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!