Apr
27

A Work In Progress

You don’t actually go to heaven when you die. I hate to spoil the suprise or let you down, but you don’t.
You go to this place with nothing around but more people and an almost beige light that covers everyone. They, or rather we, aren’t actually beige, just the light. There are no clouds or gates or people with wings. There are no halos or white gowns in sight. There is no one waiting by an entryway with a big book that contains the life story of every man, woman and child on the planet. Nothing like that.
It seems sad but it’s not. Well, that is to say that it’s not sad in the same way that a Denny’s isn’t sad. That was the first thing I thought of when I got here. I felt like if I saw a claw machine and a spinning rack of pies I wouldn’t be shocked. Denny’s has a strange way of being comfortable without making you feel as though you want to stay there a while and relax. That’s how this place is: almost familiar in its comforts with a total lack of other appeal.
Everyone looks the same too. We aren’t all the same age but we all look as we remember looking on Earth. At least we guess so. There are no mirrors so we have to rely on what others see in us and how they describe those traits. I wanted to make that a game on my first day but no one would play along. I guess they already had that idea. I didn’t let that stop me though. I came up with no less than ten other games in the following five day. That’s two games a day! But still no one would play. I couldn’t figure out why until I finally upset someone with my constant line of questioning.
“We won’t play because we all hate it here!” the man said. He spit when he talked and as it turned out even though our physical bodies were gone, saliva travels with the soul. I realized that others had been here for a very long time. When I tried to figure out who had been here the longest I kept coming to the same conclusion: no one kept track. I had because I had only been here a few days but even I reluctantly stopped counting too.
I had always assumed that there would be a place like this. In Sunday school as a kid they would tell me about purgatory. It always sounded to me like Heaven’s waiting room or a halfway house between life and eternity, regardless if you went up or down when they let you out. Unfortunately it’s seeming more and more like a destination. Maybe we here are the adequate ones. The C students. The high school diploma people. Maybe we never killed anyone but we did have a lot of premartial sex. I know I did. Regardless, we are all here for an unknown length of time and none of us know what happens next.
We also don’t know how we got here. I can’t remember how I came to this place. The few people who have exploded at me out of contempt or confusion admitted not knowing how they had arrived here either. I know it isn’t really that important a fact to understand but my curiosity came here with me and it seems to be my only constant compainion. I’ve been trying for the last few day to make friends with one of the younger guys. I noticed him on my first day and I’ve been following him ever since, but he doesn’t know it. I’ve been keeping my distance but I’ll talk to him eventually. Maybe then I’ll have another companion. I remember when I first saw him. Our eyes didn’t meet but I felt – I knew – I needed to get closer to him. Maybe not out of any romantic feelings but rather out of survival. I’m going to need friends, I recall thinking, if I’m going to make it here for any amount of time. That, and…well, he was very cute.
His name was Tom but everyone called him Boy. It hurts to talk about him in the past tense but that can’t be helped now. Boy was tall, six feet four if he was an inch. His shoulders were broad but his chest was flat and shapeless. His chin was so slight that from many angles it looked as though his bottom lip melted into his neck. His nose was sharply pointed but somehow looked right at home where it was. It was probably because of his eyes. The eyes were the bluest I’ve ever seen. I can’t liken the color to anything here given the lack of colors other than beige but maybe there was a blue back home…maybe.

Apr
22

Don’t Mind Me…I’m Just Catching Up

Apr
13

This Post Has Been Edited For Content

Clemens, Mike Speegle and myself were over on the Twitters the other day when one little thing I said became the main topic of discussion. Basically I was the center of attention, per usual. NBD.

The main thrust of the talk was that ever-present specter that is EDITING.

We all know about it.

We all do it.

We just don’t like it.

So began a discussion regarding the different ways in which we tackle the common task. Many ideas were strewn about but in the end it seems we all went about it pretty much the same way. Here, for better or ill, is my modus operandi:

  1. I gather the manuscript. This is usually rather easy as I use a box of continuous feed paper (unwittingly donated by my place of employment). The paper is a two-part so I end up with two copies right off the bat. When I’m done raping the English language and making Hemingway spin in his grave I scan the MS as an editable text file of some sort. I take this text file and do two things with it: Make a physical copy and cut it up into the scenes and paste it into Scrivener.

     

  2. Here we have the paper MS. As you see I’ve changed the title. Found and Lost ended up being a much more fitting title than Calculated Kismet. It’s also a lot less of a “Meg Ryan and Tom Hanks movie waiting to happen” sort of title. I have used plain brass fasteners and three hole punch. Usually I’ll use a three-ring binder but went with this method for some unknown reason. It will be last time I do – while it’s a great way to have some alpha readers take a gander it’s just not meant to be used for note taking.

  3. As you see I went and printed it single spaced.

    Why? Because I’m a MORON! That’s why. Other than that I can’t give a rational explanation. But since ink costs somewhere around twenty times more than gas I went with it. As it turns out I’m sort of glad I did. I found an unused bankers tablet and began using it as a supplemental to my scribblings on the margins.  (And I’m VERY sorry to add that the Sonic Screwdriver has no “Edit My Novel” setting.  It is strictly for timey-wimey things….)

     

  4. As you can see in the pictures above and below when I’ve run out of room or just don’t have enough to make the change I want I number the change on the MS and write the addition in the tablet. This makes for very easy retyping later. It also preserves the original look and flow of the sentence so I can compare the changes to the first draft and see what I like better. More times than I expected I found that I would leave the original pretty much in tact.

  5. I don’t tend to block out lines or words. I cross them out but never to the point of not being able to read what is underneath. I don’t kill my darlings so much as injure them. Even then I feel obliged to drive them to the hospital.

 

I haven’t finished the editing of the novel as of yet but I’m hoping to have it done at some point next month. A lofty goal? Perhaps. But I’m looking at Camp Nanowrimo’s first run as a chance to finish last year’s NaNo novel, which I was forced to abandon due to the whole moving and providing for my family thing. Damn family…always distracting me.

There you have it.

 

Apr
05

Gotta Love That New Site Smell!

I didn’t realize until after I scanned it, but the font on this SC #8 has almost the same pitch as my letterhead font!

 

Mar
13

Writing Down The Voices

Mar
10

I’m Still A Writer

Rino responded to my post about being a Writer and drew some great points, as well as great responses from readers.  I, of course, felt compelled to post again…why?  Because I’m still a writer!  ;u)

(Please excuse the typos and strange spacing…the keys on the new Underwood are very close together!)

Mar
06

Where Do Ghosts Go In The Daytime?

(Here is another little piece – not yet complete – of what was supposed to be flash fiction but since it seems that I am getting carried away I think it’ll be a short story! Please excuse the choppy prose…it’s a WIP!)

You don’t actually go to heaven when you die. I hate to spoil the suprise or let you down, but you don’t.
You go to this place with nothing around but more people and an almost beige light that covers everyone. They, or rather we, aren’t actually beige, just the light. There are no clouds or gates or people with wings. There are no halos or white gowns in sight. There is no one waiting by an entryway with a big book that contains the life story of every man, woman and child on the planet. Nothing like that.
It seems sad but it’s not. Well, that is to say that it’s not sad in the same way that a Denny’s isn’t sad. That was the first thing I thought of when I got here. I felt like if I saw a claw machine and a spinning rack of pies I wouldn’t be shocked. Denny’s has a strange way of being comfortable without making you feel as though you want to stay there a while and relax. That’s how this place is: almost familiar in its comforts with a total lack of other appeal.
Everyone looks the same too. Not that we are all the same age but we all look as we remember looking on Earth. At least we guess so. Among the nothing here are mirrors so we have to rely on what others see in us and how they describe those traits. I wanted to make that a game on my first day but no one would play along. I guess they already had that idea. I didn’t let that stop me though. I came up with no less than ten other games in the following five day. That’s two games a day! But still no one would play. I couldn’t figure out why until I finally upset someone with my constant line of questioning.
“We won’t play because we all hate it here!” the man said. He spit when he talked and as it turned out even though our physical bodies were gone, saliva travels with the soul. I realized that others had been here for a very long time. When I tried to figure out who had been here the longest I kept coming to the same conclusion: no one kept track. I had because I had only been here a few days but even I reluctantly stopped counting too.
I had always assumed that there would be a place like this. In Sunday school as a kid they would tell me about purgatory. It always sounded to me like Heaven’s waiting room or a halfway house between life and eternity, regardless if you went up or down when they let you out. Unfortunately it’s seeming more and more like a destination. Maybe we here are the adequate ones. The C students. The high school diploma people. Maybe we never killed anyone but we did have a lot of premartial sex. I know I did. Regardless, we are all here for an unknown length of time and none of us know what happens next.
We also don’t know how we got here.

Mar
04

I Am A Writer

I am a writer.  Are YOU?

Mar
01

Come and Go With Me

(This is a bit of flash fiction I wrote today…)

He watched her leave the coffeehouse with an attention to detail that, had he shown it for the six months prior, would have avoided his having to watch her leave the coffeehouse. He studied her intently, waiting for her to falter and turn. At the very least she was going to pause and take a ragged breath before getting into her car and driving off. But she did none of this. Emily Campo strolled confidently to her car and slipped in. She turned the motor and put the car in gear. Even as she backed up and rolled parallel to the window Jon was sitting at, looking like an eager puppy in a pet store, she kept a laser focus on the road ahead, something Jon just was not capable of. Even if the tears weren’t welling up in his eyes his focus was much too scattered. The car quickly disappeared from sight and Jon wiped away the proof that Emily had had any effect on him. He breathed hard, got to his feet and ordered another latte.

Jon smiled as he ordered. He wasn’t flirting or even trying to make pleasantries. It was more of a defense mechanism that he had picked up in high school. The girl with the lip ring called his order and he went to the counter to pick it up. He smiled again without making eye contact. The girl spoke, but Jon didn’t hear it.

“Everything okay?” she repeated.

“Huh? Um, yeah. Yeah. Just fine.” He faked another smile and began to walk back to his table.

“Well, Mister Just Fine, I’ll be right here if you need anything.” She paused and winked without knowing it. Quickly she added, “Else! Anything else.” she said, wiping her eyes.

The fleeting notion that the girl might have been coming on to him made Jon wince. He was supposed to be heartbroken. He was supposed have feelings of loss and denial and all of the other intense reactions to having been dumped. But even at this early moment those feelings had already seemed to vanish, if they were there in the first place. He stole a sideways glance at her and began typing.

 

She was ivory skinned. Perhaps it was a trick of the florescent light but the whole of her body seemed to glow ever so lightly. Just light enough, he thought, to make her seem ethereal. The light that shone from within escaped from every pore of her body and blinded him, a feeling he never knew could be so damn enjoyable.

 

Jon stopped typing and glanced back to the girl. For a moment he wasn’t sure he was making up the words he was writing or just providing a running commentary of his thoughts for all to read. He wasn’t even sure if it mattered. She was busy pouring milk from jugs into the steel carafes they put out for customers. Her back was to him, hair pulled back in a messy and hastily gathered ponytail. He continued writing.

 

The milky sheen of her soft neck made his breath catch in his throat. He had never seen such a pure shade and struggled to liken to something – anything – he had seen before. He failed. The man was sitting as still as possible in the small cafe he had wandered into quite accidentally. He was just passing thorough, he reminded himself. He had somewhere to be in the morning and it was best he didn’t call attention to himself and start a conversation with a well meaning waitress and get thrown off schedule. Or worse. He shook his head hard to purge that thought and grabbed at the menu. He studied it vainly, not being able to resist looking up and taking in more of the woman. Just then it hit him: what if she was his waitress?

His breath caught again as he buried his face in the menu. The pictures of stacks of pancakes, sides of bacon and bowls of oatmeal blurred into one pool of brown and tan. He glanced up and saw the woman just as she had been with her back still to him. Only now she was talking to the cook through an opening that exposed the entire kitchen to the patrons. The cook pointed to the dining room, and although he couldn’t be sure, to him in particular. He threw the menu back in front of his face and counted to ten. When no one approached him he slowly lowered his fortress. His eyes darted around but couldn’t come to rest on the woman. She wasn’t where he had left her. Had she gone in the kitchen? On break? He had no idea. Someone tapped his shoulder.

 

Jon jumped. The girl let out a yelp.

“I’m so sorry!” she said. “I didn’t mean to startle you.” She smiled. “I’m Molly.” She offered her hand.

“Jon,” he said, and shook her small hand.

“What are you writing?”

“What? Oh this? Nothing.” He was too nervous to remember to hide his nervousness. He tried to cover up the screen but Molly stopped him.

“Can I see?” Jon hesitated. “It’s okay, I’m on my break.” She could see that he wasn’t sure what to do so Molly helped him but taking the computer and turing it toward her. As she adjusted the screen she said, “So you like what you see?”

“W-w-what?”

“I mean, I noticed you looking at me. Really, I couldn’t help it. You were pretty much boring a hole though me!” She smiled and the ring in her lip caught the glare of the track lighting in the ceiling. Jon thought he flinched. “You have a nice smile.”

“Smile? Did I smile?”

“Yeah,” she said slowly. “Man, you are a jumpy one, aren’t you?” She showed a thin, sly look and began reading the words on the screen.

“Not jumpy really. Just…surprised.”

“Yeah? How’s that?”

“Well, you’re sitting at my table and I don’t know you and you just called me out for staring at you and -”

“Calm down. It’s okay. We in the service industry are used to that.” She looked up. “This is good. Is it about anyone I know?”

“Well, I mean…”

“That’s what I thought.” She smiled. “It was the girl that left a little bit ago, huh?”

“Oh God no!” The volume of the statement surprised them both. Jon blushed. Molly let out a loud infectious laugh that seemed to go on just a little longer than the situation had called for.

“I know. I know. I’m just kidding. It’s about me, then?” Jon didn’t answer verbally but raised his eyebrows. “You don’t have to look so guilty.” She reached across the table to touched his arm. The feeling was much different than it had been when they shook hands. There was something more to it. Something tangible.

“Sorry. I just, I just do that a lot. You know, work people I see into stories.”

“It’s fine. I’m actually flattered. No one had ever written about me before. At least, not that I know of.” Jon smiled faintly. “So who was she?”

“Girlfriend. Well, ex, now.” Jon noticed a lack of emotion in his words, and so did Molly.

“Don’t sound so sad about it, man!” The joke cracked her up but only made Jon blush again.

“Yeah. It’s a new thing. Maybe it just hasn’t had a chance to sink in yet?”

“Was that a question you wanted me to answer?” Molly asked.

“Um, no. I guess I should probably answer that myself, shouldn’t I?”

“Probably,” she agreed. “But I can help.”

“Help?” Jon sounded skeptical.

“Yup! I can help for sure. Of course you’ll have to tell me the whole story.”

“Right…” Jon trailed off, still not sure where this was going.

“So you can tell me when you take me out tonight.”

“Take you out?”

“Yeah. Here,” she began typing on his computer. “Here’s my number and address. Now, understand, I never do this. But something is making me and I’ve learned to never distrust something you can’t put your finger on.”

“That seems a very dangerous way to live,” Jon said.

“Dangerous. Or exhilarating.” Molly hopped to her feet and winked. “I’ll see you at six.”

Jan
10

It’s Good To Be Home!

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