A winner is me.

I did it.

I won NaNoWriMo.

What does that mean, exactly? No glitter fell at my feet the moment I crossed 50,000 words. No trumpets blared, no small man offering me the keys to the city appeared. No angels appeared, flouting at my feet, their blinding and terrible beauty forcing mine wits to evacuate mine mind.

No, it was more simple than that. I sat at work, the day after Thanksgiving, writing away. Happy to have a day where no phone calls or students came in to interrupt. I noticed, after writing almost 5,000 words on the day, that I was a mere 20 words away from the goal. I finished two more sentences and ended up at 50,006 words. I saved my file, uploaded it to dropbox, e-mailed the document to myself, closed Pages (I did all of my writing on the iPad), and sat back. Content. I did it.

50,000 words in a month. In less than a month, actually. I had several days to spare.

I have not opened my NaNo writings since. I left several stories unfinished, but I will come back. After the writing has had time to sit, and I've had time to ruminate upon what I learned in November, I will go back to it, and I will finish. That I can finish is not a worry. I wrote 50,000 words in a month.

I finally think of myself as a writer.

I have several ideas I've started on. One is about a guy named Stranger (placeholder name; I'm waiting for a name that sings to me), chasing after another guy. Thsi story is my attemptt o write something like Stephen King's Gunslinger. Just to write something different in another style, after so much talking about myself.

The other is my Valkyrie story. I need more time with that, but it never leaves my mind.

And, as always, Darkness Falls. I'm going to go back and discover more about my characters. It's the reason I fell flat last year. But I'm going to go back and talk to all of them. Cain's voice gets stronger in my head the more I think about the story.

I a pleased with myself. I would say I can't wait for next year, but I don't need NaNo to get me to write a novel. I realize now I can do it myself.

But I'll do it again next year, anyway.

NaNoWriMo 2010

 

As I’ve posted before, I’m doing NaNoWriMo this year.  Looking at my past blogs, one would notice that I did NaNo in 2009.  I began a potential novel titled “Darkness Falls.”  I really liked this story, but was not up to the task of writing an entire novel on the characters.  I do not know them, or the story they are to go through, well enough.  My file on NaNo 2009 is about 15,000 words (if I’m rounding up).

This year I made a different approach.  I decided to write memoir.  My life is full of characters I know very well, and this year I’m doing awesome.  As of this night, I’m just past 35,000 words.  This is over 110 pages in MS Office.  I believe I will finish this year.  There are only two hurdles in my way.  I have two separate essays in two different classes due the same day NaNo ends.  At 35k, I’m going to try and get ahead a bit this week, especially of Thanksgiving weekend. 

I also read aloud this weekend at this:  http://www.cswritersreading.blogspot.com/

What I read is pretty much a work of fiction using those characters I know from real life.  I believe that much of my writing is melancholy, devoid of humor, and far too serious.  This is because much of it is just that, so with this piece I wanted to prove to myself that I could write something funny and serious, not just serious. 

And with no further ado, an untitled work for whomever even reads this blog.  There must be one or two people.

 

Ten minutes after meeting my father, John Stephen Jones declared that “the boy would cause no end of trouble for me and mine.” He uttered the prophecy while sitting in his favorite chair, a worn and comfortable coffee colored thing. The chair groaned like a prisoner of war forced to undergo another familiar torture. The cushions bulged, threatening to spew their yellow cushioning all over the floor, held in only by clever stitching performed by my grandmother, intent to keep the prisoner viable for torture as long as possible. John Stephen Jones looked at the man that would be my father, beginning at his eyes, where, he said, you found a man’s worth. Michael Ferguson’s pale, watery eyes, blinked rapidly at my grandfather, flitting here and there, landing on my grandfather as a bird does a likely spot to eat, unsure of whether of their own well-being. John Stephen Jones harrumphed, raising a hand oak-like in its strength and color, dismissing his daughter’s young man from his presence. John said his piece, his family could take it into account or not, it didn’t matter to him.

Michael Ferguson looked to my mother. My mother stared at my grandmother, pointedly ignoring the looks of both men in the room. My grandmother acted as if the book she read, Roots which she read at least once a year, occupied the entirety of her attention. Lisa did not miss the curl of her lips, the way her shoulders seemed to tremble under some unseen weight. Lisa did not fail to note that her mother, Judy Jones, seemed to be shaking her head at Roots, disagreeing with the words of Alex Haley as she never had before. Michael floundered, finding no help in his girlfriend’s presence and no comfort in Judy’s apathetic smile. He opened his mouth and closed his mouth, and opened it again. He looked at Lisa again, his hands clenching in a silent plea. Lisa continued to frown at her mother, unconsciously rubbing a hand over her stomach.

“Sir, um, Mr. Jones” Michael said.

“What?” John said.

“I’m pregnant,” Lisa said.

Roots fell to the floor, its hollow thud swallowed by the bellow of my first grandfather. Standing over six feet tall and weighing over three hundred pounds, Michael never expected John to have the ability to move with the fluidity of flowing water. The strength to crush Michael’s neck, the young man had surmised from John’s size and did not appear at all surprised to find the older man’s hands currently gripping his throat. Michael’s hands found their way to my first grandfather’s, but his own hands were but weeds to the man’s oak, and almost as annoying. The look in my grandfather’s eyes, so my grandmother says, stole the mobility of every person in the room. Michael James Ferguson, convinced he was soon to die, could only choke out sounds. He believed he said, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.” What he actually did was cough, slivers of spittle trailing down the sides of his mouth, pooling at the skin between my grandfather’s hands and Michael’s neck. Lisa, for the first time in her 16 years on God’s green Earth, was shocked into silence. One hand found its way to her mouth where it stayed positioned as if she smelled something foul, the other on the burgeoning swell of her belly. My grandmother moaned, “John, stop.” Repeatedly.

And my first grandfather did stop. He released Michael’s neck, holding his hands above his head and looking down at the young man in disgust. The look he spared my mother was coated in disappointment. Lisa had the grace to look down at her feet, ashamed.

“Sixteen years old,” was all he said. And left. The sound of his car starting came through the door.

My grandmother shook her head, tsk’ing. She picked her book up off the ground, looked at her daughter and my father, and tsk’ed again. She placed the book on a coffee table before she went into the kitchen, began running some water, occasionally looking back at the two kids who did not move. She grabbed a tea kettle from the cupboard, filled it up with water, put it on the stove where she let it warm until its whistle sounded. She poured three cups, adding a shot of liquor to each before putting the mint tea bags into the cups. She put them each on a tray, with three spoons for stirring, and gave them to her daughter, her daughter’s boyfriend, and took one for herself.

Warts and all.  Revising is for later. 

I'm doing NaNo this year. I will have a more indepth blog later when I have time, but I have been doing very well. I missed this weekend due to moving, but I was ahead by a day so I'm not so far behind. Looking to make up lost ground tonight and tomorrow.

Reading Sandman

I started reading Neil Gaiman's "Sandman." As a huge Neil Gaiman fan, it is simply a pleasure to finally be reading what man consider to be the author's best work. I've only read 10 issues, so I can't say if that grand statement is true, but so far it has been very good. There are two stories of note that stick with me.

The first is a stand-alone issue wherein Dream's sister, Death, visits him. They wander throughout the world, Death taking those whose time has come. Death does not discriminate. Young and old are her targets. The story startled me when I thought about it. Death takes people with such nonchalance. There is no hatred or warmth, no smiles or frowns. Death has a duty to perform and she will do so.

There is comfort in this, I suppose, knowing that the final judgment in one's life will be devoid of bias. However, the story takes a disturbing turn when Death approaches a newborn child. She lifts the child's soul from its body and the child, sadly, I think, says,

"Is that all I get?"

To which Death responds, "I'm afraid so."

This single panel inspired me to attempt writing a story about Death.  About this scene, actually.  It will be fanfiction (Death is even female in my story), but I need to try.  Gaiman is what I wish to write.  His stories all take place in a world where myths are real.  I have always wanted to write fantasy, but the idea of writing in the fantasy genre doesn't appeal to me as much as it once did.  I still get ideas, and will one day finish a fantasy novel I have started titled Darkness Falls, but my strengths as a writer rests in other areas. 

I'm writing a short piece to read aloud later this month.  I'll post it here when I'm done. 

Brothers: What I Read Aloud

 

Brothers

My father beat my brothers often for their mistakes. He’d grab whatever was handy Sometimes it was the strap, others, depending on the severity of the offense, he would grab whatever handy. Hangers. Switches. Cans. Beer bottles. After their punishment he would have them explain what they did to deserve their treatment. The offending brother would kneel in front of our father who always sat in the same chair, whittling at a malformed chunk of wood making of it some forest animal. Our father’s hands remained in a constant state of motion. We before his throne in supplication, plebes explaining why the crops failed. Why our taxes were late. I rarely received a beating, but I always had to sit and listen. “Why’d you do it?” Our father asked. His eyes roving over the chunk of wood. He held it before him as if divining the shape it would become.

Bryan didn’t answer. I sat on his left and Jake sat on his right. Bryan would say later their father’s words a bowling ball and we the anxious pins.

“I don’t know.”

Our father spared us a glance then, taking his eyes away from his whittling for a moment to express with his eyes how absolutely useless he thought we were. Jake and I looked at each other and for a moment I thought he would speak. Something we never did was come up with reasons for each other. Doing so would encourage another beating.

“Well,” our father said, releasing his gaze, “if you’re too stupid to know why you did something, just tell me what it is you did.”

“I broke Michelle’s pen so that when she shook it to see if it worked, ink would spill all over her dress.”

“Why?” Our father would ask. His eyes roving over the chunk of wood. He held it before him as if divining the shape it would become.
“She made fun of my ears,” he muttered.

“And when you’re grown, you going to run around playing pranks on anybody makes fun of you?”

“No, dad.”

Our father nodded, knife gone to work and shavings of the wood joining the fallen trees around his chair. Mother used to yell at him for that. She’d hover around him with a vacuum. Father would laugh and tell her not to worry, he’d clean up. Mom’s gone, and she took our father’s laughter with her.

Father let us ruminate on our failing for moments. The knife scraping against father’s creation the only sound between the four of us. When he felt we’d learned our lesson, father would wave us off. We would rise as one and walk to Jake’s room. The eldest had his own room. Jake’s room remained perpetually clean. Trash had no place in his room, disorder an unwelcome guest quickly and efficiently dispatched. When we entered, Jake threw himself on his bed. Brad sat in a chair. I shut the door and leaned against it.

“Fuck him,” Jake spat. Only recently had he begun swearing.

“Fuck him,” Brad parroted, though he said it quietly and glanced at the door as he did.

“Why’d you break a girl’s pen?” I asked.

“They glared at me and I placed my hand on the doorknob, ready to run before they shared their beatings with me.

Brad winced, rubbing his bottom, and instead of attacking said, “She made fun of my ears.”

“You do have big ears,” Jake said.

“Yeah, but she don’t need to point it out.”

“You like her, don’t you.

“She’s going to have to buy a new dress,” I said. “Stupid way to get a girl to like you.”

“Shutup, Ian,” my brother’s said. “You’re just like dad.”

“Am not,” I protested, but they had moved on. Huddling together like co conspirators, they spoke of things I had no interest in. Jake asked if Michelle had tits, and talked of other girls at school and making out. They both went to middle school. I was a baby in 6^th grade. Once, I tried to join in, but my brothers stopped talking and stared at me until I slinked away. They were growing up, leaving me behind, leaving alone with my father.

My father remained in his chair. The only difference the piece of wood had been changed into a cat. He no longer cleaned up the shavings on the floor and a week’s worth formed a dusty moat around his feet. When he left, I tasked myself with keeping the house tidy.

“How was school, son?” he asked without looking up.

“Good. Hey, dad?”

“Yeah?”

“Could you teach me to whittle?”

He smiled, a sad smile, but he didn’t take his eyes from his carving. For moments he was silent. His movements were more deliberate now. He caressed the cat with his knife, small slivers of wood falling. After each shedding he would move the cat around, inspect each angle, before deciding where to trim again.

“Dad?”

“No, son. I couldn’t teach. Patience ain’t one of my many virtues. Go play with your brothers.”

“They don’t play with me anymore. Could you—“

“Then go play outside.”

“Okay, dad.”

Instead of going outside, I went to Jake’s room. My brothers were coming out, Bryan with a football in his hand. They both grinned. They always did after talking about girl’s tits. When Jake saw me his smile disappeared. Bryan shouldered past me, but Jake stopped.

“What do you want?”

“To play?”

“You can come watch,” my brother said. “You’re too small to play with us. “

I opened my mouth to argue, but stopped. Arguments with Jake only ended in two ways: me hurting and then me crying. Instead, I fell in step behind him. Outside of our door stood several of Jake and Bryan’s friends. News of a football game spread throughout our block like chicken pox. How the news spread seemed a mystery to me. There was no phone in Jake’s room, no conceivable way to communicate with the kids on the block, but spread on our lawn was ten other kids waiting to play. The largest of them came forward. He was a freshman in high school and everybody thought that made him king. We called him Bull. He said it was because he was as big as one, but I always thought it had more to do with his intelligence. He looked down at me from his post-pubescent height and frowned.

“You bringing him?”

Bryan and Jake nodded.

“Okay,” Bull said. “We could use a cheerleader.”

Everybody laughed. Even Bryan and Jake.

 

I read this aloud this past Friday.  I think I’ll start posting some of my writings on my blog.  I like the story, which is one of a youngest sibling who wants to be accepted by his family.  There are lots of problems with this story right now.  Mostly with tense and the intro.  But I like it.  I enjoyed writing this piece, melancholy though it is.

Just testing

 

Here is a picture of batman.  I like the batman.  Do you?

New Direction

It's funny reading my old blog posts.  I always say I'll try to update more.  Invariably, I mention video games.  It's been almost an entire year, again, since I've updated.  I'm writing more now than I ever have.  I recently had a story published in the Pikes Peak Community College creative mag, The Almagre, and I'm surprised at the response.  Grown ass men have approached me, weepy eyed, lamenting my childhood upbringing and complimenting me on my attitude.

I'm not gaming much anymore, and though I still have an interest in games, I'm thinking my blog will turn its focus toward a more literary bent.  I'm now more concerned with the creative process of writing than I am becoming a journalist.  I'm hoping writing about writing will help me overcome some of the hurdles I have with writing fiction.  This is a blog, and I guess I should start treating it as such.  There have been some hurdles in my life I should probably get off my chest.  One such, not being able to attend CU Boulder until next Fall. 

Anyway, I'm at work.  I should be working, but it's a pretty dull Friday.  I'm looking forward to getting a haircut, getting dinner, and sleeping in tomorrow morning.

Also, I got an iPad.  It's pretty damn awesome. I've purchased several eBooks:  Knife of Dreams, All the Pretty Horses, M is for Magic, Wizards and Glass, The Way of Kings, along with numerous classics available on public domain. I'm not sure I like eBooks yet, but their convenience cannot be denied.