Of Hope and Apocalypse Now

Alright. I don't want to scare you. I don't want to startle you. I don't want to turn your motherfuckin' world upside down. But get ready to hear this. It's the straight dope, the real talk, that somethin' somethin' that opens our ears and unlocks our hearts. It's called the truth, and for once?

It's fantastic.

I have not one, not two, not three, but four, read 'em, four literary agents currently looking at my book. Three full requests and one partial, just the right mixture to make a fella feel welcome. It feels nice. It feels good.

I feel like the future is promising.

Now if one of them actually wants to snatch me up? That would be even better. Any takers? Guys? ... Guys?

Are you still there?

In other news, I'm kind of pumped to be writing tomorrow. It's been seven days of work, and daddy's been jonesing for his fix. I'm at an interesting section of the story, so I feel like I should be able to keep the action up. Of course, writing is never without its problems. You'll see something, and you'll want so bad to fix it, but if you do, well, you're just a little like fucked. You've got charlie coming out of the jungle, and you can't stop, you won't stop, because the whole platoon's dead if you do.

So you leave that man behind. He's screaming, stretching out a hand, begging for a smoke, a bullet, anything but to be left behind. Of course you harden your heart and keep hoofin' it through the shit, but deep down you're thinking only one thing: You're coming back, you swear to God you're not leaving him in that humid hellhole forever. You'll return for Martinez (or Tex, or Louie).

Of course, it'll be to put a bullet in his head, but whatever.

Merciful God, Whhhyyyy!

Man, it's a good morning.

*sips some tea, opens his paper-- spittakes at the contents!*

Oh no! I never thought this day would come! *turns headline to the reader!*

Kelly Griffith Enters Blogging Scene! Unleashes Torment Upon Countless Billions!

So, story time lads and lassies! Years ago I met this girl. By all marks and identifiers she was a normal girl, if slightly sadistic for her sex. Cue puberty, university, and a half-decade in the Outback, and something utterly vile was formed! A girl who could write without practice, and who had an imagination that made mine pale in comparison!

Seriously, I was totally jelly! *awkward gangsign!* *crosses arms, lookin' thug lyfe*

Kelly Griffith is one of my oldest friends, and immensely respected as a writer. She's able to do things with words that leave me confused, jealous, and just a little irritated at her for being able to weave. She's also the chick that got me into writing. She posed one simple question to me, and a lifetime passion resulted from it.

I'm not just asking you to give her site a check. I'm begging you to. This girl's going to go somewhere, and you definitely want to watch her get there. So won't you guys stand with me and watch a star rise?

Kelly, you're gonna shine bright.

http://whatthingsihavefound.blogspot.com.au/

Black Cloud

I'll admit it.

I'm scared.

I'm scared none of my dreams will come true. I'm scared that no matter how hard I write, no matter how good I get, all I'll get is nowhere. I've had a long string of bad luck in a short life. Disasters, heartbreaks, and accusations have just been the norm, punctuated by moments of joy or excitement. Maybe it's the other way around, honestly. This could be drama forged out of reflection, the desperation of a view moments coloring an entire lifetime. Maybe I've had an ultimately good life, punctuated with a few terrible moments. 

The thought doesn't dispel the idea of this invisible cloud hanging over me.

People say that you should practice your art only for the sake of it. That way the material is better, and you're happier for it. It's honestly sound advice. It makes sense. If you pursue anything else, then you're likely to drive yourself mad.

It's advice you can't follow when you follow the dredge of the nine to five. It's advice that you can't accept when you want to become something more than you are. It's something you simply can't tolerate when you want to make your mark on history and the world. You see your heroes riding to glory, and you want desperately to be among their number. Maybe others won't make it, but you have to. You're the hero of your narrative, and the hero always succeeds.

Except life has taught me differently. We're not the main characters, perhaps not even secondary, but part of a grand narrative that moves on with or without us. Success is hard, and failure comes so much more easily. Maybe this book will fail, and the next one, and the next ten to boot. I'll love the art, but in time I will come to hate myself. It's not writing that betrayed me, that beacon that made me better, but ultimately myself, that fallible person and the unlucky lot he was born into. That thought is terrible to behold.

It scares me.

Yellow

"Yer a coward," he growled. The ragged man had no objections. He had never claimed to be brave. He certainly wasn't the image of it now, with eyes trained on the dusty ground, unwilling to meet the eyes of the man who intended him dead. The challenger growled, baring his tobacco-stained teeth to the world.

"Yellow-bellied bastard!" A whisper rippled through the crowd. It was an affront to manhood, an attack on personal pride. Not a soul would blame the man if he drew. Yet his concern wasn't the acceptance of man. No, he followed the call of a higher power.

"Draw!" Up leapt two silver barrels, extending from each hand. They were quick about their business. One shot, two shot, three shot, and four. Each kicked up the sand around the vagrant's feet, meant to taunt, meant to frighten, meant to bring this little meeting to its ultimate conclusion.

Still, Silas' piece stayed by his side.

Just a short story I carved out. I kind of like ol' Silas. Maybe there'll be a western in my future, yet. There's something instinctual about wanting to back someone quiet and almost careless about their own safety. That self assurance I think can grab a reader.

I'm at nearly 20k words on the second novel of my series. It's plugging along well, and tomorrow should take me well over. I'm still waiting to hear back from agents. The more I hear about querying, the more I hear it's a slow, arduous process.

It makes anticipation all the sweeter, though. The kind words of Agent Bree Ogden's assistant, Ms. Jami Nord, don't hurt, either.

My friend Joe has some great things going on over at his Google Plus account. Give him a look: https://plus.google.com/109842641745210927992/posts 

He's a grade-A world builder. He's got history, he's got plot, he's got languages, and even maps. Is it wrong to hate him just a little?

Of Food and Nursery Rhymes

The hunger had nagged at him all day. At work, on the commute, every little action punctuated by appetite. Now he was home. He could relax. But did he dare? A naughty little snack here and there never did hurt anybody... Jeff tugged open the fridge door.

His mouth watered at the pedicured foot.

So, I've been a bad boy and don't have any writing to show you aside from that SUPER short story I slapped together. It feels a lot like the Very Short Stories I write on Twitter. Essentially you have a character limit, and have to make a compelling story fit in there. I feel like it's helped me grow as a writer.

Apparently my subject matter is still drek, though.

No matter! The book is plugging away. I'm still getting agent refusals left and right, but I have one or two things that are looking promising. Maybe I'll entered the esteemed halls of "published writer" yet. Until then I'll keep plugging away at the second book.

Also, damn you, Kelly. You turned children's rhymes into a terrible thing.

"Miss Mary Mack, Mack, Mack,

All dressed in black, black, black,

She had a knife, knife, knife,

Stuck in her back, back, back.

She can not breathe, breathe, breathe,

She can not cry, cry, cry,

That's why she begs, begs, begs,

She begs to die, die die.

I feel the creative juices flowing. Maybe something will come of that?

LISTEN TO ME!

The more that I write, the more I look at the writing in other things. Shows, movies, books, it doesn't matter, I'm deciphering if they're a good story, and what makes them a good story.

Veronica Mars is a damn good story.

Interesting, multi-faceted character? Check! Interesting, multi-faceted cast? Check! Great storyline? Check! Kristen Bell, who I wish would just return ONE of my phone calls? Oh, uh, check!

I'm only in the first season, but it promises to be a good one. There's an overall plot for the season that tingles my spine. It's more heavily touched on in some episodes than others, but it always has a presence. Of course that doesn't mean that there aren't other, interesting stories being told, or that this somehow negates the power of the seasonal plot. Everything feels pertinent, relevant, powerful.

Where other shows would do self-contained episodes, or introduce a "villain of the week," Veronica Mars turns that trope on its head. Everything, and everyone, is related. Slowly the story constructs a vast, interesting universe. It's not just a story. These are people, and by God, you love them and hate them as much as you would those in your life.

So watch it. For the love of God, watch it. It deserves so much more recognition than it's garnered. If you hold any respect for me, even any shred of pity, go watch this.

Please.

Trembles in the cold, forgotten and alone.

Oh, also, the book's chugging along fine. I took a break for my birthday, but I've been plugging along today. The book is at 11,000 words, and I feel like it's going to be longer than the first.

The fact that the first one wasn't a fluke is, well, exciting as hell in itself.

E & E Forever

So, I lied.

A few nights ago a friend of mine, Joe Kawano, put a gun against my head and made me write. It was terrible. There's probably emotional scarring to go along with it, to be honest.

Yet I hope my suffering can bring you all some joy.

I don't know quite what's going on here. I just started writing and it... well, worked. It's not the best, but I think it has some nice imagery and flow. The opening is especially a joy to me.

As for Johnny's second book, I'm hard at work. It's flowing nicely, and the world's getting a little broader. I hope that with each book, we'll explore a region of it, whether it's technology, races, or cultures. By the time I finish this, I want the world to be fully fleshed.

The barrel still burned bright, cherry red as a cigarette. Elizabeth laid at his feet motionless, a good chunk missing from her abdomen.

"It was the only way," he whispered, more for himself than her. Her nails still were raked red with his blood. He'd seen teeth in tiger's shorter than the talons, and neck ached with the slow, steady bleed. He needed to get out of here or he'd die.

He couldn't handle another attack. Into the alley he stumbled, slamming into trash cans and brick. The former when tumbling to the ground while the latter stood strong, a handhold for a dying man. Eustice shook his head, trying to clear out the cobwebs.

Overhead something eclipsed the moon. A flutter of bat wings and it was gone.

Eustice picked up the pace. His legs trembled and the cannon was held limply at his side. Bit by bit he left a trail, bit by bit he grew slower. He felt cold, cold as the corpses that pursued him.

"Just a little farther," he mumbled. The alley swam and dipped, up becoming right, and down becoming something north of left. Bile choked his throat, and Eustice was sick against the wall. His shoulders shuddered and his stomach ached.

"It's time to give up."

Eustice swung around, his hand cannon brought to bear. He was tragically too slow. A casual hand swatted it to the side, the gun dancing across the asphalt. There she stood, in all her glory, empty abdomen and all. Eustice couldn't move, couldn't breathe. He had killed her once already -- he couldn't try it a second time.

 Elizabeth smiled sadly, raising a handful of razors into the air.

"This was always the only way."