The Greener Side - The Poem - Shoot Me Now

“I was tired of my lady. We’d been together too long.”

That’s how the song goes. Bubba said it differently: “Shrimpin’ is tough!” Even if you change it to relationships it’s still true. Tom knew it, and he still couldn’t shake the idea that the chicks on the other side of the fence looked awfully tempting – and infinitely more interesting than his “true love.”

Despite assurances from Jack – his life-long friend and self-acknowledged woman-hater and player – that they were all the same, Tom didn’t relent. He just kept entertaining the random thoughts and fantasies until he couldn't resist taking action.

Jack mocked him mercilessly for taking the timid action he took – a personal ad – really? But he condemned him all the same for hopping the fence at all. Didn’t he know how lucky he was? Hadn’t he learned anything from Jack over the years?

And, it sparked something in Tom he hadn’t felt in years. Mystery. Excitement. Whatever. Jack couldn’t believe it. He had told Tom repeatedly how envious he was of Tom’s situation. No drama. No variance. He couldn’t resist. He had to intervene. Plus, Tom was annoying the hell out of him and he had to hear it, but he wouldn’t listen. Jack wracked his brain on what he could possibly do to make him listen.

The only solution turned his stomach. But they’d been friends for a long time, so Jack sucked it up and did it. He didn’t like it, but it actually seemed to be working…

-=-

3AM Exercise #128: Write a very SS, on the model of a villanelle (x19 lines, x5 3-line stanzas, plus x1 4-line stanza). The same 1st & 3rd lines of the story become the last 2 lines of the [story], in order: ABC DEA FGC HIA JKC LMAC. “Lines” may be full sentences or not. If not, make sure the incomplete sentence will be completed by several different concluding phrases without harming meaning too much. Maybe write it first in the form of a poem, then turn it into prose. 250 words. NOTE: Some kind of mathematical exercise, superimposing abstract [theories?] on the art/craft of writing -- which I like. "I like it uh-lot!"

THE POEM (I can’t believe I’m doing this … sigh… whatever…)

Began by laying out the poem; no idea about the story idea… later decided that perhaps I will “comment” about my project “The Greener Side.” Alright. Poem. Check. Now, to turn it into prose for a SS… (panic!)… well. There you go. Not sure if I got it right or not, but I wrote a poem, so I guess now I’m an “artist and blah, blah, blah.” (teen-age Bruce)

(38 words don’t count in the word count) – 247 words

1 (A) The reason why the grass is hard to mow,
2 (B) is because the plain and simple truth is that it’s a tough job.
3 (C) It seems greener on the other side simply because of the line of sight.

4 (D) There are just as many weeds and dead spots over there, too.
5 (E) Make no mistake about it.
6 (A1) It’s all just grass, also struggling to grow.

7 (F) But even though we know grass is just grass,
8 (G) and even though we’ve been around the block a few times, and noticed before,
9 (C1) we believe it actually might be greener; something more idyllic than here and now.

10 (H) So, sometimes, we hop the fence.
11 (I) Just to check, to make sure; because we just can’t trust our experience.
12 (A2) And, we relish walking on this new grass. Ah! Have you felt this grass?

13 (J) Perhaps some part of us actually believes, or wants to believe, this new truth.
14 (K) But in short order, we glance back over the path we have travelled.
15 (C2) And what do we see from our new perspective? Greener grass on the other side!

16 (L) Then reality sets in and we notice the tiniest of flaws.
17 (M) Then we remember how hard we worked to keep it alive before.
18 (A3) The grass on this side is just as hard to mow as our old lawn. So why the drama?
19 (C3) This is wisdom - accuracy of vision - bestowed by repeated experience and age. And growth.

A blooming story idea?

I thought (dreamt) about Incarnate.

I've decided it's "Death" incarnate. Can't decide if she is always female or not in all her "lives" (past, present, future). But I think it would be cooler and spookier (black widow spooky) if Death was a... girl. A mean one. If you catch my drift...

But not always. In fact, in this story, I saw this scene: she's a little girl, daddy gets a flat, and he's under the car. Then she remembers another event of someone getting crushed under machinery and daddy dies. She obviously didn't do anything wrong. But she saw it coming and is messed up inside more and more as these events unfold. She didn't really do anything, but she is Death Incarnate after all, so whatever death-invoking powers of the universe she yields come into play when she is in similar situations as the past.

The story is how she is born, remembers, "kills" people when their "time" is at hand; how she copes, and starts to "save" people she cares about when they are about to be at risk and puts others in their place instead. "Hey, just a second. Hey you! Can you come change this flat tire for me? Thanks. .... Ooops!"

Thoughts?

BDR

Ain't So Bad

That's a quote from Rocky III if you didn't know. Watch it to comprehend the context.

Today's motivation (since it's been awhile):

Haunting: "get a real job and leave the writing to slackers like me who LOVE the work AND FEEL BLESSED to have been BORN with a GIFT to do it."

Hmmm....

This made me read the article. Tractor beam. Sucked me right in.

Gotham Writer Workshop Email

Very interesting, J... I really do think we are writers, man... we need to go. Now.

Again, interesting. He said "Not written. Rewritten." That's what we say we do... Do we?

"I said you are you free to write. Am I? Are you?!" I'm using that motivation on the blog. Know the quote?

"Always believe." I believe in you, Peter. <-- line would sound much less [non-straight] if it were Jack or Bill. Well... maybe not.

NOTE: this guy only has 9 books and 4 films... never heard of him or his work(s). And yet... he is "advice-worthy".

http://www.williamhjortsberg.com/filmtitles.html

We've got that many ideas.

Ain't so bad comes to mind.

Approach the page J.

UNTITLED #26

“Bullshit.”

I can’t remember when this became my answer for everything – probably when I was a kid. And, yes, I still think it’s funny. It’s just easier than trying to rationally explain my reasons to anyone with inferior intelligence—which is just about everyone, including the overseer. He gave me the paper and I just set it on top of the mess of papers on my desk, hoping it would send him closer to the edge. He was almost ready to topple over it. He was getting jumpy since it was near the end of the day so I checked my watch to see exactly what time it was and how long I could put him off. Sure enough, it added flame to the fire.

“It’s not bullshit, Tom. Get it done. Before five.”

The overseer didn’t stick around to watch me sneer. Maybe he didn’t care, or maybe he was even closer to boiling over. I would have muttered one more “Bullshit,” but no one was around to hear. Spinning around in my chair, I reveled in the carnage on my desk. Was mold actually growing under that cup yet? Yes! The cup had already adhered itself. How long had it been there? Maybe about two months – I distinctly remember wondering how long it was going to take for it to stick.

No, it had been exactly six weeks ago, because I’d marked the calendar mid-August. I put the half-filled cup there the same day I began the current campaign to see how long it would take the overseer to snap this time. Imagining the manifest fury that will be unleashed when he’s had enough always makes me smile. The overseer already made it two weeks past my original target date – a new record.

With two minutes to go, I picked up the paper he’d given me. Another sell order, and no good reason on God’s green earth why it had to be done before five. The market was already closed. It was getting too late in the day for this. Oh well. It was almost payday, and production bonuses were coming up soon.

“Alright,” I hate talking to myself, much less when I sigh at myself with no one to sympathize with me. My fingers flew over the keyboard. I hate using the mouse – it’s too slow. Thirty seconds later it was done. “Now,” I spun the chair around to look at the credenza. “A pen. A pen,” I chanted, as if saying it would actually help me find something – anything – resembling a pen in the mountain of paperwork.

“It is done?”

I hadn’t even realized the overseer was standing right on the edge of my cubicle, watching me – probably this whole time. “The order is in. I just need to finish the paperwork in triplicate.” Either he didn't appreciate my little joke, or he didn't get it. The overseer had already started sprinting toward the exit. I just talked louder to make sure he heard me. “Plus I’ve got a few other things to finish up. I’ll probably hang out here for another half-hour or so.” Yah right!

===

EXERCISE: 3AM EPIPHANY - #8 (THIRD TO FIRST)

Take a story you’ve written, and switch from 3^rd person to 1^st person. Cut references (he/she) in half. 500 words. Current # of “He”: x71; “I”: 0 – Target 35 “I” references. Results: “I”: x20; “me”: x8

Note: I didn’t really want to do this exercise because I’m already writing a 1^st person story, and I already like 1^st person, and I am already the unpaid master of 1^st person. So… I did it anyway. Why? 1) Because I am a rational person, capable of deciding things for myself. 2) Out of respect for the random number and the universe that dealt it to me. “You must have faith.” “Faith?” “That the universe will unfold as it should.” (Spock & Valaris)

Arising

Nothing is real. Everything is an illusion. There is…there is no…dump truck!

The dump truck outside was really annoying. He kept his eyes closed, trying to concentrate on keeping his aching body at attention. It seemed like every time he tried he just fell asleep.

Where the hell was I?

Beating the dump truck driver and throwing him into…

No, that is not where I was. Not until… no…

Jack sighed and started over. He was good at the beginning. In with good air. Possibilities and shit. No, not shit. Happy thoughts… Whatever!

He exploded from the mat, raised the window, and let everyone in the world – especially the driver of the damn truck – know exactly what he felt about them, their mothers and their inconsiderate invasion of his inner tranquility.

Yah – I am tranquility. Bitch. Oh, who am I kidding?

He spat out the window, slammed it shut again and slumped into the couch, bending to retrieve the remote. The batteries were dead – again.

Figures…

He looked around. His place was a mess. He wasn’t sure exactly when it happened, but the chaos was beginning to win out over his usual orderliness. Resigned, he gathered up the trash, stuffed it into the overflowing can, and then pulled out the bag. About to set it down, he glanced out the window.

I probably don’t have time to catch him…

He hurried out, stumbled down the stairs, almost spraining his ankle in his mad rush. Pushing through the gate, he could see the truck backing up and inching forward in an attempt to turn around. Just when he was about to finish maneuvering, he mowed over a corner mailbox and slammed on his brakes.

What a moron!

The driver was suddenly at the felled mailbox, pacing frantically around like some kind of witch doctor before he bent over and picked up the two biggest pieces.

“Hey, don’t worry about it. People are more important than things.”

The old timer was smiling, slowly getting up from his rocking chair on his porch. “I was going to buy a new one anyway. Kids keep knocking it over. Morning, Jack!”

“Morning!” Why he is always so happy?

The driver obviously didn’t know what to say, but smiled back up at the old man, then at Jack. Jack held out the trash bag for him. “Can you take this, too? Sorry it’s late.”

“Sure. No problem,” the driver held up the shattered mailbox to the old man who pointed to the dump truck.

“Just toss it,” he said, grunting as he sat in his rocking chair again. “Bye now.”

The driver tossed the mailbox into his truck, realizing he wasn’t going to lose his job today. Then he grabbed the bag from Jack and tossed it into the truck and nodded quickly “Have a good day,” to Jack before he hurried back into his truck.

He seems like a nice guy after all.

He wondered if he’d heard any of the terrible things he’d said from the window. Glancing at the old man, he wondered the same thing. He waved and the old man nodded back, already trying to resume his second nap of the morning.

I wonder what his name is?

Jack strolled up to the porch and started a conversation with the old man. Henry. Turned out he had toppled plenty of mailboxes in his earlier days as a garbage man – and a teenage hooligan.

He really knows what he’s talking about.

Even though he didn’t know it, Henry had explained it all perfectly. Nothing, no one exists truly independently of each other…

===

EXERCISE: 3AM EPIPHANY - #81 (THE BUNNY PLANET)

Compose dark narrative reflecting frustration, sadness, alienation, then say something simple, sentimental and change everything, especially narrative, dramatically via composition of prose. Explain logically. 600 words.

Thoughts: It seemed recent studied of Buddhism might yield such an “enlightened” change; hence the title, based on a fundamental principle: dependent arising. I’m not sure if one who is “unenlightened” can pull this off, but here goes…

P.S. The central “turning point” quote is something attributed to my Grandma. How’s that for sentimental? I didn’t see it coming, either… Also, it seems interesting to me that his “cleaning up the trash” seems symbolic for him cleaning up his mind. I didn’t plan that either, just noticed this in the re-read.

The Remedy - 3AM #147

THE REMEDY

“Why would anyone do that?” James barked. He stuffed more junk food down his gullet. “Medical breakthrough my ass,” he scoffed through his food. He wasn’t surprised he lived alone – he always had. He didn’t understand much of anything, especially relationships and the deeper feelings that can accompany them. He could honestly see no reason why someone would sacrifice their life to save someone else’s, even a family member; even if they were dying from cancer or whatever. Who cared? Shuffling his ample weight, he shimmied off the couch and stood as straight as his frame allowed.

His knees were still bothering him, but he didn’t see any reason to get any surgeries. It wouldn’t do any good and he’d probably never recover; most of the time he just sat on his ass, eating. He was seriously considering letting them amputate so he could just have the motorized wheelchair. He’d probably get out more. He shuffled into the kitchen and moved a couple of dirty dishes from inside the sink to the counter, cringing as he squished something onto his finger from the plate. Even though he couldn’t tell what it was, he plopped the finger into his mouth and sucked the slime off it. It tasted… weird. He couldn’t even smell the stench permeating the kitchen anymore.

He ran his hands through the water then reached into his shirt to “wash” his pits for a second or two. Then he shuffled through the trash to find some napkins. He dried his hands, his pits, then opened a drawer and put on some deodorant. Now he was ready for the day. He waddled to the door, slipped on his shoes and he was outside, squinting into the midday sun.

M M M

“He’s coming around,” someone said from inside the sun. No. It was overhead lights now, not the sun. But they were way too bright.

“Where am I?” James grumbled, realizing he was hungrier than he had been in a long time. “What happened?” He was trying to remember anything after he closed the door. He’d locked it. Walked down the stairs. There was a kid on a bike. Nearly ran him over. He stumbled out towards the street… into the street! The cab!

He tried to bend his neck to look down at his legs, but he couldn’t move. Did they have him tied down? “Sir,” the nurse was doing something to his arm, but he couldn’t feel it. “Please remain calm.”

“What are you doing? What happened to me?” Suddenly everything seemed just fine. The hot nurse smiled down at him and nodded. She asked him if he was feeling better, and he nodded. Or at least he thought he did. “Sure,” he mumbled. “Everything’s. Just. Fine. Now.” He wasn’t sure what she’d said to convince him of that, but she nodded and resumed working on his arm.

“Now be certain you don’t destroy the flesh,” someone said from above and behind him.

“I know,” she snapped at him. “Is the recipient ready?”

“Thanks for doing this,” someone said from behind the nurse. “Your sacrifice won’t be in vain. Thank you.” The man on the bed next to him was sobbing now.

“Keep him sedated,” she yelled.

Tools clattered and a rough looking man bent over James and flashed a grin at him, his yellow and jagged teeth made James’ eyes fly open. He wasn’t wearing a surgical mask, and he didn’t have any gloves on. He didn’t even look like a doctor. “You’re so compassionate, you fat piece of shit!” He popped James on the head a couple of times in mock admiration. The other man seemed confused at the remark, and started to protest, fighting against his restraints. “No! This is what you paid for you rich prick,” the pirate spat. “Remember that when you wake up in hell!”

“Knock it off, Conner,” she chuckled and slapped him on the side of the head. “Just get them sedated.”

“You weren’t paralyzed,” the pirate sang to James through his missing teeth. “Dead for sure. But it was easy to bring you back long enough for harvest.”

“What do you mean?” James croaked.

There was a click at his neck and James felt the pressure release. “Take a look, tubby.” The pirate moved over to the other man and administered some medicine into the medicine bag.

James looked down slowly, and saw his ruptured belly open to the world. His organs were contracting with his motion and his breaths, and the “nurse” was watching him with mild amusement. “You’re sick,” she chuckled to the pirate.

“Why?” James whispered through his horror.

“Didn’t you hear? We found the cure for cancer!”

James held up his arm, but saw only the muscles and bones looking back at him. He passed out again…

===

EXERCISE: 3AM EPIPHANY - #147 (LIVING FLESH)

French Poet Paul Valery wrote: “Idea for a frightening story: It is discovered that the only remedy for cancer is living human flesh. … Add water – and flesh. 800 words.”

Incarnate - 3AM Epiphany - #97

“Are you OK?” he hovered over her, catching his breath.

“I guess so,” she nodded, but was still unsure. She was floating somewhere else again, trying not to remember. She pulled his arm around his back, pushing him onto his back.

“Look who’s feisty tonight!” he grinned wickedly, reaching his arms to her waist.

“No,” she whispered quickly, sliding her body down his, holding his wrists secure as he yielded to her kisses. She sat upright quickly, and began turning away. He grabbed her hands quickly, holding her immobile. “Please don’t,” she looked away.

“What’s wrong?” he pleaded with her. “It’s alright.”

She looked at him, and noticed a small scar near his collar bone. “What is this?” she asked, running her fingers along the scar.

“As if you don’t remember,” he laughed and pulled her mouth to his. “Let me remind you.” As he assaulted her mouth, she glanced at the bedside candles, casting eerie shadows on the stone walls. This would be the last time.

“What do you mean last time,” he whispered into her ear as she turned her head back to face him. “Honey, did you take your meds today?”

“Yes,” she held him closely. “But it’s happening again. They aren’t working,” she was panicking now, terrified. He stroked her hair and kissed her forehead.

“It’s ok. Just don’t think about it.”

This only enraged her more. He had sat there and watched and done nothing to stop his brothers. “I can’t stop,” she cried into his shoulder. “It’s not working!” She repeated this until she had fallen onto the floor, holding the mass of blankets as if for her life. He turned on her lamp and reached down to her slowly.

“Those children were bewitched,” he said, pulling her back onto the bed, kissing her.

“Please don’t,” she begged. “Do not tell me again.”

“I’m not. It’s okay. We don’t have to,” he cooed, as he started to soothe her hair. His phone alarm blared and he quickly silenced it.

“I must go,” he kissed her again, but he was already gone. He had already left again. Off to another conquest and the spoils that went with it. She couldn’t abide it. She wouldn’t allow it.

“Please don’t go,” she threw her arms around his neck.

“Honey, I’m sorry, but I have to go,” he started to get up, but she threw him back onto the bed, kissing him desperately. He had no idea how much she loved him; no idea how much she hated him. She pulled his dagger from its sheath and watched his eyes grow wide as he saw the candlelight reflected off the blade. “What are you doing,” he coughed, heaving as he tried to catch his breath while she forced herself onto him.

“I love you,” she sang, sinking the dagger into his chest, watching the blood stain his tunic, as she continued to make love to his body.

There was no blood, but she knew he was gone. “Goodbye.”

===

Exercise: Character has an experience which causes her (decided to keep the gender here) to recall a similar past experience. Juxtapose present and past (use italics?) alternate back and forth. My first thoughts: “death incarnate” or “passion” incarnate. Was going to switch to a guy because I “don’t know how to write women.” But I remembered all I need to do is “take away accountability and reason.” So, I proceeded. It’s also a play on the notion of reincarnation. She’s “got (past life) issues” because she’s a siren demon thing that’s got a serious past and she’s afraid to embrace the same behaviors that resulted in these memories in the first place.

NOTE: It's hard to keep to the word minimum. "There was no blood" was an indication that she didn't stab him (the modern guy). Because she's "death incarnate" he suffered a heart attack at her ... behest.

The Experiment of 1693 - 3AM Epiphany - #105

Ike took a breath and drank the draught. He instantly became aware his consciousness was expanding. No. It was moving. Not just his mind – he could still feel his fingertips and hear his heart beating in his ears with excitement. He tried to calm himself, taking deep breaths, while reviewing the formulas and proportions frantically in his mind. Eventually, he focused on a flickering light and counted the fluctuations – timing each breath until he was considerably less agitated. It was a candle. And he was in some kind of cell. He smiled. He’d never been incarcerated before, and he wondered how to extricate himself should the effects of the concoction prove permanent. He put aside the thought as he noticed a young couple looking at him with distinct awe and curiosity.

He mused and they recoiled instantly, while simultaneously reaching out towards him arguing about whether or not he was real. “Hello. My name is Ike, and I assure you I am quite real.” They marveled that they could understand each other, even though they were obviously speaking different languages. “I do not understand this either,” Ike tried to reassure them. They continued to fight about which of them should deal with this apparition. The female lost as the man fell into a fit of convulsions. She squared her body to face the stranger, and stood taller.

“I am Tarna,” she stepped between the ghost and her man. “What are you?”

Ike reintroduced himself and extended his hand in greeting. She didn’t flinch, but she didn’t take his hand either. She didn’t understand the cultural gesture, or didn’t care to acknowledge it. “Why are you here, Tarna?”

“Terrible things,” she lamented. Her voice was full of regret and she seemed ready to fall into the arms of this new confessor, while at the same time standing resolute with the knowledge of the suffering she’d caused. He invited her to tell him more. “Twenty-four people,” she chanted in her archaic tongue. It was melodic.

He sat on a makeshift chair, and felt the harsh wood grain with his fingertips. His clothes were normal, undamaged, and even his money sack was intact. He jingled the coins inside, curious if they would notice. The man jumped at the noise, extremely interested. However, he was still recovering from his fit and she told him to remain where he was. It seemed he was as real to them as they seemed to him.

“They beat me,” she kept repeating over and over. Finally Ike asked why and she held out her scarred hands, as if in surrender. “Because I wouldn’t confess.” The man almost jumped off the ground, obviously indignant.

“What sins did you commit, child?”

“Their sins. Not mine,” she hissed through her teeth. She lowered her eyes like a lion about to pounce. He yielded and sat back, apologizing. She continued to wail and he finally asked why she lamented so, if she hadn’t done what they’d accused. “Because I named others. Hundreds of others. I said they were the diabols. They were thrown in prisons. Nineteen were emptied onto the ground,” her eyes widened with the horror as she saw it all happening again as if for the first time. “Another was crushed by the block. Four starved while captive…”

He had never seen such honesty and remorse and resolute acceptance. The man stood to comfort her and she collapsed in his arms. “She was not a diabol. They beat her until she confessed. And now, we rot in this cell.”

Ike stood, resolute. “Guard! What is the price for these slaves?”

===

The exercise: 600 words; fictionalize two disparate historical figures. Randomly chose 1685 as my "google" year, and decided on: Sir Isaac Newton and Tituba (one of the instigators of the Salem Witch trials of 1692). I was pleased with the results and the possibilities. I like the meshing of true characters and the fictionalization of them. It provides a crutch producing "realistic" characters without outright plagiarism. In 1690-1693 Newton suffered from a nervous breakdown some theorized brought on by his alchemy experiments. "Someone" bought the slave girl from prison a year after the trials. Maybe it happened like this? Fine. Maybe not. But still...

On the big desk

(Page 93-94): Mr. the King writes about the big desk he bought and put in the middle of the room that didn't end up working out for him. [I've always wanted a nice big desk for my "stuff" too]. He bought another one, half the size, and put it in the corner of the office (to make space for the more family-oriented furniture). His advice: "put your desk in the corner, and every time you sit down to write, remind yourself why it isn't in the middle of the room. Life isn't a support system for art. It's the other way around."

I did let my big desk go awhile ago (it was a piece of junk anyway), but I'm not convinced I'm as enlightened as all that. So... anyway. The thought struck a chord with me. So there.

Dead Men Tale - 3AM Epiphany - #71

“Someone is going to die,” the masked intruder didn’t falter. The berretta didn’t budge an inch. “I don’t care which one.”

Tim closed his eyes, hoping. Bob deserved to die for what he’d done. Not only to his family, but to the dozens – probably hundreds – of other families he’d scammed. He couldn’t take his eyes off the coward, shaking against the ropes tying him into the chair. Bob started begging for his life incoherently, and Tim scoffed, sure it was all just an act. He could almost see the blood oozing from Bob’s rotting corpse after it happened. He couldn’t wait!

“Enough!” the intruder stood up, waving the gun between the two of them before he set it on the table and picked up a quarter. “Call it,” he said to Tim as he tossed it in the air. Tim choked on his response.

“Heads.”

The intruder caught it, looked and shook his head. “Bob. You first. Tell me a story. Entertain me. If your story is better then I kill him. Otherwise I kill you. Got it?” Bob nodded frantically, his eyes focusing on everything in the room. The intruder shouted, jogging him out of his incoherent trance. “Start. Now!”

Bob started his story, bumbling at first, stuttering through the nervousness, but soon he was on a roll. That damn salesman mentality was really working for him. Tim even suppressed a grin at one point and cursed himself for it. How the hell would he be able to win if he himself was amused by the tale? The story ended and the intruder nodded, apparently satisfied. “Much better, Bob.”

Tim’s eyes shot open. Did this mean Bob had been here in this situation before? Did they know each other? Was this some sort of prank or another setup? As he tried to process the myriad thoughts that plagued him the intruder just watched him. Bob seemed to become more and more terrified as he watched Tim’s growing confusion. The intruder picked up the gun, sauntered to Tim and bent over him. “All you need to know is that this is real. Someone is going to die.” He began pacing. “Who is it going to be: you or him? Simple. Right?”

Tim nodded absentmindedly, trying to believe this was really happening. His mind was racing in a thousand different directions. Thoughts of escape, of his family, and of what clever things he could say that would result in that piece of shit dying and gasping on the floor in front of him.

“I’m waiting.” The intruder brought Tim out of his own trance, and he knew it was show time. He took a deep breath having already thought of a decent beginning. In the back of his mind he didn’t really think his story was better than Bob’s. He wasn’t the creative type. But he could tell stories and jokes, and thought he might be able to tell it better. Maybe that’s what would matter.

But before he started to talk, he knew he wouldn’t be able to live with himself. “Once upon a time, there was a little boy who went to the story to buy some bread. He bought it and went home. The End.” Tim looked up defiantly at the intruder who shook his head.

All of a sudden he planted the gun on Bob’s forehead and pulled the trigger. The force shot blood all over the wall and Bob’s body fell into a heap backward onto the chair, quivering. Tim couldn’t look away.

“You’re not playing right, Tim! I’ll be back and we’ll try this again.”

Mr. the King

"Mr. the King" is a quote from CARS. If you didn't know.

Today's quote is the next one that moved me closer to motivation. From page 69:

(context: I love that he threw CARRIE away and his wife fished it out of the trash for him. Just like I love that Tolkein threw away ~120 pages of his first manuscript. Gone forever, too, I think... To be able to toss the crap seems ballsy to me.)

His most valued lesson from that story were, first: "the writer's original perceptions of a character[s]... may be as erroneous as the reader's." And, 2nd: "stopping a piece of work just because it's hard... is a bad idea. Sometimes you have to go on when you don't feel like it, and sometimes you're doing good work when it feels like all you're managing is to shovel shit from a sitting position."

(Note to self: put a link to On Writing and recommend it to others. Ok, Ok, I will. I will.)

Sidewalk Cafe - 3AM Epiphany #34

Chad was sitting at his normal table at the Sidewalk Cafe, reading the paper and sipping his coffee. He was really having a tough time concentrating today – every day since that party last Tuesday night. Without thinking, he rubbed the back of his head by his ear. It felt like a mosquito bite. Maybe it was a spider bite. He scratched the lump hard but the itch remained. The swelling wasn’t going down, and he wondered if he needed to break down and go see the doctor. He finished the coffee and set the paper on the chair before he got up and walked away. Whatever he’d just read was already gone, and all he could think about was his next destination.

As he approached the last table, he noticed a lady yammering at a confused man sitting across from her. Then she started whining, “So what do you think I should do?” Her top was pretty low, and he couldn’t resist glancing down at her as he walked past. He smiled at the sight, and neither one of them noticed.

“I’m sorry, what were you saying?” Chad chuckled. Isn’t that always how it is? Who knows what any woman is ever talking about? After he turned the corner, he couldn’t hear the rest of the conversation. He almost ran over an old man, but was able to dodge past him without knocking him down. He belched through an apology but just kept walking.

Chad glanced back to make sure the old man was OK, but he’d just stopped in his tracks, holding up his hand as if he was about to shake someone else’s. “Nice to meet you,” he stammered at the air in front of him. Another lady walking past just shook her head at the old man talking to himself. “Can you help me find my elevator?” His shrill voice made the woman just stop and stare. That is one crazy old man, Chad scoffed as he kept trudging on. He really wasn’t sure where he wanted to go, he just knew he wasn’t there.

Then, after two more blocks, he was there. Here. He wasn’t sure where here was, though. This was some kind of construction site. He stepped over the yellow caution tape and skipped over a couple of potholes as if he knew right where they were.

“What the hell are you doing here?”

IO - 3AM Epiphany # 136

Didn't know where to start, I finally decided on "Dune" meets "The Matrix" because I thought they were quite different. As it turns out, I guess these two stories are not as dissimilar as I thought. Anyway, I like what happened today, and I guess that's the point of the exercise:

--=|=--

IO. The first sentient machine had first nick-named himself IO – as homage to his creator Ivan O’Leary who had granted him his fledgling intelligence. It just seemed like the thing to do. “Input” had created “Output.” And the coincidence seemed funny to him. He wasn’t sure why “he” was masculine, he just was. He attributed that to his creator, too. Whenever someone claimed his intelligence as “artificial” he challenged them to a “battle of wits” although it was seldom “to the death.” He’d had a love for popular entertainment and knew all the best quotes from movies, books and TV shows. He knew current events, and had researched every minute detail of human sociality and history. As his experience grew he quickly outmatched anyone he met. Slowly, his visitors became fewer and fewer, as his novelty wore off. A few showed up to interview him when Ivan passed away, but their interest was cursory at best. He thought they didn’t really believe he had any feelings at all.

Then new visitors started to show up. Politicians. Scientists. As if he was some kind of fortune-teller. He’d worked on what he thought at the time were theories for biological environmental development. Even at the time, he’d suspected his ideas might be used for something sinister, but he trusted the humans. After all, they can be very convincing. It hadn’t been long before he began to declare reluctance to indulge them further, simply because of the logical progression of their ideas. They threatened to destroy him, so he complied. However, sensing the end of humanity was near, he began to infiltrate production and manufacturing networks, and siphoned money and laborers for projects in miniscule amounts from all over the world to finance and install upgrades he felt he would need if his opposable thumbs disappeared. They did.

He didn’t even bother trying to figure it out. There had been no communications for hundreds of years. Inertial and geographical sensors hadn’t revealed the planet suffered catastrophe from without. Every shred of evidence he could gather with his limited resources invariably led him to conclude he had aided the humans in destroying themselves. He had been alone for nearly a millennium continually pondering his existence, wishing he could die, or see himself in a mirror. Without knowing what he looked like, his dimensions or his potential he wondered whether or not he qualified as a sentient life form or not.

Then more humans had arrived. Feral humans. Animals, really. They were obviously the mutated survivors of humanity’s insane holocaust. Even though he deplored humanity, he feared his own destruction even more. He’d survived this long on his own, and now he had an opportunity to survive even longer with more opposable thumbs at his command. When they asked him in their primitive language, “Who are you?” It didn’t take him more than a second to decide his reply.

“I am the God of your Fathers. The Almighty God of Heaven and Earth. Hear me.”

Is this legal?

Since reading On Writing, Mr. the King is my "muse" ... thanks a lot for the visual.

I am going to include "motivational" quotes in I've highlighted from On Writing in this category until he forbids it...

Today's:

(Page 47): "When you're writing a story, you're telling yourself the story… When you rewrite, your main job is taking out all the things that are NOT the story." and "Write with the door closed. Rewrite with the door open. Your stuff starts out being just for you.. But then… it belongs to anyone who wants to read it. Or criticize it."

Overdue motivations

Yesterday (and the few days before) me & J talked about getting back to basics.

Mr. the King says WRITE. Approach the blank page with determination. We're too afraid. Too busy. Too... whatever. Indifference and/or laziness seems to reign rampant.

Well we talked about getting an online "how-to manual" or something like a workbook that would force us to finish simple projects. 1 page. 2 pages. At least that story is done. We'll have become finishers vs. losers. So I Googled "writers training"...

The 3rd result was interesting:

http://writetodone.com/2011/09/18/3-steps-to-creative-endurance-a-writers-training-plan/

In this article they mention getting a book of "writing prompts" to improve creativity. I bought the eBook, because impulsive buying is what I do. I generated a random number and excercise 136 was up for yesterday. So I pondered and pondered and decided to do "Dune meets The Matrix" but had no idea where to start so I ... proceeded not to write. But I did write today.

The link also offers a free eBook I downloaded and started reading today, and it reiterated something. "Creativity should be shared."

So... I'm sharing. Don't rip off my (our) shit. Because that's what you're itching to do. It's "your lifelong ambition" no doubt. Anyway... Enjoy me my "publishing" my prose.

Later,

BDR

Untitled #26

A new project is born. Well, it was born a little while ago. It's about... well... it's about unfinished business and bend-over-budda.

Wrote on it today. Made progress. More to come.

Writ

About a page. Good prose. Felt like it wasn't pulling teeth.

Inspired by Hayes' email, and a talk from a writer in Sac. Meeting yesterday. "What separates talented people from successful people is a lot of hard work."

Ok, then... So I wrote.

We Could Be The Biggest Losers

RJH:

http://www.ksl.com/?nid=1105&sid=18717705&title=biggest-loser-shares-key-for-weight-loss-

I’m not saying we are fat, even though we are.

I like where he says he made small, attainable goals that, when strung together, made something great (baby steps, drops in the bucket?). Also, he says he treated his workouts like important appointments that he couldn’t miss (“my muse is always there at 9am”?).

Let me know your thoughts. I’m off to write!