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What I Have Learned Through Bleary Eyes

Dang I’m tired.

Progress has been made. Gotten into Act Two. Dialogue is choppy, at best, and my brain’s too mushy to work in a fight scene. It’s appropriate, but I’ll literally need to sleep on it.

I learned that my friends in India are up and at ‘em 4AM my time. Namaste to all of you, and thanks for viewing my blog. Please follow, and I’ll do the same. :)

What else have I discovered? The soft spot on my L-bend couch is sinking. Time to create a new soft spot.

I’m giving myself two more hours. My ass hurts from sitting between the couch and floor. I really need a standing desk.

I have also discovered several people starting blogs due to National Blog Posting Month. Some are really good, and I’ve followed the ones I liked. There are several that are not so good. But I like to see the effort put forward. What the world needs is more creative writers, and less bitchers. Just sayin’.

Another discovery: my playlist is so extensive, there has YET to be a repeat in this now seven hour venture.

Cracker Barrel seems like a GREAT idea right now.

My eyes are so bleary, as much as I can see this sexy Mexican goth curandera in my head, I just can’t seem to convey her beauty in words. Let’s hope she writes herself for me.

Alright, made it through 15-minute break. Back to it!

My 2013 NaNoWriMo Influences

Yup, I’m a freakin’ zealot. Trying to complete my manuscript revisions to deliver for final editing by November 13. But noooo, I gotta throw my writing pen into the National Novel Writing Month ring and go for Halo Numero Dos.

Day 2 of the competition and I’m rowing along smoothly. Marie and I are planning to meet this evening for a writing session. That’s right. You go ahead and hit the nightclubs. We party hard with our word processors!

Am writing a horror story, working title, Momma’s Boy. I don’t really have to stretch the imagination too far to satisfy a lead character profile, thanks to every single strange Generation X and Y-er who’s introduced me to his exponentially stranger mother. It’s an epidemic, people. Let’s stop having babies for a minute and figure out why women are screwing with their sons’ heads!

Off the soapbox.

As per my style, I gotta have a song in my head in order to get flowing, and this is the song I’ve chosen as this novella’s theme:

But this particular episode of Key & Peele really brought my lead character to life [06:36]:

http://hulu.com/w/geo2

Dan Smith KILLED IT!!

The STAR of my horror story credit: Key & Peele, Comedy Central

The STAR of my horror story credit: Key & Peele, Comedy Central

Happy NaNoWriMo Season! May your pens be swift, your keypad be stable, your coffee be strong.

I Have Nothing To Write About

Original Post Date September 18, 2013 at 11:08 AM

Writing about nothing is actually writing about something. Von demonstrates how.

It started that way for everyone sitting around the pond. Our instructor, who I have a photo of but can’t remember her name, was trying to instill a writer’s fervor into our 11-year old heads. My fellow advanced writers and I that spring of 1988 sat staring at blank pages of journals. “But I have nothing to write about,” one lamented. We backed him up in solidarity with a whine of agreement. The instructor sighed. “Write that down, then.” So we all wrote, I have nothing to write about, across the page. And paused our writing tools for further instruction. “You have ten minutes, write from there.” And she walked off. We looked at each other. We looked at our single sentence. The ducks looked at us.

1991. Coen Brothers' Barton Fink

1991. Coen Brothers’ Barton Fink

This morning felt the same way. I opened my journal, flipped to a clean page, and stared. And stared. Most Wednesdays I wake up knowing exactly what I’m going to deliver to this blog. Today? Hoy? Nada. I thought about describing my morning dream, but I’ve done that before, and frankly, it was pretty gruesome. I haven’t written any new poetry, and haven’t been drawn to the archives to find one to offer. I’m in study mode with Juarez, so there’s nothing to expound on here yet, as it’s still in development. So. What to write about?

I sat cross-legged with my spiral journal on my lap, my pubescent mind growing anxious as it stared at those ominous six words, now given a time limit to fill the page with something, anything. I looked around and observed some of my counterparts in a flow. Some were still holding a pencil in place. I caught the eye of one of my cohorts doing the same thing I was doing, panning the group and panicking. Then I caught sight of a duck moving my direction. What’s that duck doing? Write that down. The duck started to wobble up from the pond, closer to my perch on the wall. I began to document everything the duck was doing. I was thrown into the phenomenon of duck encroachment, describing its motions, its thoughts (as I perceived them to be), its hunger for revenge for the death of its ducklings. Its embodiment of a human spirit cursed by a witch. Its thirst for blood, a la Bunnicula. Scribble, scribble, scribble, and, next thing you know, she called “Time!” The ombudsman of the group whined, “but I still have more to write!” And we chimed in with our concurring laments. She made some statement about staying there to complete our writing, but it was time for dinner. I didn’t even hear the rest of her statement. I heard food was ready. No more journal.

In my not knowing what to write about today, I developed something to write about, merely by letting my mind ramble, and then applying it in written form. This is how writers work, this is where we excel.

 

P.S. I just did the memory walkback thing. Her name was Mrs. Vickers!

I, Author

Original Post Date March 06, 2013 at 07:50 PM

The definition of author proofed by superhuman attributes.

“And what is your occupation?”2013-03-05 17.05.35 2013-03-05 15.23.22

“I’m an author.”

The words tumbled out of my mouth like house keys in front of the door from an errant hand.  As subconscious as the reflex which captured the keys before they hit the floor.

I am an author.

Granted, I was speaking to someone gathering information to assess an insurance quote, but the exchange held significance.

We are conditioned to announce titles only if bestowed by society.  I am not big on waiting for social acknowledgement.

I write, therefore I am.

If you would have asked me a year ago this month, I would have entered into some haphazard diatribe about a dream deferred and coming out of the darkness and other sad cliches, then have petered out with a disillusioned whimper.  The curse of the shadow artist.  The artist lives, but we’re too afraid to admit it.  Why?

This comes natural to me.

In November 2012, I participated in National Novel Writing Monthhttp://nanowrimo.org/en and won!  The goal of NaNoWriMo is to write 50,000 words – think “The Great Gatsby” – in thirty days.  I did it in nineteen.

I didn’t write poppycock either.  I had colleagues read my rough and their critiques were in the neighborhood of repairable grammar.  Bragging?  Might as well.  I’ve never had an issue producing written works.  Which is why I don’t understand how college students can’t hammer out a simple 200-word essay.  I can be drunk, high, with a hand tied to a foot, and it would be cherry!

Longhand used to be my preferred method, but like most cyborgs, overuse of a particular assembly results in ugly wear and tear.  Adamantium arm in backorder.  Before my hand literally curls shut, I can compose on average twenty pages front and back on college ruled paper, about 5,000 words in one session.

To counter my withering instrument, I work in a sweet wireless setup on my couch opposite a 50″ screen.  This allows me stellar witching hour compositions in my jimmy jams.

As any warrior poet knows, a pen and notebook should always be at the ready, at the waist or to the back.  You never know when inspiration strikes.  This particular entry was drafted under a clear blue Saint Petersburg sky and proofed at Taco Bus.

No, I did not buy that insurance policy.  But she hung up the phone noting she completed a conversation with Ivonne, the author.  She probably slept peacefully that night.

This is my station in life.  I am quite comfortable here.

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