writing

January 3, 2015

Attempting to be Unexpected.

Well look at that, I made it to day two.  Give it a couple more days and I’ll peter out.  I always do.  I think it’s because I become so concerned with my writing style and technique.  Basically I think it’s shit.  And I let that negativity bounce around in my brain until every part of it is now dented or bruised.  Ultimately forcing myself to give up because I’m believing that voice.

Strangely I don’t feel that way yet.  I’m oddly calm and somewhat positive.  Again, just a fluke.  I’ll beat myself into submission and give up, claiming I’m shit.

(That’s the way to go about it, Josh, with sarcasm and negativitiy! Good Job.)

Year of Writing Prompts by Brian A. Klems & Zachary Petit
January 2nd
High Stakes Holidays
“That’s not a New Year’s Resolution.  That’s a death wish.” Use this as a first line and run with it!

“So, basically,” Anthony said, stuffing another crème puff into his mouth, “I’m going to just say fuck it and gain as much weight as I can.  I call it my ‘Don’t fear what you’ll gain in a year.'”

“That’s not a New Year’s resolution, Tone,” Becka said, “That’s a death wish. Do you realize how unhealthy that is.  Well,” she paused, craning her head back and blinking furiously,”or do you mean you’ll eat whatever you want, but mainly vegetables.  Or is it an atkins thing?”

Tony shook his head, while devouring another puff in one bite.

“No.  This isn’t a weightloss journey, beck.  This is I’m going to eat whatever the fuck I want whenever the fuck I want to.  Screw diets and working out.  That’s for the birds.  I’m just going to live my life and eat whatever I want.”

Becka stared slack jawed.

Tony popped his eyebrows and smiled. “Jealous.”

“No. No I’m not. You’re tying to kill yourself.”

“Why does everyone always say that.  I’m not killing myself.  I would be if I was intentionally trying to get fat.  That would mean I was bed ridden and could never leave the house or have to work…”

“No! Tony, don’t you go there! I see those wheels spinning.  Just take it back to eating whatever you want.  But to intention-”

“Are you kidding! I wouldn’t have to work! I could stay at home and play my xbox all day.” Tony looked off into the middle distance. A grin played about his lips.

In his moment of distracted contemplation Becka hurriedly seized her moment.  She shoved her hand into her coach bag and produced a pair of fuzzy handcuffs hich she proceeded to lock around Tony’s wrist and her dining room chair.

The people packed into her apartment carried on without a second glance.

“What the hell,” Tony said, “Beck, where did you get these?”

“Tony, I’m doing this for your own good.”

Tony opened his mouth to speak but when becka promptly turned to a pair of muscly gentlemen standing in her kitchen he didn’t respond. They exchanged a few words as becka pointed over her shoulder. The two men laughed and walked around her and strutted over to Tony.  He watched confused as the men picked up the chair and carried him with it down the hall and into the spare room.

“Sleep tight, bud,” one of them said.

They left the room, shutting the door behind them.

Little did they know that Becka had tricked them and Tony into a scheme she had concocted on the fly.  For the next three weeks she kept her friend hostage in her spare room.  She would visit nightly to feed him and bathe any exposed skin.

“Becka, you’re insane, let me go.”

She pressed herfinger to his lips.

“I’m crazy? You’re the one who wanted to get fat on purpose.  I am saving you from yourself. ”

“Please! Somebody help me!” Tony screamed.

Becka grabbed the ballgag and put it back into his mouth.

“Naughty, naughty,” She said. “Remember we talked about that.”

Tony groaned behind the red rubber gag.

It wasn’t until the next day that Tony knew what he had to do.

Becka entered the room backwards, carrying a tray of sour dough bread and vegetable soup.

“I made it myself!”

With nimble fingers she removed the ball and prepared to spoon feed him, even though he had a free hand.

“Beck, I have finally realized the error of my ways.”

Sitting up straight she lowered the spoon back to the bowl.  Her blue doe eyes fixed with his.

“What is it darling?”

“It is obvious that you care so much for me.  I want you to marry me and care for me this way always.”

“What?”

“Yes. I must have you.”

Becka frowned and put the tray on the floor to the side of her chair.  With liquid motions she pulled the key from her pocket and unlocked Tony from his restraints.

“I’d rather you get fat.”

January 2, 2015

A Year Long Challenge. Maybe.

Back in July Writer’s Digest (my hooker of choice) offered a special on a couple e-books. One of which was a book that offered a different writing prompt for every day of a full calendar year.  I wanted to start immediately, but seeing as how the book began on January 1st I thought I’d wait until that time to begin.  Especially since the prompts grew more difficult with each passing day.

Like most things I say “I’ll remember this for later.” I very nearly forgot. It wasn’t until Writer’s Digest sent me another dirty tease about that book which reminded me of it’s existence on my computer.  So, if all of my other resolutions fail I wish for this one to at least go.  I think I can write everyday and post it on here.  (Can’t I?)

The first prompt of Year of Writing Prompts (by Brian A Klems and Zachary Petit) is very fitting for the first of January.

“January 1. Your Resolutions. What are your New Year’s resoltuions? Take one and create a fictional story surrounding it.”

Like countless thousands, I have made at least one resolution.  Though being the lazy overachiever I am I have made a list of 6 different things I would like to accomplish in the new year. Whether I actually achieve them is an entirely different story.  One of my favorite quotes is from the movie Forest Gump which perfectly sums up my feelings about resolutions and a new year.  The scene is of Forest,Captain Dan, and the two hookery girls in a bar watching the ball drop in time square.  One of them with big doughy eyes watches and says in a whisper “I love new years. Everybody gets a second chance.” And if I am given a second chance I’m going to at least mildly attempt it with gusto.

My Resolutions:

1 – Finish my book.
2 – Get in shape.  I’m 58 lbs overweight.
3 – Read at least 12 books.
4 – Get spiritually settled.
5 – Start a family.
6 – Pay off my credit cards.

Derek and Moira stood nervously in the exam room.  Despite having told her numerous times to sit Moira had refused.  So instead he wrapped his wife in his embrace.  He pressed his cheek to hers and hum a tune of his own creation.  It was one of the things she loved most about him.  The gentle melody soothed her nerves and she could focus on more important things like fertility and being pregnant.

This was round number six in their battle with her failing uterus.  In one of there attempts she thought she had a knock out but it came in with a sucker punch and knocked all the wind from her gut.  The two had been devastated and spent nearly a year recuperating.

“Do you think he’s taking so long because it’s good news?” she asked.  She kept her eyes shut and focused on Derek and herself, blocking the rest of the world out.  In her mind she and he stood in the vast expanse of the galaxy among stars and moons.

Derek stopped humming and hugged her tighter.

“It will be what it will be.” he said.

Luckily her eyes were shut and him not looking cause he would have been offended at her eye roll.  It was the best he coud offer at such a time.  He was just as clueless as her and she knew that.

They had prepared in the car before they dare enter the office.  And prior to that they had spent all night talking it through.  The final conclusion then was if this didn’t work they would have to adopt.  Derek had made such a beautiful altruistic case.

“There are so many other kids in this world desperate for a family.  Why would we deny them a loving home?”

She had hated him for his sense of logic. Even a tiny bit jealous.  She had always assumed he felt the same as her when it came to the question “biological or not?” How could they be close to a child that wasn’t made up of the two of them? It was an absolutely selfish thought.  She knew that.  But with all her knowledge she couldn’t change the pressing fear and guilt weighing in her chest.

Please, God, she prayed for the billionth time.

With a click of the door the doctor swooped into the exam room.  He instinctively looked at the table before peering around the door, momentarily perplexed.

“Good afternoon,” he said.

The two stepped from the other’s embrace and stood, only inches apart, with their hands clasped together. Derek like the gentleman that he was offered his hand to the doctor. The white coat clad physician took it and gave it a firm shake.  Already his confidence and cool demeanor had Moira hopeful.  Of the times before, she had known the answer before they had spoken a word.

“So we got back the test and I have some bad news and some good news.”

Moira’s heart froze in her chest.   Derek tightened his grip around her hand.  They could do this, it said.

“The good news is that you are definitely pregnant,” he said then looked down.

“You know what, Dr. Stewart, You can stop there.  Unless the bad news is that it would somehow harm my wife I don’t think we should know. At this point, no matter how the baby is, we will love it all the more.  Because it’s ours.”

MOira looked at her husband, studying his square features and stubbled complexion.

“Okay.” The doctor said.

Derek met his wife’s gaze and smiled.

“Because it’s ours,” she said.

November 21, 2014

The Striptease of Writer’s Digest, “Don’t touch the dancers.”

As much as I love Writer’s Digest they are in fact the devil.  Yes.  The dark lord from the pits of hell.  They are very persistent with their e-mails and I find myself opening almost everyone lured by the subject line or the hope of getting published.  Here is the thing, my novel isn’t anywhere near ready, and the ones that are the most enticing are “Get an agent to read your first 10 pages” or “2nd draft critique” or “Query Letter critique.”  Two of them also bill the chance of the agent doing the workshop “might ask for more!” I doubt it ever happens, but could.  It’s mainly a way of selling more of the workshops.

My husband pointed out that they have an amazing business model and they really do.  They are playing on peoples hopes and dreams.  It’s equivalent to “talent” agencies that charge a fee to represent you in the hope to “make it big!”  It’s horrible.  Now I don’t think that Writer’s Digest is at all malicious.  I think they’re truly offering “opportunities” but whether or not it goes anywhere is unlikely.  And that has nothing to do with Writer’s Digest, that’s just the nature of the beast.

I have to keep repeating, everyday, every morning, every minute, to be a writer one needs to WRITE, not sit back and dream of seeing one’s book on a shelf.  That’s not how it works.  It takes time, dedication, and persistence.  Even when confronted with adversity external or (most likely) internal, one pushes past keeping in mind their ultimate goal.  And once that manuscript is gleaming and has so much promise will these offers from Writer’s Digest be worthwhile.  Until that time they are like a stripper to me.  They are pretty and flashy, dancing seductively from a platform with no potential to touch.  Once I put in for a lap dance, maybe the dancer will like me and things will be different.

November 21, 2014

My Cheeks are Burning

I said it a prior post, but for some reason since my trip from London (listen to me, “since” it’s been 4 days) I’ve felt very different.  I don’t know what it is, but I want my life to be different.  I in particular want to be someone else.

When I sit down to define exactly what that is I come up with only a couple items.  For one, I want to be thinner.  Although, the way I’ve been eating the past few days you wouldn’t know that.  I don’t understand the root of my sudden ravenousness, but regardless it needs to stop.  The second is, I want to be published.  This one in particular isn’t as cut and dry.  It takes preparation and planning.  It takes fucking dedication, which as of late hasn’t really been me.  I will find every excuse in the book not to sit down and write.  My reasons get worse when I read my novel and see how much work it needs.  But, even as I say that I don’t even know if that’s a true statement.  For all I know I am building it up in my head to be worse than it is, thus giving me a reason not to do it.  “There is just so much to do.”

I recently purchased Amy Poehler’s novel “Yes Please” in audiobook and have been listening to it.  Just in the preface her words spoke to me like none others I have ever read or heard before.  She talked about how difficult writing is and equated the process to pregnancy.  Her words were much more eloquent whereas mine are not.

I need to stop making excuses.  The only way the thing is going to get done is if I do it.  I just need to write a little bit everyday and before I know it, it’ll be finished.

I want to be a different person.  I want to change everything about me.  I want to burst into flame and arise from the ashes anew.  I can feel my cheeks flushing.