipped the other up the front of her shirt. She didn’t slap it away so he continued. Her thoughts wandered to other people back home and their reactions. She had never done anything like this before and couldn’t imagine anyone else doing it either. As the man snaked his fingers over the top of her plain white cotton bra she thought of her father. Certainly he would disown her if he knew. He would give her a look of such utter disappointment that she would run to the nearest cave and never leave. She raised her eyebrows with the realization that her father was more than five hundred miles away and kissed the man harder.

The man worked his fingers against the skin of her breast making no secret of his intention. As her came into contact with her right nipple she thought again of her mother. She would be more understanding than her father but nevertheless chide her for being so forward with a man she didn’t know. It would only be motherly obligation but the guilt would be hard to swallow. But her mother was more than five hundred miles away so the woman kissed her new man harder.

His whole hand was in her bra, cupping her entire breast. She thought then about her husband, more than five hundred miles away and six feet down. She felt ill and pulled away from the man.

“Thank you. I needed that.”

This is why….



The Boy, originally uploaded by wordrebel.

I haven’t been updating the blog lately.

Hope you understand! I’ll be writing more ASAP for sure.

AntiSocial Network

I finally used a social network for the real reason it was created: to creep on an ex without their knowledge. Let’s just lay our cards on the table now and say that we have all done this. If we were all to be completely honest we would all have to admit to doing this at least once since setting up our Facebook or Twitter or (to a much lesser extent) MySpace. Some have done this more than others; some do this daily. I can say that tonight marked my first search for someone I once knew in a more than friendly way. (I will rescind this comment if another time comes to mind but as of this writing, none do.)

I honestly don’t know what possessed me to look her up. It was such a long time ago and the length of the relationship was really not that long, nine months or so. The only reason I can think of is that the other night I went to a spot where I used to do quite a bit of writing. The writing I would do at this particular spot was almost exclusively about her – not our relationship so much as her the person. I have three journals full of ramblings, poetry, and bad artwork all inspired by this one woman who at the time was everything to me. This, it would seem, was what broke us up. She was everything to me and I didn’t have a clue as how to control myself without controlling her. As fate would show me again and again over the intervening years this lack of tact and maturity would lead to the end of every romantic situation I would find myself in up to my current relationship with my lovely and understanding wife.

But she was the first. She was the one who set the ball rolling and goaded fate into action. She was the one who really made love hurt. She was the one who taught me the most. And she was the one who will forever be referred to as “The Debacle”. It is for these reasons and many more that she will hold a special place in the History Of Me. As such, perhaps a little back story is in order…

I was dating a girl for the better part of three years, but we really only connected for about three days during that entire time. It was high school, a different time and place all together in relation to expectations of what a healthy relationship should be. There was a lot more patience and slack given to your significant other when you’re young. Even when you both know there is nothing that will suffice as a solid foundation for even a platonic relationship you still strive for something that you will never possess: love and companionship. That is to say, you will never have these from one another.

This is where Fate enters the story in the form of a striking eighteen-year-old girl.

She had come to meet me at the request of a mutual friend. He wanted her to meet his friend who was single, he said. Here we are, just meeting for the very first time, already lying to one another. Granted it was my friend who lied but I did nothing to correct the matter. Long story short, we hit it off quickly and decided to go on a date soon after. The next day I went straight to my girlfriend and broke up with her. Well, that isn’t quite true. I tried to break up with her. When I told her everything she simply said that she wasn’t going to let me go. I threw my hands up and considered us broken up. After all, I had done my part and given it my best shot. The Debacle and I were on our way to being a couple.

It happened just that easily. There are more than a few things I could go into here that were more than just your average new relationship drama scenes, but they would only make me look foolish and, well, creepy. Suffice to say that she and I were happy when together but as soon as we parted so did the trust. Make no mistake, in hindsight I can see that there was no trust to begin with. How could there when our meeting itself was based on a lie?

Regardless of that our relationship progressed over the course of the final months of winter and into the spring. She graduated high school (a detail I should have divulged earlier?) and the spring melted into summer. We were together almost every day and used the word “love” like it was going out of style. I was a hit with her family and friends. Little did I know that I was not such a hit with her. The beginning of the end came toward the end of the summer when she went to check out colleges. She had her first taste of freedom and realized, as I feared she would, that being single was the best thing for a freshman. No ties to bind you while trying to spread you wings, as it were. Poetic sentiments aside, one can say that I did not handle a certain trip to the school she finally decided on well. The details have hazed due to time and alcohol but I seem to recall something about a phone call on my end around two A.M. demanding to know why she wasn’t asleep. Psycho? Yes. No doubt about it. She had every right to come straight home and break up with me.

She didn’t.

She came home and apologized. I was floored…until…

She began to spill the details of what she had done there. To be more specific, she wrote a letter (one for each day she was there – she had missed me too she claimed) detailing a trip to a river with a co-ed group of people she had just met. These new friends decided to go skinny dipping but she swore that nothing happened. I believed her because I knew (or thought) that she was it. We were happy again and remained that way for six more days. On the seventh day, presumably while God was resting, everything went to hell.

It was raining and she had called me to come over to her house. Of course I hopped in my car and drove as fast as my Chevy would take me. I had barely gotten both feet on her walk when she peeked her head and shoulders out of her front door. She had been crying, possibly still was. She yelled over the rain that we were over, I was free to go. That’s all she said. She ducked back inside and gently closed the door. Suddenly I was glued where I stood. My shoes had become a part of the sidewalk and the rain drenched me like any other statue. I stood, journal in hand, for a long time. I’m not sure how long, but when I finally returned to my car I had to wring out my clothes as best I could before getting in. I pulled out of her driveway and went straight to the spot that I visited that sparked this writing. I sat in my usual place, which was sheltered from the rain, and wrote pages upon pages of frantic (and probably bad) poetry about the dagger still metaphorically sticking out of my chest.

It wasn’t until months later, possibly years, I came to realize that she was the grown up in that situation. It marked the beginning of what has become something of a trend in my personal life: the woman is more mature than I, regardless of age or station in life. I have come to accept this as fact and embraced it when I married a woman more mature than her years should allow.

There you have a general overview of the impact that woman had on my life. If you are asking yourself the same question I ask myself often: would I have changed things if I were able? the answer is no. Things worked out the way they did for a reason. To quote a movie line: There is such a thing as fate…it just works in really fucked up ways sometimes. Especially in my case. (Side note: if I could work this experience into a story I would sell 250,000 copies in a week!)

Another question, and the most important right now: why did I decide to write about looking up an ex’s profile? Simple answer – vanity. I am writing almost gleefully because, as it turns out, my life has come to a more complete and happy place than her’s. Granted I know nothing of her current place and I am not where I thought I’d be at this point but I know that I am where I’m supposed to be.

Besides, I still look good. Just kidding. Sort of.

Hello, Again, Hello

It has been some time since last I updated my blog here. My apologies for the lapse but life has handed me quite a few curve balls as of late. As most know, my father passed just over a month ago (you can find the eulogy I wrote for him in another post) and that set me back, creatively speaking, a few weeks. I wrote the eulogy and felt burned out, like nothing would come to my mind to write. I’m not sure when inspiration struck but I was able to start a short story (possibly flash fiction, not sure yet) about a newly widdowed mother. If you read the first part if it, thank you and I hope to be finishing it soon.

In the next few weeks I will be packing and moving to a new house. This will undoubtedly impede my writing for some time but once the wife and I are settled in to the new place I will have my own office; a writing space all to my self! I’ve never had one before and am very excited at the prospect of being able to go off and create in my own little corner of the world! I haven’t the foggiest as to how well it will get my creative juices flowing but I’m hoping for the best!

Well, I’m off to read and if time allows I may even take a boyish fling at writing something tonight…

We shall see.