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.

5,000 words

This is the longest piece I've written yet, and I'm behind a day or so. I'm trying to make it up now, but I don't think I'll be able to just yet. Hopefully I'll have some free time this weekend to devote to the story.

I'm enjoying the process. I don't think my story is very good right now, but it's moving. Forward. Which is a farsight better than any other fantasy I've tried to write. On revising I'll have to work on description as I'm glossing over a lot of that right now, and characterization. The characters are quite clear in my mind, but I'm having trouble writing them. I think it'll become easier as I get further into my story. And it IS a story. I've got a pretty clear idea of where I'm heading.

Yay for NaNo.

Darkness Falls

It seems that I start every blog post with, "Wow, it's been so long'

Anyway, so I've decided to participate in NanoWrimo's National Novel Writing Month (Take the first two letters of each word...clever, right?)

My novel, and it seems so grand to say that, will be titled Darkness Falls. It's story I started about a year ago and has remained in the back of my mind since I put it down. I've started plotting it out so that the writing goes a bit easier when I do start. I'm pretty excited. The goal is to write 70,000 words in the month of November. The math says that is 2333.33333 words/day.

Edit no Jutsu: It's actually 50k words so that's 1666.6666 words/day

In other news, I recently finished a series called The First Law by Joe Abercrombie. It was amazing and has given me hope that fantasy is not all insipid cliche driven drivel. That's a good thing, I suppose, as Darkness Falls is fantasy as well.

I also read a story called "The Book of Lost Things" by John Connolly (may have spelled that wrong). It was every fairy tale you loved growing up twisted and warped for adults and thrown together in a single story. Loved it.

Here is the link to my Nano page: click me

I'll be updating here with my word count.

Wish me luck!

Dear Computer Class:

To my computer class,

I thought I would like you at first, fond as I am of computers. Surely it would be joyous to learn more about you and, in so doing, bond until we were close partners not soon to be parted. We started with small talk, as new couples are wont to do. You began by telling me how to copy folders and relabel files. I thought you attractive, and so I stuck around thinking that there would be more to you. But your inane ramblings were just that with no deeper meaning attached to them. I was fooled because I allowed myself to be fooled. But that was just the beginning.

You moved on to Word Processing, and I thought, "Something we have in common!" But again, you offered nothing new. So enamored was I of this line of thinking, I stuck around. We were in the midst of that new relationship feeling where everything you do is cute. But cute was beginning to wear thin and I began to see the ugly hag that was beneath the makeup. You did not look like that last night before we went to sleep. What happened? But now you have your tentacles, long raggedy things ending in claws, stuck into me and I find I cannot escape.

What began as curiosity has turned into a nightmare. I wish to escape but find that I cannot. This has got to end, Computer Class. I am no longer attracted to you. We have nothing in common. I knew from the start that we had nothing in common, but I was fooled into complacency by your high resolution monitor and access to the internet. But even these things leave me bored and I fall asleep while in your embrace.

So this is my letter to you, Computer Class. We are through. No longer will I listen to you drone on and on about how to create databases, spreadsheets, and saving files. I refuse to listen to you tell me how to import a word document into a powerpoint document. This is the last time I will speak to you, Computer Class. I ask you to remember the good times. Remember? That one good time? No?

Me either.

Die.