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This is the book item required by the 500 Words a Day group. |
| Naturally, I am unsure of exactly what I will be writing about; i hope that it will come to me naturally. I will put all my effort into making it--at least--somewhat interesting and entertaining for the casual passerby to read. |
| It is a fact, one which even I barely believe myself, that I have fallen for a girl. It was not my intent for this to happen, but it has, and I am afraid I am going to pay dearly for it. It's not enough that I am going to leave this state forever in two months. It's not even enough that I am a white male and that she is a black female. Further, it is not enough that we are co-workers, myself as her superior. Moreso, she has a boyfriend in a long-distance relationship. Regardless of these stark facts, we flirt all day long at work. I cannot help myself; I find her devastatingly attractive and intellectually objective. For weeks I have fought her coy advances. I have made myself to seem like a bad man. She will not stop though, and she will not hate me, and she will not stop innocently loving me. I fight, but I don't fight. I catch myself consciously doing subtle things that I know I should not. Today, she invited me to lunch; we planned to meet at a restaurant we mutually loved dearly, but never went to together. I was there on time. The place was packed and I had to illegaly park just to wait for her; I was completely stressed out, even though I shouldn't have been. I went inside and made a long thorough scan of the restaurant and ascertained that she was not present. I left, went to my car, and waited a couple minutes. I didn't wait long, expecting that I had been stood up. I went back to work, sat in my car, ate some chips, and at the prescribed time to return, I returned. I dreaded having to see her, somewhat. She walks in a little late and I put on my best demeanor. She tells me that she was there, and that she looked for me. She was a little late though, and I feel very guilty and tell her that I am sorry. Of course, for anyone listening, this whole conversation would have seemed completely innocent. I know better, and she does to. We know it when we look at each other. I catch out of the corner of my eye, even after it turns out that I stand her up, her looking at me. It's the little things that matter. The words spoken directly between lovers are only affirmations of what they already know. Love is determined by a look. Neither a glance, nor a stare are adequate. No. I am referring to an introspective look. A glance not at the eyes but into the eyes. One knows when they receive this look, even more so than when they consciously give it. We looked at each other this way after the lunch episode today, this was when I knew that she forgave me, that nothing had changed, that we would look forward to each other's company tomorrow. This is now, and will probably ever be, the story of my life. |
| A whole month seems to have flown by. I can't even remember clearly what happened. I have been changing gears constantly trying to figure out what it is that I would like to write a novel about. Heroes, villians, the bystandards. They are all fitting protragonists. What is left, is perhaps the discernation of what it is that the reader requires of me. Stephen King spent years convincing his publishers that he was more than a horror writer. I do not desire becomming a genre writer. That is, of course, if I become the sort of genre writer that earns the moniker of great. This is, though, just a fantasy of mine. My last idea was to write a novel about the perfect man. Not in the feminine sense, with all their jabbering about what it is, but in the sense of a man that would become a perfect president of the United States. A great leader. Ayn Rand covered this to some extend. I believe, though, that she did not give enough ego to her protagonists. As of late, I am concidering the notion of giving her protagonist more reach, greater power, and a better world to live in. One that would successfully elect such a man. Off on a tangent, I know, but I just thought that it was appropriate to butt in and admire my text editor. I love seeing a bunch of words running over the screen and nothing else. Those that choose to write in the abomination, Microsoft Word, are fools and should hang themselves in their sleep. Then, they would at least accomplish something before the Rapture. So, it's time for yet another tangent. Today I chose to rent some movies. For those that consider themselves normal, this is a trivial task. Not so for me. I refuse to even have Cable TV, none the less Movies on DVD. Regardless, I rented a good selection--at least for those that are strange and twisted. I rented 'Coffee and Cigarettes' and 'Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas'. Both are personal favorites of mine, now that I have seen them. This doesn't matter much to you, I know, but I'll state it anyway. On Saturday, I will be taking the Scolastic Aptitude Test, or the SAT. Age is a factor when it comes to taking the test, I am a young twenty four years of age. I have taken the test already, but it was more that eight years ago. The University I plan to attend requires a test, so I will give them one. Cost me a small fortune. Whatever. At least it's cheaper than travelling to the school and taking their test. Finally, I am officially drunk by my own standards. This time it was some sort of Cuervo mixed with Orange Juice and Grenadine. This is for those concerned the greatest state to be in. In your home, drunk, is the greatest American right. Those that choose to take it way I will vote to have killed, hung, raped, and sodomized. |
| Today is the last day that I can sham on this whole 'write five-hundred word a day' thing. January is on the horizon--coming quick--and today begins the daily write-a-thon. Five Hundred words. Dear god, that's a whole heck of a lot, I've realized admittedly. Hell, I'm not even drunk yet, and that is the grand requirement for me to write. Now, if you've made it this far, you have realized that I am breaking conjunctions just to make multiple words: is this what I have become? BAH, I hate this slothful Christmas season, all indulgence. Laziness has taken hold of me; at least when it comes to writing. I put so much work on my plate, that I cannot seem to keep a hold of what I have already got to eat. Where was I? Ah, yes, I'm writing about Sarah and that whole bunch of assholes. Without reading back, lemme remember. Ah, yes, she is a whore and her dad is a murderer. No, wait, that's not right. She is not a whore. How can hers be a love story if she throws her body around like a rug? That was a shitty metaphor. I do not even understand what I meant. It has become no less than obvious to me that I am in dire need for a drink. This cannot possibly be what she meant about writing five hundred words a day. I should be disqualified for stupidity. That assumes, of course, that someone actually bothers to read this. You are a sorry, bored, bastard if you have actually made it this far. To think that I actually plan on going to college for writing! She said that I can write reviews, so here goes: The Squeezebox, made by Logitech, is badass. I suggest--no I insist strongly--that you, yes YOU, go out and buy one right now. Christmas is over, and you can spend money again. Shill out that Three-Hundred bucks; thank me when you're listening to your favorite music or radio station on your stereo. Right now, in Texas, I'm listening to my favorite AM station in North Carolina. Coast to Coast is on, and I'm having a grand old time listening to George Norry. I would try to pick up local AM stations, but none of the ones that have Coast to Coast reach me. Now, with a Squeezebox, I can hear it all I want, in streaming radio greatness. This does not, of course, include the thousand other shows I can hear now. It's so simple, and I can control it with a simple remote control. It looks great mixed in with my High Fidelity Receiver and Surround Sound speakers. Yes, I know what she meant by a review. I do not care. It's the best that I can do without actually making any effort whatsoever. If you have any comments or complaints concerning what I chose to write today, you are more than welcome to write a comment, venting your stark hatred for my use of your time. |
| It's two days until christmas and I don't believe that I could possibly care less. Even when I was a child (and teenager) Christmas never held very much importance to me. I don't know what's wrong with me sometimes, but the whole 'exchange of gift' thing is irritating and pointless to me. I do know, though, that I would enjoy the season a lot more if everybody just got together and threw parties. That's what it should be, a celebration. Let's celebrate the birthday that we *should* be acknowledging, and forego the futile battle over gifts and what to get each other. As a society, we've accepted that nobody gets what it is that they really want, and exchange gift cards. I don't understand that, either. If you don't want to buy someone a gift, don't buckle under the pressure of necessity and make that last minute move in the direction of stupidity. Give them cash. That's all anyone wants anyway. Wait, what if we did this: nothing. It works. Instead of two people buying each other something they didn't want for, lets say twenty dollars in the event that there is a secret santa, they don't do anything and end up with a whole twenty dollars to spend on something that they wanted! Isn't that novel? Moreso, what I don't understand is that individuals need some sort of recognition of favor; they need love and think that they are required by some stupid ideas that the only way to get it is by buying their friends gifts for christmas. Let's set the record straight, the way I see it. Christmas was created as a means to make a *childs* Christmas meaningful. It's a childhood-type tradition. As with all children, I was excited for that big day; I wanted to see what kind of toys I would have to play with for the rest of the year. Keep in mind that my only source of entertainment was provided by the same people--that's right, santa doesn't exist--who had all the money. I couldn't go to the store and buy what I wanted. Now, it's different. I, and all the people I know, are quite capable and willing to go to the store and purchase what it is that they want. Why should we keep ourselves imprisoned by the obviously ubsurd practices of our past? My roommate finally got here today. He's planning on becoming a chef, which is kinda wierd for two single males. With all this cooking stuff going on--pots and pans spewing grease and oil everywhere--some onlooking bystandard might get an incorrect impression. I guess this means I have to go to the trouble of getting a girlfriend. Son-of-a-bitch, and I was just starting to enjoy being single again. Maybe I'll get lucky and she won't be the sort of girl that forcefully holds a man emotionally prisoner. One would think, by now, that I would be immune to that sort of mind fuck. And this sentence puts me over five-hundred for the day. |
| I feel really guilty. I have not written in a very long time! Today, I will make that up to you, readers. I will write and write and write, filling up four days worth of crap! Now I have to figure out what to write about. Right now, I am exaclty four sheets to the wind, as opposed to the customary three sheets. This is not said for effect. I am typing with the speed and clarity that only a truly drunk writer can. I am not drinking anything worth consuming. Pabst Blue Ribbon may be cheap, but it is cheap; being an alchoholic voluntarily, and when possible, I will drink Pabst Blue not because I am a great connoisseur of truly American beer but because I love the flavor of the beer. My love of Pabst is surpasses solely by my love for Mickey's. Ahh, Mickeys, but it can't be so. A six pack of Mickeys runs the same, and sometimes higher, price of my second beloved Pabst in the twelve pack form. Pabst it is I say. Who am I to talk about favor, though. I'm the kind of son-of-a-bitch that drinks and then, and only then, chooses to write with regard to no one slinging shit at everyone that passes by unknowingly. The greatest consequence of this behavior is that when I crawl out of my very comfortable recliner tomorrow morning, I will regret posting all this garbage. |
| So it's another day I have to write. I find it very irritating to write when there are poeple around, but right now it seems that I can't escape them. I'll do it anyway just to spite the bastards. I hate christmas. Regardless of this fact, I also hate the epidemic of 'Happy Holidays!'. I would rather hear 'Merry Christmas', it's more American. Why is it that so many of my countrymen feel that we should feel ashamed for having a semblance of culture? It we don't embrace what's left of the culture we have, there won't be any left to set ourselves apart in the future! On that note, I don't hate the other religious holidays as much, if at all, compared to Christmas. To dispel the angry reader, I don't hate Christmas for the religious reasons. I hate it for the Santa Claus bit. What at one time was a noble endeavor has turned into a seasonal spending nightmare. Maybe it's because I'm a male, but I just don't get it. Why do people go to such great lengths to buy each other stuff that they don't want? Let's just throw a bunch of really great parties, get all the families together for some egg nog fun, and go on with our lives. Gifts are such a pain in the ass; I hate giving and receiving them. Many girlfriends I've had have considered me insensitive and immoral for my feelings on the act of gift giving. I don't understand, though, why they feel that way. I hold no grudges, make no suggestions, and place absolutely no importance on any of the gift giving events of the year. Yes, I hate my birthday, too. I dread the moment at which I'm required to open a pleasantly wrapped package. I never even want to know what's in it because I don't want to let down those that are giving it to me. I guarantee that the way they expect me to feel just isn't there. Everybody knows it... that's the fraud in the whole thing. They expect you to look excited and happy, no matter what is inside. And requirements of giving gifts are just as hard. I despise shopping for other people. There is nothing out there in the stores, and otherwise, that will ever be the perfect gift to give somebody. Let me modify that: there is no perfect gift that fits inside a budget. That's right, no one wants to spend more than a trivial amount of money on somebody else, do they. We all know what comes of all this: nobody gets what they want. Everybody spends a bunch of money on each other. Everybody has a bunch of crap they don't want. Nobody throws any of it away or returns any of it out of embarassment. The manufacturers of all this crap get a whole lot of money and repeat the release of useless crap next year. To sum everything up for you: I hate Christmas. |
| Today, I thought a little about what I would the other three stories would be about, and I've drawn nothing from the recesses of my twisted mind. I have thought about the character of John and Sarah. Isiah, Curtis, and Candice are interesting names, but not very unique. I think I'll change all of their names at some point down the road; I thought more of this when I read the article on Writing.com about the selection of characters' names. Particularly insightful was the story about how the authors devised the names for Winnie the Pooh, and Peter Pan. In the past, the only deep thought I put into a name was my pseudonym. Sarah, is a redhead of average height. She is a generally happy person around people, though they wouldn't tell you that because she is a very private person emotionally. As is normally the case, stereotypically, with redheads: she's outspoken and always noticed in a crowd. She didn't like the attention at younger ages, but over the years she learned to use it to her advantage socially. That's enough about the book. A year or two ago I was really interested in the website Lulu.com. It's an interesting concept that they use. I find myself wondering how successful writers have been using their service. Perhaps in the next few years a great writer will surface thanks to the services they provide, though I doubt it. I don't believe that the book business is prepared to seriously consider sources outside the very large and powerful. The greatest inhibitor to the outlet is the lack of editor power. From my experience the only force as influential as the writer is the editor. Generally the editor finds who he thinks has promise and in the end acts as much like and agent in the distribution and marketing of an author's novel. It's interesting to think about. How many great writers have been thrown to the wayside because an editor didn't like their work or felt that it was too extreme. How come there is no rating system for published novels? I'm most certainly not arguing that there should be. What I am saying, though, is that when I was much younger I learned a lot of things I probably should not have at the local library, which is something funny to think about. I think that I'm a better person for having read about things I never would have been taught in public schools. On public schools, let me say this. They are an institution of America that desperately need reforms. Today I was discussing with someone the difference between High School in the late 60's and High School today. It's stark. We should go back to that. Kick out the bad kids and don't let them come back! Teachers are tired of being police officers. The 'Leave no child behind' bullshit has got to go to. Leave them behind. Let the smart kids prosper. Now that's American. Stop trying to change my country into a Socialism. It's pissing me off. |
| I spent the day considering who my characters are. In a very lazy rather than bold move I've for the moment chosen to reuse an idea I was toying with a couple years ago. Our story is set upon a family of five: the father John, the wife Candice, the daughter Sarah, the oldest son Isiah, and the youngest son Curtis. There are five completely different stories, put together to make up the familial whole. Each story tells about one of the members of the family. The key to all of this is that the novel jumps around in time. While one story may take place in Curtis's adulthood, another may take place when Sarah is a child. Each story will be profound and different on their own; put together they tell the family story and perhaps foreshadow all of their futures. The story about John was stolen maliciously by a new movie in theatres which really angered me. John was to be a closet murderer haunted by multiple personalities in his head. A draft of one of the conversations that took place in John's head was highly praised by a close friend of mine. I like the idea, though, of a father that is secretly a murderer. It's romantic in a russian novel sort of way. John's profession, in my version, could be that of a Mormon pastor; Mormon murderer, I like that. Throw in the fact that one of his sons refuses to be Mormon or have any faith and you've got some pretty twisted arguements and turmoil. That's drama. I prefer the notion of an intelligent family. Everyone in the family has been, or is currently, or is going to, attend some sort of institution of higher learning. I do realize, though, that this is not very main-stream American. John's story, the first story since it's the more gory of the five, takes place when John is in his fifties. Unlike the movie, the demons (multiple personalities) invade his consciousness suddenly, causing him to question, while affirming, his faith moreso than he ever has before. As the story progresses, the power of his dimensia propels him into an emotional frenzy, though those that love him notice little because he is capable of hiding the turmoil in their presence. He does kill, and the consequences of his actions eventually cause him to... John's story leads into the second part of this five part series of novellas suddenly, following the major climax presented in the first. Sarah's story is significantly different. Her's is a love story that takes place when she is in college. Not going into details--I haven't figured out what they are yet--I do know that this takes place before her father's. It consequentially presents a younger version of John, hopefully evoking a different emotional effect on the reader regarding his character. I'm really going to test my writing abilities on this one. Jumping from murder to love is unique. Jumping from love to what's next is going to be even better. |
| The beginning of any project requires a setting and characters. The setting I will deal with later; the characters, the most important part of any story, will begin to take form today. For anyone interested in replacing their bloated and painful word processors I humbly suggest an alternative I use extensively: Vim. It doesn't look very good and right off the bat it rubs most people the very wrong way. This isn't your normal 'Notepad', though. For those interested in a real text editor there is nothing better than Vim, in my opinion. I am pretty sure it can work in windows but I've never tried. I am a Mac user. Now back to where I left off. Today I've decided that the main character of the story I have not written will be Sarah. Yes, I know, it's the most common name in the United States. I don't care. I once loved a woman--and I still do, though it's pointless to dwell because I will more than likely never see her again--named Sarah. I don't know what the copyright related problems associated with using the likeness of a real person are. When I open a book and see that blurb about how none of the characters in the book are related to real people, I'm left wondering what would happen if they were. Do they get royalties? Regardless, I will probably incorporate some bits of her likeness, and the likenesses of others, in this steaming pile. None of the events that take place will be related to anything that actually happened, though. I'm fond of works that have a political undercurrent. Hell, who am I kidding, I've read and enjoyed Ayn Rand. Expect, if you follow what I write, a lot of political ranting, and in the event that there is not any ranting, expect many allusions to the current political climate. I also enjoy books that are profound situationally, like Tolstoy's Anna Karenina or Bulgakov's Master and Margarita. This leads me to the next conclusion that should be drawn regarding my writing from this point further: I love classic Russian Literature. Expect dark subjects, ill-conceived street names, and oppressive governments. On the uptake, I've also enjoyed Kurt Vonnegut and Douglas Adams. If I can, I'll use plenty of nonsense and dry humor. And then there is my secret obsession with Clive Cussler. Dirk Pitt is the only hero I can respectably count on to stay heterosexual. I have read all of his books. I realize that every plot is the same, but I can't tear myself from the James Bond-ish plot bad-ass-ness-ti-tude. Before you send me a comment telling me that Clive Cussler is queer, realize that the last person who told me that Roger Moore was gay received a very painful barrage of rocks. Nowadays, I just don't want to know. And what's left is distilled into one of the greatest original storywriters of the modern century, Stephen King. I've also read just about everything he has written. The Dark Tower series is bar-none badass deserving of the highest accolades, never to be turned into a movie or made for TV series. I hope one day to be ten percent the storywriter he is. Whatever I write will be influenced by the aforementioned and many others I've read and forgotten over the years. Whoops, there's my limit... I welcome you on my journey into madness, only to be doubled by NaNoWriMo in eleven very short months. |
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