NaNoWriMo

It happens every year.  Like Christmas and Birthdays.  NaNoWriMo once again.

In 2009 I began a novel that started its life called Darkness Falls, but will likely see another title should I ever go back and finish (which I fully intend to do).  It was my second earnest attempt at fantasy.  My first attempts so much high school drivel.  Seriously dreadful stuff.  Not that Falls was much better, but at least I managed to get rid of the Dragonlance influence that colored so much of my teenage writing.  I'd been reading a lot of George RR Martin and Joe Abercrombie, and so found myself impersonating them.  It was not a very good story, I think, but I love the characters. It's the characters I think of more than the story.  I went back to look at the story just now.  You know that picture you have.  It's one your parents or girlfriend have of you in that outfit you hated, or making a face under duress.  And then when you see it, you wince.  That's what it's like when I go back to old writing.  It's just...not good.

Cain pulled from the chest a tattered book, its cover the color of rotten apple cores.  Cain stroked the cover, poking with a finger at several maroon splotches that stained the book.  A single word was written there, “Verus.”  Cain read the word aloud, his name, his family’s name, and felt as always a chill run through his spine and making his legs weak.  It seemed that he could hear the line of kings from which he came when he said his name.  Before closing the chest Cain cast his gaze around the room.  The door remained shut.  Shadows danced on the stone walls of his study, cast by a flickering candle resting on his desk.  Bookcases lined the walls of the room, brought to him from the farthest reaches of the world by all manner of men.  The books themselves were riddles, each word, each volume more rage inducing than the last.  None moreso than the book he held clasped in his hands. 

I mean, I know I wrote this in November with no editing, but geez.  "Cain stroked the cover, poking with a finger..."  ""felt as always a chill run through his spine and making his legs weak..."  (all kinds of cliches and verb tense problems up in here"  The rest is not much better.  It is, in fact, embarrassing to read.  But real writing is revision, so I'm told, and this story never got the chance.  And now that I've had time to sit and think about it, the story I get to writing will be different than the one I started.  

In 2010 I wrote "Greens and Other Short Stories."  This was a mostly autobiographical piece, although I did write some short stories from the perspective of my family.  I also wrote one exceptionally long piece that was more of a "what if," in which I my mother was ill in the hospital and, unbeknownst to me (at first).  It ended up being mostly cathartic, horrible fiction, but useful to me in that I got a lot of stuff out of my head on to paper that I never knew I wanted to say.  I "won" NaNo in 2010 with Greens.  I haven't looked at much of it since then, however.  A lot of this was much better than Falls.  Part of it is because I'm better writing literature.  Part of it is because I'm bad at writing fantasy.  Going back, reading some of this, I think, "I like reading this."  That doesn't happen often with things I write.  I look to my friends for affirmation.  This passage takes place after my mother and father tell my grandparents that she (my mother) is pregnant: 

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. 

I read a lot of comic books.  My favorite super hero is Spiderman.  Ultimate Spidey to be exact, but 616 Parker has a lot of good stories.  The reason I love Spidey is because of the balancing act between Peter and Spidey.  I love the human aspect of comics.  Yes, Cyclops can shoot beams of energy from his eyes and that's great, but what does it feel like for a man to be able to do that.  What would it do to a person's psyche to know that if he opens his eyes at the wrong time, he could kill dozens of people.  That's the kind of super hero story I want to write.  So the idea for my story was that somehow, and I never really worked it out, I was thinking something along the lines of some alien meteor on display in a museum, but somehow super heroes start appearing.  There were none before, and now we have people with powers popping up all over earth.  There would be heros, but it is my experience and my belief (and more interesting stories) when evil has the upperhand, and so the heros will be routed, and my story was going to begin with a villain who realizes that the villains are destroying earth.  He has no grandiose plans to save earth.  He just wants to carve out a little niche where he and some like-minded friends can have a bit of civilization.  

Months later the first super appeared.  Nobody knew the world had changed.  Who would think change would come with a grandmother.  She lived in a small town in Tenessee.  Johanna Johnson.  A small name.  An inconspicuous name.  An ordinary name.  An ordinary name for an old woman who lived her life, raised her children, retired away from people so she could die quietly like her husband before her.  She went into town on the third Tuesday of each month to buy groceries.  It was at the King Soopers, or the Piggly Wiggly, or the Walgreens.  Or whatever they called the grocery stores there.  Johanna was buying her supplies, Benadryl, milk, grapefruit.  I don’t know what old people need.  She was there and she could hear people who weren’t talking.  She heard the cash register talking about how he would like to fuck the new bagging girl.  She heard the manager complaining about how lazy everybody was and that his wife was cheating on him.  She heard a father who couldn’t remember if his wife had asked for swiss cheese or cheddar.  She heard all of these things but nobody spoke.  Johanna approached the clerk and told him it was not polite to speak that way in front of his elders.  She told  the father to buy both and save himself heartache.  And she asked if everybody wouldn’t stop talking all at once.  Everybody looked at her and the voices got louder, they were all thinking the same thing.  What was wrong with Johanna?  Had she finally gone crazy.  Don’t know how she managed to stay sane living all the way out in BFE by herself.  Mrs. Johanna noticed then nobody moved her lips and when somebody did, nothing matched.

            “Are you okay?” The manager asked.

            What the hell is wrong old woman, he said almost simultaneously.  Get out of my store.  Last thing I need is an ambulance blocking the entrance to the store.  All these lookie-loos not buying anything. 

            It was all Johanna could stand.  She put her hands to her face and began to scream.  She would stop for a moment, hear more voices and continue screaming.  She told me it was the only way to block out the voices in her head was to use her own.  She died shortly after I spoke with her. 

            Most people do. 

I didn't get very far into this story, but I will definitely be coming back.  It hasn't changed much as I've thought about it like Darkness Falls has.

And so this year, 2013, I will write another non-fiction, fictional piece.  It will be continuing and expanding upon what I began with Greens.  I plan on writing a cohesive story this time instead of a bunch of shorts.  It will be called Survivor's Guilt.  NaNo isn't easy.  I am a student, I have a significant other and kids.  The PS4 comes out in November, Thanksgiving and time with the family.  Time is at a premium.  But I think I can do it again.  The stories are all in my head and the rest is just scribbles.  But mostly, it'll be good to write consistently, even if I don't make it to the goal.  It'll be nice to write something other than essays about Shakespeare and books I did not choose to read.

So yay for NaNo.  If nothing else, I will write.  Hopefully I will write a lot.

I met Boyz II Men

For my birthday, my girlfriend and another friend put me in a car, blindfolded me, and drove me to the airport.  The entire ride they made fun of me, asking if I knew where I was, or if I had guessed where we were going.  I hadn't, of course, since, you know, I couldn't see.  She told me to pack a bag and bring a toothbrush, so naturally I thought we were staying somewhere overnight in Denver.  And so my shock when the blindfold was removed and I found myself staring at the entrance of the airport.

"Do you know where we're going yet," my girlfriend asked me?  I did not, but I had an inkling.  I found out I was right when we printed out the tickets: Las Vegas.  But I still didn't know why.  When we landed, she asked and I told her I still hadn't guessed.  We got outside, assaulted by the thick Las Vegas heat, and grabbed a shuttle to The Mirage hotel.  And then it clicked.  I knew, you see, that Boyz II Men was performing at that very hotel, but when she asked, I only said that I think I knew, and that I'd wait to see if I was right.

I was.  

Motown Suits

The first time I heard Yesterday by Boyz II Men changed the way I looked at music.  I'm sure it was not the first a capella song I had ever heard, but it is the first one I remember.  It is a beautiful song that I had long attributed to Boyz II Men, only later learning that theirs was not the original version.  Covers wasn't in my vocabulary when I heard it.  Since hearing that song, one of my dreams, and if I had a bucket list this would have been on it, was to hear Boyz II Men sing the Temptation's "My Girl."  When they released the album Motown Hitsville (vol 1), I read the tracklist and was disappointed to see that particular cover was not a part of the cd.  But that night, on May 11th, in the Mirage hotel, sitting three rows from the stage next to the woman I love, Boyz II Men came out in oldschool gold Temptation style suits, started doing the shoop and wing, and opened the Motown portion of the show with My Girl.  

This happened.  Right in front of me. 

It was, quite literally, a dream come true.  It was an amazing night that I will never forget.  I think back on it constantly.  I would go see them again, would love to go see them again, if the opportunity comes up.  But I will always remember that birthday because it was so unexpected.  

And after the show, when I was smiling and sad it had ended,  I was ready to go back up to the hotel room.  So, I asked +Sandy if she was ready to go.  She grabbed my arm, pulled me down and said, "We're not finished yet."

And so I sat down, wondering what more there could possibly be.  We waited for 20 minutes or so for the room to clear out, and then we left and went to an area to the side of the entrance where there was another line forming.  We were going to meet Boyz II Men.

I can't type those words without breaking in to a huge grin.   I got to meet Boyz II Men.  In fact, I gave Shawn a huge, awkward hug. 

It was, by far, the best birthday I've ever had.  And one of the best days I've ever had.  So when I sat down to type this blog, it was the first thing that came to mind. Thanks, babe.  Best birthday ever. 

I fit right in. 

NaNo 2012

Doing it again this year. :)

Here's an excerpt:

It was raining the day they put me out of jail. Heavy drops like the sky was determined to beat me down under it. I could hear mom in my head saying somewhere the devil was beating his wife and those were her tears making their way down my face and soaking my pants. The rain got soaked up into the walkway. Could almost hear them hissing. For weeks I’d wanted some cool weather on the yard. Figures it’d come on the long walk home. Styles walked next to me, uniform creased like he was attending a funeral. Underneath all that hat and all that hair his face was creased just like his pants. Seemed like everytime he looked at me the crease got deeper and longer. Thought I saw him open his mouth to say something once or twice, but if he had anything to say it got lost in the sound of the storm.

“You going to be okay, Swift?” He said, finally.

We’d reached the gate all barb wire and doom. Remember when I’d been forced through it 8 years ago. Now I was leaving the same way. Guards stood up above me like the eyes of god watching, making sure I wasn’t doing wrong. Making sure I walked right and went down the right path. Truth be told I felt the right path was right back into that brick house. Wasn’t nothing for me on the other side of that gate. Nothing and no one.

“Yeah,” I said. “I made it this far.”

Styles spit on the ground, didn’t know if he was spitting at what I said or just in general. He grunted. Didn’t say nothing after that.

When we reached the entrance he gave me a bag. I looked in it to see everything that’d been on me when I got took. My wallet, with not a damn thing in it but wishes, prayers, and an ID. The kid in that picture looked soft and stupid.

I wasn’t much for goodbyes. I took the wallet and put it in my back pocket. Nodded at Styles and turned to go. He grabbed my arm. If I hadn’t been looking, would’ve thought my arm was caught between two 45lb plates. I tried to pull away. You didn’t let nobody grab you like that on the other side. Quick way to be somebody’s bitch. Took everything I had not to swing at a cop.

“What are you going to do?”

“I’ll figure it out.”

Styles pulled something white from his chest and handed it to me. His card.

“You call me, Swift.” When I nodded the crease in his forehead got deeper. “God dammit, Swift.” He said. Yelled. He tightened his grip on my arm. “You don’t belong in here. Everybody saw that. Don’t end up back here like so many of you do.”

I nodded again. Something he saw must’ve satisfied him because he let go of my arm. I rubbed it. Not like I was hurt, just wasn’t used to people grabbing me the way he did.

“We had some good times,” Styles said. “Considering your situation.  I’m not opposed to having a few more outside of here.  Call me.  You owe me a game of chess.”

Here are my stats:

I feel good about this one. Hoping to finish or come extremely close. :D

On rejection and being burnt out.

I submitted a short story I wrote to three publications.

The first responded:

Thank you for your submission to the Urban Resistance. Unfortunately, it's not what we are looking for at this time.
We wish you good luck in placing this piece and hope you continue to submit your work to us in the future. 

I was not put off by this.  I wrote and revised the story for class.  I know of the issues and only submitted the story as part of a class assignment.  Still, every writer is hopeful for acceptance and acknowledgement.  Every writer, I imagine, secretly hopes that some stranger will read the submission and say, "This is amazing. I must publish it."  So, while I was not put off, some part of me was still disappointed.  It is tempting to take such rejection as a rejection of self.  Stories are a part of the writer, and saying, "This is not good enough," is almost like saying, "YOU are not good enough."  It's tempting to think that, but I have been taught well and have friends who have been through this, so I avoided depression.  This time.

The second rejection was more positive:

Thank you for submitting your manuscript to 10,000 Tons of Black Ink. Unfortunately, our editorial staff has decided to pass on your piece, "On the First" at this time.
We found this to be a thoroughly gripping story. It is well written and does not strike a false note. The description of three children watching TV was very accurate and natural—all acting their ages, arguing, giving in to one another as they wait for their dissolute mother to come home.  The language is a nice blend of adult remembrance and childhood naivety: “When [the microwave] is turned on for too long it protests it use by making a whining sound which burrows into the headache inducing centers of one’s brain and activates the pain centers.”  You might, however, take a look at the scenes and descriptions that do not move the story forward or give the reader an insight into the characters. You begin the piece by having the narrator tell us this is the night things changed. How is that statement addressed in the end? In what way have things changed? To a degree this is left to the reader, but a somewhat stronger allusion to your intent might be more effective. Overall we found this to be a very strong piece, but perhaps one final polishing draft from being ready.  Though we are unable to publish your work this time around, we wish you luck in your endeavors and look forward to reading more of your writing in the future.

Yes, more personal.  This one sounds like they read my story.  Actual comments.  This one actually made me smile.  Not only because they look forward to reading more of my writing in the future, but also because some of the comments from this publication are similar to those from my writers group. I never thought I would be published for this story, but hearing stuff like this makes me want to go back and revise the story and try again.  Maybe then it would be ready.

The third said:

Thank you for submitting "On the First" for inclusion in Nine. We haveread and discussed the story, and have decided to pass on it. It's not amatter of the writing so much as the content. We choose stories that havea strong plot and characters, and this is a bit too far toward theliterary and away from the genre. We like to ride that line, but not quitethis far. Good luck placing this elsewhere, and thanks again for thinkingof us.

Not quite as personal, but still, it feels good to hear the reason for rejection is that it is not genre enough.  That's good, as the story wasn't genre at all.  As far as rejections go, that's about the least offensive reason one could give. I'll chalk that one up to not reading the types of submissions this particular publication wants. 


Although this class did force me to submit my stories to publications, something I had long wanted to do and could never work up the nerve for, it beat me down in other ways.  Most of the students were not serious writers, others were not writing at the level I felt capstone course warranted.  I had to read and comment on about 25 stories in the span of 4 months in conjunction with the writing I needed to do for the class.  This wouldn't have been a problem if the writing had been quality, but it is very frustrating to me, as a person who takes the craft very seriously, to waste time in class explaining that this story is not a story because this "story" has no plot.  At this level, every story should be a story, I believe, and time spent discussing the stories in class should be focusing on character inconsistencies, dialogue, padding, what is aiding the story and what isn't.  If the writer isn't aware that the story does not have a plot, it is my belief that these other, more minor, and just as important things will be unheeded.  


So, because of this class, I haven't written creatively in about a month.  This blog post is the most substantial thing I've written since then.  It feels good, Brian.  It feels right.  


Maybe I should go tighten up a story and peddle my wares elsewhere.  


Edit no Jutsu:


Also, I got a cat.  

She's pretty much the best cat ever.  A gift from the best girlfriend ever. <3

The only problem is, said cat likes to attack said girlfriend's hair and face when we sleep.

Kittens. :) :(

November is upon us.

It is October. The leaves are changing colors, from green to orange, they wither and die. They give up on life and jump from their branches where they lie helpless until passersby trample them underfoot or the wind whooshes them away at a whim. School is well underway and students bemoan their professors and complain about how much homework they must do. And November looms large in my mind. NaNoWrimo is comes again. I'm not sure if I'll be able to finish it this year. I'm in a few classes that are taking a lot of my writing time. One of them is a Creative Writing class, so at least that's good. I'm still going to try. I've got a pretty cool story idea that I want to try out. It's comic bookie-ish idea. My premise is that the villains have won, super heroes are either dead or in hiding, and the badguys are slowly destroying the world. One villain realizes this can't be allowed to continue. It's his story. I think it'll be a lot of fun to write. Thinking about plot and whatnot now. Anyway...here's a poem I read this month. I write poetry now, apparently.

I am told I speak well

I follow the rules my teachers

And their teachers and their teachers taught

I pronounce my ings and errs

I enunciate each syllable

I speak well

But I think my grandfather

His voice pleasant and slow like change

As he savored each word

Ignoring diction and the rules

Told stories filling as Sunday dinners

His speech comforting as old jeans

He spoke well

As knowledge and history trickled

From his tongue like revelation

He ain’t nevah read my books

Or my teachers

And I don’t speak like him

So did he speak well

When he sat me on his knee

And told me of the time he spent

In ‘nam his eyes far off

Unseeing and seeing too much

Did he speak well

When he shook the ghosts away

And I could feel them

Those ghosts grasping clawing

Trying to take root like weeds

When he asked if I want breakfast

Pancakes and sirp

Not syrup with two syllables

the way I say it

Did he speak well

When the words rolled together

Like pools of honey

And you could feel the rhythm

And his emotion

even when he ain’t got no diction

He spoke well

He spoke good as he was able

And because of him I stand before you judged

Before I open my mouth

And surprised when I do

It saddens me because

My grandfather is not in my speech

And sometimes I wish he was

Because he spoke real good

And the stories he told me

As memorable as homer or Shakespeare

And because of him

I know

 Poems seem longer than they are.

Faye Valkyr

The Valkyrie story that has weighed so heavily on my soul is about finished. Right now, it sucks. I'm not sure how much mythology to put in, or whether or not it's relevant to the character.

Here is an excerpt WARNING, EXTREMELY ROUGH DRAFT:

Faye strolled around the park listening to the sounds of death; the lack of children's laughter, the creak of a merry-go-round. She could hear the scattering and scratching of leaves scraping against the sidewalk, a brittle sound that always reminded her of a skeleton's laughter. She circled a swing set and sat, the seat was cold and the chains creaked with each movement. Darkness consumed the sky taking with it the sun and blanketing the world in a warm glow. Her legs stretched out before her as she climbed higher, reaching for the stars, hair fell behind her like a flag in the wind. It was easy to sense the souls of those torn unexpectedly from life if you knew what to look for. If you knew what to listen for you heard their wails like tom-cats mewling, or heard their voices mingle with the wind. Faye heard and was comforted. Coming to the park was like coming home.

"Bit old to be on a swing set, aren't you?"

Faye started and almost fell. She settled herself and looked behind her, the direction of the voice. She was not surprised to see Officer Jacobs there. She nodded to him and continued her smooth arc, forward and back. The heavens came closer and retreated. Only conscious thought kept her from putting her hand out and reaching. She smiled at her foolishness, and slowed her momentum.

"How are you, Officer Jacobs?"
He smiled and sat on the swing to Faye's left. He was not in uniform. He wore simple jeans and a t-shirt that read "Change" below a picture of Obama. He scooped up pebbles in his hand and began throwing them into the distance. After each toss he would look at Faye and smile, his white and even teeth like bones against a background of charcoal.

"Can't complain," he said. "You?"

Faye considered before answering. "Unhappy," she said. "Confused."

Officer Jacobs nodded like she'd said nothing out of the ordinary and threw another pebble.

"Why're you here, Faye?"

"Do you hear them?" she asked, "They call."

He dropped the pebbles and wiped a hand across his shirt, smearing dust across his chest. He looked out in the distance, towards the merry-go-round and past the jungle gym, he looked at the trees swaying with the wind and then back at Faye. A look crossed his face. Confusion, Faye thought, and worry.

I like Faye a lot. I've got to do some more research on Norse stuff (I have been reading a lot. I read the Nibelunglied, amongst some other Norse stuffs. I haven't come up with an ending yet because, well, it will change after I know my character a bit better. I decided to end on an unsatisfactory note while I do some more character sketching. Faye's voice still isn't clear to me.

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.