Flash Fiction: SOON

My wife thinks I should write.

In this way, I am extraordinarily fortunate. I know many writers don't have the support of those close to them.

In order to help me get back into the swing of things, she suggested I try warming up with quick little flash fiction prompts, which she has been kind enough to generate.

Here is one of my more successful attempts from earlier this week.

Prompt:
Middle of Nowhere, snowy
Car Crash
An alcoholic beverage
Leftovers

— — — — — — —

SOON

"They'll be here soon."

Sharon does not look up at Rick when he speaks. She isn't upset anymore. Too tired.

Instead she trails her eyes around the cab of the truck, unfamiliar, uncomfortable, but it is the reason she's still alive.

Rick clicks on the truck's wipers, pushing aside a sheet of white.

The sight of Sharon's car is once again a shock. Bloo -- the car's namesake cleverly gleaned from its shiny blue paint and interior -- is pressed up against and around the front of Rick's truck and buried in a mound of snow.

"You okay?" Rick asks.

Sharon looks down. "Yeah."

The snowflakes, fat and gluttonous, plunk onto the windshield in her peripheral vision.

"They'll be here soon," Rick assures her.

He had been saying that for hours, ever since his attempt to disconnect her mangled car from his truck had failed.

It hadn't been anyone's fault, Sharon decides again. The snow had obscured her vision, gave a hazardous slick to the back country road. Rick had no chance to swerve back into his own lane, the weight of the truck bed pushing his vehicle into hers.

He had called for help, but still they waited.

No one else is foolish enough to risk these backroads, Sharon knows.

No one but Rick and his stupid truck.

"Hey, uh, Miss Sharon?"

Sharon's eyes dart to him.

"Are you cold?" Rick's bushy eyebrows pinch together. "You're shaking an awful lot. Let me get you another blanket." He reaches behind her seat.

"No, that's okay," Sharon stutters, holding up her hand. She *is* shaky. Sensation drains from her fingers, a tingling gel oozing away.

Just how long had they been here?

The sun had already set, but it was dipping before Sharon had left her mother's house. A glance at the clock radio reveals the time, one zero nine. That can't be right.

"Do you have anything to eat?" Sharon asks, strain in her voice evident even to her tired mind.

"Uh..." Rick rustles around in the cab, reaches behind her seat and finally seizes upon a crinkling cellophane bag. Funyons. Glancing inside, he grimaces. "Nothin' but crumbs, sorry. But they'll be here soon."

"Hypoglycemic," Sharon mutters conversationally.

"Whassat?" Rick leans in closer as if to hear her better.

"I need to eat. Blood sugar is low."

"Oh. Uh." Rick slides a hand into his hair. Resumes his search about the cab.

Her mother. Sharon's mother is the reason she got into this wreck. She's to blame. She had insisted Sharon come have dinner with the man who would technically be her stepfather someday soon. Sharon is too old to have a stepfather.

Dinner.

That was hours ago, but...

Sharon remembers what happened just before leaving. Her mother pressed a plastic dish into her hands. "For the road," she had said, with her signature wink-and-smirk.

"I have dinner, I think," Sharon confides in Rick.

"Dinner?"

"In my car. Leftovers."

Rick mulls that over, glances outside, then nods.

"I'll go get it," he decides out loud.

"Thanks," Sharon says, faintest wisp of a smile crossing her lips. "It was in the front seat, but..." But Rick's truck had rearranged much of poor little Bloo.

"Okay, here I go," Rick says, then pulls the door handle. It doesn't budge, so he puts his shoulder into it. A loud crack and the door swings wide, and a blast of arctic chilly air hurtles into the cab.

Rick slams the door shut again and Sharon sees him brace against the cold. He's much more equipped for this weather, she thinks, what with his shaggy hair and beard, muscular build with the comfortable weight of age sitting around it.

Through the half-covered windshield, she watches Rick, illuminated by the trucks headlights, trudge toward Bloo and dig one of its doors out of its snowy grave.

A chill wracks Sharon at the sight.

The cab is still cold from him opening the door. Sharon decides maybe she will take another blanket. She roots around behind her seat, looking for the warmest blanket of the bunch.

Her fingers slide across cool glass.

She can't help but grip it, pull it out to investigate.

It's a bottle of rum. Some brand she's never heard of.

Sharon looks at the half-empty bottle, then out at Rick, splayed across the front seat and reaching into the back.

He didn't... he wasn't... was he?

No, Sharon is sure she would have smelled it on him if he were drinking.

This is just a simple accident.

Even if it were not, Sharon isn't in the position to do anything about it.

Almost on their own accord, her fingers wind around the metal cap and twist it off. The sharp odor of alcohol tickles her nose and before she knows it, she's tipping the bottle back.

A mouthful of rum slides its way down her throat, burning and tingling, warming her insides.

Sharon is not much of a drinker, but when she does, it always feels good.

This, however, feels amazing.

She takes one last pull from the bottle and screws the lid back on. The windshield is completely covered now, but she can see Rick's silhouette moving back toward the truck. The bottle goes back beneath the pile of blankets.

Another cruelly cold wind whips its way into the truck as he climbs in, triumphantly presenting a green plastic dish.

"You've got a funny idea about what constitutes dinner," Rick says, smiling. "But I'm sure it's mighty tasty."

Inside the dish is a gooey, sticky fruitcake. Sharon should have seen it coming. Her mother's silly holiday tradition is to play Hot Potato with a fruitcake to see who gets stuck with it.

It seems Sharon is going to lose this year.

Rick proffers a set of plastic utensils and cuts off a piece of fruitcake. They share in the bounty together, consuming it in minutes as the cab grows dimmer, less and less light passing through the snow-covered windshield.

The fruitcake sits solid in Sharon's stomach as she collapses down into her mountain of blankets. The alcohol soothes her and the bench seat actually feels comfortable for once.

As she slips into a doze, Rick puts another blanket atop her, patting it as if she were a small child being put to bed.

"They'll be here soon," he tells her.

Yeah.

Soon.

— — — — — — —

I had a bit of trouble dragging a full story out of the prompt, but I tried to incorporate all of the requisite pieces into some sort of conflict.

How would you have approached this prompt?

Flash Fiction: Blood Orange

This is the most gruesome story I have ever written.

Blood Orange

"You did this to yourself."

Tate looks up from hands on the bar countertop. Tate's hands. Lightly scratches at scab on puffy knuckle.

The woman is familiar to Tate. Wonder what she means, why she said it.

Tate asks.

The words bulge through vocal cords, an unexpected deep rumbling. Tate coughs and massages throat.

She scoffs, rich dark eyes rolling, but Tate knows the expression masks sorrow. How?

Her dark skin stands in sharp counterpoint to this pale, freckled arm (Tate's arm) that she reaches toward. The woman pulls her hand away and Tate's arm itches furiously. She opens her mouth to reply.

"Hey there, boyo," chirps the bartender, a man who has harrassed Tate nonstop since the night began, with his cheeky grin pushing up delicately trimmed chops on his young face. Pulls Tate's attention. "Fancy another round, then?"

Tate glances back to the woman.

Gone.

The hotel crowd has swallowed her, it seems, though the open bar area is not that full. Predominantely middle-aged business folk, a couple covertly kissing in the back corner; he pulls away with her lips on his. Where could the woman have gone?

A glance at the bar shows Tate's drink is empty. Surprising. Not even sure what it was. With a shrug, Tate nods, nails raking across bared arm. Employer footing the bill, and a little social lubricant couldn't hurt.

A stout glass slides, a bottle flips, some ice tumbles. Tate watches with fascination, and the young man notices. The bartender crouches down and comes up with a orange, grabs the paring knife to open it wide.

A smooth dark hand slides over the orange just before he cuts down, and Tate leaps up from the stool to cry out.

The blade, honed to a keen edge, passes through the skin of the fruit and Tate chokes as red pours over the cutting board, grips and pulls at wiry hair.

Source

With a sly smile, the bartender holds up half the severed citrus, oozing crimson cruor. "Blood orange," he confides. "Secret family cocktail, comin' right up."

Tate's mouth splits as hormones react involuntarily to the man's advances. The swelling is... strange, and despite it, Tate, shifting uncomfortably and settling back into the seat, is disappointed.  Not that Tate expected anything from the man, but for him to be interested in Tate like this...

"You can't blame them for your choices," the woman whispers in Tate's ear, prickling the skin.

Tate whips the stool around, but she is nowhere to be seen. All that remains is a crawling sensation in Tate's crotch. Try to make it look casual. Tate never realized how difficult it could be, digging in for relief around the extension. Warmth spreads across Tate's fingers.

Tate sighs, half frustration, half relief, and wipes fingernails across pant legs, painting archaic symbols in the old ways, wondering what it would mean if scryed.

"Oy, Red," the bartender says, leaning in a bit closer and indicating the older gentleman seating himself at a far table. "I'm s'posed to tell you that's your man." The boy dimples as he winks, his face slurring into that pit. "Must say I'm a bit jealous of him."

Tate blinks with Tate's eyes and grips the drink with Tate's hands. The bartender's smile falters, then slips entirely off his face. He shakes his head and turns away, leaving it on the bar.

Focus on breathing.

Tate must, for these lungs seem either unable or unwilling to recall the way.

It does not matter, as long as Tate has air enough to speak to the old man, now settling himself at the table with clenched, darting eyes and steepled hands before his lips.

Emerson. Tate flashes on a manila folder with the man's photograph, dossier, and mission directives.

Paperclipped to that folder had been a grainy surveillance photo of a lanky red-haired man meeting him in a dark corner of London Heathrow Airport.

Standing from the stool, Tate sways. Too much alcohol? What is Tate's limit? Not sure. Probably fine.

Finding footing on overlong legs, Tate approaches, and the man sees Tate.

Heart pounding an unfamiliar rhythm, Tate pauses to catch a breath, take a drink.

It's... good.

Not Tate's normal preference, but in this business, tastes change. Another sip, deeper, and the blood orange stains Tate's cheek with its dark juices.

Choking on the drink, Tate, over the rim of the glass, sees the woman pass behind Emerson, go to the couple making out in the corner. She glances over her shoulder, then somehow gets around them. The kissing girl has thankfully reacquired her lips.

Worrying lower lip with teeth, Tate steps between some merrymakers, contorting body to be well clear of them, and sets the drink down on the table, stony silent. Must wait, never the first to speak.

"Where are you?" the familiar woman calls. Tate glances around, does not see her, does not answer, but the question echoes in Tate's ears. Emerson does not seem to notice, finally speaks.

"It is darkest before dawn."

Tate's mind instantly clicked to the countersign. It had been drilled over and over, and Tate speaks it aloud with as much ease as can be mustered as Emerson's head bobs. "As dark as men's souls before the Light."

"It has been too long, old friend," Emerson murmurs, reaching into his jacket. His head still wobbles as if he is listening to fast paced music. Tate watches the hand, trying to ignore the perpetual motion. The sticky spot on Tate's cheek beckons, fingertips wipe at it. Tate is surprised to find stubble there and scratches at it.

An envelope hits the table. Emerson sighs as a soft blue glow catches beneath his palm, unlocking the contents within. With the non-scratching hand, Tate hesitantly inches the envelope closer.

The old man's hand remains still, but his fingertips trail along with the thin parcel, stretching as Tate pulls, elongating and popping, knuckles crackling and disjoining.

"Where am I?" The woman shrieks.

Finally, Emerson lifts his spindly fingers, tapping them across the table in a nervous gesture. Tate rushes to put the envelope into the shirt's neck, a roomy storage until Tate's jacket can be retrieved, and jumps to see the woman standing just beside, hands to her head, clutching rich, dark locks.

Fingernails bite into tender flesh below the jaw as Tate pushes harder and the warmth seeps down Tate's fingers. Still, the itching burns. Deeper.

Deeper.

Looking back at Emerson, Tate sits back with a start. Tate had not noticed until now how disfigured he is, jaw pushed in, skin on half his face burned and eyelid gone to show one ever staring blue eye beneath his shock of bone white hair. His lips peel back in a terrible scowl, skeletal teeth clenching tight and clack together almost comically as Emerson speaks.

"Are you quite all right?" Tate bites back a laugh, bites Tate's lip instead.

Emerson shudders visibly, somehow returned to a normal visage, just like the dossier photo. "Look, I don't have much time. Where is my-- good gracious, you're bleeding!"

"Where are we?" Tate and the woman scream. Tate's fingers burrow deeper, searching for an answer. The other hand lifts the drink, gives Tate one last gulp, then smashes the glass across the table.

Holding his legs across his face as a shield, Emerson blinks his five eyes at Tate only once before fleeing. A snarling face whips its tongues at Tate from Emerson's backside, taunting, but Tate does not care.

The remains of the glass slice into Tate's leg.

Burrowing.

Flashes of the training sear Tate's mind.

Corpus nihil est. 

The body is nothing.

Tate cares nothing for the body. Blood flows freely as Tate burrows deeper.

Mens est omnia. 

The mind is everything.

But where is the mind?

It has to be here somewhere.

The glass shard is Tate's shovel, and Tate's body the dig site.

Hotel guests skitter about on their legs bent back at impossible angles, eyes flying wild. The kissing couple, man's head in girl's hands, flee overtop of Tate, who now flounders on the floor, carving away. A mad rush, tik-tik-tik of insectoid legs carrying inverted bodies with flailing entrails away from Tate's earnest search.

A strong grip pulls at Tate's arm, struggles for the glass shard.

Tate fights back, but blood loss leaves Tate cold and weak. Still, as the bartender comes into view, hardly recognizable with the antennae wrapped round his head, Tate protests.

"I must find myself!"

Cutting his hands at the end of tentacular arms, the bartender finally gets the improvised knife away from Tate.

"Not like this, you won't," he says. "We'll find you some help, we will."

As the man holds Tate's wrists against the ground, Tate spies the woman crouched, wide-eyed, beside him. She lays next to Tate.

There is no help for Tate, except for Tate, but this seems a good sign.

The blackness closes in around Tate.

Bad Respawn

I slip, rocks skittering down the slight hill, and the giant bellows, now aware of my presence. I shake the time skimmer bracelet loose on my arm and activate it on reflex.

The monster's roar shakes my very core, threatening my concentration as I push my will into the magical artifact. I had known this path would be risky -- the guardian giant is infamous for his keen senses, but there had to be a path through this cave where I could slip past. The time skimmer would give me as many chances as I needed to find it.

The giant stomps toward me, muscles bulging tight against its skin, and I break out in a sweat, glancing down at the time skimmer. The bracelet fairly hums with a faint power, two metallic, intertwined snakes consuming each other in an ancient symbol of infinity. I know I performed the correct steps, so why does the magic not activate?

Sneering at me, the giant grabs a club that could easily have been an uprooted tree, and I backpedal. This is not what I expect at all from the skimmer. The ancient books on the bracelet -- the ones which have not been destroyed or locked in deep, inaccessible archives -- assure that it works.

Source

The tree club waves over the giant's head and I make my decision -- time to run. I've never heard of anyone upsetting this foul beast and living to tell about it, but maybe there's a chance...

I stumble over broken bones as I turn to flee, a collection of prior intruders. My stomach lurches as the giant smashes the ground just behind me, popping me off the ground and tangling my legs. I attempt to roll to my feet, but the giant swats me aside and I land on my back,

Pain shoots up my spine, and I can do naught but stare up in terror as the giant heaves his club for a finishing blow, and an intense buzzing fills my ears. My body vibrates, and I feel suddenly very fluid.

Crystalline blue light washes over me, then I pour slowly into my own body. Before I can do anything, I watch, as...

I slip, rocks skittering down the slight hill, and the giant bellows, now aware of my presence. I shake the time skimmer bracelet loose on my arm and activate it on reflex.

"No!" I yell at myself, coming back into control, but it matters not.

The monster's roar shakes my very core.

The bracelet hums.

I run.

Zed: A Poem

My poem is a sestina. In class, I was told to copycat another poem, so I chose “ Altaforte” by Ezra Pound. Other than matching its structure, I opted to go for iambic pentameter as well. 

Source: KnowHr

Zed

I. 

I lurch awake and hear the frightful moan

These mindless husks seek only to eat brains

There's no recourse left me but to run

I duck and dodge but get cut off by fire

They close in, I grab for any weapon

I bring the baseball bat to stop their bite

II. 

Their jaws are strong, a chunk of wood they bite

A cry calls out, disdain shown in a moan

A shame, in games the bat is prime weapon

I toss the bat and flee to keep my brains

The mass of them has squelched the roaring fire

Push through the crowd and set out on a run

III. 

I thought that I'd be able to go run

But then they bear down on a girl to bite

I throw one by the shoulders into fire

It somehow does not silence its sick moan

The girl is easy target, just for brains

I'm scared but then she hands me a weapon

IV. 

Blast the flamer; shotgun – better weapon

The girl agrees it's time for us to run

Will his cohorts go for rotten brains?

Maybe they will stop here for a bite

My gut wrenches when I hear them all moan

The city must be cleanséd with the fire

V. 

A car explodes, stops us with its fire

Another one is dead; empty weapon

The girl does not have any shells; I moan

I know we cannot keep them on the run

Glancing down at her hand I see a bite

I realize I have not used my brains

VI. 

The girl tries to help herself to my brains

Her teeth rip flesh, arm feels like it's on fire

I scream, terror at what it means, her bite

Her face shocked, as if hit by a weapon

I lay there as she gets up to go run

It's not long till I join those who just moan

VII. 

No brawn will do, brains are your best weapon 

Stay far away, fire others and run

Or you will soon be one to bite and moan

Living Critically

Since beginning my writing career, one bit of advice has stayed with me at all hours. 

When reading, read critically, to understand the inner workings, the style, the author's strengths and weaknesses, and so on.

By Gilles Barbier, source

This applies to other forms of media, like watching movies, playing games, or even deciphering the scribblings in bathroom stalls.

I find myself more engaged with the story in ways - trying to pick out the flow of the plot, for example. I am more aware of a book's flaws, too, but I learn from them.

It's not the most pleasant way to, say, watch a television show. Sometimes you just want to be entertained. That's fine, but being new to writing fiction I feel I need to take every learning opportunity I can get.

Or, I did feel that way.

Until my critical eye turned itself upon my life.

My friend has moved away. This happens, and is to be expected. To be honest, I moved across the country last year and was gone for months before eventually returning to the area, but it didn't feel this way.

This time, it hurts.

Without overburdening with details, I feel like our friendship is waning, and it's all my fault. We get along great, and when we get together it's nothing but good times. Still, I know he's becoming distant, and I strongly suspect that it's because of some things that I've done which, while not wrong, still drive a wedge between us.

By Gilles Barbier, source

Now that he's gone, and there's no real way to deal with it now that I've realized the problem. Really, there never was a way.

While he was here, we could hold onto the tenuous threads that bound our friendship. With him so far away, I fear it's the end.

It hurts.

My inclination is to distance myself from the hurt, to cordon it off in a dark corner of my mind and never go there again.

No, my inner writer says.

Don't turn away from this.

Embrace the pain. Savor the simple honesty of the emotional turbulence.

This is some good stuff. You'll be glad you went through this later because you'll be able to write richer, fuller, more genuine characters. Bask in the tremors of your soul, as these will breathe true life into the stories you wish to tell.

You're going to feel it either way. Take the benefit while you may, though it troubles you further momentarily to face it.

Don't waste this.

So I embrace it, for once not shoving aside, dismissing, calling it pointless, or bottling it up.

It hurts.

I hope something good comes of it.

Red Guillotine

Chuck Wendig, writing-advice-face-kicker extraordinaire, issues a weekly flash fiction challenge over at his blog, terribleminds. I have been meaning to participate, and then it occurred to me that I should perhaps solve this problem by actually writing.

Go figure.

Word of advice: this week's theme is "Over the Top Pulp Insanity," which happens to translate to "somewhat violent" in my case. Therefore, if anyone comes expecting exactly the same thing as my last flash fiction entry, Wisp, then... read with care, dear reader.

Over-encumbered

Wow!

I must be a real writer! 

I'm about to look at my work in progress (currently at 15,000 words) and say, "You know what, manuscript? It's been a good run, but it's just not working between us. We need to re-evaluate our relationship if it's going to ever be real, and that means taking it back to the beginning." 

Source: shirt.woot!

And my manuscript... well, it's a good sort. Overall, I think it wants this to work, even if it's painful. 

I hope so, anyway. I'm going to have to take the knife to it, get some of the crap carved off and get the story back on track. 

I realized my problem about a week ago. I'm trying to write a relatively light-hearted story, and though it will have serious overtones, it should never get truly dark. And yet... 

I overwhelmed my protagonist. 

I hit him with too much, too fast. He's just a kid, and I knocked out basically every support structure he has all at once. I mean, yeah, I want to do that, sadistic demigod author type that I am, perched atop my anthill with a magnifying glass-topped pen, but the pace overwhelmed him, and that translated to me feeling overwhelmed. 

At first, this felt a bit silly to me. Why should I give a rodent's meaty bits about my story's hero going through a bit of trauma when I already know he's going to triumph? 

I see two good reasons: 

1) I sensed, subconsciously, the story isn't quite right. Trying to write from 'tainted' material gave the entire project a sense of doom and gloom that didn't match the attitude I desired. (Perhaps, with more experience, I will be able to write past this and go back and fix it in retrospect. I hope so. This will save me a lot of time... and misery.) 

2) I don't exactly know where I'm going with the story. You know that triumph I mentioned? I'm not actually so sure about it. I hardly dare enter the debate of 'State of Plotter v. Pantser and Discovery Writers United 4Evar' until I have a few finished works under my belt, but I'm fairly sure that having a general target is a good idea. I don't really know what to do with the second half of my book. This plot is problematic. 

This post is problematic. As in overlong. Still, it helps me hash out my thoughts on my second attempt at the beginning of my book. I'll likely recycle nearly all of what I wrote, but starting anew seems the best choice. 

I welcome any feedback. 

Hold Me... Accountable

Let me add my voice to the chorus and just say: moving sucks.

I've been in various stages of moving for the past four months. Our previous apartment, across the street, was a temporary situation, and we could never settle down, never truly unpack. Some of those around us were extraordinarily inconsiderate in ways that I found unavoidably distracting. Boxes everywhere, half our belongings still packed, instability regarding our living situation and financial issues, all while each utility offered its own brand of trouble to our lives.

None of this, no matter how much it may have frustrated me, or interrupted me - or downright held me squirming against the floor - is intended to be an excuse. I don't want an excuse. I simply need to explain the reasons I have been absent from writing for so long.

My new writing space, in a corner where the laundry
machines normally go. Also notice - editing my blog post
in the picture. SO META. 

I choose to do so in this public forum in order to seek greater accountability for my actions. I have a terrible habit of taking responsibility for that which is beyond my control, and I need to apply what positive aspects I can from that to taking responsibility for the rest of my career, and for my life.

I know I can't expect Internet-folks, with their own lives and problems and worries to be a legitimate source of accountability, but saying it here feels better than hiding in my corner and whispering it to the Ferocious Dustbunnies of Xanathar-6. (Maybe I need to get a little more ventilation in here...)

I have not given up on writing, nor on storytelling in general, as these are my passion. However, I have given up on so many various attempted-passions in the past that I feel discouraged. Don't get me wrong - nothing has captured my interest quite like storytelling and creative work. I know I can succeed in this field, and I look forward to future accomplishments, whatever they may be. This is only to say that my career is currently on the knife's edge.

I can handle rejection. This will not slow me down. What I can't take is slurring through each day feeling like I've accomplished nothing. If it seems like I've failed, these failures all stack up on me and become overwhelming.

Therefore, I must start with a fresh perspective. I can remember the... troubles of the past (my mind wants to call them failures, but honestly, I wrote one and a half first drafts in the three months I was working), and push forward without giving myself such lofty goals.

To fix some of my previous mistakes:

• I will not, at first, give myself a word count goal for the day. It's impossible for me to not have a soft target in mind, but I need to not feel disappointed for coming up short. 
• I will not set a hard target date for completion of any work (if it is not strictly necessary) until I am back into the swing of things. 
• I will only work on actively writing one large project at a time (editing previous projects is something I need to start doing, and shall). 

These might seem somewhat negative (all 'Thou Shalt Not's), but I need the restrictions to keep me from entangling myself in a mire of self-loathing goop. My wife keeps encouraging me to take some time out of my day to look at the bright side. Would it be strange for me to actually schedule a reminder on my iPod touch to do so? I have trouble taking such positivism seriously.

I have formulated a rather regimented schedule, about which I shall write later. It probably needs adjustment, and could use the opinions of more experienced day-to-day writer types. Look out for it in the next week.

Thanks for sitting through the semi-onerous musings of a writer trying to start again.

Wisp

A garbage truck jangles over the bridge behind him. He nearly leaps off by reflex.

No.

It must be a decision.

It seemed a difficult decision moments ago, but now exhaust clogs his lungs. The biting of concrete saws pierces his ears. She swore she would never leave, and he buried her.

He stares down into the abyss, wondering if it holds any more comfort.

She had been different, like him, a perfect pairing. She had told him she would go, yet remain. He had not believed.

Copyright Ben Reierson; Source; Creative Commons License

A light breeze brushes his cheek, and his gaze follows a blue butterfly away from the pit, toward the horizon. The wind brings faint whispers, a language foreign to him, though she had claimed to try to teach him. To prepare him, she said.

He had played along, knowing it to be just one of her eccentricities.

Was it?

The butterfly disappears into the boughs of her so-called sisters, and for a moment, the construction crews cease, the traffic stops, and he strains to listen.

The rustling tongue is still unfamiliar, but somewhere in the hissing, he almost hears beckoning, urging. Pleading, even.

The lives of those around him resume, and yet he still hears the almost-words. A scent of honeysuckle drifts over the stench of burning oil.

A tear slides down his face. She had taught him to taste the sweet flowers.

He closes his eyes and basks for a moment in the soft wind, the sunlight embracing him.

With a sigh of resolution, he heaves himself over the guard rail and walks back to his home, his garden, his love, who - though now only a sapling - will keep her promise to be with him forever.

Writer v. State of Inertia

I accidentally took a sabbatical from writing.

This is not to say it was entirely necessary. Though the situation was definitely antagonistic to my writing, I could have continued. Regardless, I did not.

Now, I am paying for it.

Dear reader, I have learned another valuable lesson: getting back into writing is tough.

I stopped for three weeks. Granted, these three weeks were during NaNoWriMo (which I still find to be inconveniently placed), so I did not finish my manuscript for that, clocking in at about 10k. I am aspiring to maintain positivism, and purge the negative feelings that creep up due to the quasi-failure to complete the goal.

Yesterday, I finally started again, but I am having plenty of trouble dragging the words out into the light. They are rabid, photophobic badgers who prefer the dank recesses of the mind, and fight tooth and nail to remain. Even this blog post, in its relative brevity, has been a battle.

Writer contemplates amorphous block.

I opt to participate in the school of thought that does not fully believe in writer's block. In my mind, it's a crutch, or an excuse, and not something I need. Still, I recognize that writers do, in fact, sometimes have trouble, and I am currently a writer in trouble.

Besides, I have a bandoleer full of excuses hanging in my proverbial closet (next to the Class 3 radiation suit with the big guacamole stain on it... don't ask), which are readily available should the need arise. (In case the point is not yet painfully clear, when I was younger, my mother suggested I write a book entitled, "An Excuse For Every Occasion.")

Today, I also happened by a particular form of social media, where a particular participant had chosen to give into discouragement and go down in flames - destroying their own work and giving everyone the finger.

This hit me harder than I initially expected.  At first, I viewed it with a cool passivity. "Oh, look, there goes another one." I know, it's insensitive, but it feels like there's always someone spazzing out online.

Then I realized that, sometimes, I feel like I'm just a few steps away from that point. I go to great lengths to not use Twitter, Facebook, and this blog as a sewage processing plant for all of my negative emotions. To be frank, there's too much negativity online, and I'd hate for my rage tweet to be the final molecule that brings the Internet to critical mass (explodey).

Even so, when I get frustrated - and, oh, do I get frustrated - it's tough to not feel like giving up on everything forever and ever. After all, what have I accomplished so far? When I'm disheartened, I'm blind to most good things. It's like the opposite of rose-tinted glasses. I have shit-tinted glasses.

But then the smoke clears. The dust settles. The townsfolk step back, and the guacamole finally stops twitching. I realize that I'm not writing because I can't do anything else, but because I like it. I love it. These thrilling highs and dung heap lows are just a part of the game, and I need to work harder to keep myself on a stable medium to avoid the tumultuous roller coaster effect a bit more. And we're back to...

Discipline.

I shan't carry on about this today. It merely needed mentioning.

Thanks for sitting with me through semi-banal bout of bloggery. I actually feel a bit better, having written this post. It's going to be a rough couple of weeks, getting back into the groove, but maybe I haven't lost my touch after all.

NaNo UhOh

Sorry folks, I'm sort of phoning this one in. I know, it's a chump move.

My NaNoWriMo efforts have been choppy at best, so far. I wrote a couple hundred words before today. I did some great planning, but actual word-creation was just not happening.

Part of this is due to my poor sleep schedule habits. Part of this is due to self-confidence issues. Part of this is due to life* (*everything else).


And you know what? These things only matter as much as I allow them to matter.

So today I have finally made some decent progress in my project. I made it past the first scene, which was just tough to write, and the story is starting to move. Now I'm clocking in at a little over 2000 words.

So, instead of spending a bunch of time on a blog post, I'm going to keep working on catching up on NaNo. I pray the Bloggods will forgive me, as will you, dear reader.

Thanks in advance for the clemency I'm sure (read: hoping) you have extended!

Around a Novel in 80 Days - An Update

On October 31st, my self-initiated project draws to a close. Around 80 days ago, I decided that I am tired of existing in the gonna-do-it-someday realm of wanna-be writers. It occurred to me that the only way anything would happen with my writing is if I actually began.

I know, I know, this seems like a ridiculously simple realization. While I understood this logically before, it really hit home just how much I wanted to write, and how silly it was to hold myself back.

So, I began.

In preparation for NaNoWriMo, I began my own version of the contest, in which I planned to write my first novel in the months leading up to November. By my plan, I would write 700 words a day, to help prepare me for the rigorous word count demands brought by NaNoWriMo.

I dubbed this project "StoffelNoWriMos", and waded hip deep into writing a novel, charging forward into the murky abyss, trudging ever forward, ever upward.

Somehow, I (narrowly) escaped the urge to break said tablets
in a fit of rage. It helps that no one built a golden idol to some
other story god in this process. 

I'm happy to report that I have emerged triumphant.

From the abyss, I strode (or stumbled), and descended the mountain, carrying with me the tablets (with embedded flash memory and USB support) inscribed with the delicate carvings, a testament to the creative breath issued forth from the god of the story set before me.

My wife was quick to cover my glowing face with a cloth. My best friend urged her to replace it with a paper bag.

A beautiful novel had come forth, and all bowed in reverence.

Okay, okay, it may not have been quite that dramatic. (Imagery inspired by "The Writer's Prayer", found in Confessions of a Freelance Penmonkey, by Chuck Wendig)

But hey, it's pretty cool, having a first draft.

Technically speaking, I did not keep up with my numeric goals.

I did not write every day. Some days, I wrote, and I did not reach 700 words. I set an arbitrary target of 50,000 words, and my manuscript clocks in at ~36,000 words.

I still feel like a winner. I had skirted around this story for years, always thinking about when I was going to do it, in the nebulous 'later'. Now, though, it exists. It has tangible substance somewhere outside of my brain.

My confidence goes through various states of matter (solid, liquid, gas, and plasma are actually rather fitting metaphors for my typical confidence levels). Having a (mostly) finished draft did not fill me with ultimate glee, but I sure feel better about my ability to complete a project.

If one were to draw a tidbit of useful advice from this experience, it should probably be:

Finish something. 

Projects started and abandoned are anchors to confidence, and for this metaphor to work, your confidence needs to fly free.

In the meantime, I also managed to write a short story (not my typical form) and begin to prepare for NaNoWriMo.

If you add all of this together, it's pretty significant, at least to me.

Three months ago, I was a restless, grumbling slacker who sometimes felt pointless.

Now, though, I have undergone a veritable metamorphosis, dear reader.

Today, I am a restless, grumbling slacker who sometimes felt pointless, and IS ALSO WRITING.

...and is also partially
zombified. It happens.

A subtle difference, some may say, but a great one.

If I had abandoned this after a few thousand words, I probably would have abandoned this whole writing idea. (I almost put in "That's all she wrote," but that just does not play well here.) My shaky confidence could not have survived such a blow.

Now, though, I find myself excited about the future. I get giddy thinking about the fun ways to twist the emotions of reader and characters alike, new possibilities for what I will write, instead of what I might eventually do.

Back from the heady rush of glee, I understand this is just a first draft. There's still so much work to be done before my novel is ready to be distributed. And, you know what? I'm okay with that.

Each day is its own struggle to continue the momentum that I've gained, but I now at least feel like it's possible to succeed.

Let's see if I can take that feeling into November! (Spoiler alert: I can.)

Not sure what to write? [INSERT TEXT HERE].

I have a confession to make, people: Technically speaking, I'm new to this writing gig.

All told, I've been wholly committed to being a writer for a couple of months. I know, I know, it doesn't seem like much at all. 

Still, I've been writing for a lot longer than that. In that time, I've found one hyper-critical tidbit of process that has saved my flow in many occasions. 

If you do not know what to write regarding a relatively small detail, do not stop writing. 

Instead, throw a bracket-blank into your text, and go on your merry way. 

It's simple. Say Bob and Lauren are in Kiev, and need to get directions to the candy store they've located on their map. You could stop writing, pull up an Internet browser, and get lost for a few minutes (or a few hours) looking for just the right phrase (Покажіть мені це місце на мапі). 

When you find it, or give up, you wander back to your draft, distracted, unfocused, and thoroughly off track. Not the best state of mind for writing. 

Alternatively, you could leave yourself a small note, reminding you to fill it in later. 

When I do it, it looks something like this:

/---------\

Bob tapped the hobo's shoulder, while Lauren fiddled with the Ukrainian-to-English phrasebook. 

The hobo turned to them, a devilish grin on his face. Lauren's breath caught, but she managed to read from the book, "[DIRECT ME TO DELIGHTFUL CONFECTIONS, FOOLISH MORTAL!]."

\---------/

By so doing, we have successfully jumped right over the troublesome pothole, and may now zoom ahead. We will see just how much this mysterious hobo knows about the black market candy store, and, further, about Lauren's secret past.

This method is useful for situations other than language barriers. You could try applying a thin layer of bracket-blank to:

• Patch / tie together short bits of conversation
• Sum up description that needs to be fleshed out later
• Label a one-appearance character's name TBD
• Accept that you can't find the right word, and move on

Umm...

• [OTHER RELEVANT SITUATIONS]

Maintaining consistent flow is of utmost importance to me when I'm writing. Otherwise, I'll hardly accomplish anything in my writing sessions. 

Remember: the most important thing, when working on a first draft, is to get something down. You can always go back and fix it. Bracket-blanking helps free you to do this. 

I hope this helps you writerly types out there. With demanding word-count expectations coming up during NaNoWriMo, we can't afford to get hung up on minute details. Allow yourself to go back and fix it later, even if it's at the end of the day. You'll be happy you did. 

Keep the writer juices flowing.

Just what does that hobo know about the candy?

WriMosFTW? OMGWTFBBQ!

Say again? What's that gaggle of letters you piled onto your blog title like an out-of-work surrealist painter all hopped up on watercolor fumes?

There is, maybe, one thing I did not make clear in my first post: I may talk a bit in a circle, flinging about a bit of non-traditional imagery to accomplish a specific goal. I confess I do not always accomplish my goals; after all, communication is a two-way street. It doesn't matter how much I feel like I've done well saying something, if you don't get it, communication is not working.

Anyway, back to the Subject At Hand.

Much of what helped give me the proverbial kick in the pants is NaNoWriMo, and my desire to participate in said event. I got back on Twitter (though, to be fair, I'd never really used it before), and began to connect with writerly types.

Oppressively long story cut short by the Editing Machete of Longwindedness Doom (+2), I found myself caught in a flurry of tweets (with surprisingly few feathers flying, to my disappointment) with people such as the illustrious @LynMidnight, who, crazy person that she is, decided that a networking blog for NaNoWriMo was just the thing to help people slog through the rough times, and share the glorious times as well.

Thus, through the tears, laughs, agitations, and not-nearly-enough-flying-feathers, WriMosFTW was born.


The site features guest blog posts from both Once and Future Participants, and NaNoNoobs like me. (On second thought, that actually looks kind of tacky... let's make a deal, you and me, to never, ever mention this term again. Okay? Done.)

It's a great place to receive encouragement and insight, and to find other writers with whom you may connect. We're all in this together... separately, but together! I strongly encourage you, reader, to check out the site, and if you are participating, maybe even give @LynMidnight a shout-out... she is still seeking blog posts for November.

As a side-note, my guest blog will be posted on Wednesday. Is this shameless self-promotion? Maybe. I'm actually pretty excited, because this is the first time in a while that anyone has purposefully put something I've written 'out there'. (No comment on the apparent lack of sanity in said decision...) It's an awesome place to be, and I'm glad to share my thoughts on the matter.

Speaking of which, @LynMidnight gave me a shiny badge to post on my blog, for participating in WriMosFTW. Behold, dear reader, and bow before its might!

Oh, yeah. I'm, like, official now.

...

So...

When do I get my Beretta?

The Blog Posts You Deserve, But Not The Ones You Need Right Now

I almost went outside after this post!

I am willing to accept this. I am, by no means, a pro-blogger. As far as keeping up with a blog, I actually kind of suck.

Or, rather, I did suck. I have trouble sticking to projects that I begin, and blogging has never been a priority for me. Therefore, my Hubpages account saw little activity, except when I felt 'inspired'.

For those not in the know: I rarely feel inspired to blog. So far. (Though it happens.)

A month and a half ago, I grew tired of living in the mindset of gonna-do-it-someday in regards to writing, and began my "StoffelNoWriMos" project. (I will write an update to this project on Inspirandomonium within a week.)

The point here is: I need better discipline. And working on this novel, believe you me, I have made progress by leaps and bounds. I may have as much discipline as your average house cat all hopped up on the nip now.

Another point is that I want to reach out. There is the advice going around that a writer cannot exist without a 'platform', and that's certainly important, but that's not my only intention here. I also just love putting words together in the right way to make people think, and/or to make them smile.

A blog is a fantastic avenue of communication for my thoughts, and a great place to interact with others about them. And I do want to interact. Really! I will crawl out of my inchoate-writer grotto to play comment twiddly-dinks with you. (Speaking of which, I will also rappel down from my inchoate-writer tower to play pass-the-tweet, if you wish to find me on Twitter!)

Bold statement made here: I will make at least one blog post every calendar week.

I will, some calendar weeks, regret making the previous bold statement.

I hope that the developing discipline will make this easier, and that everyone will have a great time. If nothing else, you can have a good time picking on me for my bold statements.

Thank you, reader, for your support. (I consider the fact that you've read this far support. If you skipped down here, shame on you for toying with my emotions. At least go back to the top and scroll slowly, so that it feels like support, okay?) It helps a lot to have the sense of accountability, and digital accountability, er, accounts... too. Yeah.

See you next post!